Speak Out Before You Die: Double V Mysteries, #2

Chapter One

Someone was coming. Juliet Van Allen dashed into the ensuite bathroom, carrying the small first-place dance contest trophy. She left the door open just enough for her to peer through the crack where the door hinged to the frame. Jake Ryan entered his bedroom and started to take off his shirt. Juliet, in a gut-clenching agony of excitement, stifled her impulse to giggle with a soft curse. She had trapped herself.

She weighed her options. If she made her presence known, she might spare Jake embarrassment, but that would add considerably to her own. Moreover, she would ruin the prank. If she did not reveal herself, he might very soon be without any clothes or any sense of humor left for her pathetic attempt at a joke.

Juliet decided she had to tell Jake that she was there and had intended to leave the dance trophy on his nightstand. They had won it together some ten years before in Boston.

Then someone else entered his bedroom, beyond Juliet’s sliver-sized peephole. The person closed the door. Jake, shirtless and sitting on the bed to take off his shoes and socks, looked sharply to his left.

Jacob, a woman’s voice said, "I didn’t know you were going to be here. But I’m so glad."

Jake stood slowly, gracefully unbending himself, lightly dropping a sock on the floor like a lazy autumn leaf falling under an oak tree. His expression of longing captivated both women from their separate vantage points, though through her literally narrow perspective on the scene, Juliet admired even more the sculpted torso of her old dance partner.

They had been twenty years old when they won the trophy, and she remembered him for his quiet confidence and kindness as much as his striking good looks. He seemed still somehow boyish these ten years later, despite the war and everything he had been through in the prison camp. His experiences had given him a leaner, harder look. His deep-set dark eyes were still kindly, but the formerly gentle expression had been chiseled to a sometimes-hollow look common to people who knew what it was to lose everything and therefore never brought themselves to ask for much.

Jake had come home from the war after his POW experience dangerously weak, physically. His concerned friends watched for signs that he was still solid emotionally and mentally, still the man they’d known. It was how one reacted to vets. One didn’t mean to pull away and shouldn’t have. But, one did.

He had spent the years since devoting himself to recovering his health, discovering a passion for weightlifting, which he enjoyed with his singular sense of purpose. Juliet suddenly felt embarrassed and shy. Her joke about the toy prize they won back then seemed idiotic.

"Oh, Jacob." The woman sighed his name in an irresistible way.

She called him Jacob. Juliet and everyone she had known back then when they were teenagers always called him Jake.

Jacob, she said again as if just saying his name was pleasure enough.

I heard you were going to be here, he said at last. "I wasn’t invited, obviously, but I tagged along. I had to see you."

"I can’t offer you excuses, and apologies don’t say enough. But I am aching with regret. Jacob, I want to be with you. Let me stay. I’ve been so miserable."

The woman began to cry softly, helplessly. Juliet tried to place the voice. It was familiar. Juliet and her father had compiled the invitation list together. She ran down the list of women in her mind’s eye. Most of them were married.

"Could you please just hold me? Could you please, Jacob?"

Jake did not move from where he stood, but he opened his arms, inviting her. She rushed to him. He held her gently against his chest, folding his arms about her with a tantalizing mixture of comforting her and of expressing his own obvious desire.

The woman buried her face in Jake’s chest and brushed her lips along the mat of dark hair. She kissed him lightly once, twice on his chest before turning her tear-streaked face towards Juliet’s line of vision. Her eyes were closed, fortunately, or she would have seen Juliet’s widened eye through the crack in the door as Juliet mentally catalogued her every move.

Her makeup was slightly smudged, but it was unmistakably Clarice Kent.

Clarice.

Yes, her voice was distinctive. Juliet had not immediately identified Clarice only partly because she had not been expecting the actress in Jake’s room. Clarice had also smoothed out much of her New England finishing school accent so that she might be open for more film roles than the snobbish cultured intellectuals and frigid spinster schoolteachers that Hollywood producers seemed always to picture New England women. Clarice’s secret desire was to play a southern belle, as yet unrealized, though she had been allowed to play a hatcheck girl from Nebraska in her last comedy. Clarice’s agent reckoned that was close enough.

