Charlaine Harris - Shakespeare’s Landlord

“Did you ever find out if Pardon had been in your apartment?” I asked today. There was no one else in the ground-floor hall, and I kept my voice low. I had been following my own train of thought so intently, I’d forgotten that Deedra might be thinking of something quite different, and she looked at me now as if I was a very peculiar person.

“No,” she said fiercely. I raised my eyebrows and waited. “And you better not tell the police you talked to me about that, either!”

“Oh?”

“You won’t get any work in Shakespeare ever again,” Deedra threatened. “I don’t want to be involved in that old bastard getting killed.”

“Do you seriously think,” I said, one side of my mouth curling up in a very dry smile, “that anyone in this town would give up an excellent and reliable maid like me to protect your hide?”

Deedra’s blue eyes widened in shock. A door opened on the second floor, and down the stairs came the Garden Apartments’ only black tenant, Marcus Jefferson. Marcus, a handsome man in his late twenties, gave us a startled look, muttered a greeting, and pushed past us to the front door, which gave its heavy groan as it inched shut behind him.

This building was full of people behaving peculiarly today. When I looked back at Deedra, her face was brick red and she was watching the front door close on Marcus Jefferson.

Uh-oh. I had a flash of what might have finally prodded Pardon Albee into “doing something” about Deedra.

“Did you want me to come back on my regular day?” I asked. Perhaps Deedra didn’t want my services anymore. I clean Deedra’s apartment on Friday mornings. That is prime time, since everyone wants a house clean for the weekend, and I half-hoped Deedra would fire me.

“Oh… oh, yes. Listen, really, let’s just forget all about that conversation we had last week, about the door. I left it unlocked, okay? I just remembered it later. I’m sorry I even thought you might have done it. You’re just the most reliable…” Deedra’s voice trailed off, a phony smile pasted to her face, where it looked quite at home.

As I walked down the sidewalk to my own house, I wondered if Pardon had indeed been in Deedra’s apartment the week before. What would he go in there for? What would he have found if he did? If he was looking for trash on how Deedra lived her private life, he’d have found plenty. In her top dresser drawer, Deedra keeps some pornographic pictures some lover had taken of her in exotic lingerie and some of her naked. I certainly hadn’t wanted to know this little fact, but Deedra expects me to do her wash and put it away during the afternoon I spend cleaning the apartment, and that drawer is her lingerie drawer. Deedra also keeps some erotica and some ghastly magazines actually stuck under the bed (where I am obliged to vacuum), and of course the sheets are always a mess. There are probably other “incriminating” things there, too, things Deedra’s mother might be interested to know about.

Would Pardon Albee actually have dared to call Deedra’s mother, the very proper Lacey Dean Knopp?

By God, that would be just like him.

Five minutes after I had entered my own house, the doorbell rang. I checked my peephole and opened the door.

My visitor was surprising but nonthreatening-my seldom-seen neighbor, Carlton Cockroft. I’ve spoken to Carlton only three or four times a year since I bought the house.

There is something very “edible” about Carlton. He always reminds me of hot chocolate and caramels in the winter, or the coconut smell of tanning lotion and the tang of barbecue in the summer. Carlton is in his early thirties, like me. He has black hair and dark brown eyes, a cleft chin, and thick arched brows. He smells good. He is maybe four inches taller than I am, about five ten. My neighbor is polite, busy, and heterosexual-and that is the sum total of my knowledge.

“Hello, Lily,” he said, his voice pleasant but not cheerful.

“Carlton.” I nodded in greeting, then opened my door so he could step inside.

He looked very surprised, and I realized I’d never asked him in before. He looked at the room very quickly and didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, quite unlike my assured visitor of the day before.

“Have a seat,” I said, taking the wing chair.

“Lily, I’ll come straight to the point,” Carlton began after he’d settled himself on the love seat. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. He was wearing an unremarkable plaid shirt in navy blue and white, pleated blue jeans, and Reeboks; he looked informally prosperous and comfortable.

I waited for him to come straight to the point. Most people seem to think you should respond when they tell you they’re about to do something, but I’ve always thought it more interesting to wait and see if they actually do it.

He kept his eyes on me for a moment, as if expecting something from me, sure enough.

I made an open-hands gesture-okay, the point?

“I saw you out walking the night of the murder.” He waited for me to shriek in alarm. “I got up to get a sinus pill.”

I shrugged. “So?”

“Lily, that puts you in a bad position. I didn’t tell Friedrich, but he asked me an awful lot of questions about you. If anyone else saw you, I’m afraid he may even suspect you of having something to do with Pardon’s death.”

I thought for a moment, my hands folded on my lap.

“So, why are you here?” I asked.

“I just wanted to warn you,” Carlton said, straightening from his intent-but-relaxed pose. “I’ve always worried about you some.”

My eyebrows flew up.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said with a little smile. “None of my business. But you’re a woman alone, a pretty woman, and since I live next to you I feel a little responsible… I sure don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

I felt a terrible impulse to pull up my shirt and let him have a good look. The bad thing, the worst thing, had already happened to me. But I knew he was trying to shelter me, shield me from harm. I knew that Carlton perceived that as the right stance for a man to take. And I thought, as I so often do when dealing with them, that men are frequently more trouble than they’re worth.

“Carlton, I live next to you, and since you’re a good-looking guy living alone, I feel responsible for you,” I said.

Carlton turned red. He started to get up, restrained himself. “I guess I deserved that. I should have turned it around in my own head to hear how it sounded, before it came out. But damnit, Lily, I’m trying to be your friend.”

“I see that, Carlton, but why do you feel responsible for my possible trouble with the police? How do you know I’m not guilty of killing Pardon?”

My handsome neighbor looked at me as if I’d grown a snake’s head and hissed. He was hurt, his gallant impulse rebuffed.

“Well…” he began stiffly, “well… I’ve just wasted my time. And yours.”

I looked down at my right hand; my ring-finger nail had an aggravating notch in it. I’d have to get out my emery board before it got worse.

He said unbelievingly, “I’m trying to be nice to you.”

I looked up at him steadily, debated whether or not to speak. “Carlton, you’ve dated too many women who thought you were just what they were looking for,” I said.

I had observed the parade to and from his little house for four years. A good-looking guy with no visible vices and a steady income in a town this size? USDA prime.

“But thanks for not telling the police you saw me. As it happens, I don’t know who killed Pardon, and I’d rather not spend a lot of time convincing the police of that.”

I thought I’d been fairly agreeable. But Carlton said, “Goodbye, Lily,” and stalked out in a huffy way. He remembered just in time not to slam the door behind him.