The Man In Number 7 Page 6

  A deep dark cold that held secrets. A cold where only the dead were allowed to walk.

  Chapter 8

  Boise, Idaho

  A storm was blowing in from the west, dark skies and heavy clouds. Maybe it would rain. They needed the rain. Mildred McLaughlin pulled the roast out of the oven and set the hot pan on top of the stove. She stopped for a moment and stared out the window watching the thunder clouds move across the late afternoon sky. She sniffed the roast, glad she had added the fresh rosemary. She loved rosemary. She’d put it in everything if Warren would let her. She tried to put it in his tea once, but he gagged and dumped it out. Some men had no sense of taste.

  The sound of the push lawnmower stopped as she opened the back door from the kitchen into the back yard. “Done mowing, dear?” Mildred asked. Warren pulled his cap off and wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve, then put his cap back on.

  “Be done in about five more minutes. You got some ice tea in the fridge?” His tall lean body hunched a little forward preparing to push the mower again.

  “You know I do, Warren McLaughlin. I always have the ice tea ready for you,” she smiled and pulled the screen door shut, but left the main door open. She walked around the apartment and opened all the windows, making sure the screens were tightly in place. The cool air from the storm would feel good. Especially if it rained.

  The front door to the apartment house that led into the lobby slammed shut. Mildred tiptoed across her living room to peek out the peephole in her front door. She heard giggling and scuffling in the hall. Pressing her eye against the small round piece of glass, she grimaced as she watched that young harlot leaning against her door of apartment 2, wrapped around some new guy like a piece of raw bacon. Agatha Pierce seemed so sweet when they rented the apartment to her. Airline stewardess. But it didn’t take long to figure out that Agatha had a side job. All those men she took in to her apartment, and it was a different one every night. Mildred knew what was going on. She always knew.

  After all, Warren and Mildred bought the old house-turned-apartment building five years earlier. They put a lot of work into keeping it up, clean and pretty. Warren took such good care of the yard, and Mildred loved her flowers. They were careful to screen who they rented to. If Mildred liked them, they got to live here. This was a good neighborhood of hard working people. But her stomach churned every time Agatha brought home another man. If she could prove it, she would have that little tart run out of her building faster than she could say basil.

  Her own back screen door slammed shut and Mildred turned to see her husband take off his grass-covered shoes and place them under the bench next to the door. Warren wiped his brow again as he took in a deep breath of the pot roast and stood at the large white enamel kitchen sink to wash his hands.

  “She’s brought another one home,” Mildred huffed as she stomped into the kitchen. She grabbed a glass off of the shelf and flung open the fridge. “That Agatha just brought home another man. Did you talk to her? I asked you to talk to her,” she poured the glass full of ice tea and shoved it into her husband’s hand, almost spilling it.

  “Mildred, what am I going to say? You want me to ask that lovely young lady if she’s a hooker?” he gulped down the cold drink.

  “Don’t use that word. You know I don’t like that word. But this apartment house is our home, and it’s a respectable home. Or at least it should be. How can you live with that…that…you know what, going on in the next apartment? It’s disgraceful,” Mildred snorted and slammed cupboard doors and drawers as she got plates and silverware out for dinner.

  “Honey,” Warren set the empty glass on the counter and put a hand on each of his wife’s shoulders. “We are not without sin ourselves. How can we cast one of God’s children out into the streets, knowing our own past?”

  “Wha…” Mildred’s eyes flared with shock. “I’ve never done anything like that! I’ve never…” she pulled away from him and set the table shaking her head. “This is not a brothel and I won’t have it,” she stopped and dropped her head for a moment with eyes closed. She slowly looked up at her husband who was pouring a second glass of ice tea. “I know I’ve made my mistakes. It’s that knowledge, I suppose, that’s kept me from throwing her out already.” Mildred set a wicker basket on the table. “I try to be Christian. To forgive. But some days it just doesn’t work so well.”

  “Dinner smells great, dear. Let’s sit and enjoy our meal. Storm’s rolling in. We should sit on the front porch this evening. Maybe it’ll even rain,” Warren always had a way of calming her down. His soothing voice, his soft touch, his words of wisdom. She was so thankful he had stuck with her through her difficult years.

