Dearly Departed

by Carly Winter

  “Hmm... “

  “I think she could have killed him, Bill. She hated him. I saw it in her eyes.”

  “I don't know, Patty. Women usually don't kill like that.”

  “But she has motive! If she's desperate enough for the money, then she may have murdered him and come back looking for the will!”

  A long stretch of silence sat between us while I ran my hand over my needy cat and it sounded like Bill was swirling ice cubes in a glass.

  “I still think Wayne did it,” he finally said. “That guy's guilty.”

  With a sigh, I rolled my eyes. “I think a jilted wife who obviously hates her husband makes for a better suspect than a man who lost his best friend.”

  “Are you arguing with an FBI agent, Patty?” Bill asked, chuckling.

  “Yes. I guess I am. You seem to be focused on pinning this on Wayne, and I only hope you'll take others into account.”

  “I will,” he replied. “I just can't see a woman killing a man like that. It kind of goes against the natural order of things.”

  “Fine, Bill. I'm sure you're right.” I sighed in irritation at his unwillingness to really think about Claudia being the killer despite his agreement that he would.

  “Listen, I was hoping you'd accompany me to see the war protestor who lives downstairs from you... the guy Charles used to fight with all the time.”

  “I don't know him.”

  “Really? I thought you did.”

  Again, I felt I was being used. “No, I don't.”

  “That's okay. Come with me anyway. I'd like to hear your thoughts on him after I complete the interview.”

  Well, maybe I wasn't being used. I had nothing to offer him except my company when it came to the man downstairs. “I suppose I could do that.”

  “Great. I'll be there tomorrow afternoon. Have a good night, Patty.”

  I hung up and scooped Ringo from cushion and returned the phone to the kitchen counter. Getting around without crutches wasn't so bad. Another day, and I'd be able to return to work.

  After flipping on the television, I glanced over at the front door and noted I hadn't locked it.

  I hurried over and turned the bolt as a chill ran down my spine. If I was right about Claudia and she had killed Charles, I certainly didn't need her coming after me for catching her snooping where she didn't belong.

  Bill was wrong.

  Of course, women had the fortitude to kill men by stabbing them, and I was determined to prove it to him.

  Chapter 13

  At some point in the night, Donna had returned. I found her snoring lightly, sprawled out on the couch, when I went to make coffee. Ringo lay on her chest, and I realized he was the reason I had been so cold during the night—he'd abandoned me for Donna.

  I slipped on my green capris and a white button-down shirt. I debated wearing a hat since my hair refused to hang in its sleek bob but decided against it. No one at the library would care about my tresses.

  “Where are you going?” she asked groggily as I pulled on my coat.

  “To the library to do some research. Do you want to go with me?”

  She sat up and nodded. “Not really, but I will. Can you give me a few minutes to get ready?”

  “Sure. Hurry up, though. I want to be there right when it opens.”

  When Donna emerged from the bedroom looking chipper and dressed in a mini-skirt, boots, and a sweater, we headed out. I left my crutches at home, so we decided to grab the bus to avoid overextending my ankle.

  People hustled about on the streets while the bus slowly meandered through traffic. I kept my eye on the women hurrying about, looking for new styles in clothing I needed to study. It seemed bell bottoms were becoming more and more popular and weren't just for hippies any longer. I appreciated the trend, but also loved my capris and wasn't sure I could give them up anytime soon.

  Once we arrived at the library, we waited patiently for it to open.

  “How was your trip?” I asked as Donna yawned.

  “Fine. Uneventful.”

  “Did you see your pilot?”

  Donna shook her head and sighed. I took that to mean she didn't want to discuss him, but something had happened between them. Maybe she'd dish the details later.

  A few female college students joined us and I listened to them speak in serious tones about the book, The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan, one I had been meaning to read, but I hadn't gotten around to it. Donna stared off into the distance, obviously preoccupied by her own thoughts. I noted one of the girls didn't wear a bra and I tried to imagine the outright horror that would ensue if I arrived at work without one. Natural breasts wouldn't be tolerated. Everything had to be contained and as jiggle free as possible.

