Three Bedrooms, One Corpse

IT WAS RAINING Friday evening when Martin came to supper. He had barely shed his raincoat when he gathered me up in his arms.



"Martin," I whispered, finally.



"Humm?"



"The water for the spaghetti is boiling over."



"What?"



"Let me go put in the spaghetti so we can eat. After all, you need to build up your strength."



Which earned me a narrow-eyed look.



I can never manage to get all the elements of a meal ready simultaneously, but we did eventually eat our salad and garlic bread and spaghetti with meat sauce. Martin seemed to enjoy them, to my relief. While we ate, he told me about his trip, which seemed to have consisted mainly of small enclosed spaces alternating with large enclosed spaces: airplane, airport, meeting room, dining room, hotel room, airport, airplane.



When he asked me what I'd been doing, I almost told him I'd sat up last night afraid of the bogey man. But I didn't want Martin to think of me as a shaking, trembly kind of woman. Instead, I told him about my walk, about the people I'd seen.



"And they all had a chance to kill Tonia Lee," I said. "Any one of them could have walked up to the house in the dusk. Tonia Lee wouldn't have been too surprised to see any one of them, at least initially."



"But it had to have been a man," suggested Martin. "Don't you think?"



"We don't know if she'd actually had sex," I pointed out. "She was positioned to look like it, but we don't have the postmortem report. Or she could have had sex, and then been killed by someone other than her sex partner." Martin seemed to take this conversation quite matter-of-factly.



"That would assume a lot of traffic in and out of the Anderton house."



"Doesn't seem too likely, does it? But it could be. After all, the presence of a woman wouldn't scare Tonia Lee at all. And Donnie Greenhouse said several very strange things last night." I told Martin about Donnie's remark that not only men had wanted Tonia Lee, and about his sighting of Idella's car. But I didn't say anything about Eileen and Terry; just because they were the only lesbians I knew about in Lawrenceton didn't mean they were the only ones in town.



Aubrey would have been nauseated by this time.



"So what's your assumption?" Martin asked.



"I think ... I think Tonia Lee learned who was stealing those things from the houses for sale. I think she was having an affair with whoever it was, or he--or she--seduced her when she asked him to come to the Anderton house to talk about the thefts. Maybe he asked her to meet him under the guise of having a romp in the hay there, when he meant to finish her all along. So they romp or they don't, but either way he fixes it to look as if they had. I'm sure he planned it beforehand. He arrives by foot or bicycle, he kills Tonia Lee, he positions her sexually to make us think it's just one of her paramours who got exasperated, he moves her car, he goes home, he somehow gets the key back to our key board. He thinks that that way no one will look for Tonia Lee for days, days during which all alibis will be blurred or forgotten or unverifiable. Maybe he returns the key in the few minutes Patty and Debbie are both out of the front room at the office."



Martin had been listening quietly, thinking along with me. Now he held up his hand.



"No," he said. "I think Idella must have put back the key."



"Oh, my God, yes. Idella," I said slowly. "That's why he killed her. She knew who had had the key. She got it from whoever was at Greenhouse Realty."



That made so much sense. Idella, crying at the staff meeting right after Tonia's body was discovered. Idella, red-eyed and upset during the days after the killing.



"It must have been someone she was incredibly loyal to," I murmured. "Why wouldn't she tell? It would have saved her life."



"She couldn't believe it, she wouldn't believe this person did it," Martin said practically. "She was in love."



We stared at each other for a minute.



"Yes," I said quietly. "That must have been it. She must have been in love."



I thought of Idella after Martin fell asleep that night. Deluded in the most cruel way, Idella had died at the hands of someone she loved, someone of whom she could believe no evil, no matter how compelling the evidence. In a way, I thought drowsily, Idella had been like me ... she'd been alone for a while, coping with her life on her own. Maybe that had made her all too ready to trust, to depend. It had cost her everything. I prayed for her, for her children, and finally for Martin and me.



I must have coasted off into sleep, because the next thing I was aware of was waking. I woke up just a little, though; just enough to realize I'd been asleep, just enough to realize something unusual had roused me.



