Getting to know your neighbors can be anything BUT boring...

SOMETIMES BORING IS GOOD

Jan Christensen

I was reading a boring novel about a boring man with a boring life. I was so bored, I decided to do something else. Perhaps I should attempt the Great American Novel myself. Men had been trying for generations. They just couldn't seem to do it. Obviously, a woman needed to try.

While I was pondering the idea, I heard a loud bang from next door. This wasn't too unusual. Especially on a Saturday night. It was common knowledge in the building that the guy beat his wife. The police had been called a number of times. The other women and I talked to Maureen and tried to get her some help, but she wouldn't listen. We figured she'd end up in the hospital one day, or worse. Regretful, but we were all weary of trying to help.

The couple who lived on the other side of me seemed hardly visible. Occasionally I'd see them leave together, a gray-looking, middle-aged couple in drab clothing, medium height, he, medium weight, she more delicate-looking, medium blue eyes and brown hair. Nothing exciting about them. They could be in the book I'd been reading. We'd nod at each and not say a word while going up or down in the elevator. Sometimes I wondered what their story was, but not often.

Across the hall lived a couple of sisters. They were unobtrusively nosy. I learned one day that they had a new type of peephole (new to me, anyway) which was wide-angle and through which they could see out of from a distance away from the door.

The bang came again, and I stood up, restless. I decided to go do some banging myself--on the Morrison's door. As I stepped out into the hall, I saw the man from the other side entering his apartment. I knew his name was James Gentry, and he looked as drab as ever.

I knocked loudly at the Morrison's. Silence on the other side. I could almost feel the eyes of the sisters on my back.

I knocked again. Finally, the door opened and Jack peered out at me. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he opened his mouth to yawn, I smelled beer fumes. I suppose you could call him intimidating--he was massive. Probably six-three or so, and about two hundred fifty pounds. But then, I'm no little gal. I'm just a tad over six feet and weigh about two-twenty. Plus I had a brown belt in karate. I figured all Jack knew was round-house punches. Aimed at little people.

"Whadda ya want?" he asked. "I was asleep." He yawned again, unattractively.

Why Maureen chose to be married to this lout, I had no idea. He was neither particularly handsome nor dashing. I guess he made a decent living, but I suspect he drank a lot of it away. Just another boring wife beater. I sighed.

"What I want, Jack," I said in my most pleasant voice, "is for you to stop beating Maureen."

"Huh?" he asked, scratching his chest. He wore a clean white undershirt and pajama bottoms. His light brown hair had some gray at the temples, but it sure didn't make him look distinguished. He had a large nose and a petulant mouth. I had to admit that his eyes were rather a nice shade of blue. Maureen was as pretty as her name. She was of medium height, but had a lovely figure, green, green eyes, and auburn hair that flowed down her back.

"I said, you need to stop beating up on Maureen."

"I'm not. Never do."

"Right. I don't want to hear any more noise, do you hear?"

"Yeah." He closed the door, and I went back to my apartment.

******

The next morning I awoke to the sound of sirens outside. Faint because we're so far up, but they didn't go away. I peered out the window and saw two cruisers and a fire truck parked in front.

Quickly, I put on jeans, a tee, and loafers and stepped into the hallway.

And was surprised to see the Gentry's door standing open, police and fire personnel in view both inside and outside the apartment.

"What's going on?" I asked the nearest police officer.

"Stay back," he said. "There's a man murdered in there."

"What?"

"Please go back to your own apartment. It'll all be on the news."

Stunned, I walked to my door, and then stood there a moment, looking around. Yes, it was the Gentry's apartment with all the excitement, not the Morrison's. The drab couple hadn't been so drab after all? Mrs. Gentry murdered Mr. Gentry? Oh, I realized I was jumping to conclusions. It could have been an intruder. Where was Mrs. Gentry, I wondered.

I went inside and turned on the television. A female reporter stood outside my building, talking into a microphone. I turned up the sound.

". . . just learned that the victim's name is Phillip Gentry. The police are still upstairs investigating. Wait a minute, I see some leaving now, leading a woman out in handcuffs."

The reporter rushed over to the officers and the handcuffed woman. She asked a question or two, but they ignored her. So, she went to a group standing around. "Does anyone here know who that woman is?" she asked.

"Mrs. Gentry," our apartment manager spoke up. He puffed out his little chest and looked at the woman reporter's not-insignificant one.

"And you are?"

"Sidney Fenniman. I'm the manager."

Skuzzy little Sidney. Sneaky, snide, suspicious, snoopy Sidney. How we all detested sly little Sidney.

