A Teeny Bit of Trouble

by Michael Lee West

  “Ask him.” I pointed to Mr. Winky.

  He gave me a baleful look, then he dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. “I never saw the document,” he said. “But Opal Brabham did. She’s our cosmetologist.”

  The Goth-girl? I felt more confused than ever. Who should I believe? Mr. Winky had every reason to lie because his credibility was on the line. I’d met the Goth-girl once, and she’d repeated her story in front of me and Zee Greer. Why would Opal lie in front of witnesses?

  Emerson blew on the litter, watching it scatter.

  “I’m calling the police.” Helen stepped away from the open door and walked to the gilt table. She lifted a French phone and dialed 911.

  Emerson tugged my dress. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, sweetie.” I squeezed her hand.

  “It sounds like the crematory messed up,” Mr. Winky said. “You should report them to the state board of funeral home directors.”

  At least he was admitting that a problem existed.

  After Helen explained the situation to the 911 operator, she hung up and snapped her fingers at Emerson. “Up to your room. Now. We’ve got a busy afternoon.”

  “But I want to see the CSI stuff,” Emerson said.

  Helen slung the backpack over Emerson’s shoulder, then she steered the girl to the banister. Emerson walked halfway up the stairs and sat behind the railing.

  “Dammit, I don’t have time for this,” Helen said. “A broken urn is on my floor. And the police are on their way. How will I ever get to my tennis match on time?”

  Five minutes later, Officer Dale Fitzgerald showed up. He agreed the debris bore a striking resemblance to Precious Cat Clumping litter. “I’ve never been called to investigate a case of missing cremains,” he said.

  Emerson poked her face through the railing. “The dude on CSI would bag it,” she said.

  “Here in Bonaventure, the rule is, SIC,” Fitzgerald said. “Sorry I Can’t.”

  “Just get on with it,” Helen snapped. “Or you’re the one who’ll be sorry.”

  twenty-four

  After much hemming and hawing, Officer Fitzgerald phoned the police chief, who was vacationing in St. Augustine with his family. It was decided the remains would be photographed, collected, and sent to a forensic expert in Atlanta. Then Fitzgerald escorted Mr. Winky to the station, presumably for questioning.

  Helen shooed me and Red to the porch, as if we were leftover bits of urn, and slammed the door. We got into the yellow van.

  “I told Coop something was wonky about Kendall’s cremation,” I said. “And he blew me off.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. The crematory might have misplaced Kendall’s ashes.”

  “Misplaced Kendall’s ashes? Doesn’t seem likely. And if the crematorium was reputable, they wouldn’t fake it with kitty litter.”

  “The local police will handle this. And the funeral home board will get involved.”

  “I thought you hated crime.”

  “True crime. Not true grit.” He steered the van away from the curb, into the dappled sunlight that fell around Musgrove Square.

  I glanced back at the Philpots’ house, wishing I’d taken a closer look at that mural. Had Barb stashed more notes in her house—or did Lester have records at his store? I had Kendall’s keys, and the alarm code was her birth date. But if I wanted to sleuth I had to get away from Red.

  “Okay, the urn thing is weird,” Red said. “But mistakes happen.”

  “So do murders.”

  “You don’t know if Kendall was murdered.”

  “Why was Lester in a hurry to get her cremated in the first place? If she isn’t in the urn, where is she? And what about that guy the Sweeney police caught? Maybe someone paid him to kill Barb.”

  “How did we get from ashes to a hit man?” Red asked. “That’s a leap, even for you.”

  I decided to take a different approach. “What did you think of the Philpots’ mansion?”

  He whistled. “I bet they hired Tony Soprano’s decorator.”

  “I bet it took a lot of money.”

  “Yeah? So?” He shot me a suspicious glance. “What you getting at?”

  “How can Lester afford that house? Musgrove Square is the most prestigious part of the historic district. The houses almost never come on the market. When they do, the prices start at one million.”

  “That’s not a huge amount. Even for a small city like Bonaventure. Lester probably has a killer mortgage.”

  “Can you find out? Kendall said that Lester was worried about his finances. Business is drying up at his pharmacy.”

  “He’s probably being hammered by the all-night Walgreens. Kroger and Publix have drugstores, too.”

