Corpse Pose

by Diana Killian

  “Mother, I’m serious!”

  Elysia arched affronted eyebrows. “So am I. I read the papers. I watch the telly. Hired killers are a fact of life. They are real. They are out there.”

  Something was out there, for sure.

  “But what would your motive be?”

  “Oh, motive!” Elysia sketched another graceful, taloned gesture.

  “There has to be a motive. You’re already rich.”

  Elysia cooed, “As the Bard says, ‘You can never be too rich or too thin.’”

  “The Bard didn’t say that.”

  “I’m sure he did, pumpkin, though possibly not in so many words.”

  With an effort, A.J. dragged the conversation back on track. “Andy said that you knew that I was…” She swallowed on the word, tried again. “That Aunt Di was leaving everything to me.”

  An odd silence punctuated the squeak of the windshield wipers and the whoosh of tires on the rain-slick road. “Well, I hate to break it to you, pumpkin, but I’d no idea Di had made you her heir until sweet little Mr. Meagher rang me up.”

  Either Andy was lying or Elysia was. It was so typical of her mother to force herself into the spotlight, even if it meant looking like a murder suspect.

  “No one,” A.J. said tersely, “is going to believe that you killed your sister for her money. I don’t know how you can even joke about such a thing.”

  “We all have our mechanics for coping,” Elysia said tartly, and that shut A.J. up, as she recalled some of her mother’s other mechanics for coping. In fact, her adolescence had been spent in an agony of witnessing her mother’s efforts at coping. Her father, seated next to her in that family-values train wreck, had been as much a prisoner as A.J., and it had been left to Aunt Diantha to mount the on-going rescue efforts.

  Remembering her aunt’s brisk but unfailing presence, A.J.s throat closed. The road ahead momentarily blurred.

  “Di had her enemies. We all do. Although, frankly, my sister had more than her share. She never wasted time on tact when being ruthless would get faster results.”

  Thickly, A.J. said, “Andy said that the police think I’m a suspect.”

  Perhaps remembering a certain incident involving nude bathing and a public fountain in Rome, her mother said shortly, “Policemen have little or no imagination.”

  Nestled in the rolling golden hills of northwestern New Jersey and flanked by the shining Delaware River were the twenty-five square miles of deep woods and farmland that encompassed Stillbrook Township. On the outskirts of the town was a small cemetery known as the Hessian Graveyard, although it wasn’t old enough to inter any fallen Hessians. It was one of those fascinating places with ornate headstones and morbid statuary of weeping cherubs and little children petting small animals. Gus Eriksson, Aunt Di’s naturalist photographer lover, was buried there somewhere beneath the blanket of red and yellow autumn leaves. And now perhaps Aunt Di herself would rest there. Had Aunt Di left any final instructions about her funeral arrangements? A.J. had no idea.

  She glanced at her mother as the car sped past the cemetery. Elysia shivered, staring through the windshield at the fog-wreathed trees and iron railing. For once she seemed to have nothing to say.

  The town of Stillbrook was a quaint mix of carefully preserved historic homes and artsy-craftsy businesses, including everything from glassblowers to antique dealers. In the center of town was a scrupulously neat village green dominated by a large bronze statue of a World War I soldier and mule. The soldier was supposed to be a likeness of Gene Stevenson, the eldest son of one of Stillbrook’s founding families, who had been killed during the war. But it was the mournful-eyed mule that had always fascinated A.J. Was the mule based on a real-life mule? Was the historical mule some kind of war hero? No one seemed to know.

  “Nothing has changed,” her mother said dreamily as they drove slowly down the dripping tree-lined streets. “It still looks like something out of Thornton Wilder.”

  “Everything has changed.”

  She felt her mother’s stare but kept her eyes on the road.

  The law office of Bradley Meagher, Esquire, was located on the ground floor of a restored gingerbread-trimmed Victorian lodged between a cheery bed-and-breakfast and a gas station/convenience store.

  A.J. rang the buzzer while her mother prowled up and down the wooden porch looking about as out of place as a woman in leopard print jeans could look and still not be arrested for solicitation.

