Murder on the Mind (11 page)

A storeroom acted as a buffer between the storefront and the actual bakery; a bare bones affair, not much more than stacked crates and boxes, a card table, and a couple of chairs. On a shelf over a sink sat an ancient hot plate—a dangerous arrangement, but the old woman seemed unconcerned. She filled a saucepan with water and turned the burner on high. Taking two cups from the shelf, she carefully measured cocoa from a canister.

“All I have is instant. Not very good, but it warms me.”

“Look, I don’t want to put you to any trouble—”

“It’s no trouble.”

In her late seventies and heavyset, she moved stiffly, as though with arthritis. Her accent was Polish, her wrinkled face careworn, but her eyes were bright and loving—an odd assessment coming from me. I don’t take to people right off. Yet her whole demeanor encouraged trust, like you could tell her all your troubles.

Why had she invited me here? I was a stranger—a man. She should be afraid of me—instead, I was leery of her.

I shoved my good hand into my jacket pocket, feeling self-conscious. “What am I doing here?”

“You look like you need to talk. I need to listen. Sit,” she said and ushered me to a folding metal chair, taking one on the opposite side of the wobbly table.

“You here all alone?”

“Yes.”

Why didn’t that question frighten her? I could be an ax murderer, for all she knew.

“My son—he’s a big shot with his own business downtown,” she said. “He wants me to move to Cheektowaga to live in one of those old folks’ homes. But I like living over the shop.”

“I lived over a bakery when I was a kid.”

“The bread smells so good in the mornings, yes?”

“That was the only good part about living there.”

“That’s not true. I’ll bet there were many good things. You just don’t want to remember.”

“Why do you say that?”

She shrugged theatrically, her smile enigmatic. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“For me?”

“For a week. Maybe two.”

“But I’ve only been back in Buffalo a week.”

“But it’s good now that you’re here, eh?”

I shook my head. “I should’ve stayed in New York.”

“There’s nothing for you there. Here you have a girlfriend, your family.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. My brother is my only family.”

“See,” she said, the creases around her eyes doubling, her smile warm.

I leaned back in my chair. This was too creepy.

“You need to talk,” she repeated. “I’m here to listen.”

“Why would I tell a stranger about myself?”

“Maybe I understand—tell you something about yourself you don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell you something about yourself you already know.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. “Like what?”

“Give me your hand.”

Her creased hands caressed mine; her clear brown eyes looked into my soul. She shook her head, released it. “First I’ll tell you about me; then you can decide if you want to tell me about you. My name is Sophie Levin. Look.” She pulled back her sweater sleeve to reveal a tattoo—numbers.

“Buchenwald?”

“See, you know.”

“A good guess.”

She shook her head. “No, this you know. Like lots of other things you know, eh?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer.

The water began to boil. She got up, poured it into the cups, and stirred. Then she disappeared into the shop and came back with a
placek
. I hadn’t tasted one of those sweet crumb loaves in years. She cut thick slices and put them on napkins from the shelf, set one in front of me.

“Now, I’ll tell you how I survived the camp. I would volunteer for the work groups. I did anything they said. Dig holes, bake bread—anything. And I knew when to be away from the barracks. To stay was to die.”

“How’d you know?”

She tapped her temple. “I knew. Like you know. For me there are colors. Everyone has colors that surround them. I would watch certain guards and when their color was black, it meant death. I knew to stay away. Right now you are red. Very angry. Your brother—don’t be hard on him. He loves you, you know.”

“How do you see these colors?”

“Not with my eyes, with my mind. It’s not wrong, it’s not bad. Just different. You see things a different way, too. But then you always have.”

“No.”

She shook her head, dismissing my protest. “Of course you did. I can tell you many times—but it’s better you remember yourself. Little things. Finding lost things. Waiting for a letter—a phone call.”

I hesitated, afraid to ask my next question.

“Are you . . . psychic?”

She shrugged. “I just see colors . . . and then I know. You feel things, deeply. Before this happened . . .” She reached across the table, traced a finger down my shorn temple, “. . . you never let yourself. Now you have to. The plug is pulled—the feelings leak out—other people’s feelings find you. It’s very hard for you, but good things will come of it. They will,” she insisted. “But sometimes things will seem worse because you can’t understand them. Sometimes it’s hard to understand.”

I wanted to believe her. Hadn’t I just been telling myself the very same things? Yet suddenly I was as skeptical as Richard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She thought for a moment. “You like to take photographs, eh?”

I nodded uncertainly. How could she know these things?

“You take a picture—it’s there, in your camera. Even when it’s not developed—it’s still there.”

“A latent image?”

“Yes. These things you know, it’s a latent talent. You always had it, but it wasn’t developed. Now you can develop the pictures in your head. You can see them when others can’t. You can know things when others don’t.”

“My brother wants me to have tests—”

“How will knowing the science of it help you? If they can even tell you.”

That was pretty much how I felt about it, too.

“Still, you must be careful. Believe what you know, and be watchful. Even innocent situations can hide great danger.”

She held out her hand. “Now, tell me about me.”

I felt her pulse thrumming rhythmically in her fingers, her smile encouraging.

“Well?”

“You’re a nice lady. You want to help people.” I didn’t know what else to say.

She took back her hand, frowned. “You’ll get better at it.” She picked up her cup, took a sip. “Not bad for instant, but better with marshmallows. That’s what my granddaughter says.”

She launched into a monologue about her grandchildren, giving me a chance to digest what she’d said. I think she knew I wasn’t listening, but she seemed to like the sound of her own voice.

