Crime Writer Margot Kinberg

New people moved into the condo below mine a month ago. I haven’t seen much of them, but I hear their music! They stop the noise before I go to bed, so I suppose it could be worse. But I really do not like that music. Malcolm would have liked it, but of course, he’s passed, so it’s just me. And I like my quiet.

Last week, I looked out the window into their back yard. There was a whole group of young guys out there drinking, playing cards, and listening to that horrible music. A few were smoking, too, and I don’t think it was tobacco. At least the party broke up before it got too late. But this has always been a quiet community. That’s why I wanted this condo in the first place.

I’m a peaceful person. I decided not to confront the new people – not yet. Maybe they just needed time to adjust to the way we do things here. Malcolm never did adjust. More than once, people had to talk to him about the TV volume and so on. Well, our home is very quiet now, and although of course I miss him terribly, it is peaceful.

The thing is, I like to start my day early. You know, housework, laundry, that sort of thing. If I need something, I go to the stores when they open. They’re less crowded that way. And this past week, I’ve had a major home project to do, so I’ve been getting up early to do what needs to be done.

A few days ago, I heard that thump-bump music from downstairs yet again. I was busy with what I was doing, and I did not want to be serenaded by whatever those people were playing. It reminded me of when Malcolm played his music. After about an hour and a half of this, I finally had enough. I stopped what I was doing and went down and rang their bell. Nobody answered, probably because the music was too loud. I banged on the door a couple of times before someone finally answered it. She slowly creaked the door open and gave me a half-smile.

‘Excuse me,” I began. ‘Your music’s been playing loudly for over an hour. Could you turn it down, please?’ I could tell by her facial expression that she didn’t understand much English. So, I resorted to gestures to explain how loud the music was. Her facial expression cleared, and she nodded her head. I thanked her and went back to my place. Within a minute or two the music stopped and I got back to my project, thinking everything was going to be alright.

I was wrong. Yesterday, I walked down to our community’s set of post office boxes. I emptied and locked our box, dropping the key into my pocket. I stood there for a few minutes, flipping through the ads and bills. I was just about to toss the junk when I saw the woman who lives downstairs. She saw me, too, and hurried towards me. ‘Scuse me,’ she said when she got close enough.
‘Can I help you?’
She struggled for the words she wanted. ‘Washing. Clothes. Very early.’
‘Yes, I tend to do my laundry very early.’
‘Five AM!’
I couldn’t imagine why she would care what time I do my laundry. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘It is loud. Washing is loud.’

She must have meant the washing machine. This was not a conversation I wanted to have. ‘Is the washing machine too loud?’
Her head bobbed excitedly. ‘Yes! Yes! Loud!’
The last thing I wanted was an argument with her. That could create real problems. So, I promised her I wouldn’t do laundry that early anymore. She smiled and nodded and went on her way.

The problem was, I still had a load or two of very dirty laundry to do. And I didn’t want it lying around the place. Well, she was going to have to live with laundry noises a little longer. And anyway, it wasn’t too early by the time we spoke.

I finished my project late tonight. After I was done, I walked around to be sure I’d cleaned up after myself. If I say so myself, it all looked like it normally does. Even Malcom would have been satisfied. He always said I should clean more or hire someone. I put the last load of dirty laundry into the washer and started the load. I washed my hands and sat down with a novel I’ve been wanting to read.

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. I stood up and the doorbell rang again. Whoever was at the door wasn’t patient. I opened it and saw a young man standing there. I didn’t know who he was, but after a moment, I placed him. He was (I suppose) the husband or partner of the woman who lived downstairs. This was a problem. As I said, I didn’t want to get into a feud with those people, but it was late for someone to stop by.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
‘Your husband is at home?’
I stepped back from the doorway, trying to compose myself. ‘My husband has died,’ I finally told him. ‘I am a widow.’
The young man looked through the screen door. I swear he saw the whole living room. ‘OK,’ he said with the beginning of a smile. ‘Thank you.’ He headed down the stairs.

After he left, I looked around the living room again. There it was, just by the sofa. Damnit! A sock! And blood on it! I must have dropped it while I was cleaning up. Now that couple would get curious, and I can’t have them asking about Malcolm. I haven’t gotten rid of everything  yet, except for his body. I’ll have to take some action. I know! I’ll make a cake – sort of a peace offering. You can put just about anything into a cake.