Dead Giveaway

by Joanne Fluke

  “No, thanks.” Laureen laughed. “That sounds almost as bad as your husband’s sardines and cream cheese. And I don’t buy my anchovies in cans at the grocery store. I get them flash-frozen direct from the distributor.”

  “I just love anchovies, but Moira hates them so we always have to make our pizzas half-and-half, and if one little piece of my anchovy gets over on Moira’s side, she threatens me with . . . okay, I’ll stop.” Grace grinned at Moira. “Tell me where you keep your anchovies, Laureen.”

  “In the walk-in freezer, right side, second shelf. I can get them, Grace.”

  “Stay there and make the pizza. I have to get more coffee, anyway.”

  Jayne whistled as Laureen threw the dough in the air to shape it. “Lordy! Look at that!”

  “All it takes is a flick of the wrist, hours of practice, and someone to clean up the kitchen if you miss.” Laureen laughed. “I spent the whole day at Papa Luigi’s before I did my gourmet pizza show.”

  “Well, you won’t catch me trying it. I went to flip a flapjack once and it ended up sticking to the ceiling. Poor Paul had to climb up on a ladder and . . . what’s the matter, Grace?”

  Grace stood motionless before the open door to Laureen’s huge freezer. When she turned to face them, no words came out, only a terrible scream.

  They all rushed over to see. Vanessa was crumpled on the floor of the freezer, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. For a moment they just stood there in shock, but then Ellen moved Grace aside. “Let me through.”

  Ellen knelt down next to Vanessa and took her wrist. After a moment she looked up and shook her head. “She’s dead. I think she must have hit her head on something.”

  “Go for the men, Grace.” Moira took Grace’s shoulders and turned her around. “The fresh air’ll do you good.”

  When Grace had left, Moira pointed to the metal table in the center of the freezer. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Grace, she’s always been squeamish, but there’s a lot of blood down there. Vanessa must have hit her head on that table. But what was she doing in Laureen’s freezer ? And why was the door closed?”

  It took Laureen a moment, but then she caught the unspoken accusation. “You don’t think I shut her up in there, do you? Just because I said I wished she’d rot in hell . . .”

  “Hush up, Moira,” Jayne scolded, putting her arm around Laureen. “You’re going to make this poor girl feel like a treed ’possum. We all know Laureen didn’t mean it, isn’t that right, Laureen, honey?”

  “No, I meant every word,” Laureen admitted with difficulty. “But I didn’t trap her in my freezer. And I certainly didn’t shove her against that table. Think about it for a minute. I hated Vanessa enough to kill her, but do you actually think I’d let her bleed all over those wonderful lobster tails I just got in from Maine?”

  FOURTEEN

  An hour later, they were gathered in Grace and Moira’s living room again. They’d decided to hold the body in Laureen’s freezer until the police could be notified. Naturally, Laureen had put up some resistance. She’d waited years for her walk-in freezer and there was no way she wanted it turned into a morgue! It had taken some persuading, but she’d finally yielded.

  Walker and Marc had volunteered for the unpleasant task of wrapping Vanessa in a sheet and laying her out on the floor of the freezer, while Alan and Paul kept Hal company. When Walker and Marc rejoined the rest of the group in Moira and Grace’s living room, they were grim faced and solemn.

  “Brandy?” Moira passed the bottle that Alan had brought. “I think we could all use a drink.”

  Hal held out his glass for a refill.

  “Careful, Hal.” Moira poured just a bit more in his glass. “That stuff is pretty potent.”

  “It’s just what I need. I still can’t believe that Vanessa’s dead. And even worse, I don’t know whether I should drown my sorrows or celebrate. Vanessa was a real piece of work, but at least she was interesting. I think I’m going to miss her.”

  Laureen clamped her mouth shut and avoided Hal’s eyes. It was apparent that she wanted to say something, but she managed to remain silent.

  “I am sorry, Hal.” Paul patted Hal’s shoulder. “I wish to offer condolence, but I do not know which words to say.”

