Organize Your Corpses (6 page)

“What happened to Miss Henley?” she said.

“You saw what happened. A beam fell on her.”

“I’d like to hear all about it. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable talking at the station.”

I gawked at her. “Talking at the station?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t have much to add. That beam must have tumbled over with some newspaper and killed her.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

“What?” Had the police concluded that Truffle and Sweet Marie had dislodged the mountain of paper that buried Miss Henley? Was I, as an irresponsible dog owner, guilty of some kind of negligence?

I gulped. “She was dead when we got there. She was cold. The dogs had no connection to it.”

“You’d been there before?”

“Yes.”

“And you had quarreled with Miss Henley?”

“Of course not. I was supposed to organize the chaos at Henley House for her.”

“Hmm. Nice new career. Cleaning. She hired you?”

“Not cleaning. Organizing. And yes, she did.”

“And you can prove that?”

“Why would I need to prove it? I had drawn up a contract. She was about to sign it that morning.”

Pepper smirked. “There’s more to this accident than meets the eye, Charlotte.”

“There is? What do you mean?”

“I mean, the postmortem indicates that something is not quite right.” Pepper gave me another smile. This one practically left freezer burn on my nose.

“She’s dead. That’s not quite right.”

“Why don’t you save it for the station?”

“I’m in my pajamas for heaven’s sake. If it’s absolutely necessary, I’ll go and see you after I get dressed and walk the dogs and have breakfast and—”

“You actually don’t get to pick the time.”

“Why are you acting like this, Pepper?”

At that moment, Jack thundered up the stairs and into the already explosive situation. “What’s going on?” he said.

“Police business.” Pepper shot him a warning glance. “Do you mind?”

“What kind of police business?”

“The kind that’s none of yours. We’re taking Charlotte in for a statement.”

“But I gave a statement at the scene!” I squeaked.

“We need to verify your version of what happened.”

“My version? I don’t have a
version
. I told you what happened. I went to see Miss Henley and I found her under the pile of collapsed paper. She was dead, cold.”

“You don’t have to say anything, as I’m sure you know. However, it’s my duty to inform you that whatever you do say may be held against you in a court of law.”

I gawked at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Keep quiet, Charlotte,” Jack said.

I flashed him a dirty look. “What could I say that anyone would hold against me in a court of law?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” Pepper said.

“Wait a minute.” My knees wobbled. “You think someone killed her?”

The perfectly tweezed eyebrow arched.

I said, “But who would want to harm Miss Henley?”

Pepper burst out laughing. As glad as I was to see she was human, that laugh seemed very wrong under the circumstances.

I said, “Okay. But she’d become harmless. Sort of. Who would kill her?”

Pepper said, “I’m guessing someone with an old grudge, someone in the vicinity. Someone vile and untrustworthy.”

“Vile and un . . . ?You mean me? Well, that’s just horrible, Pepper.”

Jack said, “Stop talking. I’ll call Margaret Tang.”

“You’re arresting me?” I turned to Jack. “What will happen to Truffle and Sweet Marie?”

Pepper’s eyes glittered. I hadn’t remembered them having that metallic quality. “It’s just a statement. Of course, you are entitled to a lawyer.”

All I heard was a buzz of words from Pepper, because, at that instant, Truffle shot forward and sunk his sweet little teeth into her elegant ankle.

4

Forget what you see on cop shows. There can’t be many activities in this world more tedious than a police interview. To start, the interview rooms are bland without a single interesting feature or object, designed to bore you into shouting out a confession, I suppose. But at least when I was hustled into the downtown station, I’d been able to change. If Jack hadn’t shown up in my apartment and mentioned Margaret Tang’s name loudly, I might have been dragged out in my pj’s and bunny slippers.

An hour after I arrived, there was still no sign of Margaret. Time ticked by slowly as I waited alone. I have nothing good to say about that room. Hard molded-plastic chairs that put your bum to sleep. Harsh yet ineffective lighting, protected with some kind of wire guard. No windows or posters. Nada. Paint the color of a mine shaft. Ick. One lonely, pathetic, disposable ashtray in the center of the boring rectangular table. I tried drumming my fingers on the table, but that didn’t help much. The space needed a makeover from a skilled decorator. I could have recommended someone.

