14 The Chocolate Clown Corpse

by JoAnna Carl

  “Mrs. Davidson.” I spoke softly.

  “Oh! Mrs. Woodyard! I’m so glad to see a friendly face.” Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  I went in, closed the door behind myself, and knelt by her side. “I’m so glad to find you, Mrs. Davidson. What can I do to help you?”

  “Get me out of here!”

  Oh gee! That was one thing I wasn’t prepared to do. I was sure Emma Davidson was receiving mental treatment. If she left the hospital and then committed suicide—I wasn’t going to be part of that. “But Mrs. Davidson—”

  She clutched my hand. “Mrs. Woodyard, I’m not crazy. I did not attempt suicide. These doctors—even Chuck and Lorraine—everyone thinks I tried to kill myself. I did not!”

  “Then what happened? Tilda VanAust and I found you unconscious.”

  “I don’t know what happened. The last thing I remember is eating lunch—Lorraine gave me a Bloody Mary. I didn’t want to drink it, but she insisted. Kept saying ‘a little booze’ would relax me. Then I woke up in this hospital, with the doctors poking at me. But this morning I quit taking all the pills they keep giving me, and I’m feeling better all the time.”

  She made a dismissive gesture. “That’s not the main problem. I’ll get hold of my own doctor, back in Indiana, and he’ll tell these strange doctors that I’m not suicidal. But I can’t ease my mind until I talk to your husband.”

  “Unfortunately, Joe is in Grand Rapids this afternoon. It will be evening before he can get back.”

  She dropped her head to her hands. “They may have killed me by then! I’m so frightened! Since Moe attacked me—I mean the clown with the pillow—you’re the only person I can trust!”

  I was almost sorry I had come. Her feelings seemed almost irrational, and I might be making things worse. But I couldn’t honestly tell Mrs. Davidson that the danger was just in her imagination. After all, I’d witnessed the attack by the strange hobo clown. I believed she was actually in danger.

  Then I heard a noise at the door. Someone was coming. Emma grabbed my hand. “Get in the closet,” she said. “Quick.”

  While she talked, she swung the closet door open. I jumped inside and closed the door, leaving just a narrow crack.

  I was able to see the nurse who came in. He was a large man, wearing navy scrubs, of course, just like ones the nurses at the desk had on. He had black hair, the type that’s too black. It was obviously dyed. His eyebrows also were a deep black, though their color looked more natural. And he seemed familiar. Why? The phony color of his hair was so distinctive I thought I’d remember where I’d seen him, but I didn’t. Who could he be?

  “How’re you doin’?” he asked. “Ready for your meds?”

  His voice was deep and resonant.

  Emma leaned her head back and half closed her eyes. “I guess so,” she said. Her voice sounded much weaker than it had when she’d been talking to me. But I was surprised by her remark; she’d just told me she wasn’t taking her medication.

  The big man handed her a small paper cup, and I was surprised to see Emma take the pill in it docilely. The man then tucked her into bed, urging her to take a nice nap. Emma lay back, again with no argument, and the nurse left.

  And the moment he was out the door I knew where I’d seen those black eyebrows. They were on the forehead of the man who had been unloading furniture at the address of P.M. Development, the company that had bid on the Clowning Around building.

  Quite a coincidence. Could this be a nurse? Suddenly I doubted it.

  I came out of that closet like a Texas prairie dog that had just discovered a rattler coming in the opposite end of its burrow.

  Chocolate Chat

  The pre-European peoples of South and Central America associated drinking cacao with sexual prowess, and also associated it with wealth. The drink was not for commoners. Only kings and nobles drank it.

  This may have been primarily because it was incredibly expensive. In fact, it didn’t just cost money. It was money.

  The wealthy used cacao beans to buy things. One often-quoted passage from early Spanish explorers reports that a hundred beans could buy a slave; ten beans, the services of a prostitute; and four beans, a rabbit. One early European praised use of the beans this way because cacao beans could not be hoarded or buried by the miserly. The beans would sprout or rot.

