J. Jance - Payment in kind

“Don’t worry about that,” Charlotte Chambers said. “It’s only Alvin’s books. I keep waiting for him to put them away. Stay there a minute and I’ll turn on a light.”

She switched on a table lamp on an end table by the couch and punched the mute button on the television set’s remote control. The room looked like it had been in an earthquake. Boxes with stacks of contents spilling out of them were scattered everywhere. Every available flat surface was covered with junk-clothing, soda cans, dead newspapers, books. A narrow path threaded its way through the debris to where two decrepit recliners sat in front of the television set. Before one of them sat a TV-tray, and on it was a plate with someone’s breakfast-two congealed eggs and two pieces of dry toast.

“Alvin’s breakfast,” Charlotte Chambers told us when she noticed I was looking at the plate. “He usually likes to eat just as soon as he gets home, but like I said, he’s late today, and he didn’t even call. That’s gratitude for you, when I got up special to cook for him. You’d think he’d show a little consideration.”

She flopped into the other recliner, picking up a huge bowl of popcorn as she did so and thumping the protesting chair back into a full reclining position. “Want any popcorn?” she asked. “I popped it just a little while ago. It’s fresh.”

She held out the bowl of popcorn, but both Kramer and I declined. The idea of eating popcorn for breakfast is totally foreign to me. I watched in horrified fascination as she shoved a huge fistful of popcorn into her own mouth, totally heedless of the stray kernels that leaked out of her hand and dribbled down her multitudinous chins only to fall unnoticed to the floor and disappear into the matted orange and green shag carpeting.

“What is it you wanted again?” Charlotte asked, with her mouth still full.

“We’re here concerning your husband,” I told her.

“You’re out of luck then. I already told you he isn’t here. Have a chair if you want to.”

Kramer made a quick dive for a kitchen chair that was sitting against a wall. He removed a tangle of unfolded clothes and took that chair for himself, leaving me no option but the other recliner-the one with the plateful of greasy, petrifying eggs sitting in front of it.

“Who did you say you are again?” she asked, munching on a mouthful of popcorn. “And what’s this all about?”

“We’re police officers, ma’am, and we’re here about your husband.”

“What about him?”

“Mrs. Chambers,” I said quietly. “There’s been a serious incident down at the school district office. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

She had just stuffed another handful of popcorn into her mouth. At least she stopped chewing. “What kind of bad news?” she asked.

“A man has been murdered,” I said, unable to find any less damaging way to give her the news. “We have reason to believe that man is your husband.”

Charlotte Chambers looked from me to Kramer and back again. “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it?” she said.

I pulled my ID from my pocket and waved it in front of her, but she didn’t bother to look at it.

“It’s like some sort of newfangled Candid Camera, isn’t it? I’ve heard about this program. You’re waiting to see what I’m going to do.”

I wasn’t making much progress. I took another shot at it.

“Mrs. Chambers, I can assure you, this is no joke, and it’s not a television program either. A man has been killed. He’s been tentatively identified as your husband. We’ve been sent to notify you and to bring someone along down to Harborview who can positively identify the body.”

Charlotte Chambers shoved another deliberate handful of popcorn into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, shaking her head all the while. “You’re mistaken,” she said at last. “Alvin is at work. I’m sure he’s on his way home by now.”

I looked at Kramer, appealing for help, but he shrugged his shoulders and left it for me to handle. Clearly Charlotte Chambers’ ironclad denial wasn’t any of his concern. I probably could have pounded my way through her defenses, but that didn’t seem like a reasonable thing to do. Instead, I tried yet another tack.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I conceded. “Maybe he isn’t your husband. He was found in a janitor’s closet down at the school district office along with a woman.”

“You say this man was with another woman? That settles it then,” Charlotte Chambers responded triumphantly. “My husband’s a happily married man, a man of the cloth, at least he was until he quit. He’s not like those despicable men on television and in the movies. Alvin wouldn’t be caught dead with another woman.”

It was an unfortunate choice of words. The ghost of a smile appeared in the corners of Detective Kramer’s lips, but I managed to keep a straight face. After all, this was no laughing matter. One way or the other, I had to get Charlotte Chambers to agree to accompany us to the medical examiner’s office. We needed her verification.

“Then you’ll come along with us down-town?” I asked. “That’s the only way we can be sure it’s not your husband.”

She nodded and heaved herself off the couch. “Sure. I’ll have to get dressed first,” she said. “We’ll leave a note for Alvin so if he comes home while we’re gone, he’ll know where I am.”

“Right,” I said.

She grabbed up the pile of unfolded clothes Kramer had removed from the chair and carried it into a bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Kramer clicked his tongue. “This dame’s a real Loony Tunes,” he said. “Even if he is her old man, who’s to say she’ll recognize him?”

“She’ll recognize him, all right,” I replied grimly, “but only if we get her down there in the first place.”

We fell silent and waited until the bedroom door opened again and Charlotte Chambers emerged. She was wearing the standard fat lady uniform of black polyester stretch pants expanded to their absolute maximum under a tent-like red blouse that came almost to her knees. She moved away from us, hiking the pants up and smoothing the top down as she went.

Stopping by her chair, she pulled a pair of snow boots out from under a stack of yellowing discarded newspapers and sat down to pull them on, wheezing with effort at the physical exertion. Once she had the boots on her feet, she made no attempt to fasten them. I could see the fasteners would never close around her wide calves.

“There,” she announced. “I’m ready.”

She waddled to an entryway closet and dragged out a knit cap. Putting it on, she stuffed her stringy hair inside it, wrapped a matching scarf around her neck, and then pulled on an enormous coat that reached all the way down to her ankles.

I held out my arm. “This way, Mrs. Chambers. Let me help you. It’s slippery out there.”

She clung to my arm with a deathlike grip all the way down the stairs. I took it slow and easy. I sure as hell didn’t want her to fall. If she had landed on top of me, Charlotte Chambers would have mashed me flat.

It took both Kramer and me to help her up the steeply graded drive that led out of the parking lot. By the time we reached the car, she was panting and out of breath. So were we. Rolling his eyes in relief as I handed her into the back-seat of the car, Kramer hurried around to the driver’s door, climbed in, and started the engine.

The trip downtown was made in almost complete silence. Since Charlotte Chambers had not yet conceded that the dead man was her husband, there wasn’t much sense in launching into any kind of questioning process. That would have to come later.

Halfway downtown, I heard the rustle of paper and looked back to see that Charlotte Chambers had pulled a Snickers bar from her cavernous purse and was starting to unwrap it. She caught me watching.