  They sat down at the small metal kitchen table and Warren cut the pot roast. He picked up the newspaper sitting on the edge of the table and started reading. “Says here Fidel Castro declared Cuba bans free elections.”

  “What do we care about what Mr. Castro does?” Mildred uncovered the basket of hot rolls she’d made earlier in the day and passed him a bowl of sweet corn. The smell of dinner was topped off by the scent of rain moving across the valley. She bowed her head and gave thanks.

  “It’s news, and I like the news.”

  “Well I like to eat my dinner in peace. So put the newspaper down and let’s just eat.”

  “Yes, dear. By the way, I fixed that plugged drain in the laundry room.”

  “Oh, good. And that young mother and little girl moved into number 6 today,” Mildred spread butter across her roll.

  “Number 6? That’s great. Wish we could get someone to stay in number 7, then we’d have a full house. So where’s our new tenant from?” Warren cut his slice of roast up into small bite size pieces and popped one in his mouth.

  “They’ve been staying with one of those Basque families, you know, at the end of the alley?” Mildred took a small bite of her roll. “But I gather she’s from down around Louisiana, in that area.”

  “Ain’t no one in this building from Idaho?” Warren stabbed another bite of roast. “I thought we’d be the outsiders, but this seems to be a home for outsiders.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Mildred sipped her iced tea. “Well the good thing is, now Vicki in number 3 will have a friend. She starts first grade this year, the two girls will be perfect for each other. That poor little Vicki always seems so lonely,” she shook her head and cut a piece of roast, then put it back on her plate. Her face filled with sadness and her eyes drifted off into memories far away. She laid her fork down and dropped her hands into her lap.

  “Honey, Mildred, don’t do this to yourself,” Warren put a hand on her arm. “That was a long time ago, and there was nothing we could do.”

  Her voice cracked with sorrow. “You don’t know that. I was a nurse, I knew better. I’m sorry, I’ve lost my appetite,” Mildred got up from the table, wiped at her eyes and left the apartment through the back door. A thunder cloud rumbled in the distance and the wind rustled the leaves of the large oak tree next to the swing set as she stood on the back step.

  The wind blew through her short hair and across her face. She wrapped her arms around herself like a cozy shawl, walked over and sat in the swing, considered her fractured life, and cried. Mildred had paid her penance to the state, lost her job and her license, she wore her disgrace. But she never forgave herself. How could she? It was her fault, and she knew it. The blood of an innocent child would forever be on her hands.

  Rain began to spit. Mildred glanced up at the window of apartment 7. A room that held nearly a decade of death and dark secrets. She shuddered.

  Chapter 9

  Winnemucca, Nevada

  The Ranch House Restaurant loomed at the east end of town. There was nothing but dust and sagebrush past the end of the street. Julien lit a cigarette and threw the match into the gravel behind the restaurant. He leaned against the brick wall and squinted his eyes in the bright sun. A car pulled in, the tires crunching in the gravel. Julien watched as a waitress go
t out and slipped past him into the employee entrance. Why would his brother ever come here? Stupid dry heat and layers of dust. This place made him gag, in more ways than one.

  “Jules,” Lee said stepping out the back door. “I pulled those salmon steaks out for you.” Lee was young and eager to please. Julien took advantage of it.

  “Thanks, pal. I be inside in a minute,” he pulled a long drag off of the cigarette and let it fill his lungs. “Hey Lee,” he called out to the young man. But Lee had already gone back inside. Julien chuckled to himself. This workin’ forty hours was for losers. He had better things to do. He had a sister-in-law to find. And punish. That was his job now, not flippin’ burgers, short stacks, and salmon. His brother was a loser. He deserved to die. But not at her hands.

  The kitchen was crowded, noisy, and sweltering hot. Julien wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Why would anyone put up with this? He threw one of the salmon steaks on the grill, it sizzled and hissed. He drenched it in olive oil. Lee was hunched over the large sink washing dishes.

  “Hey Lee, c’mere,” Julien nodded.

