The Case of the Lady in Apartment 308 (7 page)

Charlie wasn’t healed, but he’d been distracted. He promised to go to the research meeting on Wednesday.

It was a long evening. It was all familiar to Ed. He went back to his place wrung out. There were messages on his machine. One was from Marcia.

She had said, “Will you join me for supper on Wednesday?”

Wednesday.

And he was so tempted. It would be such a break in his cluttered life to sit and just look at Marcia. Why her?

He called her and told
her
answering machine. “I’m tied up on Wednesday. How about Thursday or Friday?” And he flinched because he was free two days in a row.

Then he thought: Did that matter? Wasn’t he old enough to be honest? Why
not
let her know he was free for her?

Free…for her? What was he thinking? A jobless man! A jobless man didn’t get involved with a woman until he had a job and could take care of her.

She sure couldn’t take care of him. Not the way she painted. The slow way she painted, no wonder she’d been living at home.

The way she’d been brought up and as long as she’d stayed at home, she was probably still a virgin. A virgin? Did they still have—virgins? Naw!

Ed wasn’t there when she left the next message. She said, “I would be pleased to share your company for dinner on Thursday at six o’clock. Signed, Marcia.”

She was getting sassy. That was because he’d given her two free days to choose from. Well, he liked women to be a little sassy. He’d let her practice on him before he left Peoria and went off to California.

So.

He was going to go to California? That was something of a surprise to Ed. When had his brain come to that decision? On what grounds? Ed couldn’t recall any inner debate. The last he knew, he’d discarded the idea. Had the decision been made in his time with Charlie?

And there was the fact that all his family lived around Peoria. Both sides of his parents were still there. That was very unusual. Most people’s families
were scattered all over everywhere and didn’t even know each other.

If he left Peoria and moved to California, would they all come visiting him? Probably. They’d say,
Well, it was just a good time to come out here and look around, since we can stay free with you. What’s for supper?

His relatives were that exact way.

Had his subconscious realized they were that way and decided on its own that Ed would leave? It had been a rash decision of his subconsciousness to make such a choice.

What would he say when people asked him why he’d gone to California? How could he respond
I don’t know
even if it was the truth?

On Wednesday evening, the gathering of the unemployed shared their varying ideas. They discussed what might be done. And they listened to the new ones who do have to have time to grieve and heal.

Most of them, having been in the group for a while, weren’t that patient. “You’ll thank your stars one day because you had another opportunity.”

And “Look at Phil! Who’d ever guess he had the ability to solve that little, folding company? He’s saved them all, and they think he’s a miracle!”

And “Jim had never known he just needed the time to paint those remarkable pictures! He’s—”

Ed asked, “What pictures?”

And Jim said, “Come over tomorrow and see.”

“I have a dinner date.”

Jim suggested, “Come ahead or bring your dinner partner along?”

“I’ll bring her along.”

So that changed the subject. They whooped and hollered and asked Ed all sorts of impertinent, outrageous questions about his new woman.

Ed shook his head and chided the group. He
tsked
and was shocked. But he felt his anger rising and that did startle him.

The one woman there finally said quite sternly, “That’s enough!”

While the men chuffed and snorted, they did settle down.

The woman said, “What about me? What can I do that will earn me a living?”

Oddly enough no one mentioned the automatic response. They settled down and discussed what all she could do with the excellent talents she’d attained while she’d bumped against the glass roof. And there were good suggestions.

On Thursday at six, Ed went to Marcia’s temp apartment. She was dressed in a lovely new suit. It was a dark raspberry. She wore no blouse under the jacket. Her shoes were a darker, almost black raspberry.

She looked like a dream woman.

Ed wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie. He’d thought they were eating at her apartment as they had the last time.

Obviously, he was supposed to take her out. With that outfit on, he was pleased to do so.

Ed escorted her down the stairs and out to his car. He smiled at her and said, “I have to stop by my place for a tie and jacket. I can’t go this way.”

She tilted her head and said, “Okay.”

That she would go to his place wasn’t that surprising, but asking her there and having her agree was an aphrodisiac. How odd.

She loved the compound. She exclaimed over the center tree and the view of the Illinois River down below. And she loved his segment.

While he changed, she went around his other rooms and picked up things to look at them. A vase. A book. A plaque. It had been for running in school.

When he came into the living room still tying his tie and carrying his coat jacket under one arm, she said, “So you can run.”

