Charlaine Harris: Shakespeare’s Landlord

“Oh no!” Mrs. Hofstettler exclaimed in real distress.

I carefully put down the shepherdess I’d been dusting and hurried into the living room. “Lily, this is horrible! Oh, Lily, do you suppose he was killed and robbed right here? And who will we pay rent to now that Pardon Albee’s dead? Who’ll own the building?”

I automatically handed Mrs. Hofstettler a Kleenex, thinking it was very like her to come right to the point. Who indeed owned the building now? When I’d recognized Pardon Albee’s ugly green-and-orange plaid shirt last night, that hadn’t been what I’d thought of.

The answer would not affect me directly, for I’d bought my house from Pardon, as had my neighbor. And Pardon had sold the lots at the north end of Track and around the corner on Jamaica Street to the Shakespeare Combined Church, a coalition of splinter churches that had thrived most unexpectedly. As far as I knew, the only property that Pardon still owned outright was Shakespeare Garden Apartments, and he’d enjoyed owning it to the hilt. In fact, he’d seen himself as the pivotal character in some kind of television drama-the kindly landlord who helps all his tenants solve their problems and knows all their most intimate secrets.

He’d worked hard on making the last part come true, anyway.

“I’ve got to call-Lily, I’m so glad you’re here today!”

Mrs. Hofstettler was more upset than I’d ever seen her, and I’d heard her fume for two weeks over the altar boy at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church lighting the wrong candle during Advent.

“Who did you want to call?” I asked, putting down the dust cloth.

“The police. Pardon was here yesterday. It was the first of the month, you know. I get a check from Chuck toward the end of the month, and I deposit it, and every first, here comes Mr. Albee, regular as clockwork. I always have my check made out and sitting on the table for him, and he always… Oh, I think I should tell the police he was here!”

“I’ll call, then.” I hoped Mrs. Hofstettler could ease her agitation with a phone call. To my surprise and dismay, the dispatcher at the Shakespeare Police Department said someone would be right by to listen to Mrs. Hofstettler’s story.

“You’d better make some coffee, Lily, please,” the old lady said. “Maybe the policeman will want some. Oh, what could have happened to Pardon? I can’t believe it. Just yesterday, he was standing right there. And now he’s dead, and him a good twenty-five years younger than me! And Lily, could you pick up that tissue there, and straighten that pillow on the sofa? Oh, durn these stiff old legs! You just don’t know, Lily, how frustrating being old can be.”

There was no safe response to that, so I straightened the room very quickly. The coffee was perking, everything in the apartment was dusted, and I’d given the bathroom a quick once-over by the time the doorbell rang. I was pulling the clothes from the dryer, but I’d become infected by Marie’s house-pride, so I hastily carried the clean wash back to deposit in the guest bedroom and shut the louver doors that concealed the washer and dryer on my way back to answer the bell.

I had expected some underling. With a pang of dismay, I recognized the chief of police, the man I’d called in the middle of the night, Claude Friedrich.

I stood aside and waved him in, cursing my conscience-stricken call, afraid anything I said would cause him to recognize my voice.

It was the first time I’d seen Claude Friedrich close up, though of course I had glimpsed him driving in and out of the apartment house driveway, and occasionally passed him in the hall when I was in the building on a cleaning job.

Claude Friedrich was in his late forties, a very tall man with a deep tan, light brown hair and mustache streaked with gray, and light gray eyes that shone in the weathered face. He had few wrinkles, but the ones he had were so deep, they might have been put in with a chisel. He had a broad face and a square jaw, broad shoulders and hands, a flat stomach. His gun looked very natural on his hip. The dark blue uniform made my mouth feel dry, made something inside me twitch with anxiety, and I reacted with anger.

Macho man, I thought. As if he could hear me, Friedrich suddenly turned to catch me with my brows raised, one side of my mouth pulled up sardonically. We locked stares for a tense moment.

“Mrs. Hofstettler,” he said politely, transferring his gaze to my employer, who was twisting a handkerchief in her hands.

“Thank you for coming-maybe you didn’t even need to,” Mrs. Hofstettler said in one breath. “I would hate to bother you. Please have a seat.” She gestured toward the flowered sofa at right angles to the television and to her own favorite recliner.

“Thank you, ma’am, and coming here is no trouble at all,” Friedrich said comfortingly. He knew how to be soothing, no doubt about it. He sat down gratefully, as if he’d been standing for a long time. I moved into the kitchen, which has a hatch cut in the wall behind the counter, and opened it to stick out the coffeepot behind our guest’s back. Mrs. Hofstettler, thus reminded, went into her hostess mode, helping her regain her calm.

“I’m not being polite,” Mrs. Hofstettler accused herself, turning her mild, faded blue eyes on her guest. “Please, have some coffee. Do you take cream and sugar?”

“Thanks,” Friedrich said. “I’d love some coffee. Black, please.”

“Lily, would you mind bringing Chief Friedrich some black coffee? I don’t believe I want any. But you get yourself a cup and come join us. I believe, young man, that I knew your father…” And Mrs. Hofstettler was off on the inevitable establishing of connections that made southern introductions so cozy and drawn-out.

Knowing it would please Mrs. Hofstettler, I fixed a tray with napkins, a plate of cookies (a secret indulgence of Marie’s-she likes Keebler Elves, chocolate with chocolate filling), and two generous cups of coffee. While I was assembling the tray, I was listening to Friedrich telling Marie about his years as a police officer in Little Rock; his decision to return to Shakespeare when, in quick succession, his father died, he himself divorced his wife, and the position of chief of police became vacant; and his pleasure at rediscovering the slower pace of life in little Shakespeare.

This guy was good.

As I aligned the napkins in overlapping triangles on the brightly painted tole tray, I admitted to myself that I was worried. After all, how long could I go without speaking before it looked just plain peculiar? On the other hand, he’d been asleep when I’d made the call. And I’d said so little, maybe he wouldn’t recognize my voice?

I lifted the tray easily and carried it out to the living room. I handed Friedrich his cup. Now that I was close to him again, I was even more aware of how big he was.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve actually met you…” Friedrich said delicately as I perched on the hard armchair opposite him.

“Oh, you’ll have to excuse me!” Mrs. Hofstettler said ruefully, shaking her head. “This awful news has just taken away all my manners. Chief Friedrich, this is Miss Lily Bard. She lives in the house next to our apartment building, and Lily has become the mainstay of Shakespeare since she moved here.”

Trust Mrs. Hofstettler not to ignore a matchmaking opportunity; I should have anticipated this.

“I’ve seen you around, of course,” the big man said, with the courtly implication that no man could ignore me.

“I clean Deedra Dean’s apartment,” I said briefly.

“Did you work in this building yesterday?”

“Yes.”

He waited for me to continue. I didn’t.

“Then we need to talk later, when you’re not working,” he said gently, as if he was talking to a shaky centenarian, or a mental deficient.