  Hal nodded and took another sip of his brandy. “Well, I do. I say there’s something rotten in Denmark, and don’t take that personally, Paul.”

  “I am Norwegian. You may say what you wish about Danes.”

  “Right.” Hal gave a lopsided grin and turned to Marc. “You said her skull was smashed?”

  “Hal, please,” Moira soothed, reaching for his hand. “Don’t dwell on it.”

  “I’m not dwelling. I’m just trying to make some sense out of it.” He turned to Marc again. “You think she hit her head on that metal table in Laureen’s freezer?”

  Marc nodded. “That’s what it looked like, Hal. Of course I’m no expert, but . . .”

  “What was she doing in there in the first place?” Hal interrupted. “The first time she saw Laureen’s freezer she said she thought it was scary. She told me that it reminded her of a television show where a guy was impaled on a meat hook. I just can’t picture her going in there for no reason.”

  “We think she went after the brownies. There was an open package on the floor and everyone heard Laureen say she had a batch in the freezer.”

  “Well . . . maybe.” Hal looked dubious. “Vanessa was crazy about those brownies. But that doesn’t explain how she got into your unit.”

  Alan responded immediately to Laureen’s questioning look. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong! I never gave her a key, and I have no idea how she got in. Are you sure you locked the door when you ran down to get the pizza dough?”

  Laureen frowned. “I think I did. But I could’ve left it open. I do that sometimes, when I’m just going somewhere in the building.”

  “That explains it, then.” Hal nodded. “But why did Vanessa hit her head on that table? There wasn’t anything on the floor to trip over, was there, Laureen?”

  “Only a case of lobster tails, but that was in plain sight. I’m sure she would have seen it.”

  “Not if the light went off.” Alan hurried to explain. “The freezer has two switches for the lights. The first one goes on and off with the door, the same as a refrigerator. But there’s a wall switch that overrides it. That’s on a ten-minute timer.”

  “That’s too complicated for me right now.”

  Alan patted Hal on the shoulder. “That’s all right. You’re entitled to get a little smashed. You see, there are times when you want to spend more than a couple of minutes in the freezer, rearranging the shelves or whatever, and you don’t want to leave the door open that long. That’s when you use the wall switch, and if you forget to turn it off when you leave, it shuts off automatically after ten minutes.”

  “So Vanessa used the wall switch and closed the door. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s right. Now picture this. Vanessa’s in the freezer looking for the brownies. She finally finds them and she’s opening the package when the lights click off. Naturally, she panics and runs for the door, but it’s pitch-black, and she trips over that case of lobster tails and crashes into the corner of the table.”

  Hal reflected for a moment. “That tracks, Alan. Even better than Columbo. Vanessa used to love reruns of Columbo.”

  “Buck up, old bean.” Jayne patted Hal’s shoulder. “I think you’d better stay in our guest room tonight so we can keep an eye on you.”

  Hal struggled to his feet. “No, I’m okay. I’ll just take the rest of this brandy with me, if Alan’ll let me.”

  “Go ahead, Hal.” Alan got up to offer a steadying arm. “Laureen and I’ll walk you home. And if you need another bottle just bang on our door.”

  They all said good-bye to Moira and Grace and went out.

  “Shall we hold the elevator?” Paul offered at the third floor. Laureen shook her head.
“We’ll take the stairs down to our place. It’s good exercise.”

  Ellen stared glumly at the indicator light as they passed Johnny’s unit on the fourth floor. He was a two-timing rat and she was glad he was gone, but she hoped he was safe in Italy. Those plane tickets bothered her. She’d driven him to the airport a couple of times, and before leaving he’d always checked to make sure he had his tickets.

  Number five flashed next and Ellen shivered a bit. Had Clayton and Rachael made it down the mountain on the snowmobile? Or were they at the bottom of a ravine somewhere, under a pile of twisted wreckage? The sixth floor was Betty’s and thinking about her didn’t make Ellen feel any better. At least number seven was Marc’s floor.

