The Case of the Lady in Apartment 308 Read online

  So.

  Well…

  Ed wanted another look at the woman. An aloof woman. She’d been frosty and with-drawn.

  Yet, on her own, she’d invited him to her place. He wanted to see how she’d be.

  That was more honest. Stupid, but more honest.

  Why—stupid?

  She hadn’t given him any indication—at all—that she was even mildly interested in him. She’d never tried even to have a conversation with him. How could he expect anything from such a woman?

  She’d invited him to supper.

  Big deal. He’d had her to lunch twice.

  But not at his place. He’d served her in the basement on a wooden table.

  The food had been good.

  But women like atmosphere. They like elegance. They want to be pampered. Just watch. When she had him there for supper, she’d have the best linens on the table. She’d show off her culinary talents. It’d be a ball and a banquet.

  Okay. So what was going on with her? She’d set him up. And he’d already discarded her. She’d flunked all the openings. Why now?

  He’d know by—bedtime.

  Dreamer.

  It was an endless day. In the late morning, he did go over to the apartments. And he did go up the stairs to her apartment with an inner dither of anticipation.

  Why was he there? What excuse could he give? He wasn’t invited until five that evening. How could he begin?

  He could offer to get anything she might need for supper.

  Her door was closed and she didn’t respond to his knock. She’d probably moved out overnight and her invitation was a touché of malice.

  Disappointed, he took care of whatever needed to be done at the apartments, which wasn’t much, and he went back to the compound. Then he went on a hike along the road down by the river.

  Ed did nothing productive in that whole day. He was waiting for five o’clock to finally get there. Then he would see if she’d tricked him and had already left the place, or if she wanted to be friendly.

  Actually he wondered if she would speak to him at all…if she was actually there.

  How interesting that he considered her tricking him as plausible. If he felt that way about her, he ought to leave her be and have no contact with her at all. It was dumb to flirt with the knowing of such a woman.

  But Ed waited for time to pass so that he could dress and go to her place. He felt as if he wasn’t being very smart. He had trouble deciding what to wear.

  He didn’t wear a tie. But he wore good brown trousers and a contrasting cream sports jacket. His shirt was brown and so were his excellently shined shoes.

  He was carefully shaven and his after-shave was so subtle that it would take a very friendly woman to even get a hint of it.

  All of it was done with no idea that she would even be there. Or that she would actually accept him as a guest.

  So he drove to the apartment house with no anticipation that he could actually acknowledge. His breathing was quicker only because he’d hurried.

  Hurried? He’d been ready just about the entire day! He parked his car and locked it. But he did go behind the garage and pick a bunch for the blue weed bouquet as he’d planned. He considered it. It, too, would be a test. If she was actually still around.

  Then he went into the very familiar building and up the worn carpeting on the stairs.

  No one was anywhere around. There was a radio playing in an apartment on the second floor. He went on up to the third floor. No one was there, either, and the sounds were those of atmosphere. Nothing.

  He went past the apartment she would have when she finished painting it, and went on to her temporary one.

  That door, too, was still closed. He knocked discreetly. And he listened for footsteps. There was none.

  But the door opened!

  Had she been standing there, watching the clock, waiting?

  She didn’t smile. She looked up at him and said, “Hello.”

  She’d said hello!

  He smiled and restrained the impulse to reply. His smile would do it all. He handed her the blue flowered weeds.

  And she smiled! Her eyes sparkled. She didn’t say anything. But she took them to the table and put them into her water glass.

  The place mats were paper towels, the napkins were paper. The fish was ready to go into the skillet. The other skillet was covered and there was the fragrance of bread being baked…warmed?

  And there was garlic. They were having toasted garlic bread. His mouth reacted with a rush of saliva. As early as it was to eat at five, he was ready.

  Her brown hair was in a knot on top of her head and there were little stray curls by her ears and at the back. She wore no jewelry.

  Who ever heard of a woman who didn’t wear earrings?

  He looked down her. She had on a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up, long black trousers, and black slippers.

  She was out of that extralarge, paint-splattered coverall, and she was a lot skinnier than he’d remembered.

  She was really well made. His hunger then was different. And he was still amazed that she hadn’t stood him up.

  She said, “This is the first time I’ve cooked a catfish.”

  He smiled. “It’ll be fine.”

  “There isn’t much damage I can do with the garlic bread.”

  He bit his lower lip to stop his laugh. She’d said several sentences to him. She hadn’t talked that much to him since they’d first met.

  She said, “I have to paint. But your supper will be ready in a minute.”

  He was stunned. He protested, “It’s quitting time. You’re supposed to sit with me and eat with me.”

  “I’m paying you back for taking me fishing.” She could communicate. She knew words.

  He was expansive. “You get half of the fish.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “If you make me eat alone, I’ll go into a decline.”

  She tasted the word. “A…decline?”

