Authors: Mehmet Murat Somer

Tags: #mystery, #gay, #Istanbul

The Kiss Murder (11 page)

BOOK: The Kiss Murder

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This was a rhetorical question. A way of transforming a monologue into a dialogue.

She was incredibly unflustered by the two murders, and sat there calmly relating her detective fantasies. She had no doubt been a big
Charlie’s Angels
fan as a girl. Although Jaclyn Smith was probably her favorite, she had enough modesty to model herself on Sabrina/Kate Jackson, consoling herself by saying,
Well, she was the clever one of the three.
A more attractive woman would have set her sights on no less than Farrah Fawcett. I know I did.

“Anyway, don’t let me pester you with all this nonsense. It isn’t as though you even knew Hamiyet Hanım. If I didn’t control myself I’d keep chatting until you shut me up. Talking about anything under the sun. You could say I’m a bit talkative. Enough about Hamiyet Hanım, we’ll come back to her if necessary. Let’s talk about Fevzi. Did you call her Fevzi or Buse? I couldn’t break the habit of calling her Fevzi. Sometimes Fevziye, just to get a rise. I mean, when she was alive. It doesn’t matter what I call her now, does it? After she became a woman she’d scold me. ‘There is no Fevzi. I’ve buried him. I’m Buse.’ It makes no difference to me, Fevzi or Buse. Whichever you prefer.”

“I knew her as Buse.”

“Fine, then. I’ll say Buse.” She turned to the little girl. “Stop sucking your thumb. Get it out of your mouth. Your big brother thinks it’s such a shame, he doesn’t think much of you when you do that. Go on, go back to your seat. That’s a good girl. Make your mother proud. She’s a good girl, isn’t she,
abi
?”

The “big brother” was none other than me.

“Good girl,” I said. I couldn’t help thinking what a problem child she would turn out to be.

“You know the police came last night. May Hamiyet Hanım rest in peace.”

As she said this, she pointed, eyes crossed, to a spot in the middle of her forehead.

“She was a bit stubborn. In fact, she was a difficult woman. I put it down to her old age. I was still upset, though. How many neighbors do I have here, after all? She was well educated. That explains her sharp tongue. She thought she knew everything, would correct everyone. Anyway . . . everyone in the building was up in arms, as you might expect. We were interrogated until dawn. My husband works at the court, so they kept it short. But they still asked even little Sevgi whether or not she’d heard the gunshot.

“I mean, really. When you think about what’s on TV these days. Everyone watching a different channel, programs full of gunshots and exploding bombs. How are we supposed to know what’s real and what’s on TV? Anyway, my husband said they probably used a silencer.”

“You’ve got a point.”

“Not me, my husband. I didn’t even take a look at the body. I just wasn’t up to it. I didn’t go upstairs. Was I curious? You bet. But I didn’t dare. I saw my late grandmother’s body, and that was enough for me. Never again, I said to myself.”

“What about Sabiha Hanım?”

“Let me just get the tea.”

“Can I help you?”

“No, of course not. Perhaps we should have had coffee. We could have read each other’s coffee grounds. But tea goes best with cake.” She grabbed the cake and headed for the kitchen. She saw right through my men’s clothes. She’d had enough experience to figure me out at a glance. After all, she’d grown up with Fevzi, seen her develop over the years. Otherwise, what normal, self-respecting housewife would invite a strange man into her house the morning after they’d met, then suggest they tell each other’s fortunes?

“I like you,” she declared.

There was no way for her to know what was running through my mind. It must be a coincidence.

“I appreciate your having become friends with Fevzi. She tormented me no end when we were growing up. But I always liked her. In my own way.”

“But where do you think Sabiha Hanım could be?”

She glanced over at the suddenly well-behaved daughter, who sat there quietly, all ears.

“Off we go to the bedroom. You can play with your toys.”

“Yahhh . . .” The little ugly face became absolutely unbearable when whining.

“Do you want the slipper?” It was instantly whisked off the mother’s right foot and brandished in the air.

Eyes on the threatening slipper, the pouting face slid off the armchair accompanied by a chorus of gradually fading “Yahhhh’s” of protest, and was conveyed as slowly as possible out of the room. I know the type. Instead of going to their bedroom, they invariably crouch in the hallway just outside the door, eavesdropping.

Once we were alone, Apple Cheeks adopted a secretive and all-knowing tone.

“I’ve got a theory: Sabiha Hanım heard the news on the TV. She then had a stroke or a heart attack. She’s laid out in her flat. Where else could she be? The whole building was in an uproar last night, but not a peep from her flat. The police asked after her, but we said we didn’t know a thing. They dropped it. She’s inside. Dead or paralyzed. As you know, she was blind in any case. Her heart just couldn’t take it.”

I failed to make the connection between blindness and a heart condition, but nevertheless. The expression on her face was one of triumphant discovery. Her eyes were shining, excitedly awaiting my approbation.

“God forbid,” I said.

“Who’s to say what God forbids? Just look at the state of our country.”

I nodded my head in agreement, but I wasn’t biting. The last thing I needed was her opinion on the general decline of our country, Istanbul’s overrapid development, the general direction of our benighted land, the sad state of today’s youth, politics, culture, our prospects for accession to the EU, and the troubles in the southeast. I wasn’t going there.

“So, what should we do? Buse’s funeral will be held today or tomorrow. Whenever the morgue turns over her body. The fact that it’s a murder case means it will take a bit longer. My friends are I are handling all the arrangements. Sabiha Hanım is Buse’s mother! I’m sure she would want to attend. Or she would at least want to know where Buse will be buried.”

“I’d forgotten all about the funeral. I’d like to go. There must be others from the neighborhood who’d want to attend too. But I don’t know that I dare to. What would I do if the media got hold of the story, showed me with a bunch of transvestites? The people here are conservative types. Forgive me for not coming.”