  Drying his hands on his apron, Lee bounced in eagerness over to Julien. “Yes sir, what do you need?”

  “Don’t call me dat sir shit,” Julien spat on the floor between them.

  “Sorry, Jules.”

  “Listen, ya’ knows ma wife, right?” Julien kept his voice low not wanting anyone else to hear.

  “Apolline, sure. You said she went to visit her family back home?”

  “Yeah, well, here’s da thing with dat. Ya’ see, she was spendin’ a lotta’ time right before she took off, with some friends here. You ever see her with friends here?”

  “Uh,” Lee shrugged his shoulders. “Not really, Jules. I mean, I know she liked them Basque parties, you know, when them bands play over at the big W Hotel.”

  “Dat Winnemucca Hotel?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Those Basques have celebrations all the time, and they have a band that comes down from Idaho a lot and plays there,” Lee rubbed his hands on his apron nervously.

  “Dat’s right,” Julien laughed and ruffled up Lee’s hair. “Yeah, she love dem Basques. Idaho, huh?”

  Lee chuckled in a relieved voice. “Yeah, Idaho.”

  “Ya’ done good, kid,” Julien gave Lee a friendly pat on the back of his head. “Now get dem dishes washed or we be serving our guests on our bare hands.” Julien watched the dishwasher out of the corner of his eye. He tightened his jaw. Basques, huh? They should be easy enough to track down.

  When Julien and his twin brother were young boys, he hated the fact that they looked alike; that no one could tell them apart. But today, he decided it was a pretty good thing. Today he could use his brother’s good looks to his own advantage. Today, he would track down that murderous bitch that took his scum-of-a-brother’s life. The two brothers may have fought their whole life, but no one had the right to hurt Jules, except Julien. He protected his brother from their abusive father in the early years. And then that bastard turned on him. The more he thought about it, the hotter under the collar Julien got. He flipped the last salmon patty onto a plate, added the rice and garnishes and slid it onto the window shelf. “Order up,” he called out. He glanced at the clock, untied his cook’s apron, pulled the cap off of his head and nudged Lee on his way out the back door. “Ma shift up, kid. See ya’ ‘round.”

  That evening the desert cooled down fast once the sun slipped away and made Julien shiver as he lit a cigarette and strolled along the sidewalk toward the Winnemucca Hotel. He laughed to himself as the Basque music filtered over the clanging and buzzing from the casinos. The dance in his step was back as he took a puff and smiled at the ladies as he passed them.

  The Jimmy Jausoro band was playing on the back patio of the old hotel. Dancers filled the streets, along with laughter, and the smell of hot cooked meats simmering in tantalizing spices. And best of all, the smell of whiskey. It reminded him of home. Julien did love his whiskey. He did a little two step as if dancing on his own, then edged his way into the crowd. He smiled at an enticing young girl in traditional Basque clothes, a white peasant blouse, a full red skirt and red shoes with straps that laced back and forth up over her calf. She stood at the edge of the dance floor.

  “Hey doll, dis da band from Idaho?” the sly fox asked.

  “Um, yeah,” the teenager nervously rubbed her hands on her skirt.

  “Tell me again, what town dey from?” Julien blew smoke over the top of her head.

  “Boise, we’re from Boise,” she glared at him then disappeared into the crowd.

  “Boise,” Julien mused as he took another long drag and felt it expand in his chest. “Look like it be time for anudder road trip,” he laughed to himself all the way back to the apartment.

  Inside the tiny living room, Julien threw back a glass of whiskey, wiped his parched lips, and filled his glass for another round. His eyes stared at the large blood stain in the center of the room. He finished that drink and poured more. The whiskey sure tasted good. Oh, but seeing Apolline squirm was going to taste so much better.

  Chapter 10

  Boise, Idaho

  Agatha Pearl Pierce was a stewardess for a small airline. When they had flights. And she was a prostitute when they didn’t. After all, a girl had to pay the rent. The busty twenty-five year old blond, brushed her hair in front of the mirror in her small bathroom. She had a Barbie-doll figure. It was a gift, and her mother always taught her to never let a gift go to waste.

