Carolina Crimes

by Karen Pullen

“I’m going to live in it.”

  He raised one graying eyebrow. “Indeed. Well then, welcome to Verwood.” He handed me a set of keys. “Doors, garage, car. I transferred her bank account to your name. Sign here, please.”

  I scanned the form, a statement of my newly inherited assets. A house plus two acres at 601 Wiley Jones Road, a 2005 Toyota Camry, a bank account with a balance of $6,754.52. Not much. I’d have to get a teaching job. I shuddered.

  * * * *

  I wasn’t used to driving, but there was so little traffic in Verwood that I felt no qualms about steering the Camry onto the highway and four miles later onto Wiley Jones Road. I passed three trailers before I saw 601’s mailbox. A washboard driveway wound through vine-covered underbrush and towering pines.

  And there was my house, one story with a crumbling front porch, neglected hollies growing up to a rusty tin roof, plywood covering a broken window. And out back, a tiny rough-board shed surrounded by a wire fence—a chicken coop!

  I was beyond excited. My Martha instincts kicked in—this house could be cute. Mango meowed plaintively in the carrier. “Your ordeal is over. We’re home, boy,” I said, skipping up the steps.

  Oh my. I’d landed in the ’seventies. Shag carpet so grimy you couldn’t tell its original color. Flocked wallpaper. Avocado green sofa and chairs, the upholstery worn down to the foam. A dark room made darker by heavy brocade draperies at the windows. Mango began to explore, tentatively sniffing every square inch of that carpet. I counted seventeen candles burned down to wicks, and any number of dust-covered silk flower arrangements. But I couldn’t stop smiling, so happy was I to have my own place. With a fireplace!

  And a letter on the mantel, addressed to me:

  Dear Reenie,

  It gives me great pleasure to know you will be my beneficiary. I realized many years ago that teachers work very hard for little pay, even less status and no chance of advancement, so I am delighted you can benefit from my experience.

  Twenty years ago I found another way to make money with little work and no stress, and I hereby bequeath it to you.

  In addition to my cottage, you have inherited a home-based business that ticks along without much effort. It will generate enough income to pay your expenses if you live modestly. Five days a week, my girlfriends Connie, Fran, and Lilac arrive just before noon. Shortly thereafter, three clients appear at your door, one per girl, and each couple disappears into a bedroom. At the end of one hour, each client will hand you $50, tax-free, and depart, smiling. (They pay the girls separately.)

  I hope you enjoy living in Verwood as much as I did. People are friendly but fortunately for me and now for you, they mind their own business. No one seems to care about my little lunchtime club, and that’s the way my girls and their clients like it.

  From this day forward, you’ll be able to see a yellow school bus without shuddering.

  Much love,

  Aunt Peggy

  My mouth dropped open: I had inherited a brothel.

  My good-girl Methodist side was horrified, but Peggy’s clever reminder of yellow-bus-dread hit home, making my pragmatic burned-out side think What the hell! This could work.

  But what were the girls like?

  * * * *

  They showed up at 11:30 the next day, a Friday, and what astonished me was how ordinary they looked, like any forty-something women waiting on a Bronx subway platform. Lilac was a petite blonde with thick glasses, missing an incisor. Fran wore a long flowery dress that disguised her too-ample curves, while Connie, in purple skinny jeans, had lovely cheekbones and knock-knees. In no time we were chatting about their families, diets that didn’t work, best store for shoes. And their clients.

  “Each one’s different,” Fran said. “Some might say peculiar.” She giggled, and her whole body rippled. “A regular schedule, the same ones each day of the week.”

  “We’re picky,” Lilac said. She was studying a Scrabble wordbook.

  “What’s today, Friday? My dentist. He likes to be scolded,” Connie said. She’d changed into an eighties-style power suit, red lipstick, and heels. She took out a knitting project in blue yarn, “a sweater for a Siamese, to match its eyes.” She told me she knitted clothing for pets and sold it on Etsy. She was saving to send her son to college.

  Lilac looked up. “‘Siamese,’ that’s an easy bingo.” She explained that she played competitive Scrabble, and bingo meant a word that used all seven tiles. “My client today is the fire chief. We usually play a game after our feather frolic.”

  Feather frolic? My mind boggled.

