A Teeny Bit of Trouble

by Michael Lee West

  One thing still bothered me. How many twenty-year-old women thought about cremation? How many of them put their burial preferences in writing? I drew in a sudden breath. What if the document was fake? Maybe Lester had injected Kendall with a drug, and he’d feared the coroner would order a toxicology screen. That happened all the time on CSI: Miami.

  The Goth-girl was still talking about the cremation. “Vlado and I were supposed to take Kendall’s body to the crematorium, but Mr. Philpot wouldn’t let us. He arranged for a crematory to pick up Kendall.”

  So here was a freshly dead body with corneas, teeth, tendons, and bones. Why hadn’t the Philpots killed Kendall at the pharmacy? They could have harvested her body parts. Instead, they’d produced a possibly fake cremation document.

  I inched closer to the Goth-girl. “Do you remember the crematory’s name?”

  “Never heard of it,” she said. “It’s in another county.”

  Zee tossed her head, rattling the beads. She looked over my shoulder and frowned. I turned. Norris stood in the vestibule glaring at us, then he dipped back into the crowd.

  I ran to the parking lot and bumped smack into Son Finnegan. His gaze swept from my hair to my dress, then back up to my face. “Wow,” he said. “Just … wow.”

  I shoved him away, my hair swinging. “Are you stalking me?”

  “No, but Norris Philpot is.” Son pointed at the funeral home.

  I whirled. Norris stood on the porch, waving his raptor claw, the neighborhood bird of prey in a suit and tie. But his eyes said, No escape.

  twenty-three

  My heel caught on the sidewalk and I stumbled forward, barely saving myself from slamming face-first against the cement. “Hey, Boots,” Son called. “It’s not my fault you got man problems.”

  “Go away, Finnegan.” I veered into the parking lot. Lester’s Mercedes sat in the first row. I walked around it, checking the bumper for dents or black paint. But I only saw a few dead bugs. This car hadn’t been used to force Kendall’s Mazda off the road. But I didn’t feel calmer.

  I got in my truck and stabbed the key in the ignition. The engine shuddered and let out a whinny that hurt my ears. I stamped my shoe against the accelerator as if I were crushing spiders. The engine backfired and the truck jolted forward.

  Son stepped in front of the truck and spread his arms. I hit the brake. He walked through a thick veil of exhaust and leaned against my window.

  “You’re getting on my last nerve, Finnegan.”

  “But we need to talk. Another patient died today. A healthy thirty-year-old woman. She went into cardiac arrest after liposuction.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.” I gripped the steering wheel. “I’m sick of death.”

  “Then why do you hang out at the funeral home?”

  Good question. “So do you.”

  “I’ve got my reasons. Let’s go to Bunratty’s Pub and I’ll explain.”

  I imagined an ice-cold mug of Guinness, a clover stamped into the foam, Celtic music playing in the background, Son and me sitting in a booth. I loved Coop, but I couldn’t ignore the glimmer of lust I felt for Son—what if it turned into something stronger?

  “The O’Malleys are expecting me,” I said.

  He pushed in a little closer. “For supper? Is Irene planning to stick an apple in your mouth and serve you as the main course?”

  “Step away from the truck or I’ll run over your toes.”

  “It’s Friday night. You shouldn’t be alone with a flesh-eating bitch.” He pushed a scrap of paper into my hand. “It’s my phone number, not a love letter. Just in case you change your mind.”

  I tucked the scrap into his pocket, then I smashed my shoe against the pedal. The truck blasted out of the lot, backfiring and spewing smoke. I stopped by the deserted 7-Eleven and bought a bag of M&M’s. On my way to the parking lot, the back of my neck tingled, and I had the oddest feeling that someone was staring. I turned brandishing my M&M’s.

  No one was around except a striped tabby cat. He flicked his tail and trotted away.

  I took the scenic route to the O’Malleys’ house, driving down streets named after deadly flowers. Every few seconds, I glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no one had followed me. From the radio, Lady Antebellum was singing “I Need You Now” and I got so blue, I almost ran over a trash can.