  What would my life have been like if I'd had the opportunity to go to college? Perhaps I could have been a doctor or a lawyer, although both were typically a man's profession, and there was the problem that neither job really excited me. Would I have worn a bra? I certainly wouldn't bother with the awful girdle.

  Perhaps I would have been discussing one of feminism’s greatest books out on the city streets? Even if I had gone to college though, I'd still not know what to do with my life, so it was probably for the best I hadn't attended.

  When the library opened, we allowed the women to file in before us. I headed over to the card catalog and began my search.

  “Do you ever feel inferior to them?” Donna asked.

  “To whom?”

  “To the college women. Do you believe they think they're better than us?”

  I turned to my friend and shook my head. “No, I don't. Actually, I never gave it any thought. Why would you even consider such things?”

  Although Donna was the life of the party, she often showed me little snippets of her psyche that indicated a very deep struggle with her self-esteem that I assumed went back to her less than stellar childhood.

  Donna shrugged. “Sometimes when I hear them talking about books and math and such, I feel like they're better than me. I schlep drinks and pick up cigarette butts.”

  “You've also been to Paris,” I said, laying my hand on her forearm. “You've traveled all over the country and seen things they never will. You know what to do to save lives if a plane goes down. They don't. No woman is more important than the other. We're all finding our own different paths.”

  Donna grinned and squeezed my hand. “You're right. I guess lack of sleep has me feeling down.”

  I'd always loved the library. The smell of books and the tranquility of it all often made me feel as if I'd stepped into another world.

  “What are you looking for?” Donna asked.

  “I'm researching women killers,” I replied, digging through the cards.

  Donna snorted and shook her head. “Heck, Patty. Nothing like a little light reading!”

  “I know.”

  “Why in the world do you want to read about such horrible people?”

  I didn't want to share that I was trying to prove an FBI agent wrong. Instead, I just shrugged and continued my task.

  “I'm going to grab that table over there by the magazine rack,” Donna said, pointing to empty seats by the window. “While you're doing your light reading, I'll dig into Vogue. I've been thinking I need a new look.”

  “Hmm… I don’t know about that, Donna. You’re stunning as you are.”

  “You’re so sweet, Patty. But a girl can always freshen up her look. Like they say at work, we never know when we’re going to meet our future husbands!”

  I shook my head as she sauntered over to our spot. She was always thinking about marriage.

  After fetching my books, I joined Donna at the table, which sat between the magazine rack and a bookcase. The sun shining through the window warmed the area nicely. In fact, I may have even had the urge to nap if it hadn't been for my reading material on women serial killers.

  The depravity trapped on the pages astounded me. Jane Toppan, a nurse who went by the moniker “Jolly Jane
” because of her upbeat temperament, had admitted to killing thirty-one people. Gesche Gottfried murdered fifteen people in fourteen years, including her parents, two husbands, her children and some friends. Nannie Doss murdered four husbands. The list went on, but one thing I noted was that all of them were killed with poison, not a knife.

  Perhaps Bill had been correct. Maybe women didn't have the stomach to kill in such a bloody way. But the fairer sex certainly did have the fortitude to murder over and over, and the examples I'd studied proved that. Perhaps mental issues played a role. Jane Toppan had been sentenced to a mental facility, deemed insane.

  Of course, one could always look at Lizzie Borden, who had supposedly killed her parents with an axe. That must have been quite bloody. Had mental problems affected her?

  Did Charles' wife, Claudia, qualify as crazy? Not from what I’d witnessed, but the woman who’d killed thirty-one people was also called Jolly Jane. On one hand, she was a happy and upbeat person, but on the other, she possessed a dark side where she enjoyed killing. People had many different sides to them. Claudia hadn't exactly been friendly and pleasant, but did she have that darkness within her?

