Caught Dead in Philadelphia (7 page)

I didn't wait to see the form take definite shape.

I threw open the door of my house and ran in, screaming at the top of my lungs.

Six

I pressed my back against the inside of the front door, trapped. Rational or not, I was afraid to move and call for help, as if only my body weight kept my house safe.

Who was he?

I strained to hear a move outside, footsteps, anything. What was he doing?

But all I could hear was my own pulse, beating heavily in my eardrums.

What was he waiting for?

You imagined it, I told myself. You've been under a strain. I listened again. What did he want?

The room pulsed, as if the whole house were having an anxiety attack along with me, breathing irregularly, hearing gradations in the silence.

I pried myself off the door and went toward the phone. The back of my little house seemed to recede, like the horizon in a nightmare, the phone shimmering farther and farther back.

En route, I passed the radio on the kitchen counter. Always leave the radio on, so your house will sound inhabited, I heard from some brain-scrapbook of helpful hints. One or two synapses over, a corollary message flashed— “Do it when you
leave
the house, dummy,” but I wasn't in the mood to quibble. With one hand, I turned on the radio; with the other, I lifted the telephone receiver. Loud wailing metal filled the room; I couldn't as easily hear my heart beating away my life. I listened hungrily. It felt so normal, so ordinary, to be standing in the kitchen tuned in to my ex-D.J.'s station.

As if nothing had happened.

And it probably hadn't. Or if it had, he'd gone away by now. He had probably not been there in the first place, and certainly not waiting for me. I was being a fool. Mackenzie would have a heyday, making fun of me. I hung up the phone.

And then the doorbell rang.

I willed myself invisible. I was numb and light-headed.

I was also incredibly stupid. The person outside knew I was in here. Had watched me enter.

The bell rang again.

“Go away!” I screamed, finally out of my paralysis. “I've got a gun! Joe, get the gun! We've called the police!” I added for good measure, horrified that I hadn't. I picked up the receiver again.

“Now,” I instructed myself. “Dial.” My throat hurt from wanting to cry and from the shouting. My hand trembled. “Now,” I repeated. I was holding the phone, but at the same time opening kitchen drawers in search of a weapon, scanning the house for a suddenly invented secret exit, a hidden passage. “Dial.”

Call the police.

And know that they won't get here in time.

“The police are coming!” I screamed above the radio's beat.

“Police!” the voice outside echoed. It didn't make sense. I put back the receiver, turned off the radio, and tiptoed to the door.

“—kenzie,” I heard. “Please open up.”

Kenzie? Mackenzie? The one who hated games? Mackenzie had been lurking, following me? Terrifying me for sport?

This was a citizen's case. The Philadelphia Police Department could add this one to their list of woes. My hands shook as I unbolted and unchained the door.

He smiled down on me.

“You
bastard!
” I was too angry to speak coherently, and my voice was high and strident, my words a pile of anger, tumbling out. “How
dare
you? How could you? What kind of sadistic—you should be thrown off the force! Arrested!”

He closed the door behind him and watched me, his eyebrows raised.

“I won't stand for any of this anymore! I'm not a criminal. Even if I were—even if you think I am—we have rights, dammit. What kind of monster wouldn't say something? Identify himself?”

“I tried,” he said. “Several times.”

“You did not!”

“Perhaps I spoke too softly, but mos' people get upset if their neighbors know the police are visitin' them. Again.”

“A word! One single word! Somebody was murdered here yesterday—how do you think that makes me feel when a lunatic policeman plays games and—” My anger dissipated abruptly, along with my fear, and I had nothing left to hold me up. I sagged onto the sofa and began to cry, hating myself for it, but unable to stop.

“Miss Peppah, I—don't go cryin', now! I mean I didn't expect a royal welcome, but this is somewhat much, don't you think?” He casually straddled one of the ladder-back chairs and regarded me.

I wiped my eyes and looked at him. The skin was pulled tight across his cheekbones. There were shadows like bruises under his light eyes.

He shifted on the chair. “Did somethin' happen? Somethin' hurt you? Is this some kind of game? Or do you want me to play detective, to guess the meanin' of all this?”