He lowered his eyelashes enough and confirmed it, “I’m thirty-seven and still running—away.” He’d said something like that for about ten years. And as usual, he laughed.

She didn’t laugh. She looked at him and exclaimed, “Thirty-
seven?”

Uh-oh.

And he had the gall to inquire, “How old are you? Or should I ask, how young are you?”

She was standing there, very serious faced, and she replied soberly, “I’m forty.”

He said, “Oh,” as a smile began.

She looked disgusted and told him, “I’m twenty-three.”

“Is that all?”

She blinked once. “How old did you think?”

“You’re so smooth and handle yourself so well that I assumed you’d be closer to my age than twenty-three. What is the count—really?”

She shrugged. “I’m twenty-three.”

“How old did you think I was?”

“I figured you were probably thirty at the oldest.”

He had finished his tie and was shrugging into his suit jacket. “Are you really only twenty-three?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have a cousin that might be okay for you.”

“That’s only fourteen years. You don’t know that much more than I.”

He looked at the budding woman with some adult tolerance. “By the time a man is fourteen, he’s grown.”

She tilted back her head and looked at him from under sophisticated eyelids. “So’s a woman.”

“Honey, by the time you were fourteen, I was twenty-eight!”

She considered him and had the audacity to mention, “You’ve aged well.”

There is nothing like a sassy-mouthed woman.

He said, “Come on, child, let’s go have supper.” Then he stopped and asked urgently, “You
can
feed yourself?”

And she took a steadying breath of adult endurance.

A
s they approached his car, Ed told Marcia, “I’ll put you inside. And I’m not giving you any lessons in driving a car. Watch. You can learn—on your daddy’s car.”

She was forbearing.

As they stopped at a traffic light, a guy standing on the corner smiled at Marcia. She didn’t blush or whip her head away or wiggle or giggle.

Ed had the gall to compliment her. “You handle yourself quite well.”

“Thanks.”

“That didn’t sound at all sincere.”

“Are we going through a whole evening of adult/child innuendos?”

“That’s a salacious word.”

She frowned at him. “What word?”

He smiled and licked his lips. She was really innocent. Well, it was a change. Let’s see. How did a male talk to a nubile female?

He communicated, “I’m in a different generation from your
next
generation. What are the bursting-into adulthood conduct and fashions now?”

“About like always.” The sound of her voice was patient. Then, with her eyes slid sideways in a droll look, she added, “We don’t wear helicopter blades on beanie caps.”

He nodded soberly and corrected, “We didn’t, either. That was before us.”

“It’s coming back. There was one at the Woodstock ’94.”

“Did you go?”

“No.” Then she asked kindly with lifted eyebrows, “Were you there at the first one?”

“My mother wouldn’t let me and Dad backed her.” After a calculating pause, he had the gall to state, “You weren’t even
born
then.”

She slid it in, “You were eleven? Twelve?”

He sighed. “Yeah. And I missed it all. The one in ’94 was too commercial.”

“The next one will probably be in New Mexico. Patty will orchestrate it.”

“Patty?”

“Patricia Gardner Evans. A remarkable writer and an elegant doer. She’d manage it easily, but without all the hype and commercialism. She’d probably study up on it and personally string all the electrical wires…safely. And it probably wouldn’t rain out there.”

Ed nodded as he watched the street’s hazards of cars and peoples. He observed to his passenger, “I know it rained the first Woodstock, and the one in ’94, but I suspect it also rained during the twenty-five years in between.”

“Yes.”

He grinned over at the budding woman and said, “You’re agreeable?”

“I believe the word is ‘courteous’ and has no real acquaintance with manners.” She looked at him with forbearance.

Back to watching where his car was heading, Ed nodded in courtesy and said, “Your mother did a good job on your manners.”

“She’s about your age.”

Since the new woman was so snippy and unrattled about his hazing conduct, he turned his head and smiled at her.

She was looking out the window.

His chuckle rumbled in his chest.

She sighed and inquired in a top-lofty manner, “Well, Uncle Ed, where are you taking me?”

“To my dungeon.”

She rolled her head in loose endurance of circumstance. “One of those.”

“It’ll be a widening experience.” He promised her.

But he pulled into the parking lot of an elegant new restaurant. It was discreetly identified as Joe’s. Who had been so droll?

Ed got out as her door was opened by a bowing, uniformed doorman. A parking attendant was already holding the door for Ed. The attendant slid into the car and drove the ordinary car off to park it among the more remarkable gathering of cars.

