[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
Mrs. Knooch was lying in her bed, on her back, her glassy eyes looking blindly up at the ceiling. The skin of her face had a bluish-pale tinge, and her lips formed a smudge of purple. Her nightgown displayed pink flowers on a white background.
The lump of dread in Art's throat threatened to block his breathing, and he took a step back. "What... ?"
"Shh!" Mrs. Meier held a finger to her lips and gestured at her son, who was still talking on the phone.
"Okay." Ralph kept on nodding while holding the mobile to his ear. "Yes, of course. We'll be waiting for you... Bye." He pocketed the device, looked at the other three people in the room, and took a breath. "Now, everyone, listen!" He stood straight, placed one hand on his hip, and motioned with the other towards the door. "The police say we all have to leave this room, this apartment. We must not touch anything." He took another breath. "This is probably the scene of a crime, they say. They will do foreign... forensic investigations here."
Mrs. Meier nodded and made for the door, passing Art on the way there. "Come, you've heard my son."
Art's gaze went back to Mrs. Knooch, drawn as if the body were a magnet. He couldn't help it.
One of her hands was hanging over the edge of the bed, the other was clutched to the nightgown at her chest.
So still.
"Shit," the waitress said.
Her voice helped Art to tear his gaze away from the dead woman.
"Shit," she said again and shook her head, slowly.
"Come, both of you." Ralph stepped closer and placed a hand on the waitress's shoulder, trying to turn her towards the door. "You need to leave."
She shrugged him off. "Take it easy... inspector." She glared at him, bit her lips, and then she turned and left the room.
Art followed. The idea of being alone with his late neighbor held no appeal.
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The scene of a crime?
Ralph's words resonated in Art's mind.
The landing in front of his and Knooch's apartment was crowded now. He found himself standing next to the waitress. "A crime?" he said. "Ralph has called this the scene of a crime. Why a crime?"
"Didn't you see the marks on her neck?" The woman tilted her head and scrutinized him. "They were so gross." Her eyes widened with the last word—dark irises in white orbs surrounded by what must have been the smudges of last night's blue-black mascara.
Art hadn't seen any marks on the body and shook his head. Without his bidding, his mind conjured an image of the late woman's long, turtlish neck with a set of ghastly, purple bruises.
"I'm Monica, by the way."
"Er..." It took him a moment to untangle his thinking from the bruised neck. He realized that the woman was offering him her hand. "Art." He shook it. Her skin was cold.
"I found her... Mrs. Knooch, like that." Monica released her grip. "You know, I wanted to go downstairs to my storage compartment, to find some breakfast... But going down I saw her door standing open. That was strange, you see. She keeps it closed, usually. So I called her name... Mrs. Knooch, I called, but there was no reply."
She stopped and locked eyes with him, for drama or for taking a breath. The fine wrinkles in her face made Art realize that she was older than he had thought, about his age maybe.
"I knocked and went in," she continued. "You never know, with old people, do you? And... I found her in her bed. Just like that. Lying on her cover... which is strange, don't you think? I mean, lying on her cover, not below it. Her eyes were open. They were glazed over, like in a movie. So it was clear she wasn't awake..." She glanced towards Knooch's door, then back at him. "I should have closed her eyes, don't you think?"
Before Art could say something, she continued. "I didn't touch her, but I'm sure she was all cold. Then I saw the bruises on her neck and went downstairs to get Mrs. Meier. She's the janitor, after all." She bit her lower lip.
Her speech left Art enveloped in wisps of morning breath—she obviously hadn't had her breakfast yet. Her eyes, black coals caught in the ruins of her mascara, darted from him to Knooch's apartment, then settled somewhere on the floor.
"Yeah."
The word made Art jump. He turned to see Ralph, who was nodding vigorously.
"I was at my mom's drinking coffee when Monica alerted us," he continued. "So we went upstairs, and there she was. Dead as a doornail."
Dead as a murdered turtle.
"Have you called the police now?" The question came from Adriana.
Art had completely forgotten about the blonde, who was still leaning against the banister, hugging herself. She held an unlit cigarette in her mouth—the non-smoking rule in all shared parts of the house was one of the bedrocks of order at Dumstreet 9.
"Yes." Ralph beamed at her. "Of course, I've called the police. They'll be here shortly. They told me to have an eye on matters until then. You see... no one's to touch anything."
"This is so terrible." Adriana put the cold cigarette to her lips, pulled on it, and frowned. "I heard the noise of you people up here and came to have a look. She..." Adriana sniffed. "She was such a sweet old lady. Who would do that to her?"
Sweet?
Art doubted the accuracy of the attribute and immediately felt ashamed for doing so.
Adriana sobbed.
Ralph moved as if to place a hand on her shoulder, but he stopped short as the wail of an approaching siren reached their ears. "Wow, that was quick. Now we'll get this all sorted out."
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A/N
Dedicated to ea_carter for a nomination and for having been the first reader of this book
