Read Online Night Corridor by Joan Hall Hovey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Hall Hovey
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funny. Was he laughing at her? The blood rose hot to her cheeks.
"I would prefer that you didn't come into my room if that's all right."
She saw the exchange of looks between them, fleeting. But she had grown adept over the years at catching nuances of people's expressions and could tell the two policemen weren't used to being told what they could and could not do.
She was relieved when the gray-haired policeman, who seemed the leader of the two, shrugged good-naturedly and said that that was fine with him. Either of them could have said 'No, it isn't all right,' and she thought she might have opened the door wider to let them in. She sensed they knew that, too, but decided to give her her way.
"Thank you," she said. It couldn't be about her, they would have come inside, taken her away in handcuffs if they had wanted to.
"No problem," the gingery man said. "We don't mean to upset you, Ma'am, but a woman who used to live in this building was murdered on Saturday night. We realize she wasn't living here at the time of the murder, but we're talking to everyone in the building. We wondered if you might have known her."
"Her name was Lorraine Winters," Detective O'Neal said. His eyes had softened. They were light brown, the color of the tea she'd been drinking when they knocked on her door. It wasn't about her. She had done nothing wrong. She wasn't being sent away.
"No, I didn't. I just moved here. But I know about her. We passed the alley where—he put her." The woman had been killed elsewhere, dumped there, said the newsman on TV.
"She lived there," she said, pointing at the dark maroon door across the hall. "Right there."
They glanced at the door, nodded.
"We?" Detective Aiken said. "You said we. You and someone else walked past the alley?"
"Mrs. Bannister and I. I saw the yellow tape, and the police cars. There were people on the sidewalk. A red car was being towed away. That was hers, wasn't it? You should talk to Mrs. Bannister. She knew her. She was her landlady. Just like she's mine. Mr. Mason knew her too. He lives upstairs."
She remembered looking in the alley, imagining the dead girl in there. It had made her think of her roommate who had slit her wrists. But she'd made that decision for herself. Though it wasn't her fault, how much worse it must be to have someone else take your life away. Lorraine Winters had been an actress and had had dreams for herself.
"We will," Detective O'Neal said, and Caroline knew then that they had already spoken with the landlady, and she had told them about her. Told them she used to be a mental patient. That would make Caroline a suspicious character. But Mrs. Bannister had done right to tell them about her tenants' history. They were trying to find a murderer, after all.
"We were shopping for things," she said, the words suddenly too loud, tumbling from her as if of their own volition. She softened her tone. "Groceries, stockings …other things. I bought this robe." Her voice trailed off. Why had she told them that? She sounded crazy. Even at the thought, she involuntarily ran a hand down the front of the soft material, unaware that she had, and smiled like a child. And felt a terrible helplessness. It was just that it was the first thing she'd worn in years that someone else hadn't worn first, and she loved it.
After a brief silence, the gingery man said in a brotherly voice, "It's very pretty with your dark hair. Looks comfy and warm as can be."
"Yes, it is." She was behaving inappropriately. In an effort to steer the conversation away from herself, she said, "The lady who was killed was an actress, wasn't she? I don't believe I ever saw her on TV. No one's moved in yet, but I think I heard someone in there."
"Oh?" Detective O'Neal raised an eyebrow. "When was that?"
"I don't know." He wasn't thinking of her yellow robe anymore. Or her dark hair. "Yesterday, maybe. Do you think you'll catch the
"I would prefer that you didn't come into my room if that's all right."
She saw the exchange of looks between them, fleeting. But she had grown adept over the years at catching nuances of people's expressions and could tell the two policemen weren't used to being told what they could and could not do.
She was relieved when the gray-haired policeman, who seemed the leader of the two, shrugged good-naturedly and said that that was fine with him. Either of them could have said 'No, it isn't all right,' and she thought she might have opened the door wider to let them in. She sensed they knew that, too, but decided to give her her way.
"Thank you," she said. It couldn't be about her, they would have come inside, taken her away in handcuffs if they had wanted to.
"No problem," the gingery man said. "We don't mean to upset you, Ma'am, but a woman who used to live in this building was murdered on Saturday night. We realize she wasn't living here at the time of the murder, but we're talking to everyone in the building. We wondered if you might have known her."
"Her name was Lorraine Winters," Detective O'Neal said. His eyes had softened. They were light brown, the color of the tea she'd been drinking when they knocked on her door. It wasn't about her. She had done nothing wrong. She wasn't being sent away.
"No, I didn't. I just moved here. But I know about her. We passed the alley where—he put her." The woman had been killed elsewhere, dumped there, said the newsman on TV.
"She lived there," she said, pointing at the dark maroon door across the hall. "Right there."
They glanced at the door, nodded.
"We?" Detective Aiken said. "You said we. You and someone else walked past the alley?"
"Mrs. Bannister and I. I saw the yellow tape, and the police cars. There were people on the sidewalk. A red car was being towed away. That was hers, wasn't it? You should talk to Mrs. Bannister. She knew her. She was her landlady. Just like she's mine. Mr. Mason knew her too. He lives upstairs."
She remembered looking in the alley, imagining the dead girl in there. It had made her think of her roommate who had slit her wrists. But she'd made that decision for herself. Though it wasn't her fault, how much worse it must be to have someone else take your life away. Lorraine Winters had been an actress and had had dreams for herself.
"We will," Detective O'Neal said, and Caroline knew then that they had already spoken with the landlady, and she had told them about her. Told them she used to be a mental patient. That would make Caroline a suspicious character. But Mrs. Bannister had done right to tell them about her tenants' history. They were trying to find a murderer, after all.
"We were shopping for things," she said, the words suddenly too loud, tumbling from her as if of their own volition. She softened her tone. "Groceries, stockings …other things. I bought this robe." Her voice trailed off. Why had she told them that? She sounded crazy. Even at the thought, she involuntarily ran a hand down the front of the soft material, unaware that she had, and smiled like a child. And felt a terrible helplessness. It was just that it was the first thing she'd worn in years that someone else hadn't worn first, and she loved it.
After a brief silence, the gingery man said in a brotherly voice, "It's very pretty with your dark hair. Looks comfy and warm as can be."
"Yes, it is." She was behaving inappropriately. In an effort to steer the conversation away from herself, she said, "The lady who was killed was an actress, wasn't she? I don't believe I ever saw her on TV. No one's moved in yet, but I think I heard someone in there."
"Oh?" Detective O'Neal raised an eyebrow. "When was that?"
"I don't know." He wasn't thinking of her yellow robe anymore. Or her dark hair. "Yesterday, maybe. Do you think you'll catch the
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