Clarice explored Jake’s torso and finally his face with nervous, eager hands. She pulled his head down and kissed his lips in between soft whispers that Juliet could not hear. Jake wordlessly slipped Clarice’s bolero jacket from her shoulders and down her arms, dropping it to the floor with his socks. Then he started on her blouse.

Juliet half imagined that the story she would tell one day would be quite funny. That time she waited out a romantic tryst in the bathroom, clutching a cheap five-inch metal trophy mounted on a piece of wood laminate that had Totem Pole Ballroom - First Prize - 1940 engraved on the plaque.

If she didn’t die of mortification first.

One or the other of them would enter that bathroom, sooner or later.

Juliet irrelevantly wondered how Clarice was going to dismantle the intricate French twist in her hair.

It was too late to interrupt them.

Juliet looked around the bathroom, wishing bathrooms came with a back entrance or a secret panel in the shower leading to the kitchen. There was only the window. She thought a moment. Juliet had explored every inch of her family mansion when she was a child, and she felt certain that no one knew the house better—not the builders, back in the 1870s, and not the man who renovated it in the 1920s and added the bathrooms.

She put the dance trophy down on the sink and attempted to nudge open the bathroom window. It moved grudgingly, the warped wood fighting her every inch. Juliet took the new bar of soap that Mrs. Howe, the housekeeper, had placed there by the sink. Juliet rubbed it gently along the window frame and into the metal tracks of the frame. The window slid open more easily. She moved it up only a bit at a time to avoid causing any noise.

Juliet had lost track of the lovers’ progress, but they seemed to have moved to the bed. Quick breaths, whispers of love.

Window, window, window—grab the window.

Juliet grabbed the trophy and pulled herself through the opening, onto the wide ledge of the second story of the Van Allen mansion. She closed the window behind her and sidestepped a few feet over to the window of the next small room that had become a linen closet in the hodgepodge 1920 renovation. She lifted the window from the outside and climbed in, pleased that nobody had ever felt it necessary to lock the second-story and third-story windows.

Safely inside, Juliet shivered, and she reached for one of the towels on the shelf. She wiped her cold hands, red and chapped from the frost on the side of the brownstone building. Fortunately, it had not been snowing, so her adventure on the ledge did not end in the spectacular catastrophe of her body splayed among the thorny branches of the leafless winter rose bushes below.

Just before she closed the window, Juliet stuck her head out to look at the ledge once more, marveling that for one minute she had become her thirteen-year-old self again, playing the daredevil and running from trouble.

Thirty-year-old Juliet Van Allen had no nostalgia for her childhood. She was forward-looking, forward-moving, and always had been.

She wrapped the towel around the dance trophy to conceal it and tucked in the bar of soap she had used to make the window slide more easily.

No one in the hall. Good. She made her way back to her own room, passing the door of the guest bedroom where Jake and Clarice were undoubtedly well into their reunion. Juliet reached her own bedroom door. She noticed an envelope on the floor some feet away, halfway between her door and the door leading to her father’s bedroom.

She picked it up. It was not addressed, nor sealed. She found a single sheet of writing paper inside.

A father’s worst nightmare. Come to the third floor, utility closet. 1 a.m. January 1. The master of the house can be at the mercy of his mistress.

Juliet checked the hall to make sure she was alone, then took the note into her bedroom, closing the door.

The master of the house. Mercy of the mistress.

Juliet put the note in her purse, with a new idea. She had wanted to see Elmer for a long time. She felt almost glad for the cryptic note; it gave her a reason. She felt she had to have a reason.

She took a coat from her closet and hurried down the hall, down the grand mahogany staircase, excited about the chance to see Elmer again.

Marie came up the stairs. She smiled and put her hand on Juliet’s forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Juliet dear, where are you going? More guests will be arriving shortly.

I’ll be right back, Marie. I just have to go to the drugstore for a few things. The servants are busy, and I’d rather go myself, anyway. It will only take me a moment.

Behind Marie, Billy Cutler trotted up the stairs, an impatient scowl on his face.

And where are you off to? Marie asked. I thought we were all gathering for drinks before dinner.

Oh, just rousting Jake, Billy said.

Juliet grasped Billy’s arm the same way Marie still grasped hers, as if they intended to form a chain of humans there on the stairs. Jake is... Jake is in the shower. I ran into him in the hall, and he said he would be down after a quick shower.

