The Icing on the Corpse

by Liz Mugavero

  “And Alice, of course, found the poor man’s body. The way Helga told the story—because Alice never spoke about it—she went down to retrieve some old cards from the card catalogue, a once-a-month project, and there he was. It deeply affected her. She really wasn’t ever the same. And Tommy, either. All the girls liked Tommy, you know. But he only had eyes for Helga. Until all this. He left town a few days later and was never heard from again. Which sent Helga into a bit of a tailspin. She had a difficult time after that, too.” Dede sighed. “Never stopped looking for him. Death touches a lot of lives, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does,” Stan said. “No one ever heard from Tommy again?”

  Dede shook her head. “Not that I know of. It was like he fell off the face of the earth.”

  “What about Dale Hatmaker?” Stan asked.

  Dede blinked. “What about him?”

  “Was he involved in that mess?”

  “Hmm. You know, I don’t think so,” Dede said. “He’s too young to be part of that crowd. He would’ve been just a boy when that happened, and besides, I don’t think he’s lived here all his life.”

  Well, that killed Stan’s theory that Hatmaker had a personal stake in the boxer’s murder, or the solving of said murder. Which didn’t, in her mind, remove him as a suspect in Helga’s murder because of his thirst for Helga’s position. But this diverged him from the Felix Constantine path.

  “So . . . Alice Donahue was Betty’s mom. She died young, right?”

  “Very young,” Dede said. “Such a sad thing. Cancer, but I was convinced it was her mind. Like I said, she never recovered from that man’s death. Betty was barely twenty. Just when she needed her mother most. I still think if Alice had been alive, Betty never would have married that good-for-nothing Burt Meany.”

  Burt had a great reputation. “What about Betty’s dad?” Stan asked.

  Dede sniffed. “He was not the nicest man. He went on with his life, no problem. Once Betty went to college, he moved away. I don’t think she sees him much even today. She really was gypped in the parental department, poor thing.”

  “But Helga took over because she and Alice were so close.”

  Dede thought about that, then nodded carefully. “I suppose in a way, yes. But Helga, well, I loved Helga, let’s get that out of the way. She did have a difficult streak. She expected a lot from people. Especially people she felt responsible for. I always joked that both her husbands had died to be free of her expectations. She had to have mellowed, because Gerry, her boyfriend, had no problems. But she was tough on a lot of people. Family, friends, everyone. Even Maeve had distanced herself these last months. Especially after the card games dwindled. Forty-fives.” She winked. “Maeve was the reigning champ. They played every week, with partners, for money. With most of the group gone, the card games barely happen anymore. They used to have such fun. And fight to the death about it. But when Arthur stopped playing, it skewed the numbers.”

  “Arthur?”

  “Pierce, yes. Cyril’s dad. They were all friends. It’s harder for him to be social, since he moved. He lives at Knotty Pines now, and he has to rely on the senior center bus to get around. And I just heard about his recent diagnosis, poor man. What a terrible shame. He just told us about it last week when he came over to the senior center for a card game. He didn’t have his usual oomph, that’s for sure. He used to have such a temper about his card games. He would throw the cards and storm out if he lost. I’m surprised they all lasted the past fifty years playing together.”

  Arthur Pierce. Not just a reporter, but a friend. This web grew wider and more intricate with every conversation. It probably wasn’t unusual to have so many connections in such a small place, but with everything else going on, it was taking on a life of its own. Stan’s brain felt like a rapidly regenerating spider’s web, and she was having a heck of a time linking all the names where they needed to be. “So, Maeve and Helga weren’t as close anymore either? What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something didn’t seem right between them over the past month or so.” Dede took another cookie. “They used to go to Bingo together, too, every Sunday, and Maeve started showing up alone. And Maeve didn’t even go to Helga’s last talk on the new exhibit at the museum. Usually she was the first one there, supporting her friend. Selfishly, I was too busy with my babies to give it much thought.” She stroked Lila’s fur. “Speaking of my babies—not that this hasn’t been a lovely trip down memory lane—what kinds of fun wedding things do you have to show me?”