  “Yet he’s paying tuition at Chatham Academy. He drives a Mercedes. Barb had a BMW. He swings a fat mortgage. I’m just wondering how he manages.”

  “I’ll look into it, homegirl. And I’ll check into the urn, too.”

  I nodded, but my mind whirled. I had an idea that the kitty litter would just be swept away and we’d never hear another word about Kendall’s cremains.

  Unless I found proof.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Red and I were sitting in the O’Malleys’ shady gazebo. Above us, a ceiling fan chopped through the humid afternoon air. I pictured the urn, then I tried to imagine what Chlamydia Smith looked like. To soothe myself, I invented a drink called If-I-Can’t-Have-True-Love, I’ll-Buy-A-Bigger-Dress-Size: vodka, coffee liqueur, Hershey’s Syrup, crème de cacao, crushed ice, and chocolate ice cream. Place ingredients in a blender and pulverize. Ponder the chemistry of food and romance. If love can be frozen, will it still be love? True love isn’t smooth, it’s lumpy; but if you own a quality blender, you can make this drink in three minutes.

  “You’re thinking up shit,” he said.

  “Just a recipe.” I put my elbows on my knees. “But I’m baffled.”

  “About the recipe?”

  “No, all this other stuff. First, Kendall found a printout about black market organs. Now she’s dead and her urn is full of kitty litter.”

  “We’ve been over this,” he said. “The crematory screwed up.”

  “But what if it’s not an error? What if litter was deliberately put into that urn?”

  “Well, that’s fraud. It’s happened before, right here in Georgia. A crematory was broken. The operator didn’t fix it. So he passed off dirt and cement powder as the remains. Threw out the bodies like trash. One was stashed in a rusted hearse. Others were dumped into a pond. The owner got a twenty-year prison sentence.”

  “Can’t you call the GBI?”

  “And tell them what?”

  “A corpse is missing!”

  “Misplaced until proven otherwise. Knock off the questions. Let’s go inside and eat pie.”

  “How can you think about pie when people are dying? Barb. Kendall. And Son Finnegan lost a patient today.”

  “Maybe he’ll find her.”

  “This isn’t funny. What if patients at Bonaventure Regional are being murdered for their organs?”

  “Sheesh, here you go again. If something like that was going on at a hospital, somebody would know. Transplants require a team. There’s strict laws, too. At the most, the crematory committed fraud. They prolly hoped the family wouldn’t know what cremains looks like.”

  I lifted a hunk of hair, pretending to examine it, but I was really hiding my face. I was afraid Red would glean my thoughts. “You’re right. It’s a mixup.”

  He gave me a wary look.

  A door slammed and I glanced at the house. Irene and Sir strode past the swimming pool, their reflections moving in the blue water. Irene wore a flowing chartreuse tunic and matching slacks. She held Sir’s leash with two fingers, as if the leather might be radioactive.

  “She looks pissed,” Red whispered.

  Irene’s lips were drawn into a tight line. Oddly enough, Sir’s were, too.

  “Where’s Minnie?�
�� I asked.

  Irene stared at my boots as if the red leather had been tooled out of human hearts. “We had an altercation over her Chihuahuas. I made her go back to Savannah.”

  I clenched my hands. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Irene handed me Sir’s leash. “The next time you disappear, will you please leave a note?”

  “Teeny can come and go as she pleases,” Red said. “Barb Philpot’s murderer is in custody.”

  “I heard.” Irene’s lips were glossy red, as if she’d recently bitten into a small, quivering rodent. “I thought we could all breathe easier, now that Teeny’s prowler isn’t lurking. But I just talked to Coop. He’s not feeling well, and he wants you to stay at my house for a few days.”

  I looked up at her. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “His ulcer is giving him fits.”

  “I don’t see the connection between his gastric problems and why I’ve got to stay in this house,” I said.

  Her gaze flickered over me as if she were studying a diagram of a cow in a butcher’s shop. “How dare you speak to me in that tone. My son never had an ulcer until he took up with you.”

  My throat constricted, not from my asthma but from all the angry words I was holding back. If I stayed at Casa Too Much another second, I’d tell Irene what I really thought of her, and I loved Coop too much to disrespect the woman who’d birthed him.