  I parked beside the O’Malleys’ carriage house, pulled off my high heels, and walked barefoot around the gazebo. Eerie blue light radiated from the swimming pool, casting jagged streaks over the patio. I wanted to eat chocolate and tuck my feet under Sir’s warm belly. But when I got closer to the house, I froze. The kitchen door stood open. So much for state-of-the-art security.

  Gripping my shoes to my chest, I stepped inside the house. Sir didn’t rush out to greet me, nor did I hear the distant hum of conversation. The house had an empty feel. “Minnie?” I called.

  No answer.

  Sir trotted into the kitchen and butted his head against my legs. “Where’s Minnie?” I asked. The bulldog yawned, revealing his pink, ribbed mouth.

  “So how did it go with the Chihuahuas?” I asked him.

  He showed me his teeth. I reached into the M&M bag, dragged up a red candy, and slipped it into my mouth. Sir licked his lips, tags clicking.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said. “Chocolate is deadly to dogs.”

  He tilted his head and gave me his “you shouldn’t be eating it either” look.

  “That’s true,” I said. “But you’ll still love me if I weigh two hundred pounds and wear turquoise muumuus, right?”

  Sir raised his hind leg and licked himself.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll move to Italy and meet a white-haired chef named Alejandro, who’ll feed me homemade ravioli.”

  Sir’s head shot up, the undershot jaw quivering, as if he were tasting that ravioli. “I’ll hire an artist to paint my curves and dimpled thighs. We’ll make love in the kitchen and drink too much wine. We may even raise bulldogs.”

  The phone rang. I swallowed a gob of chocolate and answered with a garbled hello.

  “It’s me,” Coop said. “I called earlier. Minnie said you were asleep.”

  I didn’t want to get my new best friend in trouble. But how could I expect honesty from Coop if I lied? “I went to the funeral home.” I swallowed again, and the rest of the candy went down like ground glass.

  “To spy or pay your respects?” Coop sounded amused, not angry.

  Just in case I was misreading his tone, I said, “Kendall was cremated.”

  Silence.

  If I mentioned her fear of fire, he’d call it hearsay. If I brought up Emerson’s DNA test, he’d think I was meddling. If I accused the Philpot brothers of skinning corpses, he’d tell me to take a sedative.

  “There’s something odd about Kendall’s cremation.” The words blasted out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I told him how Lester had derailed the funeral by producing an anti-casket document. I was just getting warmed up about the Philpots’ possible chop shop when Coop stopped me.

  “The Sweeney police arrested a man for Barb’s murder.”

  My knees buckled, and I leaned against the counter. “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Do the police have the right man?”

  “He didn’t have an alibi. Barb’s jewelry and credit cards were in his pockets.” He paused. “And he had a Bill Clinton mask.”

  “Who was he?” I shut my eyes, expecting to feel a huge wave of relief, but my insides were knotted.

  “A twenty-nine-year-old meth addict. He lived in an apartment near the Motel 6,” Coop said. “A big gardenia bush in the backyard. Surgical equipment in the kitchen.”

  Would a murderer leave those items lying around? And why had the police decided to search his house? I tried to rustle up some enthusiasm. “Did he confess?”

  “No, but the police are satisfied. So am I.”

  “Was this the man I saw at Barb’s? And the guy
who broke into my house?”

  “I’m confident that he is. But you’ll have to go to Sweeney next week to see if you can ID him in a lineup. So I’m sending Red to Bonaventure. He’ll be there later tonight.”

  “What about the Charleston police? Do I need to talk to them?”

  “I’ve already discussed this with the ADA. He’ll meet you in Sweeney.”

  I ate another M&M. “I thought Red was on surveillance.”

  “We found a replacement.”

  “I don’t understand. If the murderer is in custody, why do I need a babysitter? Why did you pull Red off your case?”

  “Minnie said that Mother has been acting up. I thought Red could act as a buffer.”

  “But there’s no reason for me to stay at your mother’s house. I can leave, right?”

  “I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to scare you, but the suspect could have an accomplice.”

  “What makes you think that?” I exhaled a little too forcefully.