  Stan turned her attention to the upcoming canine nuptials and gave Dede an update on her progress, but her mind kept wandering back to Helga. A lot of things had changed in Helga’s life after Felix Constantine’s murder—her friend Alice, who’d discovered the body and suffered irreversible trauma, the abrupt departure of her boyfriend, Tommy. That event seemed to be a consistent black cloud that followed her and her friends for years. It clearly had stuck with her.

  The more Stan learned, the more convinced she was that Felix Constantine’s death sixty years ago was somehow the key to Helga’s death. She was just having trouble making that key fit into the right lock.

  Chapter 27

  Stan pulled into her driveway. She didn’t notice Cyril sitting on her front porch steps until she’d gotten out of her car. His bike stood neatly to the side of her porch. He had an orange cat with him. The cat sat right next to him, at attention, watching Stan as she climbed the steps.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  Cyril pointed to the cat’s collar. There was a piece of paper clipped to it. “I’m not sure who this is. He was just sitting here when I got here. But he has a note. I didn’t read it. Didn’t seem to be my place.”

  “Hmmm.” Stan regarded the cat, then stooped to pet him. He immediately purred and smushed his face against her hand. “I don’t remember seeing you around before. Do you have a house? Are you just here for a treat because someone told you it was the place to go?”

  Cyril watched her curiously but didn’t say anything. Inside the door, the dogs barked. The cat wasn’t fazed.

  “Let’s see what this note says.” Stan took the piece of paper off the cat. He watched her with interested green eyes.

  “Dear Stan,” she read. “My name is Benedict. My mommy just died and I need a home. Can you help? I heard you have good food. XO, Benedict.” She looked at Cyril. “What the . . . Who does that? And why does that name sound familiar?”

  He shrugged. “Your reputation precedes you.” He glanced at his watch. “We have a story to write. Can you give the cat a home or not?”

  “I can’t just take someone’s cat! Who left him here? Are you sure you didn’t see anybody?” She looked around, as if the perpetrator might be hiding behind one of her trees. She couldn’t quite place the name but felt certain she’d heard it recently.

  “I’m telling you, no one was around but this cat.”

  “This is nuts.” She sighed. “Well, come on. I’ll set you up in the guest room until we figure out who dropped you off on my doorstep.” She scooped the cat up. He purred again and rubbed against her chin.

  He was adorable. Stan had always been partial to orange cats, not that she could admit it to Nutty, who certainly wasn’t going to be thrilled.

  “Come on in,” she said. “I was actually looking forward to telling you how it went with Pasquale.”

  “Really,” Cyril said. “That’s good news.” He followed her inside, stopping briefly to pet the dogs.

  “Come sit. I’m going to put the cat upstairs.” She snuck up to her guest room as stealthily as possible without letting Nutty see their guest. Luckily she had an extra litterbox. She hurried to the basement, filled it up, and brought it to Benedict’s room. She set up a blanket for him, then went downstairs to fetch some food and water as Cyril paced her kitchen. Nutty watched her suspiciously as she added a couple of treats to the bowl.

  “Relax,” she told both
of them. To Nutty, “I’ll explain later.”

  When she returned, Cyril sat, pen and notebook out. “So what happened with Trooper Pasquale?”

  Stan recounted her conversation with Jessie while she made a new pot of coffee.

  “Thank you for defending the newspaper. But you didn’t get anything on why they think it’s foul play.”

  Stan frowned. Maybe she hadn’t done so well after all. “She wouldn’t comment.”

  Cyril paused in his pacing and tapped his fingers on the counter. “I’m not surprised. She always plays things close to the vest.”

  “Shocking, considering her personality.” Stan made a face, then reminded herself she was talking to a real reporter. About Jake’s sister. She was losing her PR edge. “I still don’t get why she’s after you. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.” She eyed him, wary again. “People would tell me I’m crazy, having you, a murder suspect, in my house.”

  He shrugged. “I’m only a person of interest so far. I didn’t do anything to Helga. I think there’s more to this than Pasquale is letting on. She told me I was seen in the vicinity.”