  “See you tomorrow.” Marc gave a wave and Ellen sighed with relief. Eight was hers and nine was Jayne and Paul’s. But ten was the spa and that’s where they’d found the hand in the pool. Ellen blinked hard. Suddenly this whole building seemed like a tomb to her, or a death trap for those still living.

  “Ellen?” Walker tapped her on the shoulder and she almost jumped out of her skin. “We’re home.”

  “Oh, sorry. I must have been daydreaming.” Ellen turned and managed a smile for Jayne and Paul as she stepped off the elevator.

  “Night, Ellen, honey.” Jayne gave a little wave. “See you tomorrow, Walker.”

  As Walker unlocked her door, Ellen turned to watch the indicator light on the elevator. The up-arrow glowed, then flickered off at the ninth floor, where it would stay until morning unless somebody called for it in the middle of the night.

  “Ellen? Coming?” Standing by the open door, Walker looked concerned. Ellen forced a smile. As she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, the indicator light began to glow again as Betty’s secret friend rode to the sixth floor for another long night of surveillance.

  Moira released her tight chignon and ran her fingers through her hair. This upswept hairstyle hurt like hell, but it was worth it if Grace didn’t notice her wrinkles. She scowled at her reflection in the mirror of the white French vanity Grace had bought her for her birthday. It was rumored to have once belonged to Marilyn Monroe, and Moira hadn’t had the heart to tell Grace that claiming reproductions had once belonged to the rich and famous was a thriving business. Once, when a client had specifically requested a Napoleon Bonaparte bed, Moira had spent months looking. She’d found six, each with papers testifying that the little dictator had slept in them. And every one had been a fake.

  The workmen had delivered the vanity while she was at work and when Moira had come home, she’d found it sitting in the bedroom with a note from Grace stuck in the corner of the mirror. Moira had left it there. It said, This once belonged to MM. You’re not blond, but you’re still my bombshell.

  Moira pulled open the drawer to take out her hairbrush. The rollers on the drawer were made of a plastic that hadn’t existed when Marilyn was alive, but she’d never tell Grace. She was brushing her hair, preparing to pull it back up into its uncomfortable twist, when Grace came in. “Leave it down, Moira,” she suggested gently. “You’re not going to have any hair left if you keep pulling it up so tight, and I like it better down, anyway. Think we ought to go up and check on Hal?”

  “Hal’s a big boy, Gracie. He can take care of himself.”

  “I suppose so,” Grace sighed, “but he had a lot of that brandy.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll come down if he needs anything, and if we hear any loud crashes, we’ll run upstairs.”

  “Moira? Could I ask you a question?”

  Moira studied Grace’s anxious expression. “What is it, Grace?”

  “Did you mean what you said at Laureen’s?”

  “I said a lot of things at Laureen’s. Did I mean what?”

  “That you knew what Vanessa was doing all the time. And that you’d never look at anyone but me.”

  Moira turned to face her lover, who looked very beautiful in lavender baby-doll pajamas, an effect thoroughly sabotaged by the old blue and red flannel shirt draped over her shoulders. “I meant it then. Right now, I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you mean?” There was a quaver in Grace’s voice.

  “Oh, you know how it is, Grace. You live with someone for years and they start taking you for granted. When bedtime rolls around, they wear ugly flannel shirts over absolutely scrumptious baby-doll pajamas.”

  Grace let out a relieved sigh and began to grin. Moira loved to tease her about her flannel shirts.

  “I know what you mean. I was in love with a woman who went to bed in an old college sweatshirt. Can you imagine that?”

  Moira smiled. She was wearing her college sweatshirt, so old that the red was now a washed-out pink and the mascot was totally unrecognizable. “Must have been grim, Grace. Did you love this woman a lot?”

  Grace sighed. “Oh, yes, much more than she deserved. One night when I couldn’t stand seeing her like that any longer, I ripped that sweatshirt right off her body and covered her all over with kisses.”

  “You did?” Moira flicked off the lights in the dressing room and took Grace’s hand. “Come on, Gracie, tell me more.”