She was right. I’d always been good at finding lost objects. I assumed it was a matter of remembering where you’d last seen the missing item. That and begging help from St. Anthony. Were emotions the psychic key for me? I remembered returning home from school and knowing, before I opened the apartment door, when my mother would be passed out drunk in front of the TV. And I’d learned early to keep the hurt, anger, and humiliation inside.

Most of what I knew about Sumner’s murder hinged on emotions. Those of the killer—and a witness. Anger and triumph and terror, all mixed up.

I looked down at my empty cup.

“Time for you to go,” Sophie said, rising. “My son would be upset if he knew I entertained a gentleman here.” She patted my shoulder. “It’s a long walk home. I’d let you call your brother to come get you, but my phone hasn’t worked all day. The bar down the street has a pay phone. You call from there.”

I followed her back into the shop. Snow fluttered and settled on the empty parking spaces outside.

“That’s okay. I think I’ll just head on home.”

“Oh no—it’s too far to walk in the snow. You’re not as strong as you think. You must promise me you’ll go to the bar.” Something about her tone made it seem like an imperative.

“Okay, I promise.”

“Good.”

She clasped my hand and I nearly staggered at the burst of unconditional love that suddenly enveloped me. I looked into her smiling, wrinkled face, and didn’t want to leave.

“Can I come back and visit you again?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I’m here. Sometimes I’m not. Best you come at night. Alone.”

“Why?”

“It’s just best.” She winked at me. “Good-bye, Jeffrey.”

She locked the door behind me, and waved. As I headed down the sidewalk, I realized I’d never introduced myself. I looked back. The shop was dark, but a light blazed in the apartment overhead.

My anger toward Richard had waned, but the sour feelings it evoked lingered, depression settling in.

I had other things to think about. Like what inspired Sophie to direct me down the road instead of going home.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I headed for the bar.

CHAPTER 10

The glow of a neon beer sign drew me half a block to a working-class sports bar called The Whole Nine Yards. Its dry warmth enveloped me as I pushed open the heavy glass door. A scattering of patrons watched a basketball game blaring on the tube. Football jerseys, hockey sticks, pennants, and signed photographs dotted the walls, but the budget for decor was a lot less than at The Extra Point downtown. It had the feel of a business on a downslide.

I avoided the pay phone. I had no intention of calling Richard.

The bartender interrupted his conversation with an older man at the other end of the bar when I took a seat. Weariness clung to him. I guessed him to be the owner, who looked like he’d been on his feet all day. “What can I get you?” he asked.

I considered my nearly empty wallet and my belly full of cocoa. “Club soda.”

His expression said “no tip,” but he poured me a glass from the well soda trigger. “That’s a buck.”

I put a five-dollar bill on the bar. He grabbed it, rang up the sale on the old cash register, gave me my change, and went back to kibitzing.

Four bucks—my total net worth. I’d have to nurse my drink for a while, but that was okay. I was willing to park here for a couple of hours.

I’d tended bar for a while after my stint in the Army; I could do it again. Sure, a part-time job at a place like this, maybe within walking distance. But who’d hire a broken-armed jerk who couldn’t lift a case of beer or hold a lime to cut garnishes?

My mind wandered back to the ugly scene back home. Richard’s house was not my home. It was a place to stay until I got back on my feet; at least that’s what he’d said at the hospital.

The memory of that conversation came back to me.

He’d been gone all day, leaving me alone in that cell of a room. We hadn’t had many meaningful discussions since I’d awakened from the coma two days before. Still, I’d gotten used to him being in the background.

“So, where’ve you been all day?” I’d asked, when he finally showed up that evening.

Richard settled his coat over the back of the room’s only chair. “I had things to do.”

“Business? Sightseeing?”

He straightened, as though tensing for battle. “Getting estimates from movers to take your stuff to Buffalo.”

“Look, I never said—!”

“I know what you said. I was only getting estimates, okay?” A pause, then, “I spoke with your apartment manager.”

My insides squirmed.

“Your back rent’s taken care of.”

“But I owed—”

“I said it’s taken care of.”

I was about to spew like Vesuvius when he interrupted me again.

“The last few times I’ve seen you, you’ve been distant and pissy. Have I done something to offend you?”

“The cultured, refined Doctor Alpert never offends anyone.”

“Then stop acting like you’ve got a stick up your ass and tell me what’s eating you.”

“All right, you want an answer—the problem’s you. You being so goddamned rich makes me feel like I’m shit. You’re always shoving it down my throat and I’m sick of it!”

That wasn’t even remotely true, but it sounded good and fit my mental state at the time.

He stiffened. “I’m sorry my financial status offends you, but I’m still your brother. I care about what happens to you, you dumb shit. Why else would I be here?”

He’d never spoken to me in anger. I’d never known him to swear.

“Guilt,” I shot back. Richard blinked, taken aback. “Yeah, guilt—for the way your family treated our mother. Maybe you’re only here for me because you weren’t there for her!”

Richard looked away. My words had hit a nerve, all right, though I knew indifference hadn’t kept him from knowing my mother and me. The legal maneuvers his grandparents used to keep my mother from him had cut him off from us, too. Yet I couldn’t admit that to him in the heat of anger.

“Neither of us can change the past. But, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re all the family we’ve got. When will it penetrate your thick skull that you’re important to me?” He paused. “You never told me about Shelley until it was all over. Christ, your landlord told me you’d lost your job. Why didn’t you call—why didn’t you come to me?”