  At that time cacao would not have been used for cooking, only for drinking. In fact, such a use might have been considered sacrilege. So if you yearned for a plate of turkey mole, you would have been out of luck.

  Chapter 17

  I was sure the nurse was a fake and that he had given Emma poison. I had to get help for her, quick.

  Emma was motioning for me to stay where I was. “Sometimes they come back,” she said. That time she whispered intentionally.

  Then she picked up her plastic water glass from the bedside table and spit the pill into it.

  “I just get so groggy on that stuff,” she said. “I took Xanax for a week or so, right after Moe died. I quit then because I hated the way it made me feel. I’m not starting it up again, even if the doctors think I should be on it.”

  I stood there, staring at Emma. I’d just witnessed another attempt on her life. I ought to scream the hospital down, to call the cops, to raise Cain until someone did something—something!—to protect her.

  But what could I do? I’d tried the screaming and yelling act the day before and almost got arrested. The hospital had made a perfunctory attempt to keep Emma safe by changing her room and limiting access to her, but the guy whose eyebrows and hair didn’t match had shown how easy it was to get around their efforts. So had I, for that matter. I’d just waited until the nurse was on the phone and walked right in.

  I could think of only one place where Emma would be safe.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Sarajane Harding. Luckily, she answered.

  “Sarajane,” I said, “is your spare room available?”

  She hesitated, then spoke softly. “Yes.”

  “If I’m lucky, you’ll have a tenant for it in an hour or so.”

  “Fine.” Now Sarajane sounded resolved. “I’ll turn up the heat in there.”

  I hung up and turned to Emma. “Mrs. Davidson, I’m about to kidnap you. I hope you’ll go willingly.”

  “Mrs. Woodyard, that is exactly what I want.”

  “Okay. Do you have any clothes?”

  “They’re folded in the dresser drawer.”

  “If you’ll put them on . . . Oh, but we don’t want the hospital to know you’re about to make a break for it.”

  “I’ll dress in the bathroom, in case the nurse looks in.”

  “Good. After you’re dressed, climb under the covers and pretend to be asleep. And promise me you won’t eat or drink anything.”

  “Oh?” Her voice quavered.

  I took the plastic cup with the pill she had spit out. I stuffed two tissues in on top of the pill and put the whole thing inside one of the disposable gloves from that container found on every hospital room’s wall. I knotted the end and put it in my purse.

  “Eat or drink nothing, except water from the tap. In a clean cup,” I said. “I’m going to figure out some way to get you out of here.”

  As I headed for the door, I paused. “It may take me a while. But I’ll be back.”

  I peeked out the door. Yes, I was right. The nurses on this floor were all wearing scrubs in the same color, navy blue. The fake nurse had apparently checked that out and made sure he matched. Each department must be color-coordinated.

  A woman passed carrying a dustpan and a roll of paper towels. Housekeeping, I noted, was wearing purple.

  I checked the ceiling for cameras. There was one near the elevators. I was sure they were mounted near the outside doors as well.

  Again I waited until the nurse was dis
tracted by the phone. Then I scooted for the stairs. I went down five floors, double checking the location of the restrooms on each floor. Then I went down one more floor. Aha! Every hospital I’d ever been in had relegated radiology to the basement, and this one was no exception.

  Everyone in radiology was wearing scrubs in a color I call puke green. As I watched, one staffer headed for the elevator, pushing an empty wheelchair and carrying a clipboard. Nearby was a “family” restroom. Good.

  Then I located an inconspicuous door that led to the basement parking lot. I’d been carrying my heavy winter jacket. I put it on, went out, and got into my van.

  Luckily, the hospital is only a few blocks from a Target store. I found the scrubs department and bought a puke green shirt and pants in the largest size and a purple set in medium. I included footies and a head cover in both colors. Then I went to the office supply department and bought a clipboard. Luckily I had enough cash to pay for all this. I sure didn’t want to use a credit card for the cops to check on later.

