A Streetcar Named Expire Read online

  A large white van with big green letters reading GUTHRIE PROPERTIES was parked a few yards down the street. Judith and Renie were the last to exit the trolley.

  “Don’t you think I could sue Jeremy Lamar?” Judith asked in a whisper. “He not only smeared the B&B, he didn’t even have his facts straight.”

  “You could probably get some kind of injunction to stop him from putting Hillside Manor on the tour,” Renie said as they fell a few feet behind the rest of the group. Luckily, the couple who had been sitting in front of them had sprinted to the head of the pack, no doubt trying to avoid the cousins. “Lawsuits are expensive, even if you win.”

  “I know.” Judith sighed. “But I’ve never been so outraged. If I hadn’t thrown out my back, I might have killed him.”

  “Another first for Toujours La Tour.” Renie grinned. “How fitting.”

  Stopping suddenly, Judith grabbed Renie by the arm. “Say—you didn’t know about this all along, did you? Are you and Jeremy in cahoots just to drive me nuts?”

  Renie’s brown eyes widened. “That’s crazy. I’d never do such a thing and you know it. Apologize. Here. Now.”

  Judith was embarrassed. “Okay. I apologize. But you can’t blame me for being suspicious.”

  “Yes, I can,” Renie retorted as they walked under the arched entrance. “You’re paranoid.”

  Feeling foolish, Judith barely noticed the workers who were busily resurfacing a tiled pool in the middle of a handsome courtyard that was surrounded by a four-story loggia with arches in the curving Moorish style. Judith was reminded of her visit to the original Alhambra in Spain some thirty-odd years earlier.

  Nan Leech was standing next to a big, burly man in an orange hard hat who waved to the group. He seemed to be in charge, and Judith vaguely wondered if he was Mr. Guthrie.

  Nan had begun her spiel. “Before World War Two, a young couple named Harry and Dorothy Meacham moved into the Alhambra Arms. They had recently married, and this was their first home. In 1942, after war had broken out, two important events occurred in the Meachams’ lives. Harry joined the army in February of that year, and three months later, their first child, a daughter named Anne-Marie, was born. The war years were typical for the Meachams, separated by ten thousand miles and haunted by the fear that Harry might never come back. Finally, when peace came, Harry returned from Europe to be reunited with his little family.”

  Nan paused. Judith turned to Renie. “I’m going to look for Jeremy right now. I can’t just stand here and stew about his effrontery.”

  “Hold on,” Renie cautioned. “Don’t you want to hear about the Meachams?”

  “Not particularly,” Judith said as Nan led them into the entry hall, where candleflame lights sat in wrought-iron sconces. A staircase with a matching wrought-iron banister wound up to the next floor. Just as one of the workers turned on a jackhammer, Nan signaled for her little herd to follow her upstairs. Moving along the balcony, they finally reached the rear of the building, where Nan took up her tale.

  “On a dark and rainy day in the autumn of 1946, Dorothy Meacham went downtown to buy a billfold for Harry’s birthday present. Harry, who was going to the university to study engineering on the GI bill and working part-time at a clock company, got home around six. He was surprised to find that neither his wife nor his daughter was at the apartment. Dorothy had left a note saying that she would return by four and pick up Anne-Marie, who was visiting a friend. He called the friend’s mother, who said that Anne-Marie was still there, but Dorothy hadn’t shown up yet. Apparently, Harry was terribly worried and didn’t want to pass his fears on to his daughter. He asked the neighbor to keep Anne-Marie until Dorothy showed up. She never did, and he finally called the police shortly before eleven.”

  Near Judith and Renie, Alfred Ashe was waving a hand. “Yes?” Nan said, though she didn’t look pleased by the interruption.

  “Exactly what did the note say?” Alfred inquired.

  Nan scowled at the chiropractor. “I don’t know. There’s no copy extant.” She waited a moment, but Alfred remained silent. “After forty-eight hours,” Nan went on, her face again assuming its polite mask, “Dorothy was listed as a missing person. She had last been seen around two o’clock in the men’s leather goods department at the Belle Epoch. Despite every effort made by the police, Dorothy Meacham was never seen again. Until last month.”