These narrow little minds, I sighed to myself.

“Of course, you know best.”

“We’ll arrange a
mevlit
. You’ll want to come; I’ll let you know when it’s held.”

“Thank you.” I had no intention of attending.
Mevlits
bore me. When I sit with the women, I have to wear a head scarf. When I sit with the men, they stare, then squeeze me into a corner and try to give me advice. And somehow I strongly doubted the
mevlit
would ever be held at all.

We exchanged smiles. She had something else to say, that much was clear. She just didn’t know how to begin.

“Then I suppose there’s nothing to do but sit around and wait. We can’t really put off the funeral for more than an extra day.”

She was gathering her courage. I waited patiently.

“Like I said,” she continued, “I suspect the news killed poor Sabiha Hanım. My husband wouldn’t talk about it. He knows best, I suppose. It’ll become clear enough a week from now, when the corpse stinks to high heaven.”

Her self-assurance was mind-boggling.

“So what do you suggest?”

She lowered her voice: “I happen to have a spare key. Sabiha gave it to me for emergencies. But I didn’t dare go into her flat alone. I couldn’t face the sight of a body. I’d go all funny.”

My efforts had paid off. The stout, apple-cheeked lady had turned out to be a real diamond in the rough.

“But if you don’t mind, we could go in together . . .”

Bingo. The opportunity I’d been hoping for had landed right in my lap.

Chapter 14

C
hubby Cheeks leading the way, we arrived in front of the neighbor’s door in no time. My companion raised her index finger to her lips, in a
Shhh
sign. We were, after all, on a covert mission. I slowly opened and closed my eyes, to signal my assent.

Her mundane life had been enriched to no end. She fully intended to live it to the hilt. The key in her hand, she glanced to her right and left, then placed it in the keyhole. I watched her, smiling to myself. She looked at me like a heroine in a film hesitating about whether or not to launch a nuclear war. I gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, the last bit of encouragement she needed.

She turned the key. Suddenly, the door sprang open on its own. Visible through the slightly ajar door was a stern man in a lead-gray suit. He was at most thirty, but his suit made him look older. He looked at us, expressionless. The impassive face was nevertheless threatening. We stared back, dumbfounded.

“I’m the neighbor from across the hall. I’ve come to see Sabiha Hanım.”

For the first time, her pink cheeks were pale. But though her face may have been drained of color, the strident voice still maintained a sense of authority and purpose.

The face turned to me. The blank look only made him seem more menacing. I settled on a weak grin. I didn’t expect an invitation to be immediately forthcoming. Whoever this gorilla was, he was no friend. I could have flattened him with two chops, but the hand concealed behind the door most likely held a gun. There was also no way of knowing if anyone else was inside. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“I called on her last night. When she didn’t answer, I got worried. Maybe she needs something . . .”

Chubby Cheeks’s voice was wilting under the staring eyes. She was most definitely frightened. Taking a step back, she leaned against me.

“She’s resting.”

Out of the immobile face came an incredibly muffled, but unmistakably countertenor, voice. Despite the obvious effort to speak as gruffly as possible, it was a reedy, comical sound. He had succeeded admirably in balancing the funny voice with an icy gaze. The door was shutting in our faces. I reached out and blocked it. For the first time, the face assumed a meaningful expression:
Who do you think you are?

“We’d like to see her,” I insisted.

“She’s resting.”

And the door shut. I listened carefully. Not a sound came from inside. No footsteps or voices. He was still at the door, listening to us.

We were stunned into momentary silence.

“But who is that man?” asked Apple Cheeks. “I’ve never seen him. I know all her relatives. He’s never been here before.”

That the man looked out of place in that house was undeniable. But she couldn’t have expected me to answer her question.

“If you don’t know him, how am I supposed to?”

She made a quick decision, and pressed the bell. Because we were being observed through the keyhole, the door opened immediately. We saw the same expressionless stare.

“I . . . Excuse me, but who are you? I’ve never seen you before.” It was exactly the sort of question you’d expect from the ever-curious Chubby Cheeks.

“A relative.”

And the door shut again. We remained outside. Astonished and disappointed, we returned to her flat.

The obnoxious girl greeted us at the door. She had seen everything.

“Mummy, who was that man?”

“I’ll give you such a smack! Like I know who it is. And didn’t I tell you to wait inside?”

Letting loose a series of mutinous “Yahhh’s,” she clickety-clacked her slippered feet into the flat. We returned to the living room and took our former seats. The disappointing failure to find Sabiha Hanım, to learn anything about her whereabouts, had taken its toll. We sat, deflated and silent. In our emotions and situation, Apple Cheeks and I had much in common.

“A relative. That’s a lie. Definitely a lie. I’d know who he was, wouldn’t I? I’ve seen everyone who comes and goes. And it’s not like she has many relatives. There are just a few who visit. We’ve been neighbors for all these years. I swear that’s the first time I’ve laid eyes on him.”

I believed her.

“So he’s definitely not a relative,” I said.

“I wonder how Sabiha Teyze is. Now I’m getting worried.”

This from the woman who only moments ago had declared the old lady paralyzed at best, dead at worst. Now she’s concerned?

“So what are we going to do now?”

I wasn’t thrilled with the cloying, proprietary use of the word “we.”

“Should we tell the police?”

“Definitely not,” I objected. “What would we tell them? That there’s someone in a neighbor’s house claiming to be a relative, and that they should come verify it? They wouldn’t even bother coming.”

“That’s true . . .”

We sat thinking. Chubby Cheeks toyed with the neighbor’s key. It was attached with a single ring to a plastic coffee-colored key chain.

BOOK: The Kiss Murder

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