  At last the door opened. A small but very fit and very tanned older man sized them up. His blue denims were slightly rumpled and his silvery pompadour stood on end—had they woken the man of law from his afternoon siesta?

  “Uh, hi,” said A.J. “I’m A. J. Alexander and this is—”

  “Sure, and if it isn’t herself!” exclaimed Bradley Meagher, Esquire, staring past A.J.’s shoulder (or possibly, given his height, under her arm). “Easy Mason! Saints preserve us!”

  Gay, decided A.J., taking in the Palm Beach tan and the manicure. Gay and channeling Barry Fitzgerald. All they needed now was for Bing Crosby to materialize singing a show tune or two, and her life would become the macabre musical it was surely destined to be.

  “Bradley Meagher, you old scoundrel,” Elysia said, embracing him. She squealed as Meagher lifted her briefly off the ground. A.J. hastily stepped out of the way, but what Meagher lacked in inches he made up for in muscle.

  “Me darlin’ girl. You don’t look a day older.” He looked at A.J., who barely managed to catch herself mid–eye roll. “And here’s wee A.J.”

  Yep, wee A.J., who was taller than both of them put together.

  “Hello, Mr. Meagher.” She offered her hand to forestall any attempt at levitation.

  “I suppose you’ve come about your aunt’s will.”

  She nodded and smiled deprecatingly, trying to convey a sort of yeah-but-we’d-have-loved-to-drop-by-anyway attitude.

  “’Tis a sad affair, that’s certain.” Meagher ushered them quickly down a short hallway into a room stuffed with heavy old-fashioned furniture and papered with what appeared to be law degrees and honorary diplomas. There was a long leather couch covered by the spread-out funny papers. A tall birdcage stood by the street-side window. A white cockatoo, who apparently shared the same hairdresser as his owner, whistled lewdly as they walked in.

  “Pretty bird!” announced the cockatoo.

  “Truer words never were spoken,” said the gallant Mr. Meagher. “Will you have a cuppa tea, ladies?”

  “No thank you,” said A.J., who planned on stopping at the Starbucks down the street as soon as they could escape.

  “Ta very much,” said her mother, who apparently thought they had all the time in the world.

  Then of course they had to wait for Mr. Meagher to disappear for however long into the bacon-smelling halls of what was apparently his home as well as his workplace before at last returning with a surprisingly well-arranged tea tray.

  Definitely gay, thought A.J. yet again, accepting her china cup and saucer.

  “Hey, dude!” said the cockatoo. “Let’s party!”

  Mr. Meagher gave them a slightly harassed smile, flung a sheet over the bird’s cage, and sat down.

  “Do the police know anything yet?” Elysia asked.

  “Ah, well now, there’s a rhetorical question,” the lawyer said. He seemed to be avoiding looking at A.J. “In a word, no. Of course, your sister was an outspoken woman, and there was no love lost between her and one or two others, but it’s still a difficult thing to believe.” He sighed. “It’s a wicked world, true enough.” He sipped his tea.

  “You always believe you’ll have more time,” Elysia murmured, reading for the part of the Brave Bereaved.

  A.J. set her saucer on the desktop with a clattering of china. “Apparently the police think I might be a suspect.”

  Mr. Meagher looked outraged. “Have they said so?”

  Well, no, come to think of it, they hadn’t. Andy had. His feminine intuition
perhaps.

  “Have they indeed, the great fascists that they are,” continued Mr. Meagher, without waiting for confirmation. “And isn’t it as obvious as the nose on my face that it must have been some visiting maniac who did this terrible thing?”

  A.J. tried not to stare at Mr. Meagher’s nose, which was, in fact, prominent.

  “It’s the will,” Elysia said. “They appear to have wind of the will.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Meagher left it at that. He sipped his tea.

  Raindrops pricked mournfully at the windows.

  “The formal reading of the will is set for Monday,” he said to A.J. at last.

  “Before the funeral?”

  Mr. Meagher appeared slightly uncomfortable. “It’s a wee bit unusual but not unheard of, and given the attention of certain parties—”

  Elysia interjected coolly, “There are decisions to be made, business matters to attend to. You don’t have the luxury of…time.”

