Organize Your Corpses (9 page)

“What is the matter with you? He’s married. I need to get involved with a married man like I need . . .” Words failed me. A periscope? An ant farm? A weather vane?

“That’s just it, my tiny single friend,” Sally said. “He’s not married.”

“Is.”

“Was.”

“I said
is
. Oh. Was?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I’m not looking for a recently divorced man either.”

“His wife died. Plane crash.”

“That’s awful. But what did you do, stroll up to him and ask? Oh crap, Sally. I hope you didn’t mention me.”

“The topic just came up. We are at a reception for someone who died. I didn’t tell him that you have been blushing every time he so much as glances at you.”

“Not true. They have the heat blasting in here.”

“His name, in case you’re interested,” Sally breathed, “is Dominic Lo Bello. That’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”

I shrugged.

“He’s new in town. Remember, any time you need the facts, just put Sally on the trail. See you later.”

The party atmosphere continued. The room was jammed with former students and teachers, many of whom seemed jubilant in the extreme. I even thought I caught a glimpse of Mr. Kanalakis, the art teacher who’d been fired in the middle of his first year at St. Jude’s. Yes, for sure, it was Mr. Kanalakis. At six foot six, he towered over everyone else. His long, thick black ponytail had a bit of grey in it now, and maybe he was showing the beginning of a paunch, but nearly fifteen years later, I would have recognized him anywhere. Perhaps I just imagined that cloud of testosterone in the air. Amazingly, he was having an animated conversation with two retired nuns from St. Jude’s. They had obviously been to a hairdresser for today’s send-off.

“Get a load of that,” Sally said, stopping for second. “That’s Kanalakis. He’s sure having a hell of a good time.”

“Yes,” I said. “There was a time when they were all ready to run him out of town. Oh look, there’s Mrs. Neufield too.”

“Time heals all whatevers,” Sally said, drifting off into the crowd.

Everyone seemed eager to talk about the last time they’d seen Miss Henley and how she’d been able to put the fear of God into them. The conversation was punctuated with squeals and nervous laughter. Tales of fear at the gas pump, the bakery, the post office. The last time I’d seen Miss Henley she was dead, and I didn’t want to revisit that.

I drifted back to the food table, all the time trying to dodge Todd Tyrell, who was working the room. I found myself picking up a truffle, then another. What is this connection with food and funerals?

I scanned the room for a friendly face and spotted Benjamin standing alone. I scooted over as fast as I could.

“Was Mrs. Simonett all right?”

“As all right as she’ll ever be, I guess.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Come on, Charlotte,” he said with a hint of exasperation. “You know I can’t discuss former patients with you.”

“I was just being polite,” I said. “Well, I wasn’t really trying to pry into your patient’s private life.”

“Former patient,” he said.

“But you must admit, standing up and doing the wave at the funeral of your only surviving relative is a bit odd.”

“Poor Olivia. Just leave it.”

I said, “Well, I can’t just leave it. Miss Henley was murdered. You know that. What if Olivia killed her?”

Oops. I hoped that rise in Benjamin’s color didn’t signal high blood pressure.

He sputtered, “Listen to me, Charlotte Adams. Olivia could no more plan and execute a murder than she could fly a commercial airliner. It simply could not happen.”

“She stood to inherit all that money.”

“She already has more money than she can use. And what good would another inheritance do, if you were confined to a rest home with . . .” He caught himself just in time.

“Okay, don’t get excited. I just thought she’s the only person who stands to gain.”

“Gain? The woman doesn’t need money or property. She’s lost her last relative now that Helen’s dead. For heaven’s sake, some people are saying you did it, Charlotte.”

“Me?”

“That’s right. Now how do
you
like it?”

“Are you serious? Why would I do it? That’s not fair.”

“Of course it’s not fair and it’s preposterous. But it’s no more unfair than insinuating that a helpless, sick woman committed a heinous act of violence. I would expect a bit more compassion from you, Charlotte. I would be very upset to learn that Olivia had been badgered by anyone wanting to explore that ridiculous idea. Now, excuse me. I have to find Sally.”

