Dumpster Dying

by Lesley A. Diehl

  Clara was being a pain in the butt, thought Lewis, reconsidering his earlier positive assessment of her. Maybe if he played nice with them. It was late. He looked at his watch. No, it was early, too early—three in the morning. He hated confrontations especially those before sun-up when everyone’s nerves were on edge, so he revised his approach.

  “Can I get anyone a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  “The other one asked me that too.” Emily spoke in a whisper to Clara. “He was trying to get a sample of my DNA.”

  “Toby?” Clara snorted in disgust. “He wouldn’t know DNA from a BMW.” She opened the door and pushed Emily through it. “You can talk with her tomorrow after we’ve all gotten some sleep.”

  Emily sat at the kitchen table picking toast crumbs from yesterday’s breakfast off the place mat. She was getting her cup of coffee, but it was in her own little park model trailer with Clara doing all the work. Clara had given her a lift back to her car which remained, as she had left it when the officers took her in, abandoned in the middle of the country club’s lane.

  Because the authorities considered the keys found outside the club evidence of some sort and kept them, she had to turn over her plastic turtle in the yard to extract her extra set of house keys. Fred told her never to hide keys in the yard or under her car, but she had ignored him. Lucky for her, but still she was left with no keys to open the clubhouse. Or maybe she wouldn’t need those keys if the police arrested her before she could return to work.

  “I don’t think it was a good idea to lie to the cops, especially that Detective Myers-Lewis guy. He didn’t like me. I could tell.”

  “He’s an okay cop. Does his job well. He’s a little serious about his work. Besides, he knows he needs to walk carefully on this one. The Davey family is big stuff in these parts.”

  “Because they have money, right?” Emily raised a large crumb to her lips and realized she hadn’t eaten any dinner the night before. She placed the stale, toasted bread on her tongue and savored the bit of sweetness it brought to her mouth.

  Clara caught her movement. “Got anything to eat around here?” she asked.

  Emily gestured toward the cupboard over the sink. Clara pulled out a package of crackers, scrounged in the fridge for peanut butter, and placed the snack makings in front of Emily.

  “Money. It’s always money,” Emily said.

  Clara nodded her mop of Raggedy Ann curls. “And I didn’t lie. I am a lawyer, or I was once upon a time. I practiced on the coast. Didn’t like it. Too cutthroat, too many hours, too much testosterone circulating in that office.” She smiled an impish smile at Emily. “I like the country. And the cowboys.”

  “So tell me. You know my situation. Do I have a case?”

  Clara knew Emily wasn’t referring to the murder of Marcus Davey.

  “Maybe. How long did the two of you live together?”

  “Ten years.”

  “There was a will?” Clara picked up the coffee pot and poured more of the strong brew into her mug.

  “Yeah, written years ago, and he left everything to her,” Emily said.

  About to offer Emily another cup, Clara almost dropped the coffee pot.

  “Fred left everything to his ex-wife?”

  “He never got around to making out another will, that’s all.”

  “And you never saw to it? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I talked to him about it, but he said not to worry. That I’d be taken care of. Fred was the picture of health. A jogger, played golf three times a week, worked out. Up north we backpacked and hiked. He even did most of the Adirondack peaks. We both thought we had all the time in the world. Who knew he’d keel over like that?” Emily’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached into her sweater pocket for a tissue.

  “Sorry, honey,” Clara said, “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you, but I hate it when women don’t take care of themselves.”

  “You didn’t know Fred. I tried. I really tried. Now I think I should have been more forceful, but every time I brought up the issue of a will, he got upset. I think it reminded him of his mortality, and he was plain scared of dealing with his death. So I backed off. Besides, his ex was a real nag, and I didn’t think bugging him would help if he thought of her every time we talked a will. But now I’m left with nothing but a whole lot of questions about Fred’s intentions.” Emily’s eyes no longer held tears.

  “What kind of work did you say you did before you retired?” asked Clara.