  Another pause. Nan slowly opened the door to the unit directly behind her.

  “Where do you suppose that twerp Jeremy has gone?” Judith asked Renie. “I don’t see him anywhere up here or out on the balconies.”

  “If you can’t wait until the tour’s over, at least hold off and nail him when we get back to the bus,” Renie said, following the rest of the group into what had probably been the living room of the Meacham apartment.

  “When the renovations began on the Alhambra,” Nan said in her clear, precise voice, “many of the walls had to be removed because the condos will actually be larger units than the apartments. The Meacham unit is one of those which will be expanded on both sides.”

  Everyone, including the cousins, gazed around the partially gutted room. “When this wall was ripped out,” Nan said, pointing to a large opening that revealed I-beams, mortar, plaster, and a great deal of dust, “the construction workers found a skeleton. The remains were identified by dental charts as those of Dorothy Meacham. She had not died of natural causes.” Pause. “Her skull had been smashed.” Pause. “She had been murdered.”

  Little gasps went up from the group. Nan waited, her mouth set in a tight, almost smug line.

  “Maybe that jerk of a Jeremy is hiding inside the wall,” Judith whispered. “If he jumps out to scare us, I’m going to tackle him.”

  “You’ll really cripple yourself if you do,” Renie warned.

  “Harry Meacham had moved away a few months after his wife disappeared,” Nan was now saying. “He remarried and moved to California. No further trace was heard of him until the body was discovered. Naturally, in the case of a spouse’s murder, the other spouse is the usual suspect. There is no statute of limitations on homicide, as you may know. The police went searching for Harry Meacham. They never found him.”

  “A real let-down,” Judith muttered, then waited for her cousin to refocus her attention on Nan. What Renie didn’t know—or see—couldn’t hurt either of them.

  “We may never be sure if Harry Meacham killed his wife,” Nan was saying, “and then walled her body up in the…”

  Renie appeared riveted by the macabre recital. Judith slipped out of the room and down the corridor that overlooked the courtyard. She saw Jeremy Lamar talking to the man in the orange hard hat. Although she still limped, Judith’s aches and pains had lessened. Hurrying down the staircase, she reached the courtyard just as Jeremy disappeared into an elevator.

  Judith pressed the button for the car, but it had already started its ascent. The elevator had an old-fashioned dial to indicate the floors; she saw it stop on three. Impatiently, she waited for its return, got in, and rose to the third floor.

  Jeremy wasn’t in sight. Judith stopped at the first door, but it was locked and bolted. She tried the second door, which swung open at a touch. While the rooms were in chaos, no one was there. Judith moved on to the third door, which was ajar.

  “Jeremy?” she called.

  Apparently the third unit hadn’t yet yielded to the wrecking crew. A few pieces of furniture remained, though the carpets were rolled up in one corner. Judith wandered into the kitchen, where she couldn’t help but smile. The fixtures were straight out of the middle part of the century, reminding Judith of how the kitchen at Hillside Manor had looked before she’d made her own renovations. A sense of nostalgia overcame her as she peeked into the bedroom.

  Nostalgia was swiftly replaced by surprise. A woman was lying on the bed. Judith started to apologize, then noticed the ugly red blotch on her chest. Surprise gave way to alarm as Judith approached the woman.

  “Goo
d Lord, not again!” Judith whispered, recoiling in horror.

  She might not be the Old Inncreeper, but Judith knew a corpse when she saw one.

  Or did she? Was this some kind of stunt created by the tour group? Judith decided to check for a pulse, maybe even pinch the woman on the bed. But before she could move, all hell broke out. A bearded young man with a huge video camera charged into the room, followed by an even younger man carrying coils of cable. A plump redheaded woman directly behind them took one look at the body on the bed and let out a little yip. Two, three, at least a half-dozen more people pushed and shoved their way into the room, some of them throwing an occasional punch. They wielded microphones, cameras, and equipment Judith didn’t recognize. She was shunted aside, feeling as if she’d been on the wrong end of a cattle stampede.