  Betty glanced at her secret friend and smiled. At last she knew who he was, and she felt proud that such an important actor had come to visit her. She wished she could find the words to ask him why he only made scary movies, but perhaps he’d take that as an insult. Sir Laurence Olivier had refused certain movies when he hadn’t approved of the scripts, but her secret friend might not have that kind of bargaining power.

  There was something she’d meant to tell him, something about his appearance in the undertaker movies. Betty frowned and searched her mind, but her head felt light and empty, almost as if she were dreaming. Even the forbidden channels showed people sleeping, except for channel three where the funny animal man did nothing but sit on the floor and look through big piles of papers. Letting random images pop into her mind was much more interesting.

  Her secret friend had brought the candy again. Someone must have told him what she liked. As she reached for her second piece, an image popped into Betty’s mind and she smiled. A boy was handing her a box of this very same candy, wrapped in silver paper. There was a little green and red bow on top so it must have been Christmas. The card had a reindeer with a very red nose and the boy’s name was Rudolph. No, that was the reindeer’s name. The boy’s name was Charles, Charles G., and he’d drawn her name from the basket at school. No present over four dollars. No exchanging names if you got someone you didn’t like. Miss Parker was very strict about that. She could see Miss Parker now, playing the old upright piano in their classroom. They were all sitting at their desks, five rows across, seven in each row, hers second from the front in the middle row. Amy C. sat in front of her and Doug S. behind.

  She heard Miss Parker playing the Christmas songs as everyone sang.

  We three Kings of Orient are. Smoking on a big fat cigar. It was loaded, and exploded. Blam!

  But only Charles had sung it that way. And never when Miss Parker could hear him.

  Then they were opening their presents and Charles was watching her out of the corner of his eye, every freckle on his face standing out because he was blushing. Chocolate-covered cherries. She’d never liked them that much before, but she thanked Charles and told him they were her favorites. And every Christmas after that, even after Charles was grown up and had an important job with the government, he had given her a big box of chocolate-covered cherries.

  Betty frowned in concentration. There was a word for what Charles had done, a bad word. It started with a T and ended with an R and it had been in one of the crossword puzzles she’d loved before she’d gotten so sick. The clue was “one who informs or betrays.” And the word was . . . traitor! Betty shivered a little, even though the room was nice and warm. Charles, the traitor, was dead and he hadn’t loved her after all. He’d just used her to try to hurt Daddy. Still . . . sometimes she missed him, and she missed Daddy, too. She was almost sure that Daddy ha
dn’t come to see her since she’d moved into this lovely mountain chateau. Was Daddy dead like Charles?

  “What’s the matter, Betty?” The image vanished as her secret friend reached over to wipe a tear from her cheek. He was so kind, she couldn’t help but smile.

  “That’s better. I like to see you happy. Have another piece.” He was holding out the box, so she took one, just to please him, even though the candy didn’t taste like it used to. She put it into her mouth before she remembered that she had to tell him about her undertaker collection, but it wasn’t polite to speak with your mouth full. She chewed, and swallowed, and, as her eyelids closed, her message for him turned into a shimmering butterfly with gossamer wings and drifted away.

  Hal sat on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of his discarded work. He figured he must really be drunk, or he’d never have dragged out all his old portfolios. These drawings were his slush pile, the stuff he hadn’t used for one reason or another.

  He picked up an early drawing and examined it critically. This was a stripped-down version of Chiquita Chicken without her lace mantilla and red high-heeled shoes. Probably no one would recognize her.

  Hal frowned as he noticed the date on the bottom. This drawing had won the local cartoon contest. He had been seventeen that year, a senior at Jefferson High and wildly in love with a stunning blond cheerleader named Marcie Wilson, who didn’t seem to know that he existed even though her locker was right across the hall from his. Hal still remembered the morning that his winning cartoon had appeared in the paper, and Marcie Wilson, the lovely subject of every one of his adolescent fantasies, had actually stopped him in the hall to congratulate him. “That was a great chicken you drew, Hal. Are you going to the dance tonight after the game?”

  Hal had shifted from foot to foot. He hadn’t even planned on going to the game. “I don’t know. I might drop in for a couple of minutes.”