Walter Tidwell Leaves a Body in His Bathroom

Chapter from an unfinished mystery novel.

You never know what you'll find in a vacant apartment. Even the best tenants leave behind bags of garbage and the whiff of long-lost Easter eggs. Or there might be a bicycle suspended from the ceiling, or a crematory urn on the mantel, or a mural of Jesus painted on the dining room wall, a light switch in his navel.

But Walter Tidwell, who tangled with the law and brought scandal to our otherwise respectable building, had moved out in such a flurry that he left an overflowing bathtub and the body of a woman young enough to be his granddaughter.

My friend and business partner, Flo Cardinal, set down her cleaning bucket with a hollow clunk. "That's the last time we rent to a philosophy professor."

I stepped over the limp form to turn off the faucets. The pipes let out a squeal. "Is she dead?"

The woman laid face down next to the clawfoot bathtub. Steamy water sloshed onto the black and white tile and formed a dark puddle around her head. A sudsy bra floated in the pedestal sink.

"Young lady." Flo sloshed closer. "You have no business here."

"She's not moving." I groped in my overall pockets for my cell phone. It was bad enough that Walter Tidwell had gotten himself mixed up with child pornography. Now this.

"How'd she get in here, anyway?" Flo wanted to know.

"He must've given her a key."

"Well, she's not on the lease." Flo's white hair looked electric in the glare of the vanity lights. "Walter doesn't live here any more," she addressed the girl. "You can't stay."

I always try to fit too much in my pockets. I found my phone rattling around with needle-nose pliers and a fistful of Phillips head screws. I punched 911, but the phone was dead. Like the girl. Steam wafting from the bathtub mingled with a morgue-like scent of alcohol.

Flo draped a towel over the girl's pale buttocks. "Poor little duck."

Flo liked to name people after birds and, in this case, the comparison fit. The girl was a dainty thing with thin shoulders and long, slender arms spread wide. She might be a college student or a dancer or a prostitute. Hard to tell without clothes. And there were no clothes unless they were stuffed in the wicker laundry hamper.

"I'll go call the police," I whispered.

Flo grasped my arm. "No, Gabbie. Use your head."

"But--"

"Haven't we seen enough of the police this year?"

When the police came for Walter, they had parked two squad cars out front. Within an hour, reporters descended with microphones and cameras. They took sweeping videos of our building, zooming in on the brass numbers on the tall oak doors. By nightfall, everyone in Schenectady, New York had heard the news: 1056 College Boulevard harbored a pedophile.

"We've seen enough police for a lifetime," I answered.

"It looks bad."

"Terrible," I agreed.

"We have to get this apartment rented."

I've always been good at fixing things. If your doorbell won't buzz, I'll find the loose connection. If your garbage disposal jams, I'll give it a jumpstart. But this? "We can't just leave her here," I said.

"Help me." Kneeling on the wet floor, Flo slid her work-reddened hands under the limp body. "If we can just get her to her feet."

I'm tall and pretty muscular for a woman my age, but this girl was at least 125 pounds of dead weight. Grunting, we managed to roll her over onto her back. The soggy towel twisted around her legs and her wet hair tangled around her neck. The smell of gin seemed to ooze from her damp skin.

"The party's over, Missy." Flo's husky voice softened. "Drink enough of that stuff and you can kill yourself," she scolded, using the same affectionate tone she used on stray cats and wounded sparrows.

The girl's mouth dropped open, revealing red inner lips where her pink lipstick had worn off.  "Mung." The sound came from the open mouth. I bent closer. There it was again: "Mung-ung."

"Flo! She's alive!"

"Ung ur," the girl mumbled with a flicker of dark eyelashes.

"Shh, now. Of course, she's alive, you silly goose." Flo's lined face was a map of compassion as she stroked the girl's wet hair. "All she needs is a little fresh air. Isn't that right, Little One?"

The young woman on Walter's bathroom floor needed a lot more than fresh air, if you ask me. She needed a firm talking-to and an old-fashioned spanking. That, and a gallon of mouthwash. "Well, let's get her outside, then," I grumbled.

Tugging on the rag-doll arms, Flo and I were able to hoist the girl to her feet. Her legs buckled. The wet towel plopped to the floor. "Steady there." Flo didn't seem to mind the smell. She had a soft spot for drunks, being a recovered one herself.

"This girl is too heavy," I told Flo. "Maybe if we had a dolly." One time I moved a refrigerator clear across the building using a rented dolly from the Happy Homeowner center.  "Or if we laid her on the towel and dragged her." That might work. But Flo, who was much smaller than me and considerably older, was gasping from the effort of lifting the leaden body. "Walk," she panted. "Walk."

The drunken girl slid from our grasp. She thudded solidly onto her bare bottom.

Flo looked tired as she folded the girl's dainty hands discretely over the small breasts. "We'd better get Stan."