Burgundy and Bodies

by Sandra Woffington

  Joy handed Cynthia the head and searched the labels to find matching arms. The parts reminded her of her youth. Sam had brought home a doll or two: a Barbie and a Disney Perfume Princess. They didn’t look like her. They wore shiny clothes and had lipstick-smiles. She dismembered them and put their legs or arms on backwards. She popped their heads off and transplanted them onto the other. A white head on the black doll. A black head on the white doll. She snipped their hair and gelled it into a mangled mess, used pens to give their faces and arms and legs character—like scars with large stitch marks—and she used a roll of black electrical tape she’d found in the garage to clothe them like some kind of steampunk soldiers. When satisfied, she sat them on the shelf and never played with them again. At least, they looked like how she felt. They belonged. “I know of some countries that must have religious prohibitions or other restrictions for using their own dead for scientific purposes.”

  “You’re right. Many countries do not allow this business, but they readily purchase tissue from the US to train their doctors or medical students or for research.”

  Joy found a matching arm and wished, momentarily, she could put this person back together. She passed the arm to Cynthia.

  Max sat across from Eugene. “Do you want to call a lawyer?”

  “No. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “You are being recorded. How did your prints end up on the cigar butt found at Shane Drake’s house?”

  “After the poker party, when everyone left and while Cynthia cleaned up, I saw the chief’s cigar butt in the ashtray on the table. It seems foolish to say this, but I was feeling rather cocky, knowing that Anne would return. I slipped to my room, stepped out the French doors, and stood there watching the stars—they’re so bright when you live away from city lights. I listened to the creek and the sounds of night, and I smoked. Cynthia would have had my head. She doesn’t like smoking, and given that her mother was a drunk, she doesn’t like drink much either, but I don’t go overboard on either.”

  “So you smoked. What then?”

  “I put it out, returned to the great room, and set it back in the ashtray. Cynthia was still handwashing the crystal glasses.”

  Max needed to push him. “That’s convenient, Eugene. But the facts are that you were the last person to see Anne alive—by your own admission. And you could have smoked that cigar at Shane’s house.”

  “That’s not what happened!”

  “Your first wife became a drunk. Was that to escape from you?”

  “Linda had severe post-partum depression! She was only eighteen when she had Cynthia. Not that age matters.”

  “And she hated being a mother and a wife. And then Mayleen left you.”

  “I told you, I have bad luck with women.”

  “Maybe if we search the lockers, we’ll find Mayleen.”

  “What a horrible thing to say! That’s disgusting!”

  “Maybe Anne came back to talk, to unload her problems, but you made a pass. Did she fight you off? Is that what happened?”

  “Why are you saying that? I’ve never attacked a woman in my life! The chief is your man! His prints had to be all over that cigar. He must have killed Anne. He waited for her, and when he saw her leave my house, he confronted her! Or Grant. Not me!”

  “Anne didn’t deserve to die, Eugene.”

  Eugene put his head in his hands and wept. “She kissed me so tenderly. She made love to me like I loved her. I’ve never been so happy.” He pulled himself together and faced Max. “We’d have been so happy. A full house. Anne for me and Shane for Cynthia. Poor Cynthia. I’m all she’s ever known. She’s devoted her life to caring for me. She deserves better, Detective King. She deserves a life.”

  Max could not believe his ears. Why had he not seen it before? How could it be? “Eugene, you just told me that Cynthia had access to the cigar butt that you smoked. If you didn’t kill Anne…then Cynthia did.”

  “No! Stop right there! That’s not…” Eugene flew out of his seat. “Oh, my god! No! Not Cynthia. The chief! He did it.”

  “Didn’t Cynthia find your wife in the pool?”

  “Yes, but she had come home from school at the end of the day.”

  “She could have hit Linda on the head. Made it look like an accident. Or she came home, found her mother passed out, and slipped her into the pool.”

  “That’s crazy! You’ve seen her. She bakes, she cleans, she never complains.”

