Chapter 18
Jennifer shoved the reading glasses back up on the bridge of her nose, patted the black curls of her wig into place, and pressed the doorbell to Mrs. Walker's apartment. The first stanza of "Georgia" echoed through the door. A few seconds later she heard the dead bolt slide back and another lock turn. Immediately, a snarling ball of miniature mutt attacked her shoes.
"Isn't that sweet? Tiger is so glad to see you. Won't you come in, Sophie? Let me take that sweater for you."
"No, I'm fine. I tend to be chilly." Jennifer clutched the misshapen cardigan around her, fearful that without it she'd look like a shoplifter from Macy's linen department.
"I see you're well bolted in," Jennifer said, examining the locks on the door. "Are these all standard or did you have some added? I'd like to think you were safe with all the crime we hear about these days."
"The locks came with the door. We're not allowed to put anything on ourselves. But you don't have to worry, dear. This is a secure building. Ernie won't let anyone in he doesn't know. I told him you were coming this morning. You didn't have any problems, did you?" Mrs. Walker continued to wipe her hands on the towel she held. Her red gingham apron showed signs of what looked like ketchup across the bib.
Jennifer shook her head. The doorman had greeted her by name when she arrived a few minutes ago, and she felt certain he would let her in anytime whether Mrs. Walker told him she was coming or not.
Ernie was particularly concerned about Jennifer's condition. His niece had given birth to her firstborn while stuck in city traffic in a taxicab. Since then, he assured her, he had taken a first-aid class that included "birthing babies." He seemed anxious to put that training to the test. Not a reassuring thought.
He had put Jennifer in the elevator and even offered to go up with her. He couldn't have been nicer without handing her the key to Apartment 1129.
Jennifer ran her hand over Mrs. Walker's door frame. One dead bolt, one standard lock. She could easily get past the standard lock. Her serial killer, the vile, demented Marcus, knew how to slip one in less than five seconds. That's why she had him kill people who lived in older houses. This new type of dead bolt would be a problem. It was state of the art with a good, two-inch bolt. Unfortunately, the only breaking and entering experience she had outside of her own apartment was on paper, and a real lock wouldn't open by typing "the lock gave way" or "the bolt slid cleanly back into its housing." She'd been fudging too long with her writing. She had to find some real way to defeat a lock like this one.
"Come along, dear. You need to get that weight off your feet. We don't want your ankles swelling up like balloons."
Jennifer followed Mrs. Walker into the living room, Tiger nipping at her heels.
"I made lasagna. I thought your grandmother probably made it for you, and I want you to feel right at home here."
The only lasagna served at Jennifer's grandmother's house had come out of the frozen food section of the grocery store. Grandma had made fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and homemade biscuits. Jennifer had savored those Sunday dinners. Of course, that was before Grandma discovered the wonders of refrigerated biscuits and canned gravy. And before Jennifer had had her philosophical awakening about meat.
"It smells delicious," Jennifer assured her, sitting down, the distinct odor of Italian sausage filling the apartment. If the sausage chunks were big enough, she could pick them out. Otherwise, she'd try to isolate the noodle/cheese layers from the sauce. If all else failed, she could always plead morning sickness.
"Can I give you a hand?" Jennifer offered.
"Oh, no. It'll be in the oven for another ten minutes. The salad is in the fridge, and I just popped in the garlic bread."
Mrs. Walker sat down close to Jennifer on the sofa, seemingly oblivious to the diminutive monster who had caught his spindly incisor in the woven leather of Jennifer's shoe right next to her little toe. Jennifer had to get the woman out of the room.
"Could I have a glass of water?" Jennifer croaked.
Mrs. Walker patted her knee. "You most certainly may. I've got some nice bottled spring water in the pantry. I'll be back in a shake."
As soon as Mrs. Walker cleared the doorway, Jennifer took hold of Tiger, disengaged his tooth from her shoe, and held him high in the air. "I thought we had an understanding." He growled his disagreement.
She had to keep him off of her, but she didn't know any way short of sacrificing one of her shoes. Limping back to Macon was not part of her game plan. She looked pitiful enough already.
With her free hand, she frantically searched through her purse. Her hand closed on a leather glove, and she pulled it out.
She lifted the skirt on the sofa and tossed the glove under it, shoving Tiger in after, just as Mrs. Walker returned with a large tea glass of sparkling water.