Ed joined Marcia and escorted her into the restaurant. It was a very posh place. The maître d’ led them to a good table. Then the waiter came to give the couple their menus. Hers did not show the price of anything. The wine steward listened as Ed consulted with him on the wines.

Everything was perfectly done. The couple argued all the way through their elegant dinner courses, which he had ordered for her. He said, “You’ll have to try this.”

When that course was served, she asked, “What is it?”

“How do you like it?”

“It tastes…different.”

“It’s squid.”

“Oh.”

But she did eat it. He was impressed. He smiled at her and was pleased that she had the gall to go ahead and eat something so different.

She observed him with tolerance.

He asked, “How can you act so adult at twenty-three?”

“I was trained to be adult…in school.”

“I suppose we are all adult but generally women don’t have to mature as young as men. No. No…I meant no insult. I am complimenting you.”

She rejected his explanation. “That is very similar to replying either yes or no to the question, ‘Have you quit beating your wife?’”

He grinned. “That old saw.”

“Men never recognize that females are equal to them…when women go to such lengths to allow men to feel they are equal.” She looked at Ed pacifically.

He loved it. “Women are naturally kind. We tend to appreciate it. Especially when we need their admiration to bolster our morale.”

She lifted the tiny spoon to freshen her palate with the between-courses sherbet. She responded in confirmation, “We are kind.”

And Ed had the feeling that she was, indeed, being very kind to him. That rattled him a little.

He asked, “What are your life’s plans?” And when she didn’t instantly respond, he moved his left hand in a circle to elaborate, “Marriage and children?”

“How limiting.”

Ed laughed. He was so amused. His eyes sparkled and he bit into his lower lip to control his guffaws. “You have larger plans?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

His question was a logical one, but it was given in such asininely, indulgently, male adult to nubile female
that it irritated the liver out of her. She replied, “I’ll see.”

He nudged. “After you’ve tried the painting?”

And she slid it in. “It’s a part of the larger picture.”

He thought she just meant in painting and he was so amused. “So you’re going to do canvases next?”

“I already do. Haven’t you noticed the patterns on the drop canvases? They are thrillingly unique, so casual, so unplanned. All I have to do is hang them in the right atmosphere. They’ll bring in a fortune.”

So he finally knew she was disgruntled with him…may be. Of course, artists could be strange and she could be communicating with him. He wasn’t sure how to reply, so he nodded as if thinking seriously.

She gave him a lowered-in-disgust glance as she turned her head away while still watching such a numbskull.

She’d been leading him along, and he’d been stupid enough to take her seriously.

He said, “You’re an interesting study. Have you ever thought seriously of going into business by yourself?”

With exquisite kindness, she replied, “I am—already—in business for myself.”

“I really meant in some project that could earn your living.”

“It does.”

Her abrupt reply did baffle him. He didn’t know how to quiz her on her financial program with the interminable
time she took in just painting one apartment. At the rate she was going, she might get nine apartments done in a year. More than likely it would be seven.

Maybe she really was into paint-splattered drop cloths? Nothing surprises a man who is a weighty thirty-seven years old. By then, he’s encountered all kinds of peoples. This ethnic, singular “people” across the table from him was a real weirdo.

But she was stimulatingly attractive to any male. And she had his attention. He wanted to initiate her into the ramifications of Life.

Well…when had he decided on that?

Probably just about right away, the first time he laid eyes on her as she was moving into the crook Elinor’s deserted apartment. How could he tell? Almost immediately, his sex had indicated his interest.

No man should be led around by his sex. That’s why a man had a brain. With a brain, he had some control. While he thought that so rejectingly, his eyes were on that nubile woman across the table from him. And his sex was pushy.

No wonder men wore suit coats.

And the woman across the table didn’t have a blouse on under her suit coat. She was naked under that cloth.

Probably not. She probably wore a utilitarian cotton slip and an iron bra.

If they danced, the points of the iron bra would probably shred his suit coat and scratch his chest. He
asked, “Would you like to dance for a while? It would settle our stomachs, and we could eat more later.”

She looked over at the dance floor and listened to the type of music the band was playing. “All right.”

He rose as he considered that he should have worn a vest to pad his chest a little more and protect his flesh from the steely points of her iron bra. He managed to get around the table in time to hold her chair back for her.

He escorted her to the small dance floor. Two other couples were moving to the music as they talked.

Ed took Marcia into his arms and found she was the exact right size. Gingerly he drew her closer.