  “Think, Eugene! This is important!” If his hunch was right, Joy could be in danger. “How did Mayleen disappear?”

  “We’d been dating for a while. We planned a getaway to Hawaii. She changed her mind. Left a note.”

  “How did Cynthia take it?”

  “She didn’t like Mayleen. I told you that, but she had good reason. Mayleen had a troubled past. Drugs. Gangs. But she’d changed. Mayleen didn’t even drink alcohol.”

  “Why would Cynthia hate her then—I’ll tell you why, because you found a mate. You said so yourself, Cynthia has devoted her life to you, Eugene. She got rid of her drunken mother, who probably embarrassed her and you. Didn’t you tell me she even mothered her own mother?”

  “Yes, but she did it because she knew her mother suffered from depression.”

  “You took Cynthia on trips. You became the perfect parent. But in daily life, she had a mother who couldn’t be a mother.”

  “Stop it! Linda hit her head and fell in the pool and drowned!”

  “If I check the school records and find Cynthia skipped a class or two that day…”

  Eugene stumbled. His knees buckled beneath him. He grabbed the chair back for support and crumpled into the seat. “Dear God! I remember. There was a message on the phone machine ‘Your daughter has cut one or more classes.’ But my wife was dead! I didn’t think…you’ve got to be wrong!”

  “Mayleen upset her plan to care for you until the day you died. Shane also got in the way.”

  Eugene put his head in his hands. “It can’t be true. It can’t be!”

  Max didn’t wait another second. He bolted from the room and shouted, “Hold him! And send back-up to the mortuary!”

  Max jumped into the car, turned on the siren and the lights, and shot into the night.

  24

  Joy handed Cynthia the last arm and watched her meticulously set it in the cooler, nudging this piece and that like a human puzzle until it all fit together exactly right. “Anne liked your father very much.”

  Cynthia put on gloves and grabbed frozen gel packs from another freezer. She set them atop the body parts like packing steaks. “Anne liked many men. She didn’t deserve a man as good as my father.”

  “You deserved a better mother too.”

  “My mother hurt my father. Before I started to help him at the mortuary, I could protect him. I’d put my mother to bed, so that by the time Papa got home, we had a peaceful, quiet dinner. I’d hang out with him in the kitchen as he cooked or he’d bring dinner home. After that, I’d snuggle up against him on the couch, and we’d watch television and laugh and talk.”

  “You started to cook.”

  “When I was only ten. Simple things. I could make spaghetti or Hamburger Helper or chicken with RiceARoni or mac and cheese. Dad always raved about it. But by twelve, I started to find real recipes, like lasagna, and I’d surprise him.”

  “You had him all to yourself. What changed?”

  “He and Grant started this business. Dad started coming home later and later, so I insisted that I help him after school. He let me, and while they worked, Dad, and sometimes Grant, would help me with homework.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Almost sixteen.”

  “And your mother?”

  Cynthia set a layer of dry ice over the gel packs. “Dad and I would come home and find mother passed out on the couch or on the floor. Sometimes, she’d vomited on the carpet. It was a difficult mess to clean up. Dad hated for me to see her like that. We’d both help get her to bed
, and I’d clean up the mess.”

  “I don’t remember my mother.”

  Cynthia stopped working and stared at Joy. “You’re lucky.”

  “And Mayleen?”

  Cynthia set a layer of bubble wrap over the dry ice, set the lid in place, and placed packaging tape across the seams. “An ex drug addict? She wanted my father’s money. Dad doesn’t understand women. He’s naïve.”

  Joy closed the freezer. “So you killed them. And Anne. Anyone who got too close to your father.”

  Cynthia didn’t answer. “My drunken mother hit her head and fell into the pool.”

  “That’s when you moved. After she died. Your dad built the house. I imagine he included you in picking out every detail.”

  “I like flowers.”

  “You took your mom’s place, Cynthia. You gave yourself away with the doll house.”

  Cynthia kept taping, but she eyed Joy like prey.