  I got to my feet.

  “Where are you going now?” Irene said.

  “A walk.” I led Sir out of the gazebo.

  “I’ll go with you.” Red scrambled after me.

  “Don’t be late for lunch,” Irene called. “I’m having it sent over from Heads ’N’ Tails.” Irene spun around, her tunic billowing, and stomped toward her house.

  Red followed me down the cobbled driveway, to the corner of Hawthorne and Mississippi. A tour bus was parked by the curlicue gate to Hanover Square. In the heat-waved distance, water spilled from a fountain. Red moved toward the entrance to the Square. I was still feeling an adrenaline rush from Irene’s verbal smackdown, so I went in the opposite direction, toward Hawthorne Street.

  “You ain’t going to the park?” Red asked.

  “I want to be alone,” I called over my shoulder. “Go back to the O’Malleys’.”

  “Look, don’t let Irene upset you,” he said. “She’s a control freak.”

  She was a freak, all right. I cut down Louisiana Street. It was just behind the O’Malleys’ house. I could hear Red puffing behind me, but I kept going. I stopped in front of a blue house with gargoyles on the roof. UNDERWOOD was spelled out on the cast iron mailbox. Miss Emma Underwood had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. How much would she remember?

  Clues on the wall.

  With luck, Miss Emma could tell me about Barb’s mural—and Barb. I led Sir up the cobbled walkway and rang the bell. Behind the door, chimes played “Georgia on My Mind.”

  Red staggered to the porch, his cheeks flushed, but before he could interrogate me, the door opened and a stout nurse with short auburn hair smiled at us. Pinned to her chest was a nametag: FRAN BELCHER, R.N.

  “Hi, there,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  I introduced myself and explained that my mama used to take art lessons from Miss Emma. “I stopped by to see how she’s doing,” I added. “I won’t stay long.”

  From inside the house, an aristocratic voice called, “Who is it, Nurse Ratched?”

  The nurse led me and Red through a gloomy foyer that smelled of Vicks VapoRub and tea bags, into a bright solarium. An elderly woman in sunglasses stood in front of an easel, dabbing paint onto a canvas. Behind her, the wall was strewn with colorful handwriting.

  Fran Belcher Slept with My Plumber was scrawled in bold, red print just below Fran Belcher is a thief.

  Miss Emma lowered her sunglasses, revealing small brown eyes. “I saw y’all earlier in the O’Malleys’ gazebo.” She waved her brush toward a window. The view showed Miss Emma’s yard. The overgrown grass melted into Irene’s clipped lawn. A curved path led to the gazebo.

  Miss Emma looked from me to Red to Sir. “What a delightful trio—a girl, a dog, and a lion man.”

  Nurse Belcher folded her arms. “It’s not nice to spy on people, Miss Emma.”

  “It’s not nice of you to point out my failings to Dorothy and Toto.” Miss Emma flicked her paintbrush at the nurse, then she cast a speculative glance at Red. “I just love cowardly lions.”

  “Don’t be offended,” Fran said. “Five minutes from now, she’ll think you all are actors on General Hospital.”

  “That’s a lie. General Hospital doesn’t have a bulldog.” Miss Emma tilted her head and her dangly earrings caught the light. “Fran, go fix us something cold to drink.”

  “Fix it yourself.” Fran crossed her arms.

  “You’re fired.” Miss Emma said. A drop of blue paint slid off the tip of her brush and hit the floor. “Leave this instant.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Fran said. She pulled an emery board from her pocket and buffed her nails.

  Miss Emma turned to Red. “You, lion man. Go outside and break me off a tree branch so I can switch my nurse’s legs.”

  Red grimaced. He’d once told me that he hated female backbiting worse than stakeouts.

  Fran shrugged. “In five minutes, the bitch won’t remember what she said.”

  Miss Emma set down her brush. She moved to a coffee mug that held a set of Sharpies. She plucked out a blue pen, uncapped it, and stepped closer to the wall. In bold letters she wrote, Fran called me a bitch!

  Red pulled the leash from my hand. “Teeny, stay as long as you like. The mutt and I will be at Dr. O’Malley’s.”

