The Pinch of Death – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

Chapter 19. LeRoi’s Secret

D.L. LeRoi’s phone number was disconnected, so a personal visit seemed called for. The address turned out to be a spiffed-up brownstone on a changing Brooklyn street. A Chinese hotel, a nail salon, a condemned lot posted with warning signs and a Laundromat made up the amenities. For the rest: anonymous apartments.

No one paid Jacquetta the slightest attention as she stood awkwardly studying a tenants’ list. A nice Hispanic man made it easier for her by unlocking the outer door; deftly she inserted a toe to keep from losing the opportunity.

And then she was climbing, climbing. D.L. LeRoi was on 4 and this wasn’t an elevator building.

The fourth-floor landing was tiny and cramped with three doors set at odd angles. The apartments behind them must be very small.

Feeling self-conscious, Jacquetta knocked. The wrong door opened and a woman with butchered hair in a man’s cut looked out.

“She’s gone away.”

“Oh really? Do you know where?”

But the door closed.

Nothing for it but to try to break in. She imagined herself standing before the judge in her postulant’s garb. But the knob gave, immediately and in seconds, she stood inside.

The high Victorian windows were swathed in curtains but there was enough light to see the bird had flown. Hastily assembled trash bags stood in the room’s center; a disrupted cleanup. Had that occurred before or after Miss Rainbeaux’s visit?

A mattress, a box spring, some plates and glasses in the kitchen. That was the extent of it. Nothing personal. Even the refrigerator was disconnected. In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet gaped open, empty. In a particularly bad omen, the mirror was broken. LeRoi had even taken the toilet paper.

There was nothing for it but to paw through the trash. Jacquetta had no gloves but mittens would be good enough. Pink satin sheets, a crumpled poster for Emmanuelle, the soft-porn film, some bottles of shampoo, shower gel and lotion were filling Jacquetta’s mind with certain ideas. “Midnight Kiss”, eh? Empty liquor bottles and party cups. Partially filled take-out containers. Ugh! The mittens trembled. This was what the tabloids call a love nest!

There was one odd and unexpected find. A box of stationery; blue sheets ornamented with yellow daisies. Strange to say the least. Who could LeRoi be writing to?

Caught in the floor boards a hint of gold. Jacquetta carefully levered it out. Bonanza! A thin gold chain – not a bracelet, more like an anklet – bearing the initial A. Could it be Avalon’s? With only twenty-six letters available it could be a lot of people’s. But it looked like real gold, and that said something. Shamelessly, Jacquetta pocketed it.

Downstairs on the street, business as usual. If people met for a private party, then separated for quotidian pursuits, who would care? If old ladies died, wasn’t that supposed to be what old ladies do?

I care, thought Jacquetta. She made a note of the apartment manager’s name, posted right above the mailboxes. Ingebrand Realty.