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Authors: Cecelia Tishy
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floor.
There’s no sign of the drill, which doubtless is also secured in an evidence bag. The nail holes look like pores.
Worst of all, however, the smell, like spoiling meat. I rush to a window and stop myself from apologizing—typical female reflex.
“Ma’am,” says the thickset one, “we’ll take it from here.” He’s pulling a Mylar bunny suit and respirator mask from a duffel
as I go back downstairs, then spend half an hour coaxing the water-soaked Ferragamos back to life for sheer distraction. Wrecking
a pair of good shoes isn’t exactly like exposing a Steinway grand to the elements, but the mindless soap circles are soothing.
The rain stains recede. The shoes look damaged and rescued both.
I stuff them with paper wads and go next door to ring the bell of unit 2 at 25 Barlow Square, a town house nearly identical
to my own. The upstairs flat marked “Pfaeltz” is directly adjacent to my own rental flat, meaning Steven’s. Three rings, and
here comes Trudy Pfaeltz in slippers and a pink belted chenille robe with “Mary Kay” over the pocket and a parakeet on her
shoulder. She rakes a hand through dark blond hair. Her pug nose is sprinkled with pale freckles, her eyes red-rimmed today.
I’d guess she’s nearing forty, and I hope against hope she can help me.
“Trudy, I’m really sorry to wake you up.”
“’S’okay, Reggie. Kingpin was chirping so loud I had to get up and cover his cage. Damn bird. Anyway, we night shift workers
take our chances on decent sleep. And I meant to call
you
. My God, a murder on Barlow Square.”
“Did you see the police next door, the squad cars, yellow tape? I rang your bell a couple times yesterday.”
“I haven’t been home for two days. The hospital’s so shorthanded I worked double shifts, plus restocking my vending machines.
I’m losing sales because people buy bags of Halloween candy at the supermarket and skip the machines. Oh God, a man is murdered,
and I’m worried about candy bars. Me, a nurse.”
“So you weren’t home the night of the murder.”
“No.” She shivers and pulls her robe tight. “Thank God the hospital needed me. The post-op floor, it’s almost home-sweet-home.
A lab technician saw TV news and told me. It hit me: one brick firewall away from my apartment, a guy was murdered. You must
be a wreck. Want a few Valium?”
I shake my head no. “But could I ask you a couple of questions? I went around to the alley. It looked okay, but I want to
make sure. Would you walk back there with me, just to check?”
“No time like the present.” She sees me scan her outfit. “Listen, Reggie, I sold Mary Kay and Tupperware to half of Barlow
Square. A woman in a pink robe with a parakeet with orange feathers on one shoulder, I’m local color. Let’s go.”
So we stand in the alley behind 25 and 27, looking for signs of disturbance while gazing upward at Boston’s idea of fire safety.
It’s a setup from another era. An iron balcony crosses from my upstairs rental flat to Trudy’s. Should fire break out in either
unit and the inside stairwell be blocked, the occupant is supposed to exit a back window onto his or her balcony, then calmly
walk across it and knock on the neighbor’s window. Ideally the neighbor opens this window and welcomes the fire victim inside.
If nobody’s home, the escapee is entitled to smash the neighbor’s window and climb in. It’s a friendly pyrotechnic break-in
of sorts. As a deterrent to criminals, there’s no ladder down to the ground.
We stand in silence. Trudy says, “Everything looks normal.”
I agree. “That’s a big drop to the ground. Trudy, did you ever try an actual fire drill on your balcony?”
“Not once in my twelve years here on the square. Who would?”
“My dentist tenant almost backed out of the lease when he saw this.”
“Dr. Tooth, that pain in the neck? Where is he, Bora Bora?”
“Africa. He’s testing dental pain medicine for
There’s no sign of the drill, which doubtless is also secured in an evidence bag. The nail holes look like pores.
Worst of all, however, the smell, like spoiling meat. I rush to a window and stop myself from apologizing—typical female reflex.
“Ma’am,” says the thickset one, “we’ll take it from here.” He’s pulling a Mylar bunny suit and respirator mask from a duffel
as I go back downstairs, then spend half an hour coaxing the water-soaked Ferragamos back to life for sheer distraction. Wrecking
a pair of good shoes isn’t exactly like exposing a Steinway grand to the elements, but the mindless soap circles are soothing.
The rain stains recede. The shoes look damaged and rescued both.
I stuff them with paper wads and go next door to ring the bell of unit 2 at 25 Barlow Square, a town house nearly identical
to my own. The upstairs flat marked “Pfaeltz” is directly adjacent to my own rental flat, meaning Steven’s. Three rings, and
here comes Trudy Pfaeltz in slippers and a pink belted chenille robe with “Mary Kay” over the pocket and a parakeet on her
shoulder. She rakes a hand through dark blond hair. Her pug nose is sprinkled with pale freckles, her eyes red-rimmed today.
I’d guess she’s nearing forty, and I hope against hope she can help me.
“Trudy, I’m really sorry to wake you up.”
“’S’okay, Reggie. Kingpin was chirping so loud I had to get up and cover his cage. Damn bird. Anyway, we night shift workers
take our chances on decent sleep. And I meant to call
you
. My God, a murder on Barlow Square.”
“Did you see the police next door, the squad cars, yellow tape? I rang your bell a couple times yesterday.”
“I haven’t been home for two days. The hospital’s so shorthanded I worked double shifts, plus restocking my vending machines.
I’m losing sales because people buy bags of Halloween candy at the supermarket and skip the machines. Oh God, a man is murdered,
and I’m worried about candy bars. Me, a nurse.”
“So you weren’t home the night of the murder.”
“No.” She shivers and pulls her robe tight. “Thank God the hospital needed me. The post-op floor, it’s almost home-sweet-home.
A lab technician saw TV news and told me. It hit me: one brick firewall away from my apartment, a guy was murdered. You must
be a wreck. Want a few Valium?”
I shake my head no. “But could I ask you a couple of questions? I went around to the alley. It looked okay, but I want to
make sure. Would you walk back there with me, just to check?”
“No time like the present.” She sees me scan her outfit. “Listen, Reggie, I sold Mary Kay and Tupperware to half of Barlow
Square. A woman in a pink robe with a parakeet with orange feathers on one shoulder, I’m local color. Let’s go.”
So we stand in the alley behind 25 and 27, looking for signs of disturbance while gazing upward at Boston’s idea of fire safety.
It’s a setup from another era. An iron balcony crosses from my upstairs rental flat to Trudy’s. Should fire break out in either
unit and the inside stairwell be blocked, the occupant is supposed to exit a back window onto his or her balcony, then calmly
walk across it and knock on the neighbor’s window. Ideally the neighbor opens this window and welcomes the fire victim inside.
If nobody’s home, the escapee is entitled to smash the neighbor’s window and climb in. It’s a friendly pyrotechnic break-in
of sorts. As a deterrent to criminals, there’s no ladder down to the ground.
We stand in silence. Trudy says, “Everything looks normal.”
I agree. “That’s a big drop to the ground. Trudy, did you ever try an actual fire drill on your balcony?”
“Not once in my twelve years here on the square. Who would?”
“My dentist tenant almost backed out of the lease when he saw this.”
“Dr. Tooth, that pain in the neck? Where is he, Bora Bora?”
“Africa. He’s testing dental pain medicine for
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