"Do you know of any problems between Mr. and Mr. Gentry?" asked the bosomy reporter.

"No," Sidney said, sounding regretful. "A very quiet couple. Kept to themselves."

In other words Sidney couldn't pry any information out of them.

And at the edge of the camera shot, I saw Jack Morrison slinking away. Okay, maybe not slinking. Just walking.

I turned off the TV and decided to go visit Maureen. She answered my knock dressed in jeans, green stripped, long-sleeved shirt over a white T and barefoot. She looked a bit surprised to see me, but invited me in.

"How are you?" I asked. I know it's a boring question, but I really wanted to know.

"Fine," she said, leading the way to the kitchen, getting out an extra mug and pouring coffee for both of us. We sat down.

"Really?" I asked.

She nodded.

"You heard about the Gentrys?"

"I saw it on TV. Awful."

"Did you know them very well?" I took a sip of the hot brew. Maureen always made good coffee.

"No. They weren't very friendly."

"I know." I sighed. "I wish I knew more about them."

"Why?" Maureen asked, her green eyes studying me.

I felt a bit of a shock running through me. Didn't everyone wonder about everyone else? Was it my writer's curiosity that made me try to figure out why other people did what they did? I wrote nonfiction, only kidding myself about writing the Great American Novel, but I can remember being very curious as a child--peeking into rooms in strange houses when I met the child who lived there and asking questions about all their relatives.

"Well," I tried to answer Maureen's question. "So I could figure out who killed Mr. Gentry."

Maureen stood up and fooled with the coffee pot. "I would imagine it was Mrs. Gentry, wouldn't you? Isn't it always the spouse?"

"That's what they say. But it's hard to imagine her doing it. She's so bland looking."

"Aren't they supposed to be the most violent in the end?"

"Perhaps."

Maureen came and sat down again.

"What happened here last night, Maureen? I heard a couple of thumps and came over to see if you were all right. Jack said you were both asleep."

She avoided my eyes. Nodded. "Must have been. I didn't hear your knock."

"You frequently go to sleep at 9 p.m.?"

"Once in awhile. If it's been a hard day."

Maureen worked at a lawyer's office as a paralegal. I imagined it could be stressful, and I knew that sometimes she worked really late.

A loud pounding on the door made us both start. I followed Maureen to the foyer. When she opened the door, we saw an officer in uniform and another man in a business suit. I recognized the one in uniform because he'd been here before when one of us had called the cops about Jack. I noticed that he looked at Maureen carefully, as if checking for bruises. But she was pretty well covered up.

The man in the suit introduced himself and the officer, and we all sat down in the living room.

"I'm from next door," I said. "Between this apartment and the Gentry's."

The detective focused on me. "Did you hear anything unusual last night?"

I hesitated. What I heard wasn't unusual. Was it even pertinent? I glanced at Maureen and sighed. Better to be honest with the police.

"I heard some banging, but it was coming from this apartment."

"Are you sure?"

Startled by the question, I hesitated again. I'd just gotten over a cold which had stuffed up my ears. Was it possible what I heard came from the other apartment? I shook my head. Nothing rattled, thank goodness.

"Well," I said, "I was positive last night and even came over here to complain. But I've had a cold, so maybe . . ."

The unformed officer was busily writing away in a notepad. Made me a little nervous. Now I knew how people felt when I interviewed them for an article. But this was a murder investigation.

"So, the noises you heard could have come from the Gentry's?" the Detective asked.

"I suppose so."

"Please tell us from the beginning what happened after you heard the banging last night. What did it sound like?"

Like Jack beating up Maureen, I thought, but didn't say. I shifted in my chair. "It sounded as if something hit the wall."

"Which wall?"

"The one between my living room and the Morrison's."

The detective looked around. "Your apartment set up like this one?"

I nodded. The living room ran the width of the apartment with room in one corner for a dining area. Behind the dining area was the kitchen, and next to it a bedroom and bath.

"What did you do after you heard the banging."

"Nothing. But then it happened again, and I came over here to complain."

"What time was that?"

"Around nine."

"So, you left your apartment around nine. Then what?"

"I saw Mr. Gentry entering his apartment."

The Detective straightened up and looked more alert. "Are you sure he was going in, not out?"

"Yes. He approached the door with his key out. I went to the Morrison's door, and I saw Mr. Gentry enter his apartment as I knocked and waited."

"And then?"

"Jack opened the door after my second knock. He was yawning and said he'd been asleep. Claimed he was not beating Maureen." I glanced at her now. She had a strange expression on her face which I couldn't understand.