I could hear someone moving very quietly downstairs. Martin must be getting a drink and doesn't want to disturb me--so sweet, I thought drowsily, and turned over on my stomach, pillowing my face on my bent arms. My elbow touched something solid.



Martin.



My eyes opened wide in the darkness.



I froze, listening.



The slight sound from downstairs was repeated. I automatically reached out to the night table for my glasses and put them on.



I could see the darkness much more clearly.



I slid out of bed as silently as I could, my slithery black nightgown actually of some practical use, and crept to the head of the stairs. Maybe it was Madeleine? Had I fed her before we came up to bed?



But Madeleine was in her usual night place, curled on the little cushioned chair by the window, and she was sitting up, her head turned to the doorway. I could see the profile of her ears against the faint light of the streetlamp a block north on Parson Road, coming in through the blinds.



I glided back to the bed, very careful not to stumble over scattered clothes and shoes.



"Martin," I whispered. I leaned over my side of the bed and touched his arm. "Martin, there's trouble. Wake up."



"What?" he answered instantly, quietly.



"Someone downstairs."



"Get behind the chair," he said almost inaudibly, but very urgently.



I heard him get out of bed, heard him--just barely heard him--feeling in his overnight bag.



I was ready to disobey and take my part in grabbing the intruder--after all, this was my house--when I saw in that little bit of glow from the streetlight that Martin was holding a gun.



Well, it did seem time to get behind something. Actually, the chair felt barely adequate all of a sudden. I left Madeleine right where she was. Not only would she very probably have yowled if I'd grabbed her, but I trusted her survival instincts far more than mine.



I strained as hard as I could to hear but detected only some tiny suggestions of movement-- maybe Martin going to the head of the stairs. Despite the dreadful hammering of my heart, I said a few earnest prayers. My legs were shaking from fear and the cramped crouching position I'd assumed.



I willed myself to be still. It worked only a little, but I could hear some sounds coming up the stairs. This intruder was no skilled stalker.



I found I was more frightened of what Martin might do than I was of the intruder. Only slightly, though.



I heard the someone enter the room. I covered my face with my hands.



And the lights came on.



"Stop right there," Martin said in a deadly voice. "I have a gun pointed at your back."



I peeked around the chair. Sam Ulrich was standing inside the room with his back to Martin, who was pressed against the wall by the light switch. Ulrich had a length of rope in one hand, some wide masking tape in the other. His face was livid with shock and excitement. Mounting my stairs must have been pretty heart-pounding for him, too.



"Turn around," Martin said. Ulrich did. "Sit on the end of the bed," Martin said next. The burly ex-Pan-Am Agra executive inched back and sat down. Slowly I got up from my place behind the chair, finding out that during those few moments I'd spent there, my muscles had become strained and sore from the tension. My legs were shaking, and I decided sitting in the chair would be a good idea. My robe was draped over the back of it, and I pulled it on. Madeleine had vanished, doubtless irritated at having her night's sleep so rudely interrupted.



"Are you all right, Roe?" Martin asked.



"Okay," I said shakily.



We stared at our captive. I had a thought. "Martin, where did you park when you came tonight? Are you in your car?"



"No," he said slowly. "No, I parked out back in one of the parking slots, but I'm in a company car. I don't like to leave my car parked at the airport."



"So he didn't know you were here," I observed.



Martin absorbed that quickly. From looking perplexed and angry, his expression went to murderous.



"What were you going to do with the rope and the tape, Sam?" he asked very quietly.



I felt all the blood drain from my face. I hadn't followed through on my own idea until Martin asked that critical question.



"You son of a bitch, I was going to hurt you like you hurt me," Sam Ulrich said savagely.



"I didn't rape your wife."



"I wasn't going to rape her," he said, as if I weren't there. "I was going to scare her and leave her tied up so you'd know what it was like to see your family helpless."



"Your logic escapes me," Martin said, and his voice was like a brand-new razor blade.



I knew this was a quarrel between the two men, but after all, it was I who would have been tied up.



"Didn't you feel it might be a little cowardly," I said clearly, "to creep up in the dark and tie up a woman who wasn't even your real enemy?"



It seemed Sam Ulrich had never put it to himself quite that way. He turned even redder in a slow, ugly way.



