Corpse Pose

by Diana Killian

  “Be careful, young woman.” Mr. Meagher’s kindly rather foolish face was suddenly grim. “This will was properly drawn, signed, and witnessed. There’s no funny business about it.”

  “I don’t care! I don’t believe this is what Di wanted or intended, and I can find a dozen witnesses to support that.” She whirled on A.J. “Don’t get too comfortable, because I intend to have this will broken. And if I can’t have the will broken, I will sue your ass for ownership of that studio.”

  Eight

  The office shook with the force of the door slamming shut in Lily’s wake. Mr. Meagher began to splutter into the shocked silence.

  “I don’t know that yoga is doing her a lot of good,” remarked Elysia to no one in particular.

  Michael Batz said, “She’s pretty upset. They were like sisters, you know.”

  “Were they?” Elysia said pleasantly. “How painful this must be for her.”

  Stella Borin let out a crack of laughter. Batz flushed. “I just mean…”

  Somewhere nearby—possibly in the adjoining room—a voice squawked, “Let’s party!”

  Mr. Meagher quit spluttering and yelled, “Pipe down, you feathered fiend!”

  “Hey, dude!” came the reply.

  Apparently deaf to this exchange, Elysia said to Batz, “No one could be more exasperating than Diantha. And no one could be more pigheaded once she made up her mind.”

  I can think of someone, A.J. thought, but she refrained from comment.

  “Will the will hold?” Elysia asked Mr. Meagher. He had started for the door to the next room with the air of one planning to throttle its inhabitant, but he paused.

  “That it will. But she could still tie us up donkey’s years in probate.”

  “Feel free!” called the voice from the next room. “Hey, dude!”

  “It’s baiting you,” Elysia soothed as Mr. Meagher’s hands twitched spasmodically.

  “Eh, yes. Ahem.” He smoothed his silver crest with both hands. “That reminds me,” he said to A.J. “Your aunt left a letter for you.”

  He returned to the desk, opened a drawer, and drew out a long buff envelope, which he handed to A.J. She stared down at it. In her aunt’s bold hand was the name “A.J.”

  “Thank you,” she managed, and tucked the envelope in her purse. She couldn’t read it now.

  “Um, how long till we get the, uh, money?” Michael asked.

  Even the cockatoo seemed silenced by that one. Meeting the disapproval in the eyes around him, Michael faltered. “It’s just, you know, my training expenses and everything.”

  Stella made a disgusted sound, and he flushed. “Look, Di wouldn’t have wanted me to lose my focus. Or my momentum. She understood what it was all about.”

  “We’ll discuss it when we go over the terms of the codicil,” Mr. Meagher said.

  “When can we get together?”

  Mr. Meagher wandered back to his desk and flipped through his day planner. “I have room on Thursday….”

  “Anything sooner?” Batz inquired. “I’m kind of on a tight schedule.” He offered a smile that probably went over well with impressionable females.

  Mr. Meagher was not an impressionable female. He pursed his mouth as though he’d just swallowed vinegar and said finally, “I suppose I might be able to work you in tomorrow afternoon after regular office hours.”

  “Great! Thanks, man. So I’ll see you around five?” Batz headed for the door, but the chill in the room finally seemed to penetrate his thick hide. He hesitated, glancing back at the others. “Well,” he said uncomfortably, “nice meeting you all.”

  Lukewarm responses all around. Batz offered a sickly grin and banged out of the office.

  Mr. Meagher muttered something to himself and scribbled into his day planner.

  Stella Borin was shrugging into her coat, a purple wool monstrosity with a black faux fur collar. She offered a calloused hand to A.J. “I hope you don’t mind about the farm?”

  “You’re welcome to it,” A.J. said—and meant it. She was moved by the generosity of her aunt’s bequests, although she felt slightly numb in the wake of Lily’s reaction and the realization of how much property had been left to her. “What I can’t figure out is why she left me the studio. I can’t comanage long distance. Not to mention the fact that I’ve forgotten practically everything I ever knew about yoga.”