Billy looked disappointed, although Juliet did not know why he cared if they weren’t all immediately together for drinks. They were going to spend the next few days together, over the New Year’s holiday.

Then come back down to the drawing room, Mr. Cutler, Marie said.

Billy, he said. You call me Billy.

Marie smiled in a manner both smooth and elegant, obviously eager to be hospitable. Ever since Marie had begun to date Juliet’s father—or at least since Juliet knew about their relationship—Juliet had been trying to find reasons to dislike Marie but could not. Juliet wasn’t even sure why she would want to find reasons to dislike Marie; that was childish.

Marie led Billy back to the drawing room. Juliet decided to leave without letting her father or the other guests know. If there were any question about her absence, Marie would fill in the blanks. Marie was the kind of hostess, the kind of woman, who covered for people with discretion.

Juliet drove her 1949 Lincoln Cosmopolitan, which Elmer so admired, off her father’s property on Farmington Avenue and headed to the north end of town. Hartford, Connecticut, was still in its after-Christmas glow, with workers downtown preparing for New Year’s Eve. On Friday, December 30, 1949—the end of the day; the end of the work week; approaching the end of the year; of the decade—everyone had some place to be.

So much had happened to her this decade: college, marriage, her career as a museum administrator at the Wadsworth Atheneum.

Her husband’s murder, seven months ago, when she had first met Elmer.

Elmer had just gotten out of prison and was searching for his kidnapped daughter. Juliet had been a suspect in her husband’s murder. They became a team for mutual self preservation. They sorted through a lot of suspicion, and sadness, until they discovered her husband’s murderer and the mystery of what had happened to his daughter.

Juliet might not have been nostalgic for her childhood—not for the past particular decade, either—but she could not help remembering the past several incredible months.

It was more like looking over her shoulder to make certain she wasn’t being followed by ghosts.

***

She had never been to Elmer’s apartment, but she knew the address. He worked the night shift at the Atheneum as a janitor. She had gotten him the job and knew he would not be going into work later that evening because of the holiday.

Elmer lived in a small, furnished one-room flat, a brick apartment house in one of the poorer neighborhoods. Construction on a new stretch of highway running parallel to the Connecticut River had been temporarily suspended as the pale late afternoon sun quickly diminished somewhere behind the Litchfield Hills. The city streets already grew dark, with the apartment buildings crowded over tight neighborhoods. The sun might have lingered on the bare country hillsides, but it left early in the low-lying city blocks by the river, as if for its own safety.

No answer came to the knocking of her leather-gloved hand on his door. She thought of leaving him a note but decided first to see if he was in Enid’s apartment.

Juliet did not want to feel dismal about the thought of him being in Enid’s apartment, much like she did not want to try find fault with her father’s girlfriend. She supposed both emotions meant she was petty. Being petty embarrassed her.

She went upstairs to Enid’s apartment. Enid was the cousin of Elmer’s late wife. Juliet had been to the apartment only once, the day Enid told Elmer the story about his daughter. She guessed their mutual bereavement had cemented Elmer’s and Enid’s relationship. They had a history together. Juliet and Elmer had shared only one frantic and frightening week.

She knocked on Enid’s door. Elmer answered; his dismayed expression cut her. It seemed to Juliet much like Billy Cutler’s disappointment that Jake wasn’t going to join them for drinks in the drawing room.

I need to speak with you privately, Juliet said, embarrassed that she had come.

He paused before he answered. Go down to my apartment. I’ll meet you there.

Chapter Two

Juliet stood in the hall by Elmer’s apartment door, waiting. A middle-aged woman came out of her own apartment down the hall, carrying a wire metal wastebasket. The woman wore a plain housedress, covering her like a painter’s drop cloth, her hair in curlers inside a tight-fitting plastic hood over her head.

Her eyes darted towards Juliet with a kind of greedy curiosity. Did the neighbor lady suspect her of being...what? A family member or a lady friend? Did she know if Elmer had a romantic relationship with Enid Block on the floor above?

Did he have a romantic relationship with Enid Block on the floor above?

The curious neighbor lady with her hair in plastic left a sharp eye-watering odor in her wake as she passed Juliet. She was clearly in the middle of a delicate operation involving one of those Toni home perms and had taken a free moment in the process between the perm solution and application of the neutralizer to empty her trash. Just the time a person needed to get away from her own abominable smell and share it with the neighbors.

