The Boarding House Horror

3. Eucalyptus

I followed the hostess's plodding steps down the stairs and past the kitchen to the entryway. A thickset guest with curly black hair ushered in a hunched little man I recognized as the assistant coroner. Rainwater glistened on his overcoat.

The helpful guest must be Mario Costa, Italian, room six. He really did look Italian, somehow, with bushy black eyebrows and pleasant thick lips. A young man, he moved with bouncy energy and inspected me with brown eyes as he bounded back next to Madame Groot. The rest of the guests hovered in the background, indistinct, wary, and curious.

"Inspector Visser. Congratulations. Flip said you won a promotion," the weedy assistant coroner simpered.

"Mister Blommer. Thank you." My eyes darted left and right. "Erm. Where is Flip?"

"We're shorthanded. That blasted war trial. I came alone and Flip is unloading the gurney. Which way?"

I pointed down the hallway toward room number one. I followed Blommer as he scuttled crablike down the hallway, complete with shiny raincoat carapace.

"Here?" Blommer pointed to room one's closed door.

"Yes."

He peered inside and cackled. "Well, that's dramatic! Like that heart attack about a year ago. Such the expression on that one's face. We wondered if the wife scared him to death. Her face sure scared us."

I suddenly remembered why it was I detested the assistant coroner. It wasn't that he cracked jokes. Who wouldn't, to stay sane among the endless parade of bodies? No, it was the flavor of the jokes themselves. Always cynical. Always us-versus-them. Always cruel.

"You should autopsy the thigh in particular." I shouldered past him into the cone of sightless accusation cast by George Raptis, deceased.

"Why? Is that where he keeps his heart?" Blommer cackled.

When I felt my face heat I was glad it was turned from him. I knelt by the body. I extended a finger toward the ragged flesh clogged with congealed blood. In my flash of anger my stomach stayed settled. "No. There is a tiny bit of clear fluid. See?"

I pointed. He crowded me from behind and I lost balance a little. My finger poked into the trail of spittle mixed with blood below the wound, a touch like cold gelatin. My stomach knotted in revulsion.

"Oh," Blommer said. "Some discharge. Yes, it could be a medical condition. Good eyes, Visser."

Metallic clanks and squeaky wheels sounded from the hallway. I glanced back. Behind the gurney, Flip looked damp and surly.

Thankfully, Blommer didn't attempt any more jokes as he and Flip loaded the body onto the wheels and covered it. I stepped forward to help, but Flip scowled at me and grunted. I dared not step between a constable and his duty, so I stood by. My hands itched to assist even as my stomach floated in joy at not handling the body.

I followed the sheet-draped shape down the hall. Flip and Blommer turned out toward the rain and the coroner's truck.

A young woman looked on, standing in front of the other guests who had gathered to watch the body leave. Blonde hairs wisped across a face scrunched up in perplexity. That she was Daria Raptis I could deduce by process of elimination, but I didn't need to. Her father's hawkish features echoed softly in hers. As I watched, Mario Costa reached his thick hand to pat her shoulder. She stood unreactive.

When she wrenched her eyes from the departing body, they turned to me. They were blue.

I cleared my throat. "Condolences, Miss Raptis."

"Thank you." Her stunned expression did not change, but her eyes began to wander. "I don't know what I'm feeling. Confused, mostly."

"Perhaps I can take your statement, Miss Raptis. It won't take long." I slipped my notebook from my pocket.

"All right." Her breath of a voice floated, louder than a whisper, but only just. She turned about and weaved through the standing guests. Without consulting me, she crossed the common room and settled in the chair closest to the fireplace.

Everyone would be able to hear our words, but I did not argue. I joined her in the circle of warmth by the hearth. I took the seat next to her, but on the other side sat the blind woman, black bangs hanging to the tops of her dark glasses. One cheek showed pale stripes against her burnished skin. Were they scars?

More scars. I suppressed a shudder and forced my eyes to my notebook, then up to Daria's face as she gazed into the flames. "Miss Raptis, when did you check into the boarding house?"

"Wednesday."

"And why are you here?"

"Father wrote me. He said he would pay for my room and give me extra if my students missed their lessons."

"And what do you teach?"

"Piano."

"Where?"

"Rotterdam. I came by bus."

"May I have your address?"

She gave it. Mostly, she watched the fire. Once in a while she glanced at me. I guessed an age of twenty-five. Her homespun dress had a patch at the knees, neatly sewed. Daria Raptis was on the short side, comfortably padded. Her current dark mood creased her merry features in unaccustomed patterns.

"Why did your father choose this house as a meeting place, and not Rotterdam?"

"Oh. What did he say? Yes, I recall. The war crimes trial going on. He came for that."

The war crimes trial was turning The Hague on its head. "Did he want to try to watch it?"

"I don't think so. I don't know. I didn't ask."

"What did you talk about?"

Finally, she seemed to see me. She stared at me with intensity and her voice hardened. "That's private. I don't see how it matters, now."

I considered my options. I could pursue the matter or I could let it drop. Since Blommer seemed to think that Raptis's death was natural, any time spent looking for murder motives was probably wasted. I replied smoothly. "Were there any signs that George Raptis was sick?"

The creases between her brows deepened. "No, not really. Only that ..." Her voice trailed off.

"Go on."

"Well, he ... Oh, blast it. Fine, you win. He wasn't sick except for his same old leg shake. But something was different. Something must have happened to him to make him think about his responsibilities. The fact that he had a daughter."

I scribbled in my notebook and vocalized, "Mmm."

Resentment colored her voice. "He left us, Mother and I, when I was young. She raised me by herself. I barely know him. Just a letter now and then. A visit once in a blue moon. But yesterday he seemed interested. He tried to get to know me. I could tell he was trying. Oh!" Daria's eyes welled with tears, and she buried her face in her hands.

A hand rubbed comforting circles on Daria's back, but it wasn't mine. It was the blind hand of Alice Bree.

"Too late," Daria mumbled into her hands. "Too late, now."

"Yes," said Alice in a soothing alto.

I put my pencil behind my ear and waited. As I watched the part down the center of Daria's head it oozed into my consciousness that my fingertip itched. Without thought, I put my finger on my tongue and licked. I tasted something oily. Eucalyptus?

I tasted again. My tongue began to burn. Belatedly, warnings flooded my mind. I recalled kneeling by the body, pointing to the clear fluid, the bump from behind, the coldness of the dead flesh beneath my finger.

I choked out, "Oh, how stupid of me!" I gripped the arms of the chair as black specks swarmed into my vision. A gust of heat washed over me, warming skin and bones. Though I willed my sight to return, instead the black rot covered my vision, outside in. The fire crackled. Faintly, I heard a voice, "Mr. Visser?" but it was covered up by the roaring in my ears as I went weightless and fell into warm, bottomless airs.