  She had a sudden memory of her aunt, tall and lithe in black leotards, smiling down on her as she earnestly tried to balance on one chubby leg in tree pose. How old had she been? Five? Six? She remembered the intense blue of her aunt’s eyes. When Diantha laughed, she wrinkled her elegant nose like a little kid—an unexpectedly endearing trait.

  “She must have had her reasons,” Stella said. She had that funny knowing look in her eyes again.

  “No doubt she spoke to someone on the astral plane,” Elysia interjected smoothly. “But we mustn’t keep you, old thing. I’m sure you have pigs to feed or cows to milk.”

  A.J. shot her mother a look, but Stella didn’t seem to take offense. “You’re right, Elysia. The work never ends on a farm. Sunrise to sunset.”

  “It sounds like a musical—with chickens.”

  Stella’s cackle was reminiscent of chickens, too, as she headed for the street entrance of the lawyer’s office.

  As the door closed behind her, Elysia said, “You certainly can’t allow that woman to take over the studio.”

  It was clear she didn’t mean Stella.

  “Well, the will was obviously a shock to her,” A.J. said. She glanced at Mr. Meagher. “If it’s true that Diantha originally planned to leave Lily the studio, she must have changed her mind quite recently.”

  “The will was drawn up and filed in August of this year,” Mr. Meagher replied, although it really did not answer A.J.’s question.

  “Do I own the property free and clear? I mean, once probate is settled, can I do what I want with the farm and the studio and the subsidiary businesses?”

  “It’s a privately held company, me dear. Stock shares are divided between the twenty-five percent held by your ma, twenty-five percent held by Ms. Martin, and the remaining fifty percent held by you.”

  A.J. glanced at her mother. “I didn’t know you owned stock in Sacred Balance.”

  “I’d forgotten,” Elysia admitted. “It’s not as though we held board meetings.”

  “Is it…a lot of money?” A.J. asked Mr. Meagher. She knew the answer, of course, but she was still apprehensive about attaching an actual number to her inheritance.

  “Between the Eriksson real estate, the studio, and its subsidiaries, you’re roughly worth in the neighborhood of eighteen million dollars.”

  A.J. gulped.

  “That’s a lovely neighborhood,” Elysia remarked. “You’ll enjoy living there.”

  Andy had said something of the kind, but A.J. hadn’t quite believed him.

  “Gosh,” she said. Inadequate, definitely, but she seemed to have run out of words.

  “You’re a very wealthy young woman,” Mr. Meagher said, maybe thinking she had missed the point.

  “I guess so.” She knew she was disappointing Mr. Meagher, but she couldn’t help thinking that this was bound to look as though she really did have a motive for murder.

  “Of course with great wealth comes great responsibility.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of, A.J. thought.

  Mr. Meagher gave another of those polite coughs that seemed to be part of his stage craft.

  “One hesitates to bring up sensitive subjects, but…do you have a will, my dear?”

  It was nearly dark when A.J. and Elysia left the lawyer’s office after briefly discussing drawing up a new will for A.J.

  “We could stop for dinner,” Elysia suggested, buttoning her fur coat against the burger-scented chill of the evening. “The Happy Cow Steak House is just up the street.”

  A.J. was thinking she could use a drink—not that she would have said such a thing in her mother’s
presence—but she hadn’t eaten anything all day beyond one granola cookie, which was probably the real reason she felt so shaky and disconnected. Dinner was probably a good idea before she jumped back into the car with Speed Racer.

  “We should probably eat vegan in honor of Aunt Di.” She was mostly thinking aloud, and not really serious, but Elysia stared at her.

  “Pumpkin, I know it’s a lot of money and you’re feeling overwhelmed, but please don’t turn into one of those peculiar women out of some sense of misdirected grief.”

  “What do you mean by ‘peculiar women’?”

  “Don’t start smoking clove cigarettes and forgetting to shave under your arms.” Elysia said this promptly, as though she’d been worrying about it all day.

  “Don’t worry,” A.J. said. “If I feel the desire to throw my razor away, I’ll call you first.”

  “I suppose you’re making fun of the sponsor system,” Elysia said. “But you can’t argue with the results.”

