Act of God

daddy” call. Then, sometime later-and about four weeks ago-Darbra breaks up with Houle at Grgo’s, knowing that Beverly Swindell is there to witness it, and starts up with Rush Teagle. Another week goes by, and Abraham Rivkind is killed, with Bernstein, Quill, and Swindell the only people certainly in the store. Nine days after that, two weeks ago, Darbra and Teagle leave Boston for New Jersey . Darbra calls Wickmire midweek from Sunrise Beach to check on the cat. Frank Utt at Jolly Cholly’s doesn’t see Darbra Friday night, nine days ago, when the noise problem arises nor Saturday morning as Teagle “bolts” after leaving the key. Back in Boston , Darbra’s suitcase and mail look like she returned sometime Saturday, but the rest of her apartment doesn’t, and Teagle’s shaky story about the note from her almost has to be a lie. When Darbra doesn’t show up at the store on Monday, Bernstein and Swindell treat her as fired, and brother William uses Pearl Rivkind as camouflage to get me to go looking for his sister in the hope that she’s dead and the insurance company will pay off again. Sometime Thursday, two days after I’m working on the case, somebody with a key ransacks Darbra’s apartment.
    I shook my head. You could line things up that way, or a half dozen others that I tried out on the chive, but none made more sense than another. One thing seemed obvious, though.
    Rush Teagle’s was the next cage to rattle.

    I got off the Mass Pike at Newton and went over Centre Street to Commonwealth. Stopping at a pay phone, I let Nancy know that I was back and that we could go to Norm’s party the next night. When I arrived at the apartment house, I found a space on the street. I was pleased to see a yellow convertible across the road and down.
    Getting out of the Prelude, I walked over to the convertible, a late-model Ford Mustang with the top up and the look of a nice car poorly maintained. There were some divots and rust spots from minor collisions, but no indication of the vehicle being recently repainted or even retouched. I used my hand to shade the passenger compartment. Amid the litter of fast-food wrappers and soda cans, there was some ragged sheet music; three wires, irregularly coiled, that could have been guitar strings; and a tom road map with something on it that looked an awful lot like the shape of New Jersey.
    I crossed back to the apartment house. I didn’t want to give Teagle any advance notice, but after five minutes, nobody had come in or gone out through the front security door, so I tried Traci Wickmire’s button. Nothing. I pushed it again, longer.
    A voice squawked over the intercom, but if I hadn’t been expecting hers, I doubt I’d have recognized it. “Who’s there?”
    “Traci, it’s John Cuddy.”
    “I’m busy. I can’t see you right now.”
    “I want to talk with Rush Teagle, but he’s not answering.”
    “So maybe he isn’t home.”
    “Buzz me in so I can find out.”
    Nothing. Then, “All right.”
    Opening the door, I walked through the dark vestibule to the basement stairs. I moved down them slowly, partly for my knee but also staying to the edges in case Teagle was camped at his door, listening for anyone. When I got to his apartment, I waited, listening myself. Nothing. After a minute or so, I knocked. Nothing. I knocked harder. Still nothing.
    That’s when I got just the faintest whiff of it.
    “Jesus.” I dropped to my good knee, like a Catholic genuflecting, then all the way down to push-up position. From the little space under the door I confirmed it, nearly gagging as I always did. As everybody always does, no matter what they try to tell you about how they’ve gotten used to it.
    The sweet-and-sour smell of not-so-fresh death, of decomposing flesh.
    I got back to my feet and pulled out my shirttail, using it to try the door. Locked.
    I stuck the shirttail back in my shorts and climbed to the third floor and Wickmire’s apartment. I knocked on the door impatiently.
    From the other side came her voice. “Is that you?”
    “Open up, Traci. I have to use your phone.”
    “I can’t. I’m--”
    “Open up. It’s an emergency.”
    “Look—”
    “I think Teagle’s dead down in his place. Will you open the door?”
    The bolt slid back, and then a chain. She was wearing just a bathrobe, her hair stringy from a shower. “What do you mean, dead?”
    I came into the apartment, almost barging past her. Instead of potpourri, there was incense