  “No nursery. No children. Just a mother and a father—or a father and a daughter. The perfect house. But Mayleen moved in on your father.”

  “Mayleen ran away.”

  “Maybe Mayleen is in one of these freezers.” Joy patted the top. “Killers usually like to keep their trophies. The first kill, your mother, that was probably unplanned, spur of the moment. Maybe you came home and found her passed out by the pool. She just needed a nudge.”

  Cynthia ran tape over the edges of the container.

  Joy moved closer to Cynthia. “Mayleen was also quick thinking. You probably lured her here with some pretense when your father was at home packing. You killed Anne on a whim too. Your bedroom is just across the hall from your father’s. You heard them. And you waited until Anne left. You followed her. You smashed a rock against her skull and dragged her to the creek and shoved her face into the mud. But why Shane, Cynthia? Because your father wanted you to marry him?”

  Cynthia stopped taping. She walked away from Joy and over to the stainless steel workbench. “The chief killed Anne and Shane.”

  “At some point, your father smoked that cigar. Maybe the chief shared it with him when you weren’t looking. You cleaned up after the game. And there it was. You wanted to frame the chief, but you framed your father, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia reached for the bone saw and flipped the switch. The blade whined and whirred. “You’re ruining everything!” She swung the blade at Joy.

  Joy leaped back, but the steel table stopped her retreat. Joy grabbed Cynthia’s forearm.

  The saw hovered inches from Joy’s face.

  Cynthia pushed with full might. Her face twisted like a crazed Stepford robot bent on murder. Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth clenched. The muscles of her cheeks twitched with effort.

  It took Joy’s full might to swing the blade to the side, where it hovered just over her shoulder. With one movement, Joy rammed her knee into Cynthia’s groin and shoved the blade away. The blade crashed down against the steel table, sparked, and gouged the metal.

  Joy spun away. “Why Shane? It doesn’t matter now. You’re going to kill me.”

  Cynthia came after Joy. “He saw the note I’d written to my father pretending to be Mayleen. He knew my handwriting. I ground up a codeine tablet and put it in his beer. By the time I got to his house, he could barely unlock the door.”

  “He’d tell your father?”

  “He promised he wouldn’t, if I married him. He said it was a good deal for everybody. That I would take good care of him, and he’d take over working with Papa, so I could stay home and raise a batch of kids.”

  “He tried to take your place. You had to kill him.”

  “No one will take my place!” Cynthia lunged forward with the saw.

  Joy ran around the table.

  Sirens blared in the distance.

  “They’re coming, Cynthia. To arrest you.”

  Cynthia shoved the table out of the way. It smashed against the large white freezer with a bang. She held the saw in the air, grimaced, and ran forward.

  Joy threw up her arms to defend herself. But nothing stood between her, Cynthia or the blade. Joy’s FBI sparring instincts emerged. She spun and kicked Cynthia in the gut.

  Cynthia hunched over but recovered quickly. She ran after Joy with the spinning saw blade out in front.

  Joy was trapped in the corner with her arms up, ready to fight or lose a limb trying.

  A shot rang out.

  Cynthia spun around.

  Max stood in the doorway. He’d fired a warning shot into the ceiling.

  Cynthia rat straight at him, face contorted, the blade whirring and spinning.

  Max fired. The sound echoed in the small room.

  A red blotch grew at the corner of Cynthia’s white apron near her shoulder. She crumpled to the floor. The moment she let go of the saw, the blade stopped. A safety feature required pressure on the trigger to keep it moving.

  Joy rushed to the girl. She pressed her hands against the wound. Max dropped beside them.

  Steele stormed in behind Max, and behind him, other officers. “Call for an ambulance,” shouted Max.

  Steele shouted. “I already did. Just in case.” He eyed Joy.

  Joy heaved to catch her breath and nodded thanks.

  An ambulance team flew into the room and started working on Cynthia.

  Max and Joy straightened up and gave them room.