  “What? I’m not doing any such thing,” A.J. protested. She wasn’t about to laugh at AA or the results they achieved, but Elysia waved this off as though apologies were unnecessary and stalked off down the street.

  The Happy Cow Steak House was a white two-story Victorian with flowering window boxes and a giant placard sign of a blue and white cow grinning with misplaced optimism. The parking lot looked promisingly full of cars and trucks.

  Inside, the restaurant looked like a very nice bordello: red plushy carpet, red velvet wallpaper, and dark paneling. The shapely waitresses all wore tiny red outfits with white aprons, making them look like French maids who had wound up in hell. Glenn Miller played in the background.

  A.J. and Elysia were escorted to one of the deep comfortable leather booths. As they passed through the crowded dining room, A.J. felt someone watching her.

  She glanced around and spotted Detective Oberlin at a table with another man. Oberlin watched her unsmilingly as the other man talked.

  A.J. looked away, realized it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him, and looked back offering a polite nod. Well, it was probably more curt than polite, but at least it was a nod.

  Oberlin nodded back. Equally thrilled.

  Sliding into the booth, A.J. accepted the menu the hostess offered and then glanced back at Oberlin. He was still staring, although he glanced away as their eyes met.

  A.J. surveyed his dinner companion. Not a cop, she thought. He was younger than Oberlin, and he looked too soft. Gentle. In fact, he sort of reminded her of Andy. Not in looks: Andy was tall and slim and elegant; this man was cute in a chubby teddy bear way. He gestured animatedly, apparently telling a joke, and he was not wearing a wedding ring.

  Ah ha, A.J. thought. I knew it. Gay.

  “What are you staring at?” Elysia inquired.

  “Detective Oberlin is here.”

  “Is he? On his salary?” Elysia raised her pencil-thin brows. “Well, perhaps he’s on the job. After all, this is a popular spot.”

  That was certainly true. Either people came from miles around to eat at the Happy Cow Steak House or they injected some addictive substance in the nightly special. A.J. realized from the glances of other diners that Oberlin wasn’t the only one who had made note of their arrival. Over the top of her menu she watched people nodding their way, leaning across to whisper. It reminded her of just one of the things she didn’t like about small-town living.

  A waitress appeared at their table. “Cocktail, ladies?”

  A.J. hesitated.

  “Mineral water with a twist of lime,” Elysia said.

  “Diet Coke,” A.J. said.

  The waitress nodded and stalked off.

  “Why didn’t you order a real drink?” Elysia asked.

  “I didn’t want one.”

  “After the day you’ve had?” Elysia’s laugh was disbelieving. “Look, pumpkin, I’m not going to tumble off the wagon because you have a drink in front of me.”

  “It has nothing to do with that. I don’t feel like drinking.”

  “Do you realize, with the exception of your wedding, you’ve never taken a drink in front of me?”

  “Well, I guess I just haven’t been thirsty,” A.J. said. “Could we not talk about this here?”

  “Are we ever going to talk about it?”

  “Hopefully not. There’s nothing to talk about.” Detective Oberlin’s companion had apparently reached the punch line of his long story, and Oberlin was laughing. Weirdly, A.J. could pick his laugh out over the din of voices, canned music, and forks on plates.

  She glanced back at Elysia and was startled at her mother’s expression. Elysia looked…sad.

  Feeling uncomfortable, A.J. returned her gaze to her menu. “So what do you recommend here?”

  “Everything’s good,” Elysia said dismissively. “I like the veal.”

  A.J. thought of poor little calves crated in total darkness and fed drugs and an inadequate diet. Not that A.J. was going to win any prizes from Animal Rights International. She wore leather and she loved Taco Bell. Those two things alone probably doomed her.

  When their waitress appeared with their beverages and a basket of rolls, Elysia ordered the veal, apparently without a twinge of conscience. A.J. settled for grilled steak with blue cheese.

  “So what’s the story with you and Stella?”

  “Story?” Elysia’s mouth curved, showing her little white teeth.

  “There’s obviously bad blood between you.”