  “I’m just being cautious.”

  This was his semper paratus coming out. I understood that part. But I also wondered if Coop was making sure that I stayed away from Son. Or maybe he didn’t want me to turn up unannounced in Charleston, interrupting him and Chlamydia Smith. I thought of a third reason: what if the man in Sweeney was a hired hit man or a stooge? Someone the Philpots had set up to hide Norris’s role in Barb’s murder. I pushed aside my theories, and a raw longing took their place.

  “I miss you,” I said. “When are you coming to Bonaventure?”

  “Not for a week. Maybe longer.”

  I shivered, remembering Lester’s comments about the pretty brunette lawyer. “Your boss sure is keeping you busy,” I said.

  “I’ve got two meetings in the morning.”

  “But tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Mr. Robichaux set up the meetings.”

  Would the brunette be joining them? “I saw Lester tonight,” I said. “Have you mailed Emerson’s stuff?”

  “Red’s bringing everything tonight.”

  “Great. I’ll pop some corn. We’ll have a pajama party.” I didn’t want Red. I wanted Coop to be my co-conspirator, to feed me chocolate and help me nail the Philpot brothers for Barb and Kendall’s murders.

  After we hung up, my necklace felt too tight, as if the weight of the slender chain had cut off my air.

  * * *

  The next morning, I put on my boots and a dress that had deep pochets. Red was waiting in the kitchen. “I got the kid’s hedgehog in my—” He broke off, his throat convulsing, tiny ripples waving across his neck. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way to the Philpots’ house.”

  They lived in Musgrove Square, just past All Saints Church and the Prince of Wales Pub. Red parked in front of a raspberry stucco house. The front gate stood ajar, and a man pushed a lawn mower over the grass. I grabbed the hedgehog and Red got the backpack. We walked to the front porch and rang the bell.

  The door swung open and Helen Philpot aimed a raptor claw at a discreet sign. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. Didn’t you see the ‘No Soliciting’ sign?”

  “I’m Teeny Templeton. We met the other night at Eikenberry’s?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” She looked at my red cowboy boots, as if to say, You went out in public like this?

  I glanced past her into the wide foyer. Sunlight slashed through five French doors, each one framed by poofy silk draperies. Beyond the doors, I saw a swimming pool with waves cutting across the surface. I thought of Lester diving into the water to save Emerson, and I wondered if I’d misjudged him.

  “Lester asked me to drop off Emerson’s belongings,” I said, and lifted the hedgehog.

  “How kind of you.”

  A French door opened and Emerson ran in, slinging water onto the floor. She tugged at the straps of a navy, one-piece bathing suit. “Get me a towel, Mrs. Philpot,” she called.

  “Look on the table behind you.” Helen did an eye roll. “Kids.”

  Emerson lifted a wet pigtail and sketched illegible letters. When she saw me, her mouth opened wide, showing her gums and teeth.

  “Teeny!” She ran over to me, her feet slapping against the parquet floor. She pulled the hedgehog from my hands and kissed it.

  “Here’s your clothes, too.” Red set the backpack on the floor.

  Emerson turned to me. “Kendall got put into a jar. They cooked her.”

  A blue vein appeared on Helen’s forehead. If I hadn’t seen the quick rise and fall of her chest, I would have thought she was holding her breath. “Don’t be disrespectful, Emerson,” she said.

  Red shuffled his feet. “That’s how children handle grief,” he told Helen. “Kendall’s death was a trigger for … anyway, they need to talk about their feelings.”

  Helen made a small, exact noise in her throat. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “He’s Red Butler Hill,” Emerson said. “He’s a detective. He’s got gun.”

  “As in Scarlett and Rhett?” A smile flickered at the edge of Helen’s mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Red nodded. “But it’s spelled like the color red. My mama is a big fan of Margaret Mitchell, but she can’t spell.”