  “I taught preschool. Why?” A note of defensiveness crept into Emily’s voice.

  “Figures.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You are one naïve woman, and death followed by murder is a hell of a way to get smart,” said Clara. She rose from the table, took her cup to the sink, and washed it out. “I gotta go.”

  “You didn’t really answer me. Do you think I’ve got any chance of keeping this place and getting some money out of his estate?”

  “Depends.” Clara said. She paused at the door, thought for a moment, then turned back to Emily.

  “Got yourself a good lawyer?”

  “Palatier.”

  “Good, and expensive, but you’ll need more than him to get you through this mess.”

  “Like?”

  “Lose the rage at Fred.”

  The storm in Emily’s eyes sent a bolt of lightening toward Clara, and she was about to deny the accusation, but Clara was too fast for her.

  “Behind the tears, the depression, and an occasional flash of resentment, I can read bone-deep anger at Fred, not that you don’t have a right to be furious with him, but you’ve got to set all that resentment to one side. The sorry for yourself stuff, too. Get over it and quick. You’re going to need all your emotional resources to fight the ex-wife and her lawyers. And try to keep your nose clean. Don’t bump off any more upstanding citizens in this community. The court system won’t look at you kindly if you do.”

  Emily jumped out of her chair. “Hey, I didn’t touch that slimy bastard, although I had plenty of reason to.”

  “That’s more like it,” said Clara. “Anger where it belongs. Now you don’t seem like such a pushover.” She closed the door behind her, and Emily watched through the side window as she drove off.

  “Spend thirty years around three and four-year olds and you learn a thing or two about fighting for your toys,” said Emily to herself. She flopped onto her bed, punched her pillow into submission, and dreamed Fred was still alive and throwing hundred dollar bills out their car window.

  She awoke to the sound of a phone ringing. Fred was still dead and there were no hundred dollar bills anywhere in sight. Her mouth had a gummy feel to it, and she licked salt off her lips. Crackers.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Mrs. Costa?” the voice on the other end of the line asked. Emily recognized it. The company had called several times since Fred’s death looking for money.

  Emily groaned, hung up, and headed into the bathroom. No, this is not Mrs. Costa. We never got around to marrying, and he never got around to putting my name on anything. She looked at her face in the mirror and saw defeat there, then remembered Clara’s words from earlier this morning. She gritted her teeth, threw her toothbrush into the sink, and stalked into the bedroom where she picked up the phone.

  “Arnold Mortgage? I think you called me a moment ago looking for Mrs. Costa. I’m Ms. Rhodes. I was Mr. Costa’s life partner. The mortgage due on our park model trailer will be a little late this month. And yes, I’m aware that you haven’t received last month’s yet either, but you see I had to use my pension check to pay my lawyer, but I got a job, so I can get a partial payment to you this week.”

  She spent several more minutes on the phone with the company, assuring them she could meet the payment schedule they were willing to lay out for her. She saw no reason to tell them she might lose her new job because she was the prime suspect in a murder or that Fred was dead and she was making payments on
a house that now legally belonged to Fred’s ex-wife.

  The phone rang again.

  “Ms. Rhodes?” This time it was for her, but any relief she might have felt at the call evaporated when the caller reminded her that the insurance on her old, red sedan was overdue and would be cancelled tomorrow unless she made a payment today.

  Another payment schedule to be arranged. Another twenty minutes out of her life to remind her how Fred had failed her.

  At least she wouldn’t have to deal with the car people any longer, she thought as she scooped coffee grounds into the pot and punched the brew light. The loan company holding Fred’s note on the Buick Sebring convertible, the one Fred assured her they could afford, picked up the car several weeks ago. Like so many things Emily had depended upon, it was in his name.

  In Emily’s imagination the car had been towed off to Fred so that he could drive it around in heaven. No. Correction. He was driving it through flames. Didn’t she wish. Again remembering Clara’s advice, she adjusted her attitude. Time to put a little steel in my backbone. I’ve got a roof over my head and my car to drive to work. The maneuvering on the house probably constitutes some form of fraud, so I won’t tell my lawyer about it for a while.