  A.J. stared at her, not quite following. “I don’t?”

  Mr. Meagher said, “As I told your ma, there’s no secret as to the dispensation of your aunt’s estate, the bulk of which goes to you.”

  “All of it?” Maybe that sounded a little greedy; that wasn’t what A.J. meant. She meant…why?

  “There are a few other provisions and bequests,” Mr. Meagher said, “but in essence, yes. It’s all yours. Congratulations. You’re one very wealthy young woman.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Elysia complained.

  It was not exactly a news flash. In fact, the feeling was mutual; however, A.J. did not respond. She continued trying keys in the front door of the 1920s farmhouse that her aunt Diantha had left her. One of the keys had to fit. She tried the next one on the bulky ring as the rain thundered down, spilling off the sloping roof of the wooden porch into the dead-looking flowerbeds surrounding the two-story house.

  Elysia shuddered and turned up the collar of her jacket. “Why do you have to do this now? Wouldn’t it make more sense to unpack and relax at home, and then come back here tomorrow?”

  By “home,” Elysia meant the farm A.J.’s father had purchased for summer vacations so many years ago. But even as a child A.J. had always felt a greater sense of belonging at Deer Hollow with her Aunt Di. At the risk of offending her mother, she couldn’t resist the impulse that had her turning off the main road and driving down the muddy dirt track that led to Deer Hollow Farm. From the moment they had left the lawyer’s office, the keys bestowed by Meagher weighing down her coat pocket, she’d had this…well, compulsion to get to her aunt’s.

  The key slipped into the lock. A.J. turned it and pushed the door open.

  The hallway before them was dark in the gloomy afternoon light. Even so, it was familiar to A.J. The faded red Oriental runner had cushioned the footsteps of generations of Erikssons. Next to the door frame hung a black-and-white photograph of the New Jersey shoreline taken by Gus Eriksson himself in the early years of his career.

  She could almost believe that Aunt Di was inside, just out of sight, ready to welcome her home.

  Memories of other homecomings washed through A.J., catching her off-guard: Christmas vacations while her parents were in Europe; stopping by after school for ginger cake and the chance to pour her adolescent woes into her aunt’s tolerant ear; dragging Andy for the weekend when they had first started dating in college….

  Stepping inside, she walked toward the double doors of the front parlor. Her eyes picked out the silhouette of a rocker and the tall outline of her aunt’s maple secretary. As she felt for the wall switch, she noticed that the smell of cold and rain was as strong inside the house as outside…and there was something else. Something foreign…like antiseptic and sweat.

  The next moment she was slammed into the wall and knocked down onto the hardwood floor.

  Stunned, A.J. tried to process what was happening as Elysia began to scream.

  Four

  Footsteps pounded down the oakwood floorboards. A.J. felt them vibrate beneath her hands as she painfully got to her knees. Somewhere in the distance she heard a bang and was nearly knocked back down as Elysia rushed to her rescue.

  “A.J., pet! Are you all right?” Elysia’s voice sounded unfamiliar—high and frightened.

  “Call the cops,” A.J. gasped. “I’m okay.” Elysia clutched her arm, trying to help her to her feet. With her free hand A.J. grabbed at the heavy secretary, wincing at the pain radiating through the knot of nerves and muscles in her lower back. She straightened cautiously. “That son of a—” She bit off the rest of it, putting a hand to her tailbone.

  “Bloody madman!” Elysia exclaimed. “Here, pet. Sit down.” She guided A.J.’s hobbling steps to the tall rocker.

  “Where did he go?” A.J. asked, letting herself down carefully. “He didn’t run past you, did he?”

  “He ran back into the house—”

  “Mother!” shrieked A.J., jumping to her feet again. “You mean he’s still in the house?”

  “I’m sure he legged it,” protested Elysia. She looked uneasily over her shoulder at the double doors leading into the hallway. “He must have run out the kitchen door.”

  “In other words, you don’t know! For all we—he could be hiding in the next room listening to us right now!”

  They were momentarily silent as the alarming possibilities sank in.