  “I’m a fan of good manners.” Helen folded her arms. She still hadn’t invited us to come inside. My gaze passed over a carved gilt table. I squinted at a hand-painted mural on the staircase wall. The figures seemed to depict the Battle of Atlanta. In the upstairs hall, a headless statue stood in an arched niche. Someone, doubtlessly Emerson, had drawn blue polka dots over its legs. That made me relax. But I still didn’t understand how a pharmacist could afford such finery. I’d gone to an antiques show in Charleston a few weeks ago, hoping to find a kitchen table, and I’d been astonished at the prices.

  My heart started beating in the back of my throat. Just because the Sweeney police had arrested a man for Barb’s murder didn’t mean the Philpots weren’t selling teeth and tendons. With so much at stake, they could have hired someone to kill Barb.

  Emerson tugged Helen’s arm. “Can Teeny and Red stay for lunch?”

  “Not today. I’ve got a tennis game.”

  “They can babysit me,” Emerson said.

  “Another time.”

  I glanced around the foyer again and saw gold cherubs painted on the domed ceiling. Now, more than ever, I believed that Kendall had found a printout with a list of human organs. I believed that the printout had led to her murder. And what about Barb’s anagrams?

  Clues beneath the fur. Clues on the wall. Clues underfoot.

  I stepped closer to the mural, scrutinizing the figures.

  Helen walked up behind me. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  “It stinks,” Emerson said.

  Helen gave her a look that said “I’ll deal with you later,” then she turned to me. “Barb started this mural on a whim. But she made such a mess, she had to call her art teacher for help. Most of this is Emma Underwood’s work.”

  I nodded. This was the second time I’d heard that name. A sign that I should investigate further.

  I heard a car turn into the driveway, and I glanced over my shoulder. The funeral home van stopped under a live oak, moss trailing down like dirty fingers. Mr. Winky climbed out of the front seat, walked to the rear compartment, and pulled out an urn.

  “Oh, for the love of god,” Helen said. “What now?”

  Mr. Winky lurched onto the porch and held out the urn, his eyelids flapping like startled birds. “Where do you want me to set her?” he asked Helen.

  “Her?” Helen cried.

  “Kendall McCormack’s cremains,” Mr. Winky said.

  “You mean, her ashes?” Helen fanned herself.

  “Yes.” Mr. Winky’s right eyelid went still, but the left one jerked like a hooked trout. “Mr. Philpot said to deliver the cremains.”

  “He di
dn’t tell me,” Helen’s fingernails scraped through her hair. “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. Kendall’s mother should get the ashes.”

  “Why don’t you call your son?” Mr. Winky started to put down the urn.

  “Take it back!” Emerson dove into the man’s stomach. He toppled backward and the urn flew out of his hands. The vessel hit the floor and shattered. Beige granules spilled between Emerson’s feet, fine dust particles rising toward her wet ankles.

  “Gross!” She swiped at her legs.

  I reached down to brush off the ashes, trying not to be creeped out. I’d never seen cremains, but I’d expected it to resemble whole wheat flour. This stuff was gritty. The clay-colored specks were too perfect, each one the same size. I raised my hand and blinked at the gray residue that clung to my fingers.

  “It looks like kitty litter,” Emerson said.

  Red hunkered by the urn. He pinched some grit between his fingers and held it to his nose. “It’s not scented.”

  Emerson lifted a damp pigtail and squeezed water over the granules. “Look, it clumps,” she said.

  “Sheesh, don’t touch it,” Red cried. “It’s evidence.”

  “Of what?” Helen asked.

  Mr. Winky stood in the doorway, his eyelids flapping double time. “It’s ashes, I can assure you,” he said.

  A drop of perspiration hung from the tip of his nose.

  “Doesn’t look like human ashes to me.” Red folded his arms. “Does Eikenberry’s have a crematory?”

  “No, we use the one near the river,” Mr. Winky answered. “But Mr. Philpot talked the McCormacks into using an out-of-town crematorium.”

  “He did not,” Helen said. “Lester wasn’t on speaking terms with the McCormacks. He wouldn’t dare discuss Kendall’s burial with them.”

  “But your son had a document,” I said.

  “What document?” Helen asked.

  Red nudged my arm. “Hush, Teeny.”

  “I want to know about this document,” Helen said in an imperious tone.