Cold Pulp Trio

  *****

  I made my way to the home of the Widow Laumer. She lived in one of the more well-to-do neighborhoods of this sleepy southern town. The street was lined with dogwood and elm trees. Many of the homes were at least forty or fifty years old and most were small mansions on very generous parcels of land. Lawns were manicured and lush.

  I stopped my car in front of 1437 Huffington Lane. I sat back and admired the quiet elegance of Mrs. Laumer's home.

  I was in the Piedmont part of North Carolina. Gentle, rolling hills were the rule rather than the exception. My car was parked on the curb directly in front of the Laumer's home, a large two-story house on top of a small hill. Concrete steps led up the hill from the sidewalk, then on to a stone paved path to the front the house. The first floor was raised above the ground, and inlaid stone steps led up to a wrap around veranda that had a roof to keep the elements away. A large bay window was to my left and suspended near it was a swinging bench. The house was made of brick and was whitewashed. The veranda was floored with slate stone.

  This was a well-made dwelling; built in the twenties and built to last.

  Across the street, I saw a man in his sixties puttering in the yard. He gave me the once over. I waved and continued to approach the Laumer home.

  I walked up to screen door in front of the elaborately carved front oak door, opened it and started to use the brass door knocker when I spied the doorbell to my right. I pushed it and heard the chimes sound off inside the house.

  I waited a minute and during that time, I heard a rustling noise inside. Someone was home. Impatient and bored, I rang the doorbell again and then gave the door knocker a couple of sharp raps.

  I heard the movement behind the door. The click of opening a deadbolt was heard and then the door silently opened.

  She'd been drinking. I could smell the booze on her breath. Her amber eyes were bloodshot. She had a head of thick black hair, cut short, with the occasional shot of gray. She was of average height, wore sandal flats, had on a blue blouse and red capri pants. Her figure was a very firm hourglass. Her jaw was strong and most would call her handsome, not beautiful. She was a little north of forty but carried it well.

  She was one of those rare women whose looks improved with middle age.

  I introduced myself, told her I was a private investigator and was looking into the Wilson murder. I wondered if she could spare me a few moments. She stared at me for a few seconds, then shrugged her shoulders, turned around and waved me in as she walked away. I followed her. She took a left into what was evidentially her study. I noted it was the room that had the bay window facing the porch.

  Along the wall opposite the study entrance was a very expensive cherry wood desk with a cut-glass top, blotter and papers scattered around it. There was also a leaded crystal decanter, a third full with what looked like scotch or bourbon. A tumbler containing a half-inch of liquor was next to it. To the right and behind the desk was a large floor-to-ceiling aquarium; judging by the nature of the fish, it was a saltwater one. The walls were lined with built-in book shelves, filled to capacity; a small coal fireplace and mantle were opposite the desk. On the mantle were various brass and crystal knick-knacks.

  The room spoke of understated wealth.

  She walked behind the desk, picked up the tumbler and made a half-hearted motion as if to ask if I wanted to join her. I shook my head no. Her answer was to drink the rest of the booze in the glass and then gently set it on the desk.

  I started into why I was asking about Samantha Wilson; that I was told Samantha and her mother had cleaned her house for years; that Samantha continued to clean it after her mother passed.

  She looked at me and just said, “So?”

  I asked her if she had any problems with the Wilson girl or did she ever talk about her private life. As I spoke, Laumer reached for the decanter and threw a splash of whiskey into the tumbler. She grabbed the glass and just rubbed it against her cheek, looking at the bay window vacantly.

  I prattled on. I leaned against the coal fireplace, appeared to inspect the trinkets on the mantle and then offhandedly asked if she had ever noticed anything missing after Samantha cleaned the house.

  “We found what is apparently a very old and expensive ivory cameo in her apartment. Two Greek women with a jar of wine. It didn't happen to be yours?”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath and looked at her.

  She was shaking, and all the color had drained out of her face.

  “He told you, didn't he?” she whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  She shouted, “I said he fucking told you!”

  “Lady, I don't what you are talking about.”

  She jerked open a drawer in her desk and pulled out a .32 automatic and pointed it at me.

  “That nigger was mine! She was mine, I tell you!”

  I went numb with shock. I stammered for a second and finally said, “Jesus Fucking Christ, lady, easy with that gun...”

  “Shut up!” she screamed, pointing the gun right at me. “Shut up, damnit!”

  I just raised my hands and started thinking how to get the hell out of this mess.

  “I told her I’d take care of her, I told her we could get an abortion, but she wanted the child. She wanted to move and start over. He was going to help her. I pleaded with her, but she wouldn't change her mind. That bitch was mine. I—I loved her.”

  Slowly, it dawned on my dumb ass that Samantha Wilson had been more than a maid to this dyke, and this dyke had probably been drinking since she put a bullet in the girl’s head. And unless I did something fast, this dyke was now about to shoot me with the same gun she killed the Wilson dame.

  “She begged me, tried to get me to understand. She got on her knees and begged me to let her go...”

  Her eyes got that vacant look again, and I did one of the smartest things I ever did, followed by one of the dumbest.

  I slapped one of the objects on the mantle (I think it was a brass pig) and launched it towards the aquarium. It slammed into the glass; the aquarium didn't shatter, but I could see and hear the tinkling of spider web-like cracks spread across the glass.

  Laumer saw it, let loose a cry of despair and dropped the gun by her side.

  I was home free. All I had to do was bolt out the room, run out the door and keep running. But yours truly decided—and for the life of me, I can't explain why—to jump through the bay window.

  I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I assumed I would just blast through it, land on my feet on the veranda and keep going. What I failed to remember was this house was built like a fortress, and the window frames in the bay window were made of solid hickory and not cheap pine wood.

  I slammed into the bay window and while it gave way some, I was still stuck inside the room. Full panic and adrenalin kicked in now, and I kept putting as much pressure I could against the window, using my legs like pistons. The window finally gave way in slow motion.

  I slid out the window, and I could feel the sharp, clean sting of glass slicing through my suit into my arm and shoulder. I fell onto the veranda, got up and tripped over the porch swing and slammed my head against the porch railing.

  Everything went sideways.

  When I finally got my wits about me, I heard the guy across the street screaming to his wife to call the police. I looked up and there was Sarah Laumer standing at the shattered bay window, her face frozen and white, pointing that .32 right at my head.

  My gut went cold. I could feel by balls tighten in fear. Then, slowly, she lowered the gun and her face became one of utter despair. A tear went down her left cheek. She turned and just walked away.

  I laid there, stunned, for a second or two, then survival mode kicked in. I scrambled to my feet, ran off the porch and started to run towards my car. I saw the old man from across the street come out of his house carrying a double-barreled 12 gauge.

  Old geezers and shotguns are a damn dangerous combination, so I ignored my car and just
kept running like hell down the road. I was about three houses down the block when the local cops came screaming up, lights flashing, slamming to a stop when they saw me.

  I didn't even try to reason with them; I fell to my knees, hands straight up. Complete and utter submission. Both cops in the car came out, revolvers drawn and screaming at me to kiss the pavement. I did. They were handcuffing me when the sharp crack of a pistol was heard coming from the Laumer house.