Bill Pronzini: Betrayers

Or the one that had walked into the agency offices this morning.

A new cutie with seriocomic overtones, no less. A little of this and a little of that all mixed together into what was bound to be a not very appetizing stew. City bureaucracy, real estate squabbles, nocturnal prowlings, petty vandalism, threatening phone calls, poisoned cats, and, ah yes, one more ingredient that had been left out of the recitation of the original recipe…

Y oung man,” Mrs. Abbott said to me, “do you believe in ghosts?”

The “young man” surprised me almost as much as the question. But then, when you’re eighty-five, a man in his early sixties can seem relatively young.

I said politely, “Ghosts?”

“Poltergeists, malevolent spirits?”

“Well, let’s say I’m skeptical.”

“Loved ones from the Other Side?”

“Likewise.”

“I’ve always been skeptical myself. But I can’t help wondering if it might be a ghost who is responsible for all that has happened.”

Beside me on the sofa, my client, Helen Alvarez, age seventy and likewise a widow, sighed and rolled her eyes in my direction. She hadn’t mentioned ghosts in my office; this was the ingredient that made the cutie even cuter.

She smiled tolerantly across at Mrs. Abbott in her Boston rocker. “Nonsense. When did that notion come into your head?”

“Last night. I’ve been reading a book.”

“A book? What book?”

“About spirit manifestations and the like. It’s quite a fascinating concept.”

“It’s a load of crap,” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“I can’t imagine why a poltergeist would suddenly invade my home. Carl, on the other hand… well, that does seem possible.”

I said, “Carl?”

“My late husband. His shade, you see.”

Mrs. Alvarez emitted an unladylike snorting sound.

“Don’t you think it’s possible, Helen?”

“No, I certainly don’t. Carl has been gone ten years, for heaven’s sake. Why would his spirit come back now?”

“It could be he’s been angry with me since he passed over.”

“Why would he be angry with you?”

“I’m not sure I did all I could for him when he was ill. He may blame me for his death-he had a nasty temper, you know, and a tendency to hold a grudge. And surely the dead know when the living’s time is near. Suppose he has crossed over to give me a sample of what our reunion on the Other Side will be like?”

There was a small silence.

Mrs. Alvarez, who was Margaret Abbott’s neighbor, friend, watchdog, and benefactor, shifted her long, lean body and said patiently, “Margaret, ghosts can’t ring the telephone in the middle of the night. Or break windows. Or dig up rosebushes.”

“How do we know what spirits can or can’t do? Perhaps if they’re motivated enough…”

“Not under any circumstances. They can’t put poison in cat food, either. Now you know they can’t do that.”

“Poor Spike,” Mrs. Abbott said. “Carl wasn’t fond of cats. He used to throw rocks at them.”

“It wasn’t Carl or his spirit or anybody else’s spirit. Living people are behind this deviltry and you and I both know who they are.”

“We do?”

“Of course we do. The Pattersons.”

“Who, dear?”

“The Pattersons. Those real estate people.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Why would they poison Spike?”

“Because they’re vermin. They’re greedy swine.”

“Helen, dear, don’t be silly. People can’t be vermin or swine.”

“Can’t they?” Mrs. Alvarez said. “Can’t they just?”

I put my cup and saucer down on the coffee table, just hard enough to rattle one against the other, and cleared my throat. The three of us had been sitting here for about ten minutes, in the pleasantly old-fashioned living room of Margaret Abbott’s Parkside home, drinking coffee and dancing round the issue that had brought us together. All the dancing was making me uncomfortable; it was time for me to take a firm grip on the proceedings.

“Ladies,” I said, “suppose we concern ourselves with the facts. That’ll make my job a whole lot easier.”

“I already told you the facts,” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“I’d like to hear them from Mrs. Abbott as well. I want to make sure I have everything clear.”

“Yes, all right.”

I asked Mrs. Abbott, “This late-night harassment started two weeks ago, is that right? On a Saturday night?”

“Saturday morning, actually,” she said. “It was just three a.m. when the phone rang. I know because I looked at my bedside clock.” She was tiny and frail and she couldn’t get around very well without a walker, and Mrs. Alvarez had warned me that Mrs. Abbott was inclined to confusion, forgetfulness, and occasional flights of fancy. At least there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her memory today. “I thought someone must have died. That is usually why the telephone rings at such an hour.”

“But no one was on the line.”

“Well, someone was breathing.”

“Whoever it was didn’t say anything.”

“No. I said hello several times and he hung up.”

“The other three calls came at the same hour?”

“More or less, yes. Four mornings in a row.”

“And he didn’t say a word until the last one.”

“Two words. I heard them clearly.”

“ ‘Drop dead,’ ” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“Yes. It sounds silly, but it wasn’t. It was very disturbing.”

“Can you remember anything distinctive about the voice?” I asked.

“Well, it was a man’s voice. I’m certain of that.”

“But you didn’t recognize it.”

“No. It was as if it were coming from… well, the Other Side.”

Helen Alvarez started to say something, but I got words out first. “A long way off, you mean? Indistinct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Muffled. Disguised. “Then the calls stopped and two days later somebody broke the back porch window. Late at night again.”

“With a rock,” Mrs. Abbott said, nodding. “Charley came and fixed it.”

“Charley?”

“My nephew. Charley Doyle. Fixing windows is his business, you see. He’s a glazier.”

“And after that, someone spray-painted the back and side walls of your house.”

“Filthy words, dozens of them. It was a terrible mess. Helen and Leonard cleaned it up.”

“Leonard is my brother,” Mrs. Alvarez said, purse-lipped. “It took us an entire day.”

“Then my rosebushes… oh, I cried when I saw what had been done to them. I loved my roses. Pink floribundas and dark red and orange tears.” Mrs. Abbott wagged her white head sadly. “He didn’t like roses any more than he did cats.”

“Who didn’t?” I asked.

“Carl. My late husband. And he sometimes had a foul mouth. He knew all those words that were painted on the house.”

“It wasn’t Carl,” Helen Alvarez said firmly. “There are no such things as ghosts; there simply aren’t. ”

“Well, all right. But I do wonder, dear. I really do.”

“About the poison incident,” I said. “That was the most recent happening, two nights ago?”

“Poor Spike almost died,” Mrs. Abbott said. “If Helen and Leonard hadn’t rushed him to the vet, he would have.”

“Arsenic,” Helen Alvarez said. “That’s what the vet said it was. Arsenic in Spike’s food bowl.”

“Which is kept inside or outside the house?”

“Oh, inside,” Mrs. Abbott said. “On the back porch. Spike isn’t allowed outside. Not the way people drive their cars nowadays.”

“So whoever put the poison in the cat’s bowl had to get inside the house to do it.”

“Breaking and entering,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “That’s a felony, not a misdemeanor. I looked it up.”