  “I have an uncle who lives in TEXAS and he says that whenever anybody crosses him. But he can go into a decline.” He raised his eyebrows as he lowered his eyelids and he bragged, “So can I.”

  “How?”

  He gave her his aloof glance and replied, “I slump and my face falls and I give up.” He smiled and his eyes sparkled with his humor.

  She said, “Bosh.”

  So he sighed deeply as he slid out of his cream jacket and hung it on one of the chrome-and-fake-leather chairs, which had seen better days. Then he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and turned them back precisely.

  He sat down and looked at her. “I’m ready to eat.” And he put his hand to his forehead as if he was being very brave to endure.

  When she made no response, his glance slid over to her and caught her bitten grin.

  She said, “Where all have you taken your plays?”

  “I’m not an actor, I’m just a simple man.” Then he narrowed his eyes just a trifle and asked, “How do you make your living?”

  She did an eye-catching shrug. “Painting.”

  He was kind. “You’re really very good at it.” But then his honesty kicked in and he added, “You tend to be slow and careful. When will you be finished with your apartment?”

  “In about two days.”

  He frowned at her. “How can you live on what you make? You’re so…careful that you’re slow.”

  In her white silk blouse, her shrug was fascinatingly wonderful. His body tingled and he had to be careful his breaths didn’t sound like an upset bull’s.

  Why her?

  She was turned away, putting the fish into the hot skillet.

  She put the waiting covered skillet onto the table and he peeked. It was cut-up potatoes, which had been browned as they’d cooked in grease. He smiled. To hell with cholesterol rejection.

  He said, “Sit down. You don’t get credit unless you share your company. I did. You have to reciprocate.”

  She sat down. “I didn’t
know rent collectors knew such a word.”

  His mouth just went right on and told her, “I’ve had a stickler for a mother.”

  She went to the small refrigerator and brought out a bowl of salad. It was well cut and had been tossed to distribute the dressing. There was lettuce, tomatoes and onions. Some croutons had been added. There were bits of green pepper. It was crisp and nice.

  He smiled some more.

  She watched the frying fish. She’d set the timer and it clicked along. When it dinged, she turned the fish carefully. And she reset the timer.

  He wondered how she’d come to decide on how much cooking the fish needed?

  She watched the timer, filled the glasses with water and put the warmed plates on the table. She took the covered skillet and removed the lid to allow him to take some fried potatoes.

  Then the timer sounded, and she put the fried fish on a plate. She brought it to the table and said, “There.”

  He repeated, “You get half.”

  She considered. Then she sat down and cut the fish in half. She did that across the middle. He got the part with the head, she took the part with the tail.

  How could a woman, who lived by such a big river, and had such a refined fishing pole, not know how to fillet a fish? There were probably other, more important things she didn’t know. She had a few things to learn.

  He reached for her plate as he told her, “Here. Let me fix that for you.”

  She said nothing but watched his face as he skillfully filleted the back half of the catfish. She didn’t much care for fish.

  He put the bones on his own plate and smiled at her kindly as he returned her plate. Then he began on his own fish, filleting it with dispatch.

  She got up and found a soup bowl for him to use for the bones. And the fish’s head. How gross.

  They ate mostly in silence. He ventured several questions. “Did you go to school here?”

  She replied, “No.”

  “Where?”

  Vaguely, she said, “Over in Ohio.”

  He inquired, “What did you study?”

  “Not painting.”

  He grinned and asked, “What?”

  “General education. No particular skills,” she lied.

  “You do paint.”

  “My dad was a painter. I helped him.”

  “Most dads are tolerant of kids wanting to help.” Ed was kind. “Did he teach you to be that careful?”

  “He’d give me a whole wall. It was always in a closet or a back hail.”

  Soberly, Ed nodded and replied, “My dad did that, too.”

  “He also taught me to take apart the plumbing and clean it out. It took time.”

  Ed laughed. “My dad did that!”

  Soberly, she communicated, “Being a father is a challenge. He does more interesting things than sweeping or dusting or washing dishes.”

  “I’d never thought of it that way.”

  She expanded the premise. “Men selected what domestic chores they’d do and allowed women to do the rest of it.”

  His humor brimming his eyes, Ed considered the rebel. “You couldn’t change sex.”

  “I did try. Mother told me to kiss my elbow and I’d change.” She added thoughtfully, “It’s a wonder I didn’t break my arm.”

  Ed considered her. “So you don’t like being a woman?”

  She turned her head slightly and gave him an amused glance along with that fascinating shrug and replied, “I grew into the role.”

  Without his permission, his flicking eyes were witnessing the result. “Yeah.”

  “Being female isn’t easy.” She shared that knowledge.

  And he sighed. “Being male is worse.”

  She scoffed. “You guys have it so easy. Nobody harasses you, nobody crowds you. Nobody brushes against you. Nobody discards any advice or suggestions you give.”

