Lesson Plan for Murder by Lori Robbins

Author:Lori Robbins [Lori Robbins]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level Best Books
Published: 2023-05-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

~The Idiot

William Bellinger lived in a modest apartment building not far from Ellie’s ballet studio. I needed a plausible excuse to barge in on a man I’d never met and pondered what a normal person, someone like Emily, would do. I purchased a platter of cookies and returned.

If Bellinger lived in a private house, my assault on his privacy would have been easier, but I had to explain myself over the crackle of the intercom. In the movies people push their way through when residents buzz in their guests, but the dwellers of this apartment building weren’t popular. They also weren’t all that trusting; the one person who entered using his key closed the door in my face. After two more tries, Marcia’s husband buzzed the door open. I rode a creaking elevator to the sixth floor. The unshaved greasy-haired man didn’t bear much resemblance to the cleaner version I’d seen at the funeral.

“Who are you?” He stood in the doorway and didn’t let me pass.

“Liz Hopewell.” I had to speak loudly, in order to compete with the sound of television anchors blaring their football analyses from the living room.

I opted for the cheery tone of a Food Network cook. “I was a friend of Marcia’s. I wanted to give you my condolences and to bring you this.” I showed him the platter of cookies.

He stepped into the hallway, forcing me to retreat. “Marcia said she didn’t have any friends at school.”

Truer words were never spoken. “We were more acquaintances than friends,” I confessed. I peeked around him into his apartment. “But I really miss her, and I feel terrible about what happened.”

I didn’t know what excess of emotion prompted the quavering in my voice, whether of nervousness or genuine grief, but it did the trick. Bellinger let me in.

Once in, I couldn’t remember why I thought visiting him was a good idea. The apartment smelled of stale food and unwashed clothing. Bellinger pointed to the sofa, pale beige with irregular dark blotches. A dirty trench coat that closely matched the upholstery was in a crumpled heap in one corner. I sat on the edge of the cleanest looking section, a few feet from the coat and behind a glass-topped coffee table, which was stained with a dozen different rings. Two beer bottles, both empty, stood in the middle. I used the edge of the cookie platter to move them to one side.

My host was barefoot, with long curving toenails that gave his feet a wild bird-like menace. He watched me out of half-closed eyes, as if the sight of me was putting him to sleep. That crocodile gaze didn’t fool me. Bellinger reminded me of the bookies who used to hang out at Junior’s Restaurant on Flatbush Ave., many years before irony moved to Brooklyn. To look at those small-time crooks you’d think they had nothing more pressing on their minds than cheesecake, when really, they were planning to whack The Lousy Bastard’s knees if he didn’t fork over the money he owed them.

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