Red as Blood, Black as Death

Chapter 2: Crimes are best committed in soundproof rooms

It was a normal residential area in Old York City.  Apartment buildings crammed together, brownstone bricks stacked neatly, fire escapes slashing across building fronts.   The occasional skinny tree rose up from the sidewalk in front, providing meager shade and a place to chain bicycles.  The residents walked from the nearest Underground train station, toting their groceries.  The little dogs barked and yapped at anyone who came near them.  The honking and beeping of the far off cars could be heard faintly.  

The wind blew a gentle summer breeze.  It slowly swept over the street, stirring loose items but not blowing them away.  It tickled the grass which waved back to the wind.  It ruffled little girls’ dresses as they licked their freezer popsicles.  It blew through the open windows and stirred the papers on the desks.  It whisked around the buildings, sparing not even the newest building its touch.

The newest apartment complex had been built three years previous.  It had begun the process of bearing the signature Old York grimy wall look, an inevitable style that occurred to all buildings enduring the Old York city life.  The railings of the entrance steps had started to flake a little bit, and the windows had needed a wash for a while.  The front door’s paint had started to chip.  

The residents of the building were astonishingly still reveling in the new home feel.  They busily tidied everything up and fixed all the cracks with enthusiasm.  They still greeted their neighbors with a jovial smile.

A social network existed among the women of the complex.  Sure, they swapped stories about their children and grandchildren, and played bridge, but all of them would gossip about each other, more cutthroat than high school girls’ cliques.  The innocent new tenants were no exception.

“Do you know who moved into the penthouse?” asked Marjorie, a porous woman with a sizable girth.  She asked with the same fervor as a thirsty dog looking for water.

“I haven’t had the chance to talk to him,” said her friend, Millicent with a crazy look in her eyes.  “I’ve been trying, but his work hours are really irregular.”

“I’ve talked to him,” said Mathilde, the ugliest of the three, proudly smirking at the other two.

“I don’t believe you,” said Marjorie.

“No, it’s true!” protested Mathilde.  “I talked to him when he was first moving in, two months ago.”

“Really?  What did he say?” asked Millicent excitedly.

“It wasn’t really much of a conversation…” admitted Mathilde sheepishly.  “It was just ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’.”

“Didn’t you get a good look at him?  What did he look like?” asked Millicent.

“Tall, handsome, wealthy,” said Mathilde.  She recalled his expensive clothing and cultured way of speaking.  He’d been very amicable towards her.  But, she had been slightly flustered when she was talking to him, so maybe her image of him was wrong.

“Is that all?” asked the disappointed Millicent.

“Hey,” said the Mathilde defensively, “what else could there be besides that?”  She paused to think.  “I think he said his name was Siegfried Thibodeaux.”

“Sounds like a rich family,” murmured Millicent. 

“Would you marry off your daughter to him?” asked Marjorie, cooking up a few ideas.

“In a heartbeat.  But I don’t think your Janine would match him very well,” said Mathilde, noticing Marjorie’s expression.  “She just isn’t up to par.”