  Fran squeezed herself into a naughty nurse uniform “for the professor” and offered me a homemade toffee. Hard at first, the sticky candy melted in my mouth, leaving a hint of chocolate mint. “I sell them at the farmer’s market,” she said. “If there’s any left!” She laughed, severely testing her costume’s seams.

  As they waited for their clients, they gossiped. Connie bragged that her son made the honor roll, and Fran said she ought to be proud, he was one fine boy. Lilac told a story about her dog humping the plumber who was replacing her garbage disposal. Connie knitted, Lilac studied word lists, and Fran nibbled, until clonk clonk went the doorknocker. I ducked into the kitchen, to watch from behind the door.

  The first client was Fran’s professor, a jockey-sized man with a goatee. He hung his tweed jacket in the hall closet and began to limp, whimpering with each step. What a faker, I thought.

  Fran tugged up her red thigh-high stockings, tucked a stethoscope into her cleavage, stroked his cheek. “How’re you doing, sweetheart?”

  “I feel terrible, from head to toe, just terrible.”

  “Let’s check you out. Exam room one.” Fran sashayed down the hall to the bedrooms, beckoning him with a crooked finger to follow.

  Clonk clonk, and the front door opened again. The dentist was a paunchy man with thick white hair, smelling of Old Spice. He planted himself in front of Connie, who didn’t even glance up from her knitting but said, “Go to your room. You have been a very bad boy.” Looking hang-dog guilty, he slinked down the hall. Connie slid a marker onto the needle and put her knitting away. She took a ruler from the closet and followed him, smacking the ruler against her palm and growling for him to hurry.

  Lilac pushed aside the heavy brocade draperies, looked out the window. “Chief is always last.” She poked inside a tote bag. “We could use some new feathers. Chief took a few home last week.”

  OMG. I closed the door. I’d seen enough. I spread a drop cloth over the kitchen floor. I’d decided to paint the kitchen’s burnt orange walls and ceiling a creamy ivory. As I spackled and taped, I worried. Last night’s heavy rain had proved too much for the rusted roof, and I’d dashed around putting pots under a half-dozen leaks. Clearly I needed a new roof. As far as beautification went, I’d whacked the hollies into submission. But my Martha-vision included paint, landscaping, better furniture, repairing windows, replacing heavy draperies with white sheers, grading the quarter-mile driveway, and a lot of fencing (for the goats I didn’t yet have). Obviously I needed more income. I’d ask the girls what I should do.

  * * * *

  “Don’t raise your prices,” Lilac said. “Once Peggy went up twenty bucks and we lost a bunch of guys.”

  “What about taking on a few more clients?” I asked.

  Connie frowned. “You mean two in one day?” They exchanged looks. “That’s like cheating.”

  “Yeah. Each client has his day, no sharing,” Fran said. “Like a date.”

  Whatever. “Alrighty then,” I said, “we need a fourth girl.” I studied the three women. Connie’s face was getting that crepey look. She’s experienced, surely that’s desirable? Fran’s belly bulged; you could see her red thong where her zipper had come unstitched. Oh dear. And Lilac—squinting at her word book—she should replace that missing tooth. Not a good look.

  “It shouldn’t be hard to find one,” Lilac said. “The economy and all.”

  “I don�
��t know where to look,” I said.

  Connie said, “Try Walmart. Or Target.”

  I imagined wandering around discount stores for hours, the horrified expressions of sales clerks and customers as they realized the job I was offering. “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “I could check out the lady farmers at the market,” Fran said. “They could use the cash, but they’re a bit weathered, if you know what I mean.”

  Lilac looked up from a list of words containing Z. “What about Splits and Tits?”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Strip club. Girls gyrating around poles. Neon lighting kept dark so customers can’t see cellulite and varicose veins.”

  “Lilac, you’re a genius. Sounds perfect.”

  I made up business cards with an image of hundred-dollar bills raining down. Part-time work, easy money! I drove to Splits’ parking lot and as the dancers arrived for work, I handed out my card. “Call me,” I say, waggling my thumb and pinky. “Guaranteed income, homey surroundings.”

  * * * *

  By the following Friday I had my fourth girl.