  The thought of her lawyer must have sent a negative ripple throughout the cosmos because, when the phone rang this time, it was Mr. Palatier.

  “Ms. Rhodes,” he said. His voice came across smooth as a weasel’s.

  “Mr. Palatier. I was thinking about you.”

  “Thinking about that retainer, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  She got him off the phone by promising a three hundred dollar check in the mail. She figured he might continue on the case if she sent him a hundred, no fifty, perhaps.

  She glanced at the clock and realized it was after ten. She felt too tired to play golf with the ladies today, but she didn’t have time to find a substitute. She’d have to go, even though the last thing she wanted was to revisit the scene of the crime. But not her crime, she reminded herself. She thought it damn silly that detective thought she was involved in the murder. How could she take him seriously?

  It was her turn to ferry the gals to the course. She worried they’d be disappointed at having to ride in Stan the Sedan and not the convertible.

  But they weren’t at all unhappy. They were too excited about the news in the morning paper announcing the murder of Marcus Davey.

  “Wasn’t he your mixology instructor?” asked Vicki.

  Vicki was her next door neighbor and the friend responsible for first helping Emily pick up the pieces of her life after Fred’s death.

  Emily thought back to Fred’s memorial service and her conversation with Vicki. She had finally admitted to her friend that she and Fred weren’t married. Most of the folks in the condominium RV park where they wintered were Midwesterners—conservative, church-going types who wouldn’t have accepted the couple if they’d known there’d been no minister to bless their union. Emily also told Vicki of her financial plight. Everything except for Stan the Sedan, her old car, was in Fred’s name only.

  “I’m terrified I’ll get thrown out of the house,” she had told Vicki. All this was before Emily knew the worst of it. First, no will could be located and then, when it was, it left the ex-wife all his property.

  Vicki had come up with a great idea. “Every time we have a neighborhood party here, you’re the one who makes the drinks. You’re a better bartender than most of the ones at the restaurants, bars, and clubs around here. Why don’t you take a bartending course? There certainly are enough places in the area where you could get a job.”

  Vicki had expressed her appreciation of Emily’s mixology skills on numerous occasions, and she was hard to please. A tall, Nordic blonde, she liked her drinks as big as she was, but done right.

  Marie Jordan’s voice brought Emily’s thoughts back to the present. “Yeah, the dead man was your instructor, wasn’t he, and he almost flunked you, didn’t he? Sure you didn’t bump him off because he was so mean to you?”

  Emily gave a wan smile while her friends hooted at the notion of retired preschool teacher, tiny Emily Rhodes, killing anybody. A good thing they can’t read my mind when it comes to what I’d like to do to Fred, except, of course, he’s already dead. I hope they never find out where I spent most of last night either.

  As if reading Emily’s mind, Vicki spoke. “You came home pretty late last night. I got up around four to pee and your car wasn’t in the drive. Where were you? The bar can’t stay open that late, can it?”

  “No. I was in jail,” Emily said. She made it sound like a joke.

  The friends whooped and hollered with laughter once more, and Emily joined them. They’d soon find out the truth anyway. She pressed down harder on the accelerator so they wouldn’t be late for their tee time.

  Detective Lewis unfolded his body from the police cruiser. It had been a long night, and the morning felt more like a week than half a day. He ached in every joint. Couldn’t be he was getting older, could it? He dismissed the thought. He’d spent the past two hours checking the alibi the victim’s widow had given for the time Davey had been killed. It was one of the best he’d run across in years, and it stood up. She’d been at a bible study class.

  He’d sent Toby, that worthless pile of gator poop, to look at all of Davey’s enemies. It was a job that would take days, provided Toby worked at it and didn’t park in the shade of some palm tree and nap away the afternoon. Marcus Davey was a man not many in the community liked.