  I had another stroke of good fortune: this Target had a family restroom. I locked myself in for privacy. Then I took a small tube of hand lotion from my purse, rubbed it on my eyelashes, and ruthlessly took my mascara off. I used the hand soap and some rough paper towels to scrub the rest of the makeup off my face. When I looked in the mirror, my eyes had disappeared, and my face was completely blah.

  Joe says he’s amazed at how much makeup it takes for me to look as if I’m not wearing any. My false face doesn’t seem to bother him; he never complains about the time I take to try to look as good as I can.

  But I hate an overly made-up look. I’m sure it’s a hangover from my days in beauty—I mean, scholarship—pageant competition, when I had to use stage makeup and look glamorous. I’d rather look—well, classic. So I keep my makeup and hairstyle simple. But Joe’s right. It takes a certain amount of makeup to look as if I’m not wearing any.

  The one thing I usually won’t give up is mascara. Without it, my blond eyelashes simply disappear. I have no eyes. But for a kidnapping, that was exactly the look I wanted.

  After my makeup was gone, I brushed my hair into a raggedy-looking bun and fastened it up with a rubber band I found in the bottom of my purse. I looked in the mirror. Perfect. I looked absolutely awful.

  I put the puke green scrubs on over my jeans and T-shirt, then put on my winter jacket and pulled up the hood. I usually leave the hood tucked inside and wear a knit cap.

  As soon as I was back in the van, I called Joe’s cell phone. He didn’t answer, of course, so I left a message. “I’m trading my van for your truck. I assume you have a key so you can drive the van home. I’ll explain later.”

  I found his truck in a lot near his office and was able to leave my van only two spaces down.

  Then I went back to the hospital, pulled into the underground section of the parking lot, parked as close to that inconspicuous door as I could, and went inside. I didn’t look at the cameras, but I tried not to look sneaky either.

  In the basement family restroom, I added my jacket to the Target sack. I checked the wastebasket. Yes, the custodial staff had stashed several extra plastic bags in the bottom. I took two of them.

  Then I stood in the hall outside Radiology, looking at my watch to pretend I was waiting to meet someone. When everybody in Radiology was busy, I scooped up a wheelchair, a hospital blanket, and a washcloth. I plunked the Target sack and the washcloth in the seat of the wheelchair, and draped a hospital blanket over them. Holding my clipboard officiously, I took the elevator to the sixth floor.

  Just fifty-nine minutes after I’d left Emma Davidson alone, I was back to pick her up.

  The only bad moment came when I got to her room. She didn’t recognize the new me. I startled her so much she nearly fell off the bed.

  When Emma did realize who I was, she began to laugh. She seemed excited and amused by the whole adventure.

  “I’ve written a note,” she said. “I’ll leave it on my pillow, as if I’m eloping. It explains that I’m going of my own volition. It doesn’t mention you. It just says I asked a friend to pick me up.”

  I laughed, too. The situation really was ridiculous. I motioned to the wheelchair.

  “You’ll have to sit on my jacket,” I said. “And if you know any prayers, say them. We’re not doing anything illegal—I’m sure you have a perfect right to leave the hospital if you want to. But I’d rather not have a big confrontation.”

  My heart nearly failed as we left Emma’s room and heard one of the nurses call out from the central station, “Where are you going?”

  I waved my clipboard. “Radiology. I’ll bring her right back.”

  Luckily, the nursing station phone rang just then. The nurse looked at me closely, but she turned away and answered the phone. Emma and I cut out for the elevator. We went down two floors, to the fourth floor.

  As soon as we had locked ourselves in the family restroom near that elevator, I gave Emma the purple scrubs. She was still laughing as she pulled them on over her clothes. I handed her the plastic trash bags and the washcloth as props.

  She left the restroom first and walked casually—at least I told her to walk casually—toward the elevator. I followed in one minute, still carrying my Target sack.

  To my horror, I saw that a skinny man in navy scrubs was approaching Emma. I cringed as he spoke to her. “Could I have some spray cleaner?”

  For a moment I thought Emma was going to blurt out a confession. The poor woman was so shy to begin with; she wasn’t designed to go on the run.

