Silk Pajamas

By Alice Levine

In the 1980s in a small town in Indiana, Patricia Baltimore operates her late grandfather's photography studio. One day, she is in her grandmother's basement looking for a jar of preserves when she comes on a frightening surprise. She is faced with the possibility that her beloved grandmother may be involved in a murder. To add to her problems, there is evidence that her fiance may be unfaithful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514409718

Alice Levine

Author Bio coming soon.

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Copyright © 2015 by Alice Levine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/02/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Dedicated to my children

Judith

Jean

Laban

Susan

Sol

And to my beloved Bert

CHAPTER ONE

I t slid from the bag, spilling out on the basement floor like something alive – a man’s white silk pajama top. Sprawled across the pocket and nearly obscured by dark stains was an elaborate monogram – A A III. Cautiously I turned it over. On the back, surrounding a small neat hole, an obscene accumulation of dried blood met my horrified gaze.

Nerves afire, I found it hard to breathe, impossible to think. Upstairs, the doorbell rang again. Cramming the bloody garment back into the leaf bag, I shoved it onto the shelf behind the bottles. With a jar of grandmother’s rhubarb preserves in my hands, I stumbled up the steps trying to control my terror. When I opened the door, there he stood, tall and lean, dressed in light blue wool slacks and matching sweater, his blue eyes smiling at me under his thick blond hair.

For me? he asked, amused, his eyes taking in the dusty jar in my hand.

My throat was so dry I could barely swallow. Forrest! When did you get into town? Why didn’t you call?

But I did. I spoke to your grandmother just twenty minutes ago. May I come in?

Of course. I struggled to regain my composure. I was in the cellar. Grandmother sent me down for a jar of preserves to take over to Josephine. Josephine Applebee. You see… .

I know. That’s why I’m here. He brushed my cheek with a light kiss and strode smoothly into the sitting room, stopping to peer at one of Grandfather’s prize photos. Oh, he was good. With a worshipful expression he glanced around at the walls bearing other pictures. As if he had just noticed me, he took the jar from my hands and placed it on a table. Why didn’t you answer my calls?

I didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want him to know I had called him. Twice. Didn’t want him to know how shocked I was each time when a young woman answered. Besides, I couldn’t explain now, even if I had wanted to. Not now. Not after what I had just found in Grandmother’s cellar.

He squinted at me. You’re pale. Is something wrong?

I stole a look in the hall mirror. Framed by long dark hair, my face was pale. I shook my head. Certainly not. What else could I say? That I had just stumbled on a man’s bloody pajama top hidden behind my grandmother’s canned fruit?

Forrest hovered over me as if he intended to check my vital signs. I had almost forgotten how gorgeous he was. Ten years ago when I was a high school freshman, Forrest Landis had been the most popular senior in Logan’s Corners. But until he entered my photo studio last year, I had never met him. I still need to pinch myself every time he sends me flowers or asks me to marry him. If not for that unbelievable sight in the basement I would probably weaken and say yes. And I can’t even tell him what’s bothering me.

What do you mean, that’s why you’re here?

He brushed a loose strand of hair from my eyes. Your lips are trembling. And you seem distracted, Pris.

Distracted? I’m nearly paralyzed. Come on, I told myself. Snap out of it! Forgive me, Forrest, I managed to say, finally. I did have something else on my mind.

Is it your grandmother? he asked solicitously, his blue eyes so close I could see my grey ones in their reflection.

I had difficulty focusing on his words. That bloody garment was on my mind. And the monogram. A A III. For Alexander Applebee, the Third.

Speak to me, Pris! Forrest pulled me over to grandmother’s horsehair sofa and squeezed in beside me, holding my fingers in his long aristocratic hands. I must get you some good rubber gloves, he noted disapprovingly. You’re ruining your hands."

I tried unsuccessfully to pull them from his grasp. I have some. I keep forgetting to bring them into the dark room. And I was mulching grandmother’s tulips yesterday … .

His shoulder pressed against me. I knew he meant to kiss me. But I couldn’t let him. It was all too confusing. What were you saying? I improvised. About why you’re in town, I mean.

Uh, yes. About Mr. Applebee’s death. It’s merely a formality. He had a substantial policy on his life. He dropped my hands and placed an arm around my waist.

I thought this kind of thing was done by mail, I commented, referring to Forrest’s insurance business, which enjoyed a remarkable success. His father, a retired judge, was so critical of his son’s career choice that the two were on bad terms. He had expected Forrest to become a lawyer like his father and grandfather before him.

How could I resist the opportunity to visit the Judge? he teased, while nuzzling my cheek.

At this moment, Grandmother sailed down the stairs and into her sitting room, silver hair piled high, cheeks flushed. Forrest! Darling boy!

I studied her face as she greeted Forrest. What would she say if I asked her, right out, why the late Alexander Applebee’s pajama top was hidden in her basement, caked with dried blood? My mind raced back to the night Alexander, the Third, had his fatal heart attack. He had just returned from a town board meeting … .

Grandmother’s soprano voice broke in on my thoughts. Priscilla, bring Forrest a glass of sherry.