  Lewis ran his hand over his face. He should have stopped at the station and taken a minute to shave. He moved his shoulders up and down and stretched his back. Where was that little gal?

  A beat-up red car pulled into the club parking lot and Lewis recognized the person with the blonde hair driving it as the woman he’d questioned or tried to question last night. That little five foot bundle of attitude had eluded him with the help of Clara. Now he had her.

  He spotted Clara at the side door of the club house. She saw him at the same time.

  “Detective.” She yelled loud enough to announce his presence to all in the parking lot. Emily ducked into the side entrance of the club. By the time Lewis entered the building he glimpsed Emily’s Kelly green golfing outfit as she turned the corner and ran into the women’s room. A taller Valkyrie-like woman followed her into the bathroom. My God, she’s being guarded by Amazons, Lewis thought.

  “Looking for someone?” asked Clara. She joined Lewis in the hallway.

  “You know damn well I am, and you know who. You warned her off. But I can wait here until she comes out.”

  “Suit yourself, detective,” said Clara. She covered the smile forming on her lips with her hand, then turned and walked down the hallway into the bar. Through the window she watched as Emily and the other three women in her foursome exited the rear door of the women’s lounge. They grabbed the two carts waiting for them and drove off to the first tee.

  “Ha,” said Clara to no one in particular. She rinsed off some bar glasses and placed them on a towel to dry. “You’ve got a mighty long wait ahead of you, Detective Lewis.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Lewis knew he was an expert when it came to interviewing witnesses. He could make even the coldest of criminals uncomfortable, pinning them with his steely gaze and trapping them in their own lies. One meeting with him and the thought of another confrontation sent suspects running for a pen and a confession form. So when Emily Rhodes did not reappear from the bathroom, Lewis was surprised his appearance at the club hadn’t shaken her up enough to spring her from the ladies room. Instead, here he was hanging out in the hallway with tanned, chattering ladies in golf garb toting Big Berthas and Ping putters pushing him out of the way to get to their carts.

  He worked his jaw in anger and embarrassment when he realized she’d slipped past him. Worse, he knew she had eluded him intentionally. No fear in her. No respect either, he added to himself.

  “They p
laying nine or eighteen?” he asked. He slid onto a bar stool.

  “Eighteen.” Clara’s eyes locked with his and held. “The bar doesn’t open for another hour,” she said. She returned to wiping bar glasses.

  “I’m not here to drink. You know that.” He hesitated a moment, then tapped his knuckles on the bar. “Maybe you can tell me a little about her. You hired her. Must have thought well of her background for the job.”

  Clara raised one of her auburn eyebrows in a look of skepticism, and put down the glass she’d been polishing. Then she shrugged and walked around the bar to take a seat beside the detective.

  “Okay. But only because I like you.” Lewis smiled at her remark. “Some. I like you some, even though you’re a cop.” Lewis’ smile disappeared.

  “Emily needed a job, and I thought she’d be the right person for the clientele here. Young bartenders tend to move around too much, and I wanted someone with staying power. Emily’s the age of most of our members, and she knows how to treat people. And customers feel they can talk to her. She’s a hard worker and strong for her build. She’s worked out well except for a few snags.”

  “Like?”

  “Like locking herself out when she empties the garbage. I think she’s got a lot on her mind right now, and she forgets.”

  “That’s one.”

  “The other will never be repeated now that Davey is dead. And it wasn’t her doing. It was his.”

  “I can’t ask him about that, can I? So tell me what the issue was between them.”

  “I told you. He came in here that night, drunk. She refused to serve him, and I backed her on that. Sent him out the door.”

  Lewis thought there was more to it than that, but he let it go for now and shifted his attention from Clara to the scene outside the window.

  A young woman in a bright pink golf outfit was hitting balls from a driving range tee box. The golf pro, Lenny Sharples, stood behind her, smiling and nodding his head. As mediocre a player as Lewis was, he could tell a promising young golfer when he saw one.