I looked around. Where
was
Sally? Had she left the reception? Sally loves a party way more than I do. It’s not like her to head out early, not with the babysitter engaged for the afternoon. I reminded myself, this was not a party. Somehow the revved-up mood seemed more like a school reunion than the aftermath of a death. Easy for them; they didn’t have the image of Miss Henley’s damaged corpse floating in their brains.

I didn’t notice Dominic Lo Bello anywhere, so I didn’t have to worry about awkward encounters. Who knew what Sally had said. It gave me the shivers just thinking about it.

I was feeling pretty down by the time I located Jack. He was busy talking up his new retail plan with his accountant. Very animated. Plus he was in no hurry to depart while there were still chocolates on the premises.

I abandoned Jack to his accountant and left the hotel. The November wind tossed my hair, and the thin sprinkle of drizzle added just the right air of misery. I had plenty to think about. Who had killed Miss Henley and why? Maybe if I could find that out, I could get rid of that truckload of guilt. In the meantime, I had my dogs to worry about, and an evening of doing laundry was starting to look good. But my mind kept drifting back to the church, remembering Olivia Henley Simonett and her strange little victory jig.

What was that about?

6

Don’t ask me why I swung by the Henley House the next day. Perhaps because it was Sunday and I was at loose ends. Maybe the Miata had a mind of its own. But more likely it was guilt about refusing to meet Miss Henley the night she died. Not to mention the fact I’d cashed her substantial check without earning it.

I headed for North Elm and drove slowly up the hill in second gear to the Henley House. The temperature had plunged dramatically. A few lonely flurries floated randomly in the late afternoon sky.

I stared up at the dark, hulking building. What had gone on in there? Long strips of police tape surrounded the property. The vivid yellow plastic snapping in the wind made a cheerful statement in the late November afternoon. Slashes of fresh graffiti stood out against the front of the house. Graffiti artists aren’t deterred by ribbons of yellow tape.
Police line. Do not cross.
That just gets them going.

How had Miss Henley’s life ended? The police were being tight-lipped about what kind of foul play. Was it really possible some former student wanted revenge? Or was it a robbery gone wrong? Who would expect to find valuables in all that clutter? There had to be an easier way to rip off some homeowner.

I wondered if the police had gone door-to-door on North Elm looking for information. They must have, I decided. Pepper was thorough and efficient. She never wasted any time. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a solitary figure standing across the street. A man with a camera. He turned this way and that, snapping pictures. He got down on one knee and twisted to get a different angle.

When he lowered the camera, I caught my breath. None other than the new man in our town, Dominic Lo Bello. He climbed into a dusty red Jeep Cherokee and disappeared around the corner. Had he seen me staring at him? Would he think I was some kind of whacko stalker? That would be just craptacular. Get over it, I told myself firmly before I stepped out of the car.

I sniffed the air. There it was again, the scent of wood smoke I’d noticed on my first visit. Where was it coming from? I continued down the street, slowly, peering around. I smiled when I spotted the thin swirl of smoke from a chimney, across the street and down five houses. I got out of the car and headed down the hill.

Up close, the sturdy wood-frame house was well kept, including a newly installed yellow metal door, every bit as bright as the police tape up the road. A fat grey and white cat was parading in front of the door, yowling.

Luckily I didn’t have Sweet Marie and Truffle with me.

The cat brushed against my ankles as I stood ringing the doorbell. After a while, I figured out the bell wasn’t working, and I banged on the door. I could see lights from the inside. The smell of wood smoke was tantalizing. I strained to hear and thought I picked up banging noises as well as squeaks. Squeaks? Squeals? I’d be lying if I said the hair on my arms wasn’t standing straight up. Never mind the action on the back of my neck.

When the door finally opened, I had to look down. A wizened woman with deep blue hair stared at me with interest. She was wearing a purple jogging suit, oversize bright white running shoes, and a wheeled oxygen-support apparatus.

“Oh,” I said.

“Oh yourself,” she said happily.

“I . . . was worried about your cat.”

“My cat?”

“Yes. He seems distressed.”

She gave a long wheezy chuckle. “Distressed.”

