at his face, he hurried off in the opposite direction.
10
The Lakeland Terrace was located on the edge of Uptown, a ritzy inner-city area between Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles. It was a five-story security building, redbrick facade, probably built in the Forties. Sophie had been there twice before, both times to drop off a restaurant review. Since George spent only half-days at the paper three times a week, it shouldn’t have come as a complete surprise to her that he kept some of his files at home.
Once inside die front foyer, she searched her purse few the scrap of paper on which she’d written his apartment number. She’d noticed that her memory wasn’t what it used to be, so she was forced to write herself notes. Just as she found die paper, a young couple came out of the locked door. Assuming that she must be searching for her key, they held the door open. She smiled and thanked them. It was a bad security risk, but then, in her cotton cardigan and khaki trousers, she hardly looked like an ax murderer.
When the elevator reached the fifth floor, she got out and immediately spotted the box outside George’s door. Damn. She was hoping to talk to him in person if only for a few minutes.
Then again if he
was
sick …
In a moment of angry resolve, she tossed her Midwestern manners to the wind and knocked on the door. She could always leave him die note, but he had to take some responsibility for helping her make sense of the mess he’d once called his job.
She waited a good minute. When nobody answered, she knocked again. “George, it’s me. Sophie Greenway. I have to talk to you.”
Trying the handle, she found that the lock hadn’t caught, that the door was open. Now she was in an even bigger quandary. She couldn’t just walk in on him. What if he was asleep or… ? The possibilities were endless. And yet she couldn’t leave with her tail between her legs, begging him on the phone tomorrow for some crumbs of help. This was business. He had to deal with it. Cracking the door several inches, she called, “George? I’m not going away until we talk.”
No answer.
Moving hesitantly into the front foyer, die could smell something wonderful cooking in the oven, probably a pot roast. How sick could a guy be if he was about to eat a pot roast?
“George?” Rounding the entryway into the living room, she found it deserted but saw that someone had been sitting on the couch drinking wine. One wineglass sat on the coffee table in front of the couch and one was on an end table next to an armchair. Had he been entertaining?
Following the scent of roasting meat through the dining room, Sophie entered the kitchen, growing angrier with each passing second. The man didn’t have the flu; he had
other plans.
She couldn’t believe his apparent lack of obligation toward helping her settle in her new position.
Marching past the kitchen table, she was prepared to give him a piece of her mind when she saw him sprawled face down on the white-and-black-checked linoleum in the pantry.
“George!” she shouted, rushing to him. Both of his arms were flung outward and blood oozed from several wounds in his back. Pressing her fingers to the side of his neck, she could feel that he was still warm. But as she pressed harder, searching for even the faintest sign of life, she realized it was futile.
For a moment, all she could do was stare. How could this have happened? There was no sign of a fight, not in the living room and not in the kitchen, and no weapon had been left behind. She wasn’t a master of human physiology, but from the position of the wounds, she guessed his heart had been involved. No wonder there hadn’t been a struggle. It had probably been all over in a matter of seconds.
Glancing up at the kitchen counter, she could see a knife block set to the right of the sink. The slot where the chef’s knife should have been was empty. Perhaps she was
10
The Lakeland Terrace was located on the edge of Uptown, a ritzy inner-city area between Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles. It was a five-story security building, redbrick facade, probably built in the Forties. Sophie had been there twice before, both times to drop off a restaurant review. Since George spent only half-days at the paper three times a week, it shouldn’t have come as a complete surprise to her that he kept some of his files at home.
Once inside die front foyer, she searched her purse few the scrap of paper on which she’d written his apartment number. She’d noticed that her memory wasn’t what it used to be, so she was forced to write herself notes. Just as she found die paper, a young couple came out of the locked door. Assuming that she must be searching for her key, they held the door open. She smiled and thanked them. It was a bad security risk, but then, in her cotton cardigan and khaki trousers, she hardly looked like an ax murderer.
When the elevator reached the fifth floor, she got out and immediately spotted the box outside George’s door. Damn. She was hoping to talk to him in person if only for a few minutes.
Then again if he
was
sick …
In a moment of angry resolve, she tossed her Midwestern manners to the wind and knocked on the door. She could always leave him die note, but he had to take some responsibility for helping her make sense of the mess he’d once called his job.
She waited a good minute. When nobody answered, she knocked again. “George, it’s me. Sophie Greenway. I have to talk to you.”
Trying the handle, she found that the lock hadn’t caught, that the door was open. Now she was in an even bigger quandary. She couldn’t just walk in on him. What if he was asleep or… ? The possibilities were endless. And yet she couldn’t leave with her tail between her legs, begging him on the phone tomorrow for some crumbs of help. This was business. He had to deal with it. Cracking the door several inches, she called, “George? I’m not going away until we talk.”
No answer.
Moving hesitantly into the front foyer, die could smell something wonderful cooking in the oven, probably a pot roast. How sick could a guy be if he was about to eat a pot roast?
“George?” Rounding the entryway into the living room, she found it deserted but saw that someone had been sitting on the couch drinking wine. One wineglass sat on the coffee table in front of the couch and one was on an end table next to an armchair. Had he been entertaining?
Following the scent of roasting meat through the dining room, Sophie entered the kitchen, growing angrier with each passing second. The man didn’t have the flu; he had
other plans.
She couldn’t believe his apparent lack of obligation toward helping her settle in her new position.
Marching past the kitchen table, she was prepared to give him a piece of her mind when she saw him sprawled face down on the white-and-black-checked linoleum in the pantry.
“George!” she shouted, rushing to him. Both of his arms were flung outward and blood oozed from several wounds in his back. Pressing her fingers to the side of his neck, she could feel that he was still warm. But as she pressed harder, searching for even the faintest sign of life, she realized it was futile.
For a moment, all she could do was stare. How could this have happened? There was no sign of a fight, not in the living room and not in the kitchen, and no weapon had been left behind. She wasn’t a master of human physiology, but from the position of the wounds, she guessed his heart had been involved. No wonder there hadn’t been a struggle. It had probably been all over in a matter of seconds.
Glancing up at the kitchen counter, she could see a knife block set to the right of the sink. The slot where the chef’s knife should have been was empty. Perhaps she was
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