  “And that person thought, gee, Cyril looks like he’s off to murder someone? None of this makes any sense,” Stan said. “Didn’t you and Helga get along?”

  “We got along swimmingly,” Cyril said.

  “Swimmingly?” Stan rolled her eyes.

  “Hey, did you get voices?” Cyril asked, changing the subject.

  “Voices? What do you mean? Isn’t that Sarah Oliver’s department?”

  “Real people. Reactions to the news.”

  “No, that wasn’t part of the deal,” Stan said.

  “It’s always part of the deal. It’s how you write a story.” He glanced at his watch. “There are people at the War Office tonight for special tours in honor of Helga. Can you run over and ask them? Those are her friends anyway. They’ll be good choices.”

  Stan opened her mouth to protest when the doorbell rang. “Hang on,” she muttered, and headed down the hall, the dogs at her heels.

  Jessie Pasquale stood there, dressed in full uniform, face grim. “Stan. Is Cyril Pierce here?”

  Stan stared at her. This couldn’t be good. His bike was right outside—and it was distinctive, with that silly basket on the front—so she couldn’t say no. “Why do you—”

  “Cyril Pierce?” Jessie called out, stepping past Stan into the hall. Henry and Scruffy started barking their nervous barks, Henry’s coupled with worried looks in Stan’s direction.

  “Shh, guys,” she said, grabbing their collars as Cyril appeared in the hall.

  “Yeah?” He didn’t seem fazed that the resident state trooper was looking for him.

  “Can you come with me, please?” Jessie asked.

  “Where are we going?”

  Jessie sighed. “Cyril, just get in the car.”

  He crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, Trooper. I need to know what this is about.”

  “Fine, then.” Pasquale didn’t look at Stan. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Helga Oliver.”

  Stan’s mouth dropped. What was Jessie doing? “Jessie. You can’t—”

  “Be quiet, please,” Jessie said, eyes still on Cyril. “Let’s go.”

  Cyril acquiesced. “May I get my coat?” he asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  He went into the kitchen, returned a minute later with his coat and hat. “It’s fine if you need to handcuff me,” he said.

  Pasquale rolled her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  As he walked by Stan, he said urgently, “Get the voices and finish the story. I left you an e-mail address on the table. E-mail it there by eight and it will get printed. And don’t worry. The truth will prevail,” he said in a louder voice, as Jessie Pasquale took his arm and led him out the door.

  Stan watched helplessly as Pasquale led him to the squad car. This made no sense. Why wasn’t Pasquale looking at others with more motive? Unless there really was something Cyril wasn’t telling her, he wasn’t it.

  Was he?

  Chapter 28

  Stan regretted not having more compassion for the reporters she’d dealt with in the past. Not that the stories they’d been writing on her previous firm had been life and death matters, but still. She remembered days of pushing them right to their deadlines—even past them—because of corporate red tape and revision after revision of a two-sentence statement, demanding approval rights for quotes, insisting they change the slant of the story because it could be construed as slightly unfavorable.

  She offered up a silent mea culpa to the journalism gods, then got out of her car and hurried to the door of the War Office. Before she could push the heavy wooden door open, it opened in front of her. A woman who had to be Helga’s age or pretty darn close to it smiled at her. She wore a full-bodied light blue dress with an apron and corset and a bonnet over gray braids. Her bright red lipstick made her look like a corpse. “Good evening, child! Please, come in. Welcome to the War Office, headquarters of the Revolution efforts.”

  Stan stepped into the room onto the gray slatted floor, uneven from years of heavy boots traipsing through, and took it in. Another place she’d never been to, just like the historical society and the museum. She felt terrible about that. Especially since she was only here now to get a quote. It wasn’t that she had no interest; rather, she’d simply never made the time. When the volunteers had been part of other events out on the green, she’d enjoyed their tributes to the Revolutionary War, but a visit to learn about the town’s war efforts wasn’t anything that had occupied her mind as a must-do.

  “Thank you,” she said to the bonneted woman, who struggled to close the heavy door behind her without letting it slam. “I’m Stan Connor.”

