BOO! - DEDUCING DEDUCTIONS

The spring morning invited me to have my coffee on the terrace. A soft wind brushed my face as I opened the sliding glass door. From the tenth floor condo the entire city seemed visible. The thought was exciting as church steeples, golden mosques, skyscrapers to heaven filled my eyes. That all ended when the eerie, wailing sound of sirens snapped my reverie. The noise came closer, got louder and stopped ten floors down in the circular driveway. Two police cars pulled close to the sidewalk. The officers hurried into my building. Behind them a larger, bronze colored car stopped. I could see the large M.E. on the roof. That frightened me. ‘Medical Examiner’ meant only that someone was dead, violently dead.

 

As I turned away, I knocked over my coffee cup, spilled the dregs on my robe. That did not deter me as I hurried to the foyer and watched the elevator rise to 12. Floor 12 has one new owner, a beautiful young woman, I have been told. I only surmised she was the victim but that was insufficient for me. I re-filled my coffee cup, dressed and attempted to go down to the lobby, find out what I could.

 

Only one elevator was available, marked ‘maximum passengers 12' was available. I squeezed in and knew I was 13 which upset me-a bad omen.
The ride to the lobby was non-stop in silence. Restrictive yellow tapes then forced us outside, to the end of the driveway. The silence was broken as we joined those who were already waiting for information. Two were new owners I hadn’t yet met, Marvin Ferguson, a tall, swarthy man who looked like he might have been a wrestler or boxer at one time, and Jack Jackson, our only black resident. There was little we learned from each other. Many questions without answers.

 

All sorts of possibilities were mentioned. The beauty was a pro, maybe not totally retired, who had a disgruntled customer; she was a former movie starlet who had made enemies; her divorced husband had a big insurance policy on her. I listened. I scoffed at the triteness of the possibilities. The police officer with the white cap surely was the squad captain. His bull horn blasted instructions. ‘All residents and guests, please return to your apartments at once. Officers will be going door to door to interview each of you. All we can tell you now is Mrs. Stanton has been murdered. Anything you have heard, seen, suspect, no matter how insignificant, tell us. We will start on floor 11. Your cooperation and help will be appreciated.’

 

I didn’t fool myself. I was frightened, didn’t want to be alone. Neither did the other widows and divorcees. It had never dawned on me how many lived in this association, 21 loners! Most I knew well enough to say ‘Good morning. Nice day, isn’t it?’ I’ve gone to lunch, supper, a movie with four neighbors occasionally, considering them neighbors not friends. We seemed to all be ‘private people–until now when we became confidants. Together we made lists of all men in our buildings, including trash collectors, painters, cleaners, maintenance men in every field. We were spinning wheels, delaying the time we would have to go back alone to what we thought was a heavenly safe place.

 

I was the first to volunteer some of my personal past.  Perhaps smugly, I mentioned I had a long run of bit parts on ‘One Life to Live’ had met Johnny Carson, Jay Leno, lots of popular people, some even propositioned me. That sort of relaxed the others to open up. We talked for an hour and all had had enough. I was again the first to say,
‘Goodnight, Ladies. The deceased is deceased. Police are everywhere. I am not afraid and am going upstairs. Life goes on.’

 

With a show of bravado, I left the room, rang for the elevator, got on, pushed ten and the elevator ascended. It stopped at nine. The door opened and someone I didn’t recognize got on. I barely got a good look at him when the light went out. Something cold and hard touched my throat. A rush of cold wetness ran down my neck, onto my dress.

 

I faintly heard the elevator stop, the door open, close and start down.