  Backing away from the mirror, Agatha admired her black pencil skirt and the black and white striped silk blouse. They looked good on her. Damn good. The corner of her plump red lips curled up in satisfaction. She unbuttoned one more button and adjusted her nice round breasts in the new bra she had bought. Black lace. She even splurged and bought the matching panties. French cut. Shaking her shoulders, she admired the rustle of the lace brushing against the silk blouse. She did so love silk!

  Blotting her ruby lipstick on a square of toilet paper, Agatha created a perfect kiss. She dropped the paper in the small trash can and smiled at her reflection. Her momma would be proud, if she were still alive. Agatha used her gifts well. Although it hadn’t landed her a husband yet. And that’s all she ever really wanted. A rich man to take care of her. Buy her pearls and mink. Keep her happy sipping martinis every night. She would make him happy too. She had learned some amazing ways to make men happy. She could make all his dreams come true.

  Sexually. Agatha knew what to do. She just wanted that husband to do them with.

  Becoming a stewardess wasn’t a career goal; it was a way of meeting pilots. And rich men who flew on business trips. And as much as Agatha sensuously served them coffee and tea, no one offered her a diamond ring. It made her sad, really. She had so much to offer. And no one to give it to.

  “Well,” Agatha spoke to her reflection. “You better get out of this dump and find a man to get you drunk before you start crying. You have a gift. Go use it, for God’s sake.” She turned, picked up her black clutch with the rhinestone clasp, and left the apartment.

  Stepping out the front door and onto the porch, Agatha glanced over at Warren sitting in a metal chair reading the newspaper. He peeked over the page and smiled at her. “Evenin’ Miss Pierce, lovely time of day.”

  “Yes it is. Anything noteworthy in the news these days?” Agatha adjusted the red belt around her waist.

  “Look at this,” Warren folded the paper and pointed to an article on the page. “A custom-built 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible was delivered to the White House for President Kennedy. Won’t he look fine riding around in that?”

  “Our new President looks fine in whatever he’s in.” Agatha stepped down the front steps and left the yard. She had better things to think about than some fancy convertible the nation’s president would be riding around in. She had her own future to contemplate. Maybe tonight she would meet her Mr. Right. She would go to the Lamppost, the most exclusive bar and
restaurant in town. It was where the wealthy hung out. Agatha threw her shoulders back, her chest out, which wasn’t hard to do, and strolled downtown.

  The soft kiss of summer twilight cast pink and blue shadows across the sides of the buildings. The air was a warm blanket that caressed her skin. She could hear crickets chirping and the sound of traffic a few blocks away. The smell of her new perfume wafted on a gentle breeze, Paris Nights. Agatha bought it not because it smelled all that great, but because of the name. She had always wanted to go to Paris. Especially after talking to Pierre in apartment number 4 upstairs. He was quite a bit older than her. He was at least forty, sad, but nice. And Pierre was from Paris. He even spoke the language. Agatha thought that was amazing. She loved listening to him talk in his native tongue.

  She reached Main Street and turned left to go downtown. The lights of the city made her feel intoxicated. Agatha loved the city. Her black patent leather high heels clicked on the sidewalk as she strolled along, imagining she was in Paris. After so many mornings of sitting with Pierre, drinking coffee together, listening to him talk about his home, she could almost feel it, see the lights of the Eiffel Tower, and hear the locals chattering all around her. A driver honked his horn at her as she stepped off the curb and almost into oncoming traffic. Agatha stopped at the edge of the street and looked around. She’d been walking in a dream.

  The lights of the Lamppost Restaurant were bright, inspiring Agatha to smile. She smoothed her tight skirt over her shapely hips and hurried across the street and into the building. The bar’s dim lighting created an ambiance of intimacy and privacy. It was Agatha’s favorite place to be. She breathed in the smoke and alcohol infused air deep into her lungs like a baby taking her first breath. “Ahhhhh,” she sighed. It calmed her nerves and made the world right again. Her high heels tip-tapped on the hardwood floor as she glided over to the bar and slid onto a stool. Bob was working behind the bar tonight. Agatha considered Bob her good luck charm.