  “Millie Simmons. Thank you for visiting the War Office.” She clasped her hands together and smiled. “Let me get my cape and I’ll give you the tour.” Millie hurried through a doorway into another room.

  Left alone, Stan observed her surroundings. The house was larger than it appeared from the outside. She took a few steps until she was in the center of the room next to a small, wooden card table with a matching folding chair. On the table was a feather pen, some sheets of paper, and a small lantern. An old-fashioned writing desk was pushed up against the wall. The floor next to it was a trapdoor. The rest of the room was filled with supplies, most likely for events: drums, whiskey barrels, toy rifles and wooden cutouts of rifles, pieces of costumes, and white cloth bags filled with something Stan couldn’t identify. The fireplace looked like it was used regularly. Stan supposed it was—there probably wasn’t any heat in here, and if there was, who would pay the bill? Revolutionary War weapons decorated the walls—muskets, rifles, all kinds of nasty-looking swords.

  Millie returned from the other room. She wore a long blue cape over her dress. “Well, then, let’s show you around!” she exclaimed. “This is our main room, where the war officers strategized and kept watch over what was happening. It was a dark and dire time, and our soldiers and leaders worked tirelessly—”

  “Um . . . Ms. Simmons? I hate to interrupt.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. Ask whatever questions you have.”

  “I’d love to hear all about the War Office, but I’m here because I need to talk to one or two of Helga Oliver’s friends.”

  Her smiled flickered a tad, but remained in place. “We’re all Helga’s friends here. What did you want to talk about? Other than how we miss her so, and this place is a bit worse with her absence.”

  Stan nodded somberly. “I understand that. But I’m here as a reporter. To talk about a new development in her death.”

  Millie faltered. “You . . . reporter? Development? Whatever do you mean, dear?” She sat down heavily on her folding chair, as if she were afraid the conversation would be too much to bear standing up.

  Stan pulled her steno pad out of her pocket, already feeling like the devil. This reporting thing was difficult. “I’m writing a story for the
Holler. Someone has been arrested in Helga’s death.” It sounded so surreal, to say it out loud. “The police think her fall wasn’t an accident. Would you care to comment?”

  Millie’s face went deathly white. Alarmed, Stan took a step toward her, afraid she might faint. Before Millie could say anything, the door swung open again and a man, also in full costume, entered, his heavy boots rattling the floor. Despite the funny hat, Stan recognized him. Edgar Fenwick, the ghost-hater. “Millie? Oh, hello there. I love to see visitors!” He adjusted his pants over his big belly as he walked over to Stan and pumped her hand. “Edgar Fenwick. Pleased to have you here.”

  “Mr. Fenwick, hello. I’m—”

  “Edgar,” Millie interrupted. “She’s not a visitor. She’s . . . a reporter.” Her lip quivered.

  Edgar took a good look at Stan, squinting slightly. “Reporter, eh? With whom? Not the local. Cyril wouldn’t know what to do with the likes of you.” He chuckled.

  “I’m writing for the Holler. It’s about—”

  “Helga. It’s about Helga,” Millie cut her off again. “Edgar, you’ll have to talk to her. You won’t believe what she has to say.” She rose from her folding chair and fled into the other room, where Stan suspected she was hovering in the doorway listening.

  “Helga, she says? What do you need, young lady?” Edgar took the chair his counterpart had vacated.

  Stan stifled a sigh and began her spiel all over again. “Trooper Pasquale has made an arrest in Helga’s death,” she finished. “I’d like to get some reactions on that.”

  “Arrest?” Edgar echoed. “What in blazes are you talking about, young lady? And where is Cyril?”

  Stan sighed. “The police think someone killed Helga,” she explained again. She let the second question go unanswered.

  Fenwick’s eyes opened wide as saucers. “You’re joking.” Around the corner, Millie made a sound like a baby bird screeching.

  “I’m afraid I’m not.”

  He stared at her. Millie came back into view, wiping tears away. “Who . . . who did it?” she asked in a wobbly voice.