  Fran showed them out and didn’t return. Miss Emma dragged the Sharpie over the F in Fran, then she added a smiley face with horns. “Girl, what’s your name again?” she asked.

  “Teeny.”

  “Are you the O’Malleys’ new maid?”

  “No, ma’am.” I hesitated. “I’m engaged to their son.”

  “That’s scandalous.” Miss Emma drew a question mark on the wall. “Coop’s just a boy.”

  “He’s grown up,” I said gently. “He just turned thirty-one.”

  “He used to go steady with that trashy majorette.” Miss Emma set down her Sharpie. “Barb Browning. She married that druggist. What’s his name?”

  “Lester Philpot,” I said.

  “Barb took art lessons from me. Not a speck of talent. Her skills lay elsewhere. She could put together a thousand-piece puzzle in no time at all. And she constantly wrote in her diary. Even during art lessons. She carried that thing with her everywhere.”

  Miss Emma reached for her brush, dipped it in a red pot, and drew an apple on her canvas. “Every time Barb came here for a lesson, she’d write and write. If Coop was home from college, she’d spy on him. One day she caught him sitting in the gazebo. It was an icy December afternoon. Barb walked out my door and didn’t bother to put on her coat.”

  I turned to the window. In the distance, I saw Red and Sir walk around the gazebo, toward Irene’s house.

  “Coop wasn’t wearing a coat, either,” Miss Emma said. “Barb went straight to him and took off his clothes and seduced him. And in all that cold, too. I tried not to watch. After a while, Coop got up and pulled up his pants and left. Barb stayed behind. She wrote and wrote in that diary. And she didn’t come back to my house.”

  A tremor started in my fingertips and moved up my arms. “What year was this, Miss Emma?”

  “Child, I don’t remember. Dates don’t stick with me. But I’m sure it was the year I put up a manger scene. I swapped baby Jesus for a blue Smurf figurine.”

  I could totally see her Smurfing the manger.

  Miss Emma tapped a finger against her chin. “But I think Coop was a freshman in college. He and Barb were broken up. Irene was so pleased.” Miss Emma dipped her brush into a pot of blue paint and drew a tiny Smurf. “Right after Valentine’s Day, Barb up and mar
ried Lester Philpot. Everybody said she was pregnant.”

  The tremors moved from my arms into my jaws.

  “I’ve never seen their daughter.” Miss Emma dabbed her brush in black paint and drew a frowning devil face on the Smurf. “I expected to see her when I painted Barb’s mural. I believe the girl was at school. Barb didn’t write in her diary, either.”

  I edged closer to Miss Emma. “Did she say why?”

  “She stopped keeping a diary after the child was born. Barb had the baby blues. But she still put together those puzzles.”

  “I saw the mural,” I said. “When did you paint it?”

  “Two years ago.” She pointed to the wall, toward a long pastel column. In the middle, she’d written, Painted BBP’s mural—Battle of Atlanta. The date was scrawled beside it.

  Two years and one month ago.

  Miss Emma drew a black doodlebug on her canvas. “Even then, my mind was starting to get foggy. So I listed my freelance projects. I was real excited to paint the Battle of Atlanta, but Barb didn’t know her history. She painted what she wanted. Thank goodness she chose an inconspicuous spot. She worked in one area, halfway up the staircase. At the curve. I hope people don’t think I painted it.”

  I was barely listening. Eleven years ago, Coop had been a freshman at the University of North Carolina. He and Barb had broken up for good that autumn. But if Miss Emma was right and he’d slept with Barb that December, he could be Emerson’s father. When the DNA test came back, Lester might have no choice but to let the child live with Coop. And me.

  “Girl?” Miss Emma snapped her fingers. “What’s your name again?”

  “Templeton.” My voice was barely a whisper. Poor Miss Emma. Her memories were tattered, as if moths were flying inside her head, chewing holes in the past.

  “I’ve heard that name before.” Miss Emma painted fangs on the doodlebug. “I used to know something about Barb’s diary. But I can’t remember. If it comes back to me, I’ll write it on my wall. Or I can ask my housekeeper. Fiona cleans for the Philpots, too. She knows all their secrets. She said Barb ripped the pages out of her diaries and put them somewhere. She kept the pages she wanted and burned the rest in the BBQ pit.”