  The cameraman who had led the onslaught was already taping. “Keep it rolling,” the redhead cried in a strained voice. “What the hell is going on here?”

  The question seemed to be aimed at Judith, who was clinging to an old walnut bureau. Cameras clicked and whirled, microphones waved like saplings in the wind.

  “Stop!” Judith screamed, holding up both hands.

  Though the cameras rolled on, the clamor of voices faded away. Judith tried to regain her composure as the redheaded woman faced her, nose-to-nose.

  “I just got here,” Judith finally said. “I haven’t any idea what’s going on, either, except”—she gestured at the motionless figure on the bed—“that woman on the bed may be dead. Or not. She might have been stabbed or shot, but I don’t see a weapon. Still, somebody should call the police.”

  Cell phones were whipped out as the crowd edged closer to the bed. Gasps, squeals, and the hum of voices filled the room. Judith fanned herself with her hands. The afternoon had grown warm, and she felt suffocated by the dozen or more people who were jammed into the bedroom.

  “She’s dead, all right,” the redhead declared. “Is this our lucky day or what?”

  Aghast, Judith tried to find an opening in the crowd. She wanted air, she wanted quiet, she wanted out. Surely the redhead was mistaken. What did she know? She was only a journalist. But now armed with a microphone, the redhead accosted Judith before she could escape.

  “Liz Ogilvy, KINE-TV,” she announced in a polished voice. “And you’re…”

  “Ah…” Judith stammered. “An innocent bystander?”

  Liz shut off the mike. “Listen, this looks like a big story. Don’t clown around. You won’t be any more than a couple of sound bytes on the five o’clock news anyway.”

  Grimacing, Judith reluctantly gave her name. “I’m on the Toujours La Tour tour,” she said, feeling stupid. “I came in here by mistake.”

  Liz gave a curt nod. “Okay, let’s take it from the top.” She turned the mike back on as several lenses focused on Judith’s pained expression.

  “This is Liz Ogilvy, reporting live from the Alhambra Arms where the body of a woman has just been discovered in a vacant unit. Police have been summoned, and we’re here with Judith Flynn, who claims to have discovered the corpse just minutes ago. If only our KINETV cameras had been here earlier, we could have shown our viewers the actual murder in progress. Ms. Flynn, what was your reaction to finding a murdered woman in a vacant apartment?”

  To Judith, the mike thrust into her face looked like the body of a fat, black spider. “Um…that she was dead?”

  Liz made a menacing face. “Let’s do that again. From ‘your reaction.’”

  Judith’s knees felt weak; perspiration dripped down her aching back. It was pointless to resist. “I was shocked,” she said. “And saddened.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Flynn.” Liz turned to face the camera. “The irony is that this is the second time the media has been called to the Alhambra. Skeletal remains were found here just weeks ago during the ongoing renovation by Guthrie Properties. Today, another shock greeted workers when they began removing carpets and flooring only to find a veritable treasure trove. And now we seem to have an unidentified corpse in KINETV’s broadcast from the Alhambra Arms.”

  The man in the orange hard hat stood in the doorway. Everyone, including Liz, turned to stare.

  “You should have waited for me,” he said in a voice that failed to conceal his anger. “First of all, you’re in the wrong room.”

  “No, we’re not,” Liz declared as the rest of the media parted like the Red Sea. “Take a look, Mr. Guthrie.”

  Mr. Guthrie, who had silver curls poking out from under his hard hat, moved aggressively toward the bed. “What the hell?” he cried. “Is this some kind of prank? Where’s that idiot Lamar?”

  Liz Ogilvy held a hand up in front of George Guthrie. It occurred to Judith that Liz must be a local media queen, since the others seemed to defer to her. She recalled seeing Liz on the eleven o’clock news, spreading gloom and doom in a no-nonsense manner.

  “This isn’t a joke,” Liz said grimly. “Ms. Flynn over here says she found the body just before we arrived to cover the treasure story.”

  Mr. Guthrie gave Judith an indifferent glance, then removed his hard hat and mopped his brow with his forearm. “Hey!” he exclaimed, pointing at the body, “that’s Mrs. Carrabas!”