Juliet would not wander outside her own door anything less than fully dressed, with makeup and every hair in place, and preferably not smelling. Juliet could not make up her mind if the woman was casual, slovenly, or just had guts.

She heard Elmer padding down the stairs and saw his legs through the wooden balusters at the railing. The first time she had seen him had been legs first, too—crawling through an air duct, trying to enter her office at the Wadsworth Atheneum. He’d been scouting the museum for a gang of thieves that had kidnapped his daughter. Seven months and a lifetime ago.

Elmer briefly scanned the bottom of the stairs before he approached her. He dug in his pocket for his apartment key, and they wordlessly stepped inside.

The apartment was sparse. A couple of easy chairs, a Formica table in the kitchen area (with a few chairs that had plastic seats and backs, and metal legs), and a Murphy bed, which was pulled down from the wall and conveniently waiting to be occupied. One room, with a kitchenette, bathroom, and a few windows—all he needed.

Though Elmer had been living there for six months, it still looked and felt impersonal to Juliet. No photos or personal objects. Elmer was either very neat or truly had nothing.

Or he spends most of his time in someone else’s apartment.

He said nothing to her at first, going into the kitchen area and closing the partially open window above the sink. He turned back to her and stood with his hands in his pockets. You’re looking well. How are you?

Juliet mentally replayed Jake’s and Clarice’s very different meeting. I’m fine, Elmer. I’ve missed you. I mean, I’m sorry we don’t get to see more of each other, working different shifts. It would be nice if we could go out for coffee sometime.

His lips formed only a slight, half-hearted smile, and on another man,  it might have looked like a sarcastic smirk. On Elmer, she knew it indicated indecision and wary defensiveness. We tried that a couple times.

I never meant to ‘chase’ you.

He folded his arms, lifting his chin as he spoke. I didn’t think that.

Certainly, you did.

What did you want to see me about?

She handed him the envelope. This, she said.

After he read the letter, he looked up at her with that questioning but extraordinarily patient attitude, waiting for her to explain.

She took a deep breath first. My father is having a New Year’s Eve party, and several guests are staying over. Some of them have been arriving this afternoon. More will come tonight and tomorrow. My father... my father has a lady friend now. Actually, he’s getting married.

Elmer’s expression gave no indication of what he thought about Jonas Van Allen having a lady friend, whether he thought it was good or bad or interesting in any way.

She continued, I think my father is being threatened, and I’m concerned that it might have something to do with this new woman in his life. I don’t mean to sound like a jealous daughter or to play out any such foolish cliché, but I’m not sure how I feel about her. For one thing, she’s twenty years younger than he is. She seems very sophisticated despite her claims to the contrary.

So do you.

I hope I don’t have that same veneer of glossy... I don’t know... that I detect about her. Perhaps you do see that in me, Elmer.

He appraised her. Glossy? No. Just sophistication. Go on.

I found this in the hallway, on the floor close to my father’s bedroom door. I don’t know if he’s seen it, but I don’t think he has. I’m concerned that he might be being blackmailed, either by this woman or by someone associated with her.

What’s this fancy crest up top? The Van Allen seal of approval?

This is the stationery we provide in our guest rooms.

Then it was written from inside your mansion?

It would seem.

His glance flickered down her body, interested but too discreet for leering. Have you called the police? Or hired a private detective?

Juliet triumphed at even such minute attention. No. I only found it a little while ago. I don’t think the police would be interested in a crime that hasn’t been committed and isn’t even clearly spelled out.

What do you want from me?

I was hoping... and I know this may sound ludicrous. But I was hoping you would come to my father’s home tomorrow afternoon and stay for the evening, in hiding.

Now Elmer smiled. You want me to hide?

There are so many places to hide. I couldn’t begin to tell you. Remember, I grew up in that house.

Mansion. Why do rich people always refer to these enormous mansions as a ‘house’ or ‘cottage’?

"A hypocritical need to feel humble, I suppose. I could draw you a map of the floor plan. The third-floor utility closet can easily be spied on from the attic above it. There’s a ventilation register in the floor, and you can listen. You can