  Possibly. Perhaps she'd finally reached the top of her patience level with Charles about the divorce. Maybe Mrs. Wilson had been right and she'd killed for the money. She had motive, and I didn't think it was a smart idea to exclude her from the suspect list, no matter what Special Agent Bill Hart said about it.

  “I think I need this green jacket,” Donna said, bringing me out of my thoughts. “Wouldn't that look great with my eyes? With a little black eyeliner? It reminds me a bit of one Marilyn Monroe wore in that magazine.”

  The coat, a stylish number with large black buttons down the front and black lapels, would look nice with Donna's fair coloring. “I don't know, Donna. This is a pretty bold jacket. I think you'd need more than a little black eyeliner to really pull it off.”

  “Oh, I like that. Bold. I like being bold. Marilyn was bold in her own way, too.”

  Although Donna and I weren't friends when Marilyn had died, she'd shared many times how much she adored the actress.

  “Look at Audrey Hepburn,” she said, turning the magazine toward me. “Isn’t she gorgeous? Her style is more subdued than Marilyn’s but her beauty just jumps off the page. She’s so sophisticated.”

  Large, soulful, intelligent brown eyes stared at me from the page. Her slight smile reminded me of someone harboring a secret she wanted to tell, but never would. Sophisticated and beautiful, indeed.

  I smiled at my friend who didn't meet my gaze but she righted the magazine toward her and kept fingering through the pages. She seemed upset, and I had a feeling I knew why. “Are you sure you didn't see your captain?”

  Donna sighed and slapped the magazine closed. “Fine. Yes, I saw him. He lied to me about his itinerary and I found him in a bar in Seattle making eyes at another stew while running his hand up and down her back.”

  “That's a bummer.”

  “He's a jerk.” She picked up her magazine again. “I'm over him.”

  But she wasn't, and he'd hurt her terribly, no matter how much she tried to hide it. It became crystal clear the only reason she'd accompanied me to the library was so she’d have something else to concentrate on besides her wayward pilot.

  I returned to my reading. After a few minutes, I shut the book, having had enough of female killers. “If you were going to kill someone, how would you do it?”

  Donna glanced up at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you looking for advice or is this just a pretend scenario?”

  “A pretend scenario. There's no one I really want to murder right now.”

  She finally smiled and folded her hands on top of the table. “It would depend on why I wanted to kill them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What's my motive?”

  “A customer who grabbed your bippy and gave it a squeeze.”

  Donna threw her head back and laughed. “If he was cute enough, I may ask him if he wanted to marry, not kill him.”

  “You're crazy,” I said, giggling.

  “Now, if he was ugly, I think I'd slip a little something in his drink. Put him into an endless sleep while I pretended to have no idea of what happened.”

  Donna also defaulted to poisoning. How interesting.

  “What about this scenario: You're married and your husband cheats on you? What do you do?”

  She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, if I was angry enough, I could see myself becoming physically violent. I wanted to hit the pilot when I found him at the bar.”

  “Do you think you could stab someone?”

  Donna glanced out the window for a long moment. “In a fit of rage, possibly. It would depend on how angry and hurt I felt. I think I'd have to be out of my mind in order to put a knife in someone.” She pulled out a silver flask from her purse and took a sip. “Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, checking my watch. She'd hit the bottle early, even by her own standards. “I have to get back soon. I'm meeting Bill.”

  “Who's Bill?”

  “An FBI agent.”

  Donna's eyes widened. “I'm waiting for the punchline on this one.”

  “An FBI agent showed up to investigate Charles' murder. I guess you could say I've been helping him.”

  “Helping him how?”

  Once again, I wasn't sure if I was actually assisting him or if he was using me, and if there was even a difference.

  “He's asked me to go with him on some interviews.”

  “It sounds like he's making a move on you.”