"I'd like to kill you," Martin said very quietly. I didn't doubt his sincerity, and I could tell from the hunch of his shoulders that Ulrich didn't, either. Martin, even in pajama bottoms, had more authority than Sam Ulrich would have had in a suit. "But since it's Roe's house you broke into, and her you were going to harm, maybe she should decide what should happen to you."



I knew that Martin would kill this man if I asked him to.



I thought of calling the police. I thought of cops I knew from having dated Arthur, perhaps even Arthur himself, up here in my bedroom looking at me in my black nightie. I thought of their eyes as they found out Martin and I had been asleep together when I heard someone downstairs. I thought of the report taken from the police blotter that appeared daily in the Lawrenceton Sentinel. Then I thought of letting this dreadful coward go scot-free. But my flesh crawled when I pictured myself alone here with this frustrated man and his rope and his tape.



And I'll tell you what I just plain liked about Martin. He let me think. He didn't say one word, or look impatient, or even make a face.



"Do you have a wife?" I asked Sam Ulrich.



"Yes," he mumbled.



"Children?"



"Two."



"What are their names?"



He looked more and more humiliated. "Jannie and Lisa," he said reluctantly.



"Jannie and Lisa wouldn't like to see their father's name in the paper for attacking an unarmed woman in her home."



I thought that between anger and humiliation he might cry.



I got a pen and a notepad from my bedside drawer.



"Write," I said.



He took the pen and paper.



"Date it."



He wrote the date.



"I am dictating this now. Start writing," I told him. "I, Sam Ulrich, broke into the townhouse of Aurora Teagarden tonight. . ." His hand finally moved. When it stopped, I continued. "I had with me some rope and masking tape." Done. "She was asleep in bed with all the lights out, and I did not know anyone was in the townhouse with her." His fingers moved even slower. "I was only prevented by her house guest from doing her harm. If I do not abide by the conditions she sets forth, she will send this letter to the police, with a copy to my wife." And as he finished writing, I told him to sign it.



He waited to hear my conditions.



"What I want to see is your house up for sale tomorrow, and for God's sake don't list it with Select Realty. And I want you out of here, moved, family and all, within the week. I never want you to come back here, and I never want to see you again. You may not get a job like you're used to, but anything, I think, would be better than being in jail for what you wanted to do to me."



Martin's face was blank.



Ulrich was so upset his features were distorted. I wondered if between rage, and relief, and shock, he would have a heart attack on the way home, and I found myself not much caring if he did.



"Martin, could you please walk Mr. Ulrich to his car?"



"Sure, honey," Martin agreed, with a dangerous kind of smoothness. "Come on, Ulrich. You're lucky I asked the lady. I would have put you in the hospital if it had been up to me."



Or the morgue, I thought.



Sam Ulrich rose slowly. He took a step forward and then stopped. He was afraid to go closer to Martin. He was not such a fool as he looked. Martin moved back, and Ulrich preceded him down the stairs.



I heard the back door open and close, and wondered if I'd left it unlocked when we'd gone upstairs for the night. I didn't think so. Not a very good lock. I'd get a better one.



Being left alone for a few minutes was a great relief, and I burst into tears and tried very hard not to picture myself at the mercy of the man now being marched to his car.



I was rinsing my face at the sink, the cold water making me shudder, when Martin returned. I saw his reflection in the mirror beside mine.



"You've been crying," he said very gently, putting his gun on my vanity table, where it lay looking as out of place as a rattlesnake. I turned and put my arms around him. His bare chest was cold from the outside air, and I rubbed my cheek against him.



"He's driving home," he said, answering a question I was scared to ask.



"Martin," I said, "if you hadn't been here . . ."



"You would have called 911, because I wouldn't have been between you and the phone," he said practically. "They would have been here in two minutes, maximum, and you would have been fine."



"So this doesn't count as a rescue?" I asked shakily.



"We're even on this one. You kept me from doing something stupid to him. I would hate to have to spend the night down at the police station because of Sam Ulrich. You saved his family, too."



"Martin. Let's just get in bed and pile all the blankets on, and you can hold me."