I didn't say anything. I had half expected some Southern gentlemanly response on his part. Which I would have rejected. Heatedly. Instead, he yawned and looked around the room. I snuffled and wiped my eyes, afraid my mascara had run and furious that I could have such trivial, recidivist concerns at such a time.

“Miss Peppah,” he said, “conversation appears to be difficult this evening. Frankly, I don't know what's goin' on. I know I was harsh this afternoon. But surely you understand, and aren't you carryin' a grudge too far?”

What were we talking about? I had only carried my grudge from the front doorstep into my living room.

He shook his head, stood up, and walked to the door. “I'm too tired for this. I'm parked in front, blockin' your street, so I can't stay anyway. Listen, I tried to call you at your sister's, and she told me you were back. I was on my way home anyway, so I dropped by to tell you in person. Somehow, I thought it was a kind, considerate gesture.”

“Parked outside?” I said. There hadn't been any car at all.

Mackenzie exhaled loudly. “You gonna give me a ticket?” He muttered something to himself. “Listen, forget I was ever here. I'll call tomorrow.”

“Wait, please,” I said. “You had something to tell me?”

“Didn't think you heard. Yes, I did. I do. Here goes: You are no longer in any way under suspicion, Miss Pepper. Now, good night.”

“Don't go.” I felt like a fool, too much of one even to explain myself to the man. “I'll make coffee. Or wine. Wine's better. Please stay and explain. I'll be all right.” I felt like a preschooler swearing I'd behave if I could stay up a little longer. I busied myself finding glasses, wine, and my bearings and avoiding Mackenzie's face.

Meanwhile, Mackenzie stayed silent.

After due deliberation, I left the jug of white wine in the refrigerator and took out the good bottle of red that Mackenzie had included in his analysis of me. Facing his sarcasm was how I belatedly chose to demonstrate bravery. “Well?” I asked. “Who did it?”

“Beats me. I only know you didn't.”

“You found a clue, then?”

“In a manner of speakin'.”

I set my two good wineglasses on the table, poured the house best, and settled across from him. “To celebrate my innocence,” I said, lifting my glass. “Well, what kind of clue did you find? A fingerprint?”

He shook his head. “'Fraid not,” he said. “Nothing clear, anyway. It was rainy and chilly Monday. Liza's visitor probably wore gloves. We found something better than fingerprints. We found a witness.”

“Somebody saw it happen?” I felt dizzy with relief. A witness. The bad guys would be identified and locked up, and I wouldn't hallucinate and see demons in doorways anymore.

He shook his head. “Not a witness to the crahm. A witness who established that you were in school all day long.”

I shrugged.

“You're not impressed?”

“I knew where I was all along.”

“You don't want to know who?”

I shrugged again. “A teacher walking by?”

He shook his head. “It was Lance Zittsner.”

“Lance? Lancelot Zittsner cleared me?” It figured. My maiden effort at being a damsel in distress brought me a belching, gangling Lancelot. “But he was absent today. How did you find him? Or how did he find you?”

“He came to school for homeroom and came back for his bus pass after school. The kid cuts a lot. Actually, 'bout half your school cuts a lot. But Lance was there yesterday at lunchtime, and he says he saw you dozin' at your desk.”

Mackenzie stood up. “I'll try to re-create the scene, impress you with my detectin'.” He shuffled around, scratched his stomach, stared at the ceiling, and somehow wrapped a little Zittsner essence around him. “See, like they sometimes don't lock their rooms,” he said, his voice a funny Southern imitation of a brassy Philadelphia accent. “Miss Pepper, she forgets maybe half the time. And she keeps our work folders in a file cabinet, you know? So reports are coming out, and like I get a car if I pass everything.”

Mackenzie dropped the Lance-talk and posture. He grinned at me. “You see?”

“Not quite.”

“Clue. He wasn't going to change his grades or take anything. Think.”

“That doesn't leave much except bringing things in. Like papers to put in his folder, I bet. Then he'd claim I never graded them. How on earth did you get him to confess?”

Mackenzie sat back down. “The bamboo splinters under the nails. Always works. That, and some other esoteric, brilliant, and secret stuff.”