  “I doubt it, Donna,” I said with a shrug. “I think he's just trying to get his job done.”

  “Why is the FBI investigating a murder? Was Charles some government spy or something?”

  I leaned forward after taking a quick glance around to make sure no one eavesdropped on us. “Bill is in charge of a serial killer task force,” I whispered, aware that I was revealing Bill’s secret when he specifically asked me not to. But Donna and I shared just about everything, so I knew she could be trusted. I harbored no guilt. “He was called in because he thought Charles may have been a victim.”

  Donna gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. “He was kind of a weirdo but... oh, my gosh. A serial killer!”

  “Agent Hart says that he wasn't murdered by the serial killer though. So now, he's helping a friend in the police department by investigating the case.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the group of girls we'd waited with outside approaching us. I shook my head, hoping to indicate to Donna that the conversation had ended.

  “Hey!” No-Bra Girl said. “We wanted to invite you to the rally this weekend.” We each took the sheet of paper she handed us. “It's a women's equality march.”

  “We're also going to burn some foam domes!” her friend said. “We hope to see you there!”

  As the girls found their next invite, I stared at the paper. I wouldn't burn any of my bras--they were too expensive and I needed them for work. However, I could probably be talked into tossing a girdle into the flames.

  “Are you going to be around?” I asked Donna, holding up the piece of paper.

  She shook her head. “I'm flying, but it would be fun to go.”

  “I think so, too,” I murmured. “I'll be back to work by then, though. I hope so, anyway.”

  “Yes. We don't have that luxury. We've got to pay our bills.”

  I nodded and gathered my bag, then stood.

  And solve a murder.

  Chapter 14

  Instead of coming home with me, Donna mentioned a trip to the grocery store and a few other errands. We parted, and I met Bill back at my apartment where I shed my coat and purse. We then headed downstairs.

  “What have you been up to today?” he asked as we rode the elevator.

  “I went to the library to research women killers.”

  With an arched brow, he glanced
over at me. “And how did that go?”

  “It was interesting,” I said, lacing my fingers together in front of me as I stared at the number above. “I do believe with the proper motive a woman can kill very easily… even with a knife.”

  “So, a crime of passion?” Bill asked.

  “Well, I would say passionate rage. She’d have to be terribly angry. For instance, perhaps she’s so furious her husband won’t sign the divorce papers no matter how many times she asks.”

  “You really like Claudia for the crime, huh?”

  The pieces fit: she had a motive. She had the ability to get close to Charles without him being worried or feeling attacked. Driving a knife into his stomach would have been easy if she had the guts to do it.” Yet, something didn’t sit quite right with me, although I couldn’t pinpoint what. “I don’t think she can be ignored just because she’s a woman and I do believe her finances should be investigated. If she didn’t kill him because he wouldn’t sign the papers, perhaps she did because she’s desperate for his money.”

  I couldn’t meet Bill’s gaze because I was afraid I’d find a look I had seen far too often in my life: a man staring at me with a condescending smile, almost as if he was sorry for how stupid I was.

  “Well, I’ll give it some consideration,” Bill said. “It’s a long shot, but she does have not one, but two possible motives. I doubt much will come of it, but I appreciate your efforts.”

  His response was better than I anticipated. I pursed my lips together to hide my smile. A G-woman in the making.

  “We’ll need to make this interview quick,” Bill said. “I have to catch my plane home.”

  A sinking feeling settled in my stomach when I realized I didn’t want him to leave. He’d brought a new dimension into my life I never expected, and one that made me feel alive. Never could I have imagined that I’d be hanging out with an FBI agent and talking to potential murder suspects!

  We reached apartment 2C and I could smell the weed being smoked inside even with the door closed.

  “The super said this guy’s name is Bob Briston,” Bill said as he knocked.

  My long-haired and heavily bearded twenty-something-year-old neighbor answered the door wearing nothing but a cloud of smoke. With a gasp, I averted my eyes from his thin frame.