How did they expect a person to be at her best in these surroundings? You don’t even get a cup of coffee. But then again, I was pretty sure Pepper didn’t want me at my best. She’d prefer to deal with a sobbing wreck, eager to confess to anything. Maybe everything.

When she finally sashayed through the door, wearing that familiar smirk, I decided not to give her any satisfaction. I did my best to find the state known as calm, cool, and collected. She was followed by a red-faced, middle-aged man. His shirt gaped between the buttons when he sat down. He smelled slightly of coffee and doughnuts. Well, maybe I just imagined that. Did I also imagine that he gave me a tiny, sympathetic smile?

At a nod from Pepper, he got up again, turned on his heel, and left the room, taking his imaginary sympathy with him. He wasn’t gone long. The next time the door opened, he’d returned with three cups of coffee, packets of cream and sugar, and little stir sticks. Perhaps the encounter would be all right after all. It was only a statement. I suppose there was a good reason to tape-record it.

Despite the coffee, Pepper’s mood declined as the morning wore on. For starters, she kept rubbing her ankle. For another, she asked me the same questions dozens of different ways. I gave my statement and gave it again. And then I got to give it again. It came out pretty much the same way every time. Different details and emphasis, maybe. But no contradictions. Lucky me, I’d been telling the truth. What did she want from me? What did she think had happened?

“Why am I here, Pepper?”

“How about I ask the questions and you answer them?” she said.

That set the tone.

It was a long morning. At least ten times, I mentioned the documents that Miss Henley had wanted. “If there is something odd about her death, it has to be connected to them,” I added. In case she hadn’t picked up on this the first nine times.

“Get real. This is a police investigation,” she said, “not a made-for-TV movie for kids.” Then to add insult to injury, she stifled a yawn. That really bothered me, because I was the one who had a right to be bored. Pepper could just get up and leave.

Finally she did. I waited for her to say, “Don’t leave town.” But all I got was, “You’ll be hearing from us.”

I didn’t doubt it.

Five minutes after Pepper left the room, the rumpled detective showed up and thanked me for my time. I found myself cut loose, wondering if the whole interview had just been a power trip from Pepper. I skittered along the hallway, craving fresh air and feeling like a felon. I kept my eyes down until I got out of the building, in case I ran into Pepper again, or equally bad, her husband, the well-known himbo, Nick Monahan.

I used my cell phone to call Jack, but he was already waiting across the street. He seemed very informal compared to the passing uniformed officers. But if he found it cold in those biking shorts, you would never have known it. He leaned against the Miata, grinned, and tossed me the keys.

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” he said, unstrapping his bike, which he had managed to secure to my roof. “I couldn’t reach Margaret. She was in court in Albany. But speaking of friends, I dropped Sweet Marie and Truffle off at Sally’s, in case Pepper succumbed to her mean streak and sent the animal control officer in.”

 
As rattled as I was, I knew that the best strategy was to just keep going. I headed for Sally’s place. She needed my help with her toy jungle, and I needed her project to keep my mind off Miss Henley’s death and the police station.

No one answered when I arrived. I could hear kiddy music blaring and the children shrieking, even from outside. Sally’s doorbell plays “The Farmer in the Dell,” but apparently that wasn’t enough to attract attention over preexisting conditions. I peered through the glass side panels into the foyer and kept my finger on the bell. At ring number thirteen, Benjamin limped through the toy-strewn entrance to the front door. He glanced up in surprise and smiled when he saw it was me.

“Your doorbell might not be working,” I said. “Oh, I see you have your MP3 player on.”

Benjamin held the door as I entered the toy-festooned foyer. “That doorbell is working way too well. I hate that sucker so much that I just tune it out with whatever I can. But never mind. You had a terrible shock the other night. How are you doing, Charlotte?”

“Hanging in.”