  Max put a hand on Joy’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good. I thought you’d be here ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m the slow one, remember. You’re the genius. No, I take that back. You put yourself in danger. Next time, we interrogate the suspects! We get a search warrant and go through these lockers. You hear me?”

  “It was a hunch, Max. I didn’t know for sure. I needed to get her to open up. Mayleen’s in here. I’m sure of it.”

  “Let’s get you out of here.” Max led Joy out and across the gravel to the car. He opened the door for her, despite the fact she had no injuries and could have opened it herself.

  Max walked around the car and hopped in.

  Joy was still catching her breath. “Maybe you should call the chief on the way back. Let him know he’s in the clear.”

  “Hmmm. That would be the right thing to do.” Max’s voice had a tinge of sarcastic devilry.

  “Of course, you have a report to file first. That could take some time. Hours.”

  “That it could, pardner.”

  25

  The following morning, Chief Frank Goldsby strutted into the office like a man who had walked through a blazing fire and stepped out unsinged. He nodded as he passed by officers, taking his victory lap. He even said a few good mornings. His strut lacked humility. If anything, the experience had bloated his confidence and taught him nothing, although it had been rumored that he now had a penchant for home shopping channels.

  The chief pulled Max and Joy into his office and closed the door. He sank into his seat as if reclaiming a lost parcel of land. He leaned forward and folded his hands to set a stake in the dirt. His eyes still had dark circles from too much Merlot, too many cigars, and too little sleep, but his cheeks flushed with ruddy color again, pronouncing the tiny spider veins and broken capillaries.

  “Joy, I’d like to extend your contract indefinitely. Since you completed FBI training, we can issue you hardware too.”

  Joy immediately rushed to correct him. “Thank you, Chief Goldsby, but I didn’t solve this case. Max led the team.”

  Goldsby eyed Max. “Let’s not dick around with details. Of course, I’ll give you a partner with more experience. Max is green.”

  Max’s shoulders fell. He’d become the invisible man in the room—no, the invisible elephant. Maybe the chief had a point—he was an idiot. Why had he expected Goldsby to slap a gold star on his forehead—the chief didn’t roll that way. Ever. Not when it came to him. “May I be excused, chief? I’ve got a job to do—and I’m damn good it. You know it. I know it. As far as I’m concerned, the latter is the more importa
nt of the two.”

  Goldsby didn’t bite. “Am I right, Max? Don’t you think Dr. Burton is an asset to the force?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Joy grew two inches. Her spine stiffened. “I appreciate that you think I’ve got brains, because I do. And it’s for that reason that I’m telling you that Max has natural instincts. And that, chief, is equally if not more important than brains. His gut and his head cracked this case. If not for Max, you’d be playing in the sandbox with Pokey and the gang in prison.”

  “Am I dismissed?” Max grit his teeth.

  Joy leaned in even farther, not in defeat, but as a gesture to move into the chief’s space. “Excuse Max and I’ll give you my answer.”

  Something about Joy’s expression undermined Goldsby’s confidence. He dropped his hands to his lap and leaned back. “Max, you’re excused.”

  Max left the office. Before he got ten steps away, a bang against the wall informed Max that Joy had perhaps told him to stuff it. He certainly hoped so, although he would have liked to work with her again.

  Not long after that, Joy emerged unflustered. She headed straight for Max’s desk and stood beside it. Goldsby came out and barked orders, retreated, and slammed his door shut.

  Reed Steele and another officer grabbed a vacant desk and hauled it over to Max’s station. They placed the desk edge-to-edge with Max’s, such that he and Joy would face one another.

  Steele grabbed a chair, and Joy sat down. “I’m feeling crazier by the minute, doctor. How ‘bout a drink after work?”

  “Seven. My place,” said Joy matter-of-factly. “If Monty likes you, you can stay.”

  “Did Monty like me?” asked Max.

  “She crawled over to greet you, didn’t she?”

  Steele’s brows knitted in confusion, clearly unable to ascertain if Monty was a child or something else.

  Max helped him out. “Don’t worry, Steele. Monty is twenty-one.”