  But she merely looked at him and blinked. “Qué?” she said.

  The hospital staffer got a long-suffering look on his face. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll find it.” He walked off down the hall.

  The elevator came. Emma and I got on without looking at each other and descended to the basement.

  We kept our distance in the basement, too. I went into the family restroom—for what I hoped was the final time in that sort of facility—and put my jacket on. I covered my head with the hood, then went out the door without a direct glance at Emma. A sidelong glance showed me that she was energetically wiping a handrail with that silly washcloth.

  My hand was shaking as I opened the door of the truck, started the motor, and pulled it around to the door. Emma came out as soon as the truck stopped.

  Then we hit a snag. She was short, and the darn truck is tall. I thought I was going to have to get out, go around, and give her a boost.

  And behind her, coming down the basement hall, I could see two guys in security uniforms.

  Just as I thought all was lost, Emma got a foot inside the truck, found the handhold, and hauled herself in.

  “Hang on!” I said. “We’re not waiting to buckle up.”

  And I drove off—still trying to look casual. The security guys stopped outside the door and looked all around. They did not seem to notice Joe’s truck.

  “Whew!” I said. “I’m not cut out for a life of crime.”

  “Maybe not,” Emma said. “But you seem to be good at it.” Her voice was noticeably stronger, but she still sounded whispery. “I do appreciate your help.”

  “We’re not home yet. The heater should get warmed up in a minute. We shouldn’t freeze before we’re out of Holland.”

  “Should we leave Holland? I need to go to a hotel, I guess, and if we leave Holland, it’ll be hard to find one.”

  “Oh! I was going to take you someplace else.”

  “Not your house! I don’t want to be any trouble. And it would be awfully easy for somebody to find me there.”

  “No, not my house. First, let’s get out of town. Then I’ll explain what I had in mind.”

  “All right.” Emma still sounded timid. “I just don’t want to go to my house. I don’t want to involve Chuck and Lorraine. Not that Lorraine would noti
ce. She’s in a stupor most of the time. The poor thing.”

  I drove us south to Saugatuck and pulled off at the first exit, then parked outside a fast-food joint. I left the motor running and turned around to face Emma.

  “First,” I said, “you haven’t been declared incompetent or otherwise ordered to seek treatment, have you?”

  “Oh no!”

  “If not, I don’t think anyone can insist that you stay in the hospital. As a competent adult, you can refuse treatment. So you’re not doing anything illegal by leaving the hospital.”

  Emma smiled.

  “And if a friend asks me to take her someplace,” I said, “I don’t think I’m doing anything illegal if I give her a ride.”

  “That’s a load off my mind.”

  “But you mustn’t do anything that’s dangerous to yourself, Emma! I couldn’t stand that.”

  “Oh no! I don’t want to hurt myself. I’m trying not to get hurt.”

  “I have one question. When I chased off the guy with the pillow, you said one thing I didn’t understand.”

  “What was that?”

  “Something about ‘Moe is still trying to hurt me.’ What did you mean? Did he physically abuse you?”

  Emma sighed deeply. “Oh, Moe never hit me.”

  “Someone told me he yelled at you.”

  “Sometimes. It’s just that—well, no matter what I did, he wasn’t happy with it. I couldn’t please him, no matter how hard I tried.” She sighed again. “I know that clown wasn’t Moe. I really do. I was just so frightened because he looked just like Moe. His clown makeup was registered, you know. I don’t understand how a different person could wear it.”

  Then she straightened up in her seat. “I’m trying to buck up and be stronger about facing my problems. Except, if I could only talk to your husband. I need to do that first.”

  “He should be available this evening. But here’s my suggestion for right now. My aunt and I have a friend named Sarajane Harding, and Sarajane runs a bed and breakfast inn. She has one room, however, a nice guest room, that’s very quiet and private. It’s right next to her personal apartment. I called her, and she says you can use that room. It’s not exactly a hideout, but I don’t think anyone would come looking for you there.”