  A redhead with a cockney accent, Ginger wobbled slightly on five-inch leopard-skin heels. She wore a black leather teddy decorated with fishnet and straps and nailhead trim. She sauntered into my living room and looked around. “Place seen better days, innit?”

  Lilac’s eyes widened, but she offered a friendly “Hi.” Fran held out her box of toffee, and Connie said, “It’s great to have a new face here.”

  Impressed they were so welcoming, I told them my plan. “I’ll introduce Ginger to your clients, and ask them to spread the word.”

  “Why not let her take our place today?” Connie asked. “We talked about it, and we three could use a day off.” Fran and Lilac nodded.

  “Will your clients object? They’re awfully fond of you,” I said. “Used to a certain, uh, routine.”

  Connie shrugged. “Tell them we’ll be back next Friday.” She gathered up her knitting. Lilac said she’d find an online Scrabble game. Fran wrestled off the naughty nurse costume and pulled on stretchy waist jeans and a tee shirt. They left, seeming pleased to have free time.

  * * * *

  One by one, the regular clients arrived. I ushered the professor into the bedroom where Ginger waited, dressed in the naughty nurse costume taken in with safety pins. She wriggled seductively as she beckoned him to lie down. “Let’s take a look at you, dearie,” she said, twirling the stethoscope.

  The professor frowned. “Uh, you’re a skinny little thing, aren’t you? Except for those basketballs on your chest.”

  I closed the door. Surely Ginger could work through his crankiness. She’d assured me she knew how to make a man happy.

  Five minutes later, he stormed into the living room, shoving his money at me. “It better be Fran next week, right?” He stomped out.

  I knocked on the closed bedroom door. “You OK?”

  “Hell, yeah. Daft old sod.”

  When the dentist arrived, Ginger had changed into a tweed suit with big shoulder pads. She ordered him to sit on a stool in a corner, facing the wall. She started scolding him, as Connie would have, and I left, thinking This one will be OK. But soon, too soon, from the bedroom the dentist yelled, “That’s not right! You’re doing it all wrong!” He left, weeping, refusing to pay.

  I sighed. Transitions are rough.

  Ginger came out, dressed in her leather teddy. She rolled her eyes. “What a perv. OK, bag of feathers?” She tucked the Scrabble board under one arm, gathered a bouquet of feathers, and waited by the window for the chief, who was late as usual. “Firefighters are buffed, aren’t they? Hang around the station doing pressups? I’m ready for a real man.” A moment of silence, then, “What’s this? Looks like a social worker.”

  I put down my paint roller and glanced out the window at a woman with short dark hair, big sunglasses and a navy pantsuit, admiring my bed of annuals. She clacked the doorknocker.

  “Is Lilac here?” the woman asked, when I opened the door.

  Lilac hadn’t mentioned that the fire chief was a woman.

  “Bugger all.” Ginger dropped the bouquet of feathers and the Scrabble board. “I don’t roll that way. What kind of place is this? Where’s a normal man?”

  I had to think a moment. “Define ‘normal.’” I sent the chief away, whispering that Lilac would be back next week.

  What a huge mistake I’d made. “Ginger,” I said gently, “it’s not working. My clients are used to my girls. They don’t want anyone else.”

  Ginger hissed, “You’re making big lolly here off twats and lezzies, and I want five thousand dollars to keep my piehole shut. Or else I tell the coppers.”

  “What?” I needed that money for a roof, siding repair, furniture, a fence. “Give me a week, honey. I’ll see what I can do.” I gave Ginger a little push out the door, gratified to see her lose her balance and nearly fall off her fuck-me shoes.

  * * * *

  The following Friday, noontime, the girls waited for their regulars. Connie was knitting doggie booties out of gray heathery yarn, a complicated pattern with double-pointed needles. Fran offered me a piece of toffee topped with chocolate and almonds. So so good, but quite a jaw workout to dissolve it. Lilac was absorbed in a word list, muttering what sounded like drachms, klatsch, scarphs, schmalz, schnaps, sclaffs, scratch.

  I told them Ginger would be along soon. “She wants severance pay to keep our little business a secret. So I’m off to the bank, to withdraw funds. When she shows up, ask her to wait.”

  The girls exchanged looks. “Don’t worry, Reenie,” Connie said. “We’ll manage.”