I was trembling from head to toe. I realized, as I lay with my eyes wide open in the dark, that I had had to wait to find that Sam Ulrich had left in his own car--alive--before I could let myself have the luxury of relaxing, believing the incident was over. Martin was awake, too, listening. I didn't think Ulrich was stupid enough to come back; he should be in his own bed counting his blessings.



I began to count my own.



At least Martin didn't try to get to the plant early on Saturday, but he felt he should go in, especially since he'd been out of town. "I think my weekend hours will decrease now things are beginning to shape up at this plant," he told me over our morning coffee, "especially now that I have a reason to stay away."



I tried to smile back, but my attempt must have been miserable failure.



"Roe," he said seriously, "it's me that got you into the trouble last night, and for that I am so sorry. He wouldn't have come here if it wasn't for me. I hope you don't hate me for that."



"No," I said, surprised. "No, never think it. I'm just tired, and it was very upsetting. And you know--you do have to tell me why you brought a gun when you came to spend the night with me."



"I've had a hard life," Martin said after a moment. "I have a job that requires me to do difficult things to other people, people like Ulrich."



I closed my eyes briefly. This was all probably true, as far as it went. "All right," I said.



"Do you think you'll feel like going to that banquet tonight?"



I'd forgotten all about it. Of course, I wasn't wild about going, but on the other hand, when I pictured my mother asking me why we hadn't come, I just couldn't come up with a believable excuse.



"I guess so," I said unenthusiastically. "I'd rather drag myself there than think about last night." "Don't forget to wear your hair up," Martin reminded me later as he gathered all his things to stow in his company car. "What time should I come by?"



"I think cocktails start at six-thirty."



"Six-thirty it is. Dressy?"



"Yes. Everyone can bring two other couples as guests, so there's usually a decent crowd, and there's a speaker."



I was leaning on the door frame, and Martin was halfway to his car when he dropped the things he was carrying and came back. He held my hand.



"You aren't off me because of last night?" He looked at me steadily as he asked.



I shook my head slowly, trying to analyze what I did feel, why things seemed so grim. "I just realized I'd taken on more than I'd anticipated," I said, giving him the condensed version.



He looked at me quizzically. I was so tired that my judgment was impaired, and I went on. "You're a dangerous man, Martin," I said.



"Not to you," he told me. "Not to you."



Especially to me, I thought, as I watched him drive away.



I had completely forgotten to make an appointment to get my hair put up. Of course, all the hairdressers who were open on Saturday were fully booked. But with some wheedling and bribing, I got my mother's regular woman to stay open late to work with my mane. I would be done barely in time for the dinner.



That suited me just fine. I climbed wearily up my stairs and went back to bed. It was becoming a habit.



When I woke again at two o'clock, the gray day didn't look any more inviting, but I felt much better. I decided to cram the night before into a mental closet for the time being, to take some pleasure in going to a social function in Lawrenceton with Martin for the first time. I was human enough to relish the anticipation of eyebrows lifted, of envious women. I was convinced any woman with hormones would want Martin.



I even turned on my exercise tape and got at least halfway through it before getting fed up with the dictatorial instructress. Madeleine watched me, as usual, her eyes round and disbelieving. She followed me upstairs for my shower, watched me put on my makeup and dry my hair. I changed my sheets, too, and ran a carpet sweeper over the bedroom hurriedly.



I would be running so short on time I decided to put on everything but the actual dress before I left for my hair appointment. So I looked through my closets. I'd wear the dress I'd worn the year before. Martin hadn't seen it, even if everyone else had, and I'd only worn it that once. It was green, and after simple long sleeves and a scoop neck, the bodice descended to a point in front, and the short skirt flounced out in gathers all around. I'd have to wear black heels ... I needed some of those shiny lame-looking shoes that were so popular now, but I didn't have the energy or time to go shopping. Black would have to do. I had a little black evening purse, too. So I put on the right bra and slip and hose, and a dress that buttoned down the front over them.



I hurried out to my car and started across town to my mother's hairdresser. I'd looked up an address before leaving home, and I took a little detour. There was the Ulrich house, a three-bedroom ranch style in one of Lawrenceton's prettier middle-class neighborhoods.



And there was a FOR SALE sign in the yard.