She was so soft.

Ed was so adolescently concentrated on the feel of Marcia in his arms, of her softness against his susceptible body, that he didn’t hear her words.

He did know she was talking, but he just silently groaned as he closed his eyes and held her closer.

She said quite clearly, “You’re old enough to control such conduct.”

How disgustingly mature of her.

She went on, “You’re old enough to have a—mature, I believe you labeled yourself, fourteen-year-old of your own.”

He pulled back to look at her bland face in some disgust.

She shrugged. “You said you were mature at fourteen. It wouldn’t be unheard of for you to have fathered a child at twenty-two.”

“I was just graduated from Illinois.”

“The state or the university?”

He leaned back a little to regard the mouthy neophyte. He set her straight. “The university.”

“What was your major?”

“Business.”

“That probably helped you considerably.” Then she took her hand from his shoulder and covered her mouth. “I’d forgotten you are a rent collector.”

“You have a very nasty way of talking to a man who is buying your supper.”

“Here, at this elegant place, it’s dinner.”

“Yeah. Behave or you split the check.”

“I can handle half of it. We’ll split it.”

There isn’t anything more irritating to a controlling man than a freewheeling woman. So he said, “Okay, we’ll split it.”

“Actually…” She studied him with some discarding. “I owe you for funding my gambling. I’ll pay the bill.”

“Not this time, baby. It was my idea to come here.”

She understood the “baby” was not an endearment. She inquired politely, “Are we quarreling?”

“You’re so stiff-necked that you’re just about impossible.”

With mature kindness she corrected him gently. “Not ‘just about’ but completely. Shall we go back to the table and finish up? I have an early morning tomorrow.”

He continued dancing. Well, he didn’t let her go and leave the dance floor. He asked, “How could you be on any schedule?”

Without hesitation, she retorted, “I have working hours, just like anyone else.”

He laughed. He closed his lips and smothered and bit at the laughter. He couldn’t stop and his eyes sparkled and the lights in them danced.

Such laughter is contagious. She grinned.

His arm pulled her closer, and they danced easily without saying anything else. When the set was finished, they went back to their table.

Their waiter inquired, “Dessert?”

And they studied the choices on the menu. It was a tearing choice. They decided on three. They’d share.

Their tolerant waiter whisked on the extra small plates, each with its own fresh dessert fork or spoon. And he served their choices. He lingered and glanced at them and anticipated their delight.

They were delighted. The meringue was sinful. The cookie/ice cream/nut one was outrageously marvelous, and the whipped cream/fruit was wicked.

Neither of the two actually licked their plates. They agreed that showed they were grown-ups. Not licking plates proved their upper echelon of maturity.

And they decided being mature was a real pain.

It took his credit card to cover the cost. He didn’t say anything and his tip was just a tad more than expected.

Their car was ready for them at the door. Obviously the waiter had contacted the car jockey. While Ed eased Marcia into her seat, the car jockey held the driver door at ready. And he took his tip slyly and it disappeared quickly into his pocket without his even peeking at it. He was very smooth.

Ed drove his replacement car with easy skill. He headed down toward the river. It was late and the traffic was still busy.

She asked, “You’ve been…mature…longer. Does it ever get easier?”

“Before I respond to your question, let me wipe the whipped cream from my flowing, gray beard.” He looked over at her with amused patience.

She lifted her eyebrows and told him, “I realize that will take a while. You’ve been a graybeard for so long. Will you kindly repeat my question at the beginning of your response? By then, I just may not remember what I asked of you.”

Making his voice wobbly and cracked, Ed replied, “There’s nothing worse than a snippy youngster. Hush, child. Your momma won’t be pleased with my report on you. You did say this was your first evening out without a chaperone?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Hollingsworth.” Then she looked over at him and said, “That is an elegant name. What was your original last name? The one before this one.”

“So. You don’t think I’m elegant?”

She replied thoughtfully, “Rather basic, to my scant knowledge. You do know how to bone a fish the neatest I’ve ever witnessed.”

He inquired with curiosity, “Then why did you cut it crossways?”

“I wanted to see what you’d say. You were very brave and quite mature in keeping your shock to yourself.”

“Then you do realize a fish is filleted?”

“Honey, we’ve lived on the Illinois River for a long, long time.”

He nodded, accepting that premise, and replied, “We’re probably blood kin, if you go back far enough.”

“That would certainly shock my mother.”

“She doesn’t even know me! What have you said about me to her?”