  * * * *

  A half hour later, back from the bank, I parked the Camry in the garage and entered my house through the laundry room. I passed the bedrooms, briefly listening at each door. I heard Connie barking orders, Fran’s directive to “Say ‘Ah,’ baby…” and the chief’s feather-induced giggles. All was back to normal, or near-normal, except for Ginger’s threat. I was thankful the girls forgave my mistake, relieved the clients came back. Now I only had to negotiate a more modest payment to Ginger.

  But Ginger wasn’t waiting impatiently for her blackmail money.

  She lay face-down on the living room floor, her stiletto-clad feet splayed wide in a scatter of toffee candies and Scrabble tiles. She clutched to her neck a tangle of gray heathery yarn and double-pointed knitting needles. One of the needles had punctured her throat, and blood oozed from the wound into the shag carpet. My heart ratcheted into overdrive as I knelt and searched for a pulse. None. Ginger was surely dead, the body still so warm that Mango had wedged himself against her hip.

  I pounded on the bedroom doors. “Get out here! Now!” As soon as the girls and their clients emerged, I questioned them. “What the hell happened?”

  Fran clasped the professor to her bosom. “We didn’t hear anything,” she said.

  “Me either.” Lilac looked frightened, and the chief patted her back.

  All six denied hearing or seeing Ginger. “She must have come in while we were in the bedrooms,” Connie said. “Was it a break-in? Anything missing?”

  My mind reeled as the girls, the clients, and I stared at each other in shock and mistrust. A burglary gone wrong? Had one of the girls killed her out of spite? Or to save me from blackmail? Or maybe one of the clients killed her, in the mistaken belief that Ginger was going to replace his favorite. Irrational motives, bizarre means. Alibis all around—or were they?

  I called the police.

  * * * *

  “Looks suspicious, all right,” said the detective, solidly-built in a snugly-fitting tailored uniform, a sight that normally activated my flirt gene, but today I was angry at the official attention and very very worried. First and foremost, what happened to Ginger, in my house? Was this death going to destroy my brand-new business, drive my girls onto welfare rolls, disgrace my clients?

  A forensic team booted us out. The three girls, their Fr
iday clients, and I went to the police station to be interviewed separately, but we all had alibis and the clients were solid citizens. The detective brushed off the issue of three couples in my bedrooms.

  “I’m investigating a death, not misdemeanors,” he said. “Everyone knew your aunt ran a lunchtime social club. No harm done.”

  Whew. One less thing to worry about, and I mentally smacked my forehead—Ginger’s threat to tell the police had been empty.

  After a few hours, they allowed us to return. Connie was annoyed because they’d confiscated her needles and yarn. Since they’d also gathered up the Scrabble tiles, Lilac would have to buy a new set. Fran shrugged; she could always make another batch of toffee. We gave each other hugs, and they departed, leaving me alone in a house with a blood-stained shag carpet.

  I checked the locks on my doors and windows. It would be a long time before I could forget the picture of Ginger’s still body, posed as though she’d collapsed without a struggle, a size 4 double-pointed knitting needle piercing her throat. I’ll admit it—I was afraid. To distract myself from my fears, I began to spray the flocked wallpaper with water and peel it off the wall. Mango watched me work, the tip of his tail twitching. What did you see, Mango?

  * * * *

  “It wasn’t murder,” the detective declared, a statement I had trouble believing until he explained. “Forensics worked this case over good. Ginger’s fingerprints covered Connie’s on that needle, meaning no one else held it. And the ME found a big wad of toffee lodged in her throat, and cat hair on the toes of her shoes. So here’s a likely scenario. She was annoyed with you all, right?”

  I nodded. “I’d promised her employment, but it didn’t work out.”

  He nodded and smiled, a crooked smile showing white teeth, a nice contrast to his warm brown eyes. “She knocked the Scrabble tiles to the floor and stuffed three toffees in her mouth. Those toffees don’t dissolve easily; they turned into a sticky mass, making it difficult to swallow. She grabbed the knitting project, intending to pull it apart, but as she began to choke, she clutched her throat, tripped over the cat in those ridiculous shoes, slipped on the tiles, and fell onto one of the needles. She stabbed herself. Case closed.”