I am such a bad liar. Why do I even try?

She said, “Are you distressed, Hairball? That’s too bad, because you’re not my cat and you’re not getting in. And here’s me thinking: this nice young lady wanted to talk about what happened at the Henley House.”

“Possibly that too,” I said.

“Follow me, hon. I don’t need to add another case of pneumonia to my medical file.” She turned on her slipper heel and shuffled down the hallway. The grey and white cat made an attempt to join the party. I guess he didn’t hold the name Hairball against her.

“Get rid of that creature, will you, hon? Or get ready to dial 911. I’m really allergic.”

Right. I popped the cat outside and closed the yellow door. I followed her as the wheels squealed along the hallway. I suppose I was expecting another junk-filled uninhabitable space. But except for a pizza ad on the floor by the front door, the place was clear and clean. From force of habit, I bent and picked up the flyer.

“You can put that flyer right in the basket,” she said, making a quick right turn. The wheeled oxygen tank squeaked after her.

What? Did she have eyes in the back of her head?

I turned too and found myself in a small living room, where a merry fire burned in a brick fireplace with a glass insert and an antique television with rabbit ears was tuned to WINY. Todd Tyrell stood outside in the wind and rain. As usual, not a hair on his head moved. Lucky for me the sound was muted and I didn’t have to listen to his play-by-play of Miss Henley’s memorial service.

“Right there, thank you, hon,” my hostess said, nodding toward a small wicker container on the seventies-style coffee table. “And make yourself comfortable,” she added, pointing to the bright orange plaid sofa, with the brown and cream crocheted throw neatly draped over it. The throw matched the cushions on the orange recliner. The colors might have been alarming, but every surface in the room that could shine did. The carpet had obviously been vacuumed, and the orange net curtains looked fresh and clean. Somehow it all meshed with the purple jogging suit. Come to think of it, the purple jogging suit matched the small portable plastic filing box on the floor near her chair. Bills, envelopes, and stamps sat on the TV tray in front of the recliner.

I plunked myself down and said, “My name is—”

“I know who you are, Charlotte Adams. You found Helen Henley’s body.”

“Yes.”

“Have to follow that story, don’t I? Since it pretty well happened in my backyard.”

“Thank you, miss, um . . .”

There was that wheezy laugh again. It made me want to dial Mona Pringle at 911. “It’s Mrs. Um, actually. Rose Skipowski. But you can call me Rose. I’ll call you Charlotte. Now, let’s not beat around the bush anymore. What can I do for you, Charlotte?”

“I suppose you could tell me if you know anything about what happened to Miss Henley.”

“Don’t know much. I know that damned cat out there was Randy’s. But that’s about it. I didn’t see anyone sneak up there and whack her on the head, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, no. I never—”

“Come on, admit it. You were hoping. But I have nothing better to do than look out the window. I know everything that goes on on this street. If I’d seen a thing out of the ordinary, I would have told the police. But I was in the hospital. Bit of a heart scare. Happens every now and then. Missed the whole thing. You wouldn’t believe the tests they put you through. You want to kiss the ground if and when you get out.”

“Sounds rough. I’m glad you’re out of the hospital and feeling better.”

“As far as that goes.”

“I’m wondering if any of your neighbors might have seen anything.”

“Not from Florida, they wouldn’t have.”

“Oh.”

“They’re out of here as soon as the first leaf falls. Both sides. They leave me watching their houses.” She pointed to a key rack by the door. “As if I don’t have anything better to do. And I don’t. And they do plenty for me the rest of the year. Check and see if the old car’s still running, arrange for my wood.”

I was about to protest this thoughtlessness on the part of the neighbors when she said, “Would you like a cookie, hon? Don’t be fooled by this contraption.” She pointed to the oxygen apparatus. “I haven’t lost my touch with baking. Just made a batch of my own special sugar cookies. And the coffeepot’s on fresh too.”

Oh no. Cookies are right up there with chocolates as my drug of choice. I love homemade cookies. Love them. Perhaps because my mother had never made a cookie in her life. Except if you count some of the ones that crumbled.