Murder in a Heat Wave by Gretchen Sprague

Author:Gretchen Sprague
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2011-05-12T00:00:00+00:00

On the way out the door, the shopping bag’s handles clutched in her fist, Melody turned back. “He wasn’t yelling,” she said. “He was having a discussion.”

15 Cloak and Dagger

Martha saw the children into the elevator and returned to her own apartment in a quandary. Someone should tell the police about the man in the stairwell, but Martha, the only adult in the know, had promised not to tell.

The telephone warbled once more as she was pondering the problem. She suppressed annoyance, arranged herself on the chaise, and picked up. A mature female voice identified itself as belonging to Helen Taubensee.

For a moment, still preoccupied with secrets that must be disclosed, Martha couldn’t remember who Helen Taubensee was. The name was not unfamiliar—oh, yes. Helen Taubensee was a member of the co-op board. She was, in fact one of the three members who were up for reelection.

“Yes, Ms. Taubensee,” Martha said.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Since the only thing being interrupted was an inaccurate notion that she needed to resume her nap, Martha said, “Not at all.”

“I apologize for hanging up on your answering machine. I didn’t want to say anything that could be overheard.”

“I’m the only one here,” said Martha.

“Then I’ll get to the point. I understand you have an interest in serving on the board.”

That again. “The subject has been discussed.”

“And you haven’t ruled out the possibility?”

“No.”

“Good. I hear good things about you. There’s some co-op business I’d like you to know about. It’s rather tricky, and for reasons of security I don’t want to spread it around the board, but I don’t want to tackle it alone.”

More secrets? Curiosity began to fray the edge of Martha’s weariness. “I’m listening,” she said.

“This may come across as paranoia, but I think it would be better not to talk about it on the phone. Or anywhere in or near the building, for that matter. Do you know the Brooklyn Promenade? In Brooklyn Heights?”

“Yes, I do,” Martha said. West Brooklyn Legal Services, where she had worked briefly some years ago, was a few blocks from the public space (called the Esplanade by a handful of purists, the Promenade by the rest of the known universe) that had been constructed over a stretch of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway overlooking Manhattan’s financial district across the harbor. It had occasionally been a destination of her lunch-hour walks.

Helen Taubensee said, “I’m meeting someone there at noon tomorrow. I’d like you to take part in the conversation. Could you possibly meet us there? Twelve noon, at the north end. The Watchtower end.”

Martha hesitated. This invitation sounded rather like one of those devices dear to the writers of Gothic thrillers, a mysterious summons luring the idiot heroine into darkness and mortal peril.

The notion was absurd. Noon was not midnight, and the Esplanade was not a deserted castle. Every noon, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of working people gathered on its benches to enjoy the view while they ate their take-out lunches. Her weariness didn’t altogether vanish, but it contracted to a hard little knob just behind her eyes, and curiosity ballooned to fill the space it had vacated.

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