  “You know her?” Liz asked, thrusting the microphone in front of Mr. Guthrie. In the distance, sirens could be heard.

  “You bet.” He nodded, sweat trickling down his high forehead. “She’s my exorcist.”

  Liz’s surprise was apparent only in the flicker of her eyelashes. She turned the mike on and faced the camera. “I’m with George Guthrie of Guthrie Properties who has just identified the body of a woman he says is his exorcist. Mr. Guthrie, what is the victim’s full name and how do you know her in a professional capacity?”

  Guthrie had taken a blue-and-white bandana handkerchief from his pocket and was wiping his face. “Her name’s Mrs. Carrabas—I forget her first name—and she came here to exorcise this place. It was…” He paused, glancing at the body. “This is really terrible. I think.”

  Judith heard the sirens wind down as they pulled up outside the Alhambra. Her earlier desire to get out of the crowded bedroom was temporarily put aside. She had to admit that she was curious. None of these people were medical professionals. How could they be so sure that this Mrs. Carrabas was dead? She was an exorcist. Maybe the blood and the motionless state were part of her ritual.

  “Let me say this.” Guthrie was leaning into the mike, speaking very fast, apparently aware that he was about to be interrupted by the police. “Mrs. Carrabas is a well-known exorcist from California. I hired her to exorcise the ghosts from this building before its grand opening as Guthrie Gardens Condominiums with prices starting as low as two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. I invited her here today so that she could perform the exorcism after the press had an opportunity to look at the fabulous jewelry we found stashed between the second and third floors where our Swedish craftsmen were restoring the rich hardwoods that have been an integral part of the building since it was built in 1908. The original stucco walls will be…”

  Still feeling stifled and noticing that some of the TV crew members had shifted positions to get a better angle on Guthrie, Judith decided to disappear. Edging around a trio of busy cameramen, she reached the hallway and peered into the living room. Sure enough, she noticed a gaping hole in the floor near the old-fashioned radiator. But before she could get closer, footsteps pounded in her direction.

  No police for me, she thought, dashing to a door that she hoped led into another bedroom.

  It didn’t. Judith found herself in the dark. Apparently, she had gone into a coat closet.

  But she wasn’t alone. Heavy breathing met her ears. She stiffened, fumbling for the doorknob.

  A hand reached out, gripping her by the upper arm. Judith sucked in her breath, then tried to pull away.

  The grip was firm. The voice that echoed inside the empty closet wasn’t.

  “C-c-coz?”

  “Coz?” Jud
ith felt the hand fall away from her arm. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Hiding from the cops,” Renie replied, panting a bit. “I saw them coming up the stairs when I was looking for you from the balcony. You didn’t kill Jeremy Lamar, did you?”

  “Of course not. Someone else got killed instead,” Judith replied, then paused to listen. She could hear more footsteps—medics, perhaps, or firefighters.

  “Killed?” Renie sounded aghast. “Who?”

  “An exorcist named Carrabas, from California,” Judith said, still listening intently. “It could be a hoax.”

  “What do you mean?” Renie demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Judith said in a bemused voice. “It’s almost as if I expected to find a dead body. What’s wrong with me?”

  “You’re numb,” Renie replied.

  “What if I’m callous?” Judith said in a weak voice.

  “No. Not you.” Renie also sounded weary. “Maybe you’re right, it’s a put-up job for publicity. And if it’s real, it hasn’t sunk in. I went looking for you and heard voices. How did the media get here so fast?”

  “They came for something else,” Judith answered. “Some kind of treasure the workmen found.” She hauled herself into a standing position. “We’ve got to get out of here. It’s hot and airless. I feel faint.”

  “Can you hear anybody in the living room?” Renie asked.

  Judith listened. “No. We’d better make a run for it before they start coming out of the bedroom. I don’t want any more microphones stuck in my face.”

  Pushing the door open wide, the cousins fled. Judith led the way, heading straight for the stairs. They clambered down the three flights, careful to avoid the occasional tool. Moments later, they were in the courtyard. Work had stopped, as the construction crew milled about, talking, smoking, and, it appeared, speculating on what had brought all the emergency vehicles to the Alhambra.