I spent a moment wondering how often Lance or other students had pulled that scam on me, and then I shelved that problem for another, easier time. “Mackenzie,” I said, “did you ever really suspect me?”

“Of what? Murder? Or insanity? You aren't totally explainable, you know. The sweeping, the North Dakota call—even the way you answered the door just now….”

A siren screamed in the distance. Mackenzie glanced sideways at the sound. “My car—” he began, but he didn't sound overly concerned. I poured more wine.

“About the way I answered the door—” I felt my color rise until I was sure my cheeks matched my hair. “I'm sorry. It wasn't about you. I thought it was, of course. But I see that it wasn't.”

He leaned across the table. “Are you under the impression that you're making sense right now?”

I cleared my throat. “When I came home, a few minutes before you knocked, there was somebody else on this street. Somebody waiting, hiding. He started out, and I screamed and ran inside. Anyway, then you arrived and I thought you'd been the one lurking there, playing some macho game.”

“You sure about this?” Mackenzie looked actively interested for a change.

I nodded. “There was even a light, a cigarette or match, something, dropped to the ground.”

He looked as though deep inside he'd coiled, gotten ready to pounce. He was still slouching on the outside, but the immediate tension in him was contagious.

“It was probably nothing. A coincidence,” I said. “Someone on his way home. I mean, why would anyone be hiding, waiting for me?”

Now that is what I would have said if I'd been facing me, scared, across a table. I waited for him to play Big Daddy and reassure me everything was my silly imagination and that I shouldn't worry. But he remained silent, those waves of concentrated energy bouncing off him.

“Maybe you should stay at your sister's a while longer,” he finally said.

“C'mon,” I prompted him. “It was
nothing.
I'm not completely rational. I've been under a strain. I'm being a foolish, hysterical
female
.”

He stared at me. “I hadn't thought of it that way,” he said.

It was a relief when we were interrupted by the telephone. But only for a moment. And then I had to cope with my mother. She claimed to be beside herself, and she really was upset, I could tell. She'd forgotten to use her discount system, and there was no whine or echo.

I tried to soothe her. Long-distance anxiety is about as useless an emotion as I can think of. “It's all right now,” I said. “Everything's over. I'm fine.”

I apologized for not allowing her to worry sooner, for leaving it up to Beth to pass on the bad news. And then, once she was reassured that I was alive, she stopped worrying about my fears and resumed her lifelong monologue. She told me how often she'd told me things. How often she'd warned me about urban crime, about being headstrong and willful, living alone in a hotbed of depravity, of how sick all this was making her.

I was impressed by the elasticity of her basic, all-purpose lecture. It had never before needed to stretch to include my finding a dead colleague in my living room, but she gave it a tug and a poke, and it made do.

“Mom?” I interrupted a detailed discourse on what this was doing to my father, “I can't talk now.” I pulled out the only ammunition strong enough to intercept my mother's barrage of worries and guilt. “I have a date here,” I said loudly and clearly.

My mother's tirade ended as sharply as if she'd whacked off the rest with a machete.

Within a few moments, I was able to hang up. “I'm sorry I used you that way,” I told the detective. “She wouldn't have ever stopped, otherwise.”

For some reason, he looked like a farm boy in city clothes. “I don't feel used,” he said, “and I'm not sorry at all.” He looked directly at me, his eyes blue and interested. The farm boy disappeared. So did the cop.

“Are you suggesting something in your own oblique way?” I asked, meeting his look headlong.

He shrugged and raised one eyebrow.

“And what might it be?”

“You're a bright, imaginative woman. The possibilities are endless. Think about it.”

“You're somewhat smug, Mackenzie.” He smiled confidently, proving my point. I yawned.

“You've got a unique style yourself,” he said.

“Sorry. That wasn't deliberate. This has been one of the longest days of my life, and then the wine… This morning at Beth's seems years away.” And then, finally, I remembered all the way back to the start of the day. “Officer Mackenzie,” I began nervously.

“Officer Mackenzie? What would your mother think of your callin' your date that? Call me C.K.”