“Hope so, because you’re in commotion central now. Listen, I appreciate you helping Sally, Charlotte,” he said as he grabbed his briefcase. “There was never a house that needed more sorting out than this one, that’s for sure.”

I could think of at least one, but I didn’t want to talk about that. “My pleasure.”

“Good luck. I’m just heading out to give a lecture. And, of course, I’m late.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Make tracks.”

“Watch out for that toy truck. Make sure you can see the floor. I wouldn’t want you to break your neck,” he said, shrugging into his overcoat.

“When you have time, Benjamin, I’d like to get your input on the great toy project.”

“You mean I get a vote?”

That came as a surprise; Benjamin had always adored his wild, noisy, messy wife. And been a proud and playful dad to his three exuberant offspring.

“Of course you get a vote,” I said. “I’m a practical girl. I always want my doctor to be happy.”

“Here goes. All I want, really, is a room, one room, one miserable room, four walls, and a door, without a pile of bleeping toys, without screaming, without jam sandwiches stuck on my notes, without wastepaper baskets scattered. I could go on. I want to be able to sit in a clean, quiet spot and hear myself think, for half an hour a day. Is that so wrong? I just wasted twenty minutes hunting for my briefcase before my meeting, because my desk, the only spot I can call my own in this house, has been turned into a pretend dog-house with a blanket. So all my useless professional stuff had to get dumped somewhere. Does that make any sense in a house this big?”

Benjamin’s round friendly face was turning an alarming shade of red.

I said, “Oops. Sorry if my pooches made you late.”

“You’re not the problem and neither are your dogs,” he said. “They didn’t make the tent. They didn’t move my speaking notes to the laundry room.”

“Got ya,” I said as the door banged behind him.

Ooh. Trouble in paradise.

From upstairs I heard the thunder of tiny feet, squeals, shouts, and sharp little barks. Truffle and Sweet Marie practically tumbled down the stairs to meet me. They were pursued by two shrieking preschoolers. Sally followed, carrying the baby. The baby wailed, distressed at not being able to chase the dogs, I suppose.

The house might have given the impression of a recent explosion, but Sally, as usual, looked fabulous, with her halo of blonde curls. She was born for bare feet and jeans with spandex.

“Thanks for keeping Truffle and Sweet Marie, Sally,” I said as I swept a pile of stuffed animals and a book of baby names from Sally’s white leather living room sofa and plunked myself down on it. Truffle and Sweet Marie leapt onto the sofa and hid out behind me. Normally I wouldn’t allow my animals on someone else’s furniture, particularly white leather, but Sally’s sofa already had popcorn scattered on it, tiny sneaker prints, and a bright fuchsia stain that might have been Kool-Aid.

As usual Sally didn’t notice. “No problem. Jack was worried Pepper might toss them in the slammer so he asked if I’d provide a witness protection program. The kids love them. We need a dog, but Benjamin’s being poopy about it.”

The children, squealing, attempted to climb over me to get at the dachsies. I gave each kid a cuddle and turned them in the opposite direction. It didn’t help much.

“I wasn’t too worried. You know how much Pepper cares about her public image.” I had to raise my voice a bit to drown out the shrieks. “I don’t imagine she wants to have her new reputation as a hotshot detective tarred with the image of a ten-pound dog getting the best of her. Especially if Truffle’s picture made the media. Can you imagine Todd Tyrell getting hold of that story? No, no, sweeties, the doggies don’t want to play.”

Sally’s green eyes gleamed. “Todd is very good at this, isn’t he? Anyway, don’t just sit there. Dish. What happened when they took you in?”

I preferred to just sit there, guarding my traumatized pets. “Not much. Pepper took my statement. She didn’t think much of the information about the documents that Miss Henley needed. She said it sounded like the plot of a kids’ movie.”

“Well, it does, kind of,” Sally said.

“But it’s true. Anyway, she kept asking if I’d had some kind of a falling out with Miss Henley.”

“Everyone who ever went to St. Jude’s had a falling out with Hellfire,” Sally said. “Including Pepper.”

“I didn’t mention that.”