At three in the afternoon? Rather than protest, I extracted a sherry glass from the liquor cabinet while Grandmother practiced her wiles on Forrest. Another troubling thought invaded my mind. At the town board meeting, Grandmother had lost her temper. Someone should shoot you, Alexander! she had shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. Hours later, he lay dead… of a massive heart attack, they said.

As the memory passed through my mind, I shivered. It was a fact known to all Grandmother’s acquaintances that she kept a pistol under her pillow, and knew how to use it.

Forrest, watching me, frowned questioningly. Should I confide in him? I handed him a glass of sherry. No. He was too decent, too upright. If Grandmother had done something illegal, he might insist that I reveal it… .

He was answering her questions. I did want to pay my respects to Mr. Applebee’s widow. And to his mother, he was saying, while flashing me signals with his eyes. I thought, since you’re a friend of his mother’s

And neighbors. They’ve always lived next door. She waved vaguely in the direction of the front door. His mother and his wife… We knew his first wife too. Her face brightened. Priscilla was about to take over a jar of my rhubarb preserves to his mother. Priscilla, dear, I’ll call Josephine now. You can accompany Forrest and pay your own respects. Dust off the jar and wrap it in tissue, won’t you? Rising from her chair in one fluid motion, Grandmother cast a smile at Forrest and floated regally out of the room.

Forrest jumped to his feet and followed her with his eyes. She’s something else. A real lady. An empress.

Suddenly I was terribly tired. The thought of facing the imperious Josephine Applebee drained me of whatever strength I had left. Forrest was still watching Grandmother as she ascended the stairs. I knew he was here to patch things up between us. I should be enjoying our time together, and reveling in his attentions. But I couldn’t get that bloody garment out of my head.

Grandmother motioned to me from the first landing. Ask him to dinner, dear. And tell Carmina we’ll be three tonight.

Carmina?

Yes, dear. You’ll find her in the kitchen. She’s working for me now. She reacted to my confusion with a motion toward the house next door. The Applebees let her go, after… you know.

I knew she was referring to Mr. Applebee’s death, but what did that have to do with hiring their maid? How did Grandmother expect me to pay her salary? Business had fallen off at the photo studio I inherited from Grandfather. I expected it to pick up before Christmas, but this summer had been the leanest in years.

Forrest put his arms around me and buried his face in my hair. Let’s get this Applebee visit over with so we can attend to more important things.

I wanted to believe he really cared about me, but I couldn’t help wondering, why me? I didn’t have the kind of looks that stopped traffic. Grandmother always insisted that I looked like my late mother, a slender, attractive woman with a host of admirers. But the boys never flocked to my door. I didn’t even have a date for the senior prom. Was Forrest just toying with me? Pulling away from his embrace, I wrapped the jar of preserves while Grandmother made a call to her friend Josephine, mother of the late Alexander Applebee, the Third. Yes, she would receive us now, she told Grandmother.

As we descended Grandmother’s porch steps I pointed to the property next door. Over there is the rose garden planted by the original Alexander Applebee, founder of Applebee Corn Starch. Alexander, his grandson, used to sit out there and smoke. His mother didn’t allow cigarettes in the house.

There’s no fence separating the two properties, Forrest observed.

Right. Grandmother could have strolled over and shot him in the back without any difficulty… But he died of a heart attack, I reminded myself. Why didn’t that thought comfort me?

You’re awfully quiet today, Pris. When we get back I want to know what’s wrong. He linked his fingers in mine, and as we approached the house next door, I nearly forgot my fears about Grandmother.

The gate leading to the Applebee house stood open today. As we walked through, a black towncar passed us, a vivacious-looking redhead seated next to the driver, a slick-haired man with rat-like features.

There goes Zora Applebee, I remarked. The widow.

His eyes widened. Young, isn’t she? Who was that with her? The chauffeur?

Never saw him before, but I heard Alex took on some odd characters when he married Zora.

Another surprise greeted us at the front door when a burly man with a battered face and tattooed hands responded to my knock.

Mrs. Applebee is expecting us, I told him, trying to read the motto on his right hand as he ushered us into the parlor.

I had not prepared Forrest for Josephine. When Napoleon, the cockatoo on her shoulder, issued his first raucous Awrk! I felt him jerk, his mouth open.

Hello, Mrs. Applebee, I said, smothering a giggle.

Wearing a blouse buttoned to the chin and a voluminous skirt, her ringed fingers fondling a silver bell, Mrs. Applebee sat in a high-backed chair, Napoleon perched defiantly on her shoulder. She nodded as I expressed my sympathies and handed her the preserves. Do you remember Forrest Landis? I began.

The Judge’s son. Of course. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at him. Sit down. Sit down, both of you.

With an uncharacteristic absence of poise, Forrest stuttered. Uh, I want to convey my deep regrets to you, Mrs. Applebee, on the heart attack which took your son.

Heart attack! Ha! Josephine’s sudden movement unbalanced Napoleon who emitted a noisy Awrk, lifting first one clawed foot,