  Elysia laughed a tinkling laugh. “Nothing terribly dramatic. I don’t much care for charlatans.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I do hope not. Your aunt, on the other hand, did follow. Or, at least, she appeared to.” She reached for a roll and tore it open with unnecessary force. “As the Bard says, ‘All sorrows are less with bread.’”

  “I don’t think the Bard—”

  “I’m quite sure he did.”

  A.J. gave it up and reached for a roll of her own. There was certainly something comforting about carbs, whether the bard knew it or not. They chatted inconsequentially and ate their bread. Elysia finally voiced what was on A.J.’s mind. “What are you going to do about Lily Martin?”

  “I don’t know. Aunt Di wanted us to work together. I guess that’s what I’ll try to do.”

  Elysia was already shaking her head at the folly of this.

  “I have to try,” A.J. said. “I don’t know that legally I even have a choice.”

  “Legally.” Elysia lifted a bony shoulder, shrugging off the tiresome idea of legalities. “There are ways to convince Miss Martin that she would be happier elsewhere.”

  “Mother,” A.J. said warningly. She had a sudden vision of her eccentric parent lacing Lily’s soy latte with ipecac.

  Elysia’s smile was malicious although her eyes were wide with injured innocence. “Pumpkin, you know I would never dream of interfering.”

  “Maybe I do need a drink,” A.J. muttered. To her surprise, Elysia giggled.

  It occurred to A.J. that this was one of the only meals she could remember sharing just with her mother. For years Andy had served as a kind of buffer between them. A.J. had spent very little time alone with her mother since she’d reached adult status. That would be A.J.’s adult status, although maybe Elysia’s, too, come to think of it.

  A.J.’s eyes seemed drawn back to Oberlin’s table. He was staring their way again, though nodding in absent agreement to whatever his friend was saying.

  The waitress arrived with their dinners.

  Elysia was right, the food was excellent. A.J. hadn’t realized how hungry she was. It helped that the steak was perfectly prepared, topped with tangy blue cheese crumbles, and rested on a bed of grilled onions. Delicately seasoned vegetables accompanied mashed potatoes—although she didn’t remember asking for mashed potatoes—which were a buttery whipped delight.

  A.J. let herself sink into a food delirium. When she surfaced the waitress was asking about dessert.


  “I don’t think so.” Once her stomach had time to process what had happened, there was liable to be a terrible price to pay.

  “Oh, live a little,” Elysia said breezily. “I’ll have the crème brule.”

  What the heck, thought A.J. She didn’t inherit a fortune every day. “Lemon meringue pie,” she said, and earned an approving smile from her mother.

  Was that all it took? She felt oddly pleased with herself.

  The waitress brought coffee, and they ate dessert in an unexpectedly comfortable silence. The woman on the piped-in music warbled “Murder, He Says.” The entire evening began to seem a little surreal.

  Eighteen million dollars?

  When at last they finished, Elysia insisted on paying the bill, and A.J. was tired enough—drained enough—to let her do so without comment.

  They walked out past Detective Oberlin’s table, where the check sat unpaid and his friend continued to chat unchecked. This time A.J. felt justified in pretending she did not see the detective.

  Out on the sidewalk the lamplights shone brightly, glittering on the muddy pools in the street. The tang of woodsmoke and fried food hung in the air. Elysia’s Land Rover seemed a very long way away. Automobiles passed at a leisurely pace, sending the oily rainwater into night. Elysia started across the street, nimble as a mountain goat in her stilettos, and A.J. followed.

  The car seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute the street was clear, and the next, a light-colored tank was barreling down on her.

  Nine

  Midway across the road, A.J. froze for one startled and undecided second.

  Elysia shrieked a warning.

  Already A.J. was throwing herself into reverse. She did a kind of stumbling panicked backpedal, hit the curb, and crashed down, arms flailing for something to grab on to. The Hummer roared past in a wave of exhaust and rainwater.

  For a shocked moment A.J. lay on the sidewalk wondering if she’d finally had it. After the initial disastrous contact of soft body on sidewalk, she wasn’t feeling much of anything—that might be good, though. Above her the streets lamps were doing an unpleasant whirly thing.