  “You don’t know the real world. Men have to run in packs. A lone male is chopped up. No matter what the circumstances, a guy needs backup. The worst possible scenario for a guy is…marriage. No. No. Listen. There, he’s all alone, no male backup and has to handle everything all by himself.”

  She burst out laughing.

  He laid his fork down and put his elbow on the table as he waited for her hilarity to abate. Then he said, “Why, Marcia, whatever are you thinking about to laugh in that manner? Are you thinking about— gasp—sex?”

  She bit her lip and watched him, her eyes spilling her laughter.

  Earnestly, gently, he instructed the untried one, “A man has to train a woman in marriage.” He elaborated, “What days he sleeps late, what sort of weather is fishing weather, who buys the beer for any gathering and what kind. Hush that. Who sleeps on which side of the bed. Who brings in the coffee and paper. A woman never realizes those are her chores.”

  She tilted her head a little as she looked at him. “You’ve never been married.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I believe Amy told me.”

  “Almost all of my friends are married, and the guys spread the word. It sounds like such a strain, I’ve never been tempted to take the leap into the fiery pits of…the volcano.”

  “You don’t like the idea of being nailed down.”

  “Men do that. Women submit.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  His face was so innocent and earnest, “They don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned! The guys I hear, tell it different. They say all those things. I’ve just not yet had the impulse to tackle a woman and train her.”

  “Train…her?”

  “From what I hear, women come into a marriage thinking they’re in control. It takes guys a tough lot of time just getting them settled. They don’t even have time for friends right at first. The training takes so long and is so hard.”

  She scoffed.

  “How many married couples have you seen out and about after they’re married? They go on trips by themselves and they come home and lock the doors. A man has it hard.” He shook his head and sighed. “You ought to just hear the tales they tell.”

  “What about kids?”

  “What about them?”

  “Does the dad take a hand in training them?”

  “After the potty training and the food being poked into them and the bottles, then the dad gives them lessons in hamburgers and beer. They—”

  “Beer!”

  He was open and serious, “It’s soothing to the screaming and yelling toddlers.”

  “Good heavens!”

  He laughed so that he had to sit back and give the laugh room.

  She watched him for a while. Then she accused, “You are a tease.”

  “I do try.” He went back to the slivers of catfish he’d busily separated on his plate to make the meal last longer.

  She considered him. “So you’re not in the market for a wife.”

  “I’m not sure anymore. The guys I know who are married with little kids around, and some with high school kids, appear to be very contented.

  “They include me in their activities, and they seem to be quite settled. It’s scary. The guys I could always count on are talking kids’ activities. They coach teams and drive kids and participate. I never thought it would come to this. What happened to all those good friends who were available anytime for anything?”

  She replied readily enough, “They grew up.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  He pushed. “Been married? Engaged?”

  “Nope.”

  He tilted back his head. “Had any affairs?”

  “None. I’ve been too busy.”

  He slid it in. “Painting?”

  “I’ve done several things. Painting is another talent. I find it satisfying.”

  “I think you’re wasting your brain.”

  “Since this is the first real exchange of conversation we’ve had, how can you judge me?”

  He told her levelly, “I’ve wa
tched you paint. Whose overalls are those?”

  She smiled. “They’re a keepsake of my dad’s. The cap was his, too. I can tell you the history of each color.”

  And he wondered at her words.

  He suggested, “I have some coveralls in the basement. Let’s get the painting done tonight. It can air out—”

  “Not tonight.”

  He took in a quick, surprised tiny gasp. “Why not?”

  His reply had been different than she’d expected. She told him, “There’s a friend sleeping in that apartment. He’s just started working and needed a place tonight. I aired it all day. He’ll be okay.”

  “You didn’t tell me we had another occupant.”

  “The apartment wasn’t occupied.” She raised honest eyes to his. “I didn’t think it would matter. It’ll only be for a couple of days.”

  “You told me you had to paint tonight.”

  “I…I was giving you an out so that you could leave early.”

  “What made you think I would want to leave?”

  “What makes you think I want you around?”

  He could have indicated the table and her having fed him, but he simply looked at her. “Are you an honest woman?”

  “Yes. But why would you believe me? You’ve already told me you don’t much care for commitment.”

  “When’d I say that?”

  “In telling me about your friends.”

  “Oh, well, sure, you see, yeah.”

  5

  Ed asked the woman whose name was Marcia, “Have you been married?”

  “I’ve told you I haven’t been married.” Marcia glanced over at him and inquired, “If you didn’t believe that, why would you assume that I’m not married now?”

  “I don’t think any man would allow a wife to paint alone, or live alone. He’d be helping you with the Elinor-accrued debt here, and he’d be helping you paint.”

  “What makes you decide that?”

  “If you belonged to a husband or a bunch of painters, he, or they, would be here helping you out so that you could get back to the business.”

  “I’m independent.”

  He asked the ceiling first, “Who’d have the patience to wait for you to paint a house?” He looked at her sternly as he accused her. “You use that toothpick brush and you’re too careful.”