  Elysia reached for the poker from the fireplace, her expression grim. “Right, then.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” A.J. protested, trying to grab the poker from her. Elysia waved it out of reach and nearly took out the Tiffany lamp on the nearby table. “This isn’t a movie set! You can’t chase after him. He might have a gun.”

  “You call the coppers. I’ll reconnoiter.”

  “You’ll wreck something, that’s for sure.” A.J. managed to wrest the poker from her mother’s manicured hands. “Just…sit. Please.”

  Elysia looked both affronted and wounded. A.J. ignored her, clutching the poker and ducking her head into the dim hallway. There was no sign of anyone down the long corridor leading to the kitchen. To her right, the front door still stood open, rain dripping steadily off the porch roof.

  Trying to sift through the terrified confusion of the assault, A.J. recalled that unnerving bang when she was trying to get to her feet. Since it couldn’t have been the front door, maybe it had been the kitchen door. That made more sense. No sane burglar would hang around, right?

  She listened closely. Nothing but the rain gurgling in the gutters and rattling on the leaves of the bushes surrounding the porch.

  “What are you doing?” Elysia whispered from right behind her.

  A.J. nearly rocketed off the floor. Elysia held what appeared to be an old sheep’s crook. Not a bad weapon, actually, although it was hard to picture a less likely shepherdess than Elysia.

  Recovering her composure with an effort, she said, “I’m going to call the police.”

  Elysia nodded. A.J. crept across the hall to the old-fashioned phone on the wall.

  “Does that manky thing still work?” A true child of her generation, Elysia was deeply suspicious of anything over forty years old. She herself was decades past that milestone, but even now she refused to admit it.

  “It used to.”

  A.J. dialed 911 and finally explained her emergency to the tinny-sounding voice at the other end of the line. The voice promised that help was on the way.

  Spotting Elysia—sheep crook held at the ready—reconnoitering down the hallway, A.J. hastily hung up.

  “Wait! What are you doing?”

  “Securing the perimeter.”

  Too many episodes of The Avengers. That was the problem. One of the problems.

  A.J. darted after her mother. She was just in time to see Elysia slip into the kitchen.

  “Mother!” she hissed.

  No response. A.J. tiptoed quickly across the hall. She reached the kitchen. No Elysia. She flipped the wall switch. Cheerful light flooded over
the polished floor and beadboard cabinets. The checked navy and white tile backsplash brought back childhood memories, as did the copper canisters and the pig cookie jar on the gleaming countertop.

  A slam brought A.J. back to the present. Elysia stood in the enclosed porch off the kitchen where an open door led out to the muddy backyard. The door screen swung in the wind.

  “The blighter’s scarpered!” Elysia sounded slightly disappointed.

  “Thank God for that,” A.J. said, massaging the small of her back.

  She stared at the small pots of herbs growing on the windowsill over the big farmhouse sink. Diantha had planted those herbs just as she had chosen the colorful woven rugs. Her vegetarian cookbooks sat on the shelves, and there were spices in the wooden rack generations of Eriksson women had probably never heard of, but otherwise the house seemed untouched by time. The long pine table and matching chairs, the china hutch and kitchen cupboard were the furniture Gus Eriksson had grown up with. That always surprised A.J. Her aunt was such a contemporary woman, so focused on incorporating yoga into every aspect of her life, she might have been expected to dump all the antiques and bric-a-brac, but she hadn’t. Everything was immaculate but comfortably shabby.

  For a moment A.J. pictured Aunt Di standing at the stove cooking one of her curries and laughing her raucous laugh. It was such a hearty shout of a laugh, unexpected from someone as serious and focused as Diantha. Even people who didn’t particularly like her found it hard not to smile when she let out that laugh.

  Tears stung A.J.’s eyes and she turned away so that her mother wouldn’t see.

  Elysia closed the back door and fastened it. “Have a seat, pumpkin,” she said briskly. “I’ll make us a nice cuppa. That’ll settle your nerves.”

  A.J. started to speak but was interrupted by the electronic whoop of a siren blast from the front of the house.

  “Bloody hell!” Elysia’s exclamation proved her own nerves were none too steady.

  “That was fast!” agreed A.J.