The Detective turned to her. "Is that true? Remember, Mrs. Morrison, this is a murder investigation, and what you tell us is very important."

Maureen sat a moment, then started twisting her fingers. "Jack didn't touch me last night," she said. Her face turned pale as we watched.

"Did you hear anything unusual? See anything?"

"No. No." Her voice was faint, and her fingers kept twisting, twisting.

I looked at the Detective. He seemed to be thinking about what to say next.

I felt confused. Maureen was acting different from how I'd seen her before when I knew Jack had been beating her. Something else must be bothering her, I thought.

Then another thing struck me. I remembered Jack answering the door last night. He wore a white undershirt and pajama bottoms. I had never seen him in such clothing before. If he came to the door after retiring for the night, he usually wore a ratty old robe with nothing under it. How do I know there was nothing under it? Don't ask. Let's just say that Jack is not shy. He didn't particularly worry about covering up for the interfering neighbor.

The police asked a few more questions, but Maureen and I had nothing really to tell them, so they left.

We went back to the kitchen, and she poured us some fresh coffee. Hadn't offered the police any, I realized. Probably to discourage them from staying too long. Generally Maureen was the perfect hostess.

After we sat down, I asked, "Jack buy a new wardrobe?"

"What?" Maureen's green eyes looked up at me.

I told her what he'd been wearing last night.

And she began to cry. I didn't understand why his wardrobe made her cry, but I stood up and patted her on the shoulder, feeling inadequate.

"Jack, Jack wanted to, to . . . Oh!" She began to cry harder.

"What did Jack want to do?" I asked as gently as I could.

"He, he wanted to switch partners."

"With the Gentry's?" I asked. I made my way to my chair and sank down into it.

"Yes." Maureen grabbed her napkin and began to wipe furiously at her eyes.

"And you did? Last night?"

She nodded.

"Oh, Maureen." I thought of the drab Gentry's. Why would Jack, and how could Maureen . . .

I wanted to ask, how was it, but for once, held my tongue.

Maureen was back to crying.

"So Jack bought pajamas for this?" I almost burst out laughing. I realized I was close to hysterics, from shock, I guess.

Again, she nodded, still crying.

"He, he hit me last night--before you came over. To make me do it."

"So, after I left, Gentry came over here, and Jack went over there?"

"Yes." The tears were drying up. Her expression was bleak. "I think Phillip was on the way here when you stepped out of your apartment, so he pretended to be going home."

"So Jack was with Mrs. Gentry . . ."

"Yes! But he wouldn't have killed him--why would he?"She was still defending him. I had never been so in love. Watching and listening to Maureen, I hoped I never was.

It did seem unlikely that Jack would have killed the man and Katherine Gentry not report it until morningMaureen stood up and began clearing the table, a sure sign she wanted me to leave. So, I said goodbye and went over to the Foster sister's apartment. After my knock, I waited patiently for one of them to peek through the peephole and then to undo the three deadbolts, the regular lock and two chains to let me in.

"How are you, dear?" asked Patty as I stepped into a time warp. The whole place was done in the 50s style, down to the chrome and red dining set and bar stools, Coke memorabilia everywhere, and the jukebox in one corner, playing Elvis tunes, of course.

"I'm fine. How are you?"

Patty led me deeper into the living room where the shag in the green shag rug curled around the Danish Modern metal feet of the furniture. I sat down on the chair I had discovered over the years to be the most comfortable. Dotty came into the room and smiled when she saw me.

"How are you, dear?" she asked, an echo of her sister.

"Fine, Dotty. How are you?"

They sat down on the couch, almost like bookends, but Patty was a bit thinner and taller. Dotty had nice plump cheeks and a sweet smile. I had found out they were two years apart in age, neither ever married, and had lived together since 1958 when they graduated from high school. Patty had been a secretary, Dotty a teacher; both now retired. They'd moved to this apartment about ten years ago.

"We're both fine," Dotty said. "I guess you heard all the excitement about the Gentrys."

I nodded. "I wondered what you heard. I was just visiting Maureen."

They both perked up a bit and looked at me with interest. But I wasn't about to share what I knew with them. They weren't terrible gossips, but they did let things slip once in awhile.

"Well," Patty began. "There seemed to be a lot of traffic in the hall last night."

"Oh?"

Her lips curved up into a small smile. "I saw you, for example, knocking on the Morrison's door."

"Yes, I did that."

"And I saw Jack go to the Gentry's apartment and Phillip going to the Morrison's apartment soon afterwards. I thought that was strange."