"There you are, dear." She looked about the floor. "Has Tiger disappeared again? It's strange, but many times when I have company, I'll step out of the room for just a moment, and the little darling vanishes."
Jennifer just bet he did.
The sofa emitted a muffled rumble.
"Did you hear something?" Mrs. Walker asked.
"It's just my stomach. I had a light breakfast, and the smell of your cooking is making me hungry."
"Good for you, dear. You must nourish our little one and drink plenty of water. It's absolutely essential."
Jennifer took a sip from the glass and placed it on the coffee table. She now had an idea of Penney Richmond's front door security. The only other way into the apartment was a small balcony. Maybe it would offer easier access.
Jennifer put a hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, tried to think pale, and fanned her free hand rapidly in front of her face. "I think I need some air. Do you mind if I…" She motioned toward the spectacular view.
"No, of course not. Feeling a little queasy, are we?"
Jennifer gulped back a reply having to do with just who we were and followed the older woman to the windows. The glass gave the impression of standing on a precipice, a clear drop of twelve stories to the ground.
The door to the balcony was custom-built and looked like one more large, double-paned panel. The lock was standard. Security had been pretty lax when they put in these doors, or so Jennifer thought, until she stepped outside into the cacophony of downtown Atlanta.
"I don't come out here too often," Mrs. Walker yelled.
"I can understand why." Jennifer could also see why security had scrimped on the balcony lock. The narrow platform was not much more than a two-person perch above the city. It was about six feet long and wrapped to the left around the brick wall so as not to obstruct the view of the windows.
Each balcony was a good distance from the other, spanning most of the length of the apartment, way too far to leap from one to another. But the balconies beneath all lay in a straight, vertical line. Someone with mountain-climbing equipment could make their way up fairly easily. Don a black turtleneck, sweatpants, a cap, a little soot on the face—piece of cake—for Daniel Craig. In her current physical condition—exercise was something to be watched and appreciated aesthetically—Jennifer couldn't get past the patio on the first floor. And heights—well, she thought she was just fine with heights until she took a peek over the railing.
"Just look at you! You're turning green!" Mrs. Walker shouted above the din. "This air isn't good for you." She pulled Jennifer back inside and shut the door, cutting off the noise. "Sometimes I think you have no concern about your condition," she scolded.
Jennifer was very concerned about her condition and the prospect of losing her breakfast on Mrs. Walker's white carpet. She lowered herself carefully onto the couch, all the time swallowing air in little gulps. At last her stomach muscles began to relax.
"That's better. We've got some color back in our cheeks," Mrs. Walker assured her.
The timer dinged in the kitchen just as the doorbell sang out "Georgia."
"Would you mind getting that?" Mrs. Walker asked.
"If I don't get the casserole out right away, the noodles at the edges turn into something resembling cement." Not an appetizing analogy.
Jennifer went to the door and peered through the peephole. A young woman stood there shifting back and forth, her eyes darting up and down the hall and back to a piece of paper she clutched in her fist. Jennifer opened the door.
"I'm really sorry to bother you, but I was looking for 1235 and I can't seem—"
"Go back to the elevator and go all the way down to the lobby," Mrs. Walker called from the end of the hall. "Then take an elevator on the opposite side of the lobby."
"You mean I can't get there from here?"
Mrs. Walker came up beside Jennifer. "No. The building is separated into two distinct wings. You've got to go all the way down."
"Thank you. I'm so sorry to have bothered you."
"No problem," Mrs. Walker assured her, shutting and locking the door. She sighed.
"Does that happen often?" Jennifer asked. "People getting lost like that?"
"Once a month or so, I guess. Ernie gives them directions, but it's confusing. We've all gotten used to it. I just re-direct them. We all do."
"We?"
"The residents. If I'm alone, I look to make sure it's some nonthreatening-looking person before I open the door."
What could be less threatening than a young, pregnant woman who bore a haunting resemblance to a near-sighted Snow White?
Maybe she wouldn't have to break in. All she had to do was to get Penney Richmond to open the door. That should be easy enough if Ms. Richmond had half the confidence in the downstairs security that Mrs. Walker had. And if she was used to directing traffic back and forth between the two halves of the building. And if the directions ruse didn't work, she could always pretend to go into labor. Surely, even a hard-hearted creature like Penney Richmond would open her door to a young woman giving birth. And that was all she had to do—get Penney to open the door, like in a game of tag.