I bet, I thought.

"How were they dressed?" I asked.

Patty blinked, then closed her eyes. "Jack had on an undershirt and jeans. I believe he was barefoot!" Her eyes popped open. "Yes, he was. And Phillip was wearing a short sleeved shirt and jeans. They both carried something. Curiouser and curiouser. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what they were up to. Both looked clean-shaven, both carrying a small bundle, each going to the other's apartment. I figured they were wife-swapping."

I stared at her and swallowed hard. She said it so matter-of-factly!

"Patty," her sister said mildly.

"Well, what else could they have been doing?" Patty asked in a reasonable tone.

I suppressed a giggle. I really must get a grip. Why was I finding wife-swapping so hilarious? I guessed because of the couples involved.

"Did you see any more comings and goings last night? Did you see them go back to their own apartments?"

Dotty shook her head.

"Just one more thing," Patty said.

"What?"

"Well, it was Jack. I saw him leaving the Gentry's apartment around one."

"Jack?" I mused. I gave my head a little shake."Did you tell the police all this?"

"They didn't ask." Patty said, compressing her lips in disapproval.

"They didn't come over here?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh, they came over. I didn't like them," Patty explained.

"Really?" I could feel my eyebrows trying to reach my hairline.

Dotty sniffed. "They treated us like old farts."

"What?" I laughed.

Dotty gave me a little glare. "You heard me. Disrespectful. Not like you, for example."

I felt flattered. "What did you tell them?"

"We saw nothing and heard nothing," Patty said, folding her arms across her chest. "And don't you tell them different. We expect you'll get to the bottom of this, being an investigative reporter."

"I'm not. An investigative reporter. I just do freelance articles."

"We know," Dotty said. "And we've read them all. You always find out everyone's secrets. If we hadn't known you first before we knew you were such a good reporter, we never would have become friends with you."

Astonishment made me mute. And it wasn't true. I'd abandoned many articles because I couldn't get to the bottom of the stories. They wouldn't know that, of course.

I felt suddenly tired. And a bit scared. What had really been going on at the Gentry's?

I stood up to leave. "Anything else you nice ladies have to tell me?" I asked.

Patty smiled. "No more bombshells. Now, get to work. And be sure to tell us all when you find it out."

They both stood up to walk me to the door. I was quite tempted to go see Maureen immediately, but restrained myself and went home. There, I sat at my computer and made a chart of the people involved, times they'd been seen, and what I knew of the sequence of events.

After a quick lunch, I again knocked on the Morrison's door.

Jack answered. Today he wore jeans and a Indy 500 t-shirt. He looked terrible. Haggard, unshaven.

"What do you want?" Even his growl was subdued.

"I came to see Maureen."

"She's busy." He began to shut the door.

Maureen appeared behind him. "Let her in, Jack. We can't go on like this."

I stared at her black eye. Her hair was disheveled, and her shirt torn at the shoulder.

Jack's hand fell away from the door handle, and they both stepped back so I could walk in.

Jack righted the coffee table and a chair, and we all sat down. He let his head fall onto the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

Maureen clasped her hands in front of her, leaning forward. "We've got a big problem. Jack thinks I killed Mr. Gentry, and I think he did it. Kind of seems as if neither of us did it, doesn't it?"

If true, I thought. "Why was Jack beating you?" I asked.

"He thought I killed Gentry. And I kept telling him I thought he did it. He finally believed me. So, who did it? Katherine Gentry isn't strong enough, I'm sure."

I nodded in agreement.

"She had bruises," Jack mumbled.

"What?" Maureen and I said together as we both turned to stare at him.

Abruptly Jack stood up and began to pace. "She had bruises. On her upper arms, her buttocks, her breasts." He stopped pacing a moment and stared off into space. "I couldn't . . ."

"Couldn't what, Jack?" Maureen asked.

"I couldn't touch her. She looked so fragile." He turned to Maureen. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. I should never have hit you. How can I do that? What's wrong with me?"

He sank down to the floor in front of her and put his head in her lap. Maureen began to stroke his head. I wanted to leave right away, but I had one more question.

"Jack, what were you doing in the hall at one a.m. the night Gentry was murdered?"

Maureen's hand stopped stroking, and Jack looked up at me. "I never--I wasn't in the hall. Who said I was?"

"Patty Foster."

"She's lying. But why?"

I didn't know. I did know someone was.

Jack put his head back in Maureen's lap, and she began petting him again.

I stood up to leave. Neither of them seemed to notice.

I walked back to my apartment and stayed there the rest of the day.

The next morning I was taking out the garbage when Katherine Gentry exited the elevator with a uniformed police officer. She seemed more fragile than ever. She wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She looked older now, worn.

She gave me a ghost of a smile and walked to her entrance. The policeman tore off the orange tape and unsealed the lock. She handed him her key, and he opened the door and stood aside. She walked in and closed the door behind her.

I'd been watching, and now waited for the officer to come over to the elevator. We rode down in silence.

Awhile later, after I came back from my trip to the dumpster, my doorbell rang, and when I answered it, Katherine Gentry stood in the hallway. Startled, I automatically invited her in.

"Won't you sit down?" I asked.

She nodded and we sat.

"I can't do it," she finally said.

"What?"

"I can't stay in that apartment alone."

"Oh," I didn't know what else to say for a moment. "Do you want me to keep you company for awhile?"

She looked at me with grateful eyes. "Would you? Maybe after awhile, I could be alone there."
"Sure," I said and stood up.

She stood slowly. All her movements were lethargic.

I'd never been in her apartment. Shock washed through me as we entered. The whole place was done in the 50s style. How odd! I looked at her more closely. Could she be related to the sisters? Or maybe Phillip had? I tried to remember what he really looked like. I pushed the thought aside.

Until the doorbell rang, and the two sisters entered breathlessly.

"Kathy. We just came up and saw the tape was off the door . . ." Patty began, then stopped short when she saw me. "Oh, hello." Turned back to Katherine. "We didn't know you had company."

I thought of saying I was leaving, but decided to wait and see what happened.

Nothing happened. We all stood there, silent.

"I didn't know you and Dotty knew Katherine," I finally said.

"Of course we know her. We're all neighbors here."

But they'd never talked about her. Not once. They talked about the Morrison's all the time. And the other neighbors on the floor and even upstairs and down that they knew.

I glanced at Kathy again. She looked as if she might collapse. I took her arm. "I think you need to sit down."

We all went into the living room, and sat. Silence again.

Finally Kathy turned to me, looking resolute. "I think maybe you'd better leave," she said.

I looked from one to the other. "You don't look like sisters. Was Phillip your brother?"

"Of course not," Patty replied, her lips thinning.

"Katherine--Kathy is quite a bit younger than you. But she could be a stepsister, or just born very late."

"Why do you think we're related?" Dotty asked.

"Look at the furniture." I smiled. "Too much of a coincidence. Dotty, Patty, Kathy. And you lied to me." I turned to face Patty.

"What? I certainly did not."

"Yes, you did. You said you saw Jack in the hall around one o'clock. Didn't happen."

Tears welled in Dotty's eyes. "He beat her," she said softly.

"I know," I said, as gently as I could. "Jack told me."

They all jerked their heads toward me. Then Kathy put her head in her hands, and Dotty began to cry in earnest.

"You can't prove anything," Patty, the strong one, said.

"Maybe not, but I imagine the police could find the truth."

Patty jumped up. "You can't tell the police about this!" She began to pace. "It isn't fair! He beat her. Then two nights ago he made her agree to have sex with Jack! He wouldn't let her talk to us, and she was afraid to disobey him. We moved over here to keep watch. He didn't like it, but the rent is controlled, so he stayed. She managed a quick call to us after he beat her into agreeing to the wife-swapping. We didn't know what to do."

She sat down again and slumped backwards. Her face had aged ten years since she walked in the door. Dotty still cried softly. Kathy sat, unmoving.

"Then what happened?" I asked softly.

"Dotty and I couldn't take it anymore. When he came back from the Morrison's, we came over here and . . ."

"You killed him?"

"No!" Dotty stood up this time. "I did it."

"Of course you didn't, you ninny," Patty said. "I did it."

Kathy shook her head. "When I saw my sisters, and knew what they were determined to do, I killed him."

But she and Dotty wouldn't look at me. Patty stared definitely.

"And that's what you'll tell the police," I said. I stood up. "It sounds like a good plan to me. I'm sorry for your trouble. If you need anything, let me know." And I left them to comfort each other.

Back in my apartment, I struggled with whether I had done the right thing. After all, they'd tried to set Jack up for the murder. They probably thought it would be poetic justice. But I had some hope for him now. I guessed they flattered me that I could solve the crime, but then misled me with the lie that they'd seen Jack in the hallway that night.

I picked up the boring book. I wondered what the story was behind the reviewers who had given it glowing reviews. What had been going on in their lives? If it had been as exciting as mine lately, this book might have been just the thing to make them relax.

I settled back and began to read.