Organize Your Corpses

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “She could sure sniff out vulnerability. And there was no way Pepper could complain about it at home. She’d just end up with more bruises,” Jack said. “Made my folks seem normal.”

  I hadn’t mentioned Jack’s swarthy, roly-poly mom and dad, barely five feet tall and perpetually terrified some disaster would befall the blue-eyed, white-blond beanpole they’d adopted.

  Jack said, “They had nightmares about me starving to death.”

  I had to laugh at that. “Hey listen, the rest of us didn’t mind. All those pies and cookies. They just kept coming. Endless snacks. Sally and I used to eat until it hurt.”

  “I didn’t have such a bad deal, I guess.”

  “I adored your parents. Maybe that’s part of the reason I like living here so much. I have really nice memories of this house from when we were growing up.”

  “Yeah, I think the folks would be real happy to know you were living here too.”

  “You’re probably right.” I didn’t add that they probably would have been just as happy that Jack had totally filled one entire floor of their lovely old Victorian with bicycles and parts, with a side order of philosophy books and university assignments. As long as he was eating lots.

  “They were pretty cool, weren’t they?” Jack turned his face away, and I felt a catch in my throat.

  I said, “For sure. And they thought you were the sun, the moon, and the stars.”

  “You mean I’m not?”

  “Of all of us, you were the lucky one, Jack.”

  “Thanks, Charlotte. It’s hard for me to talk about them since the accident.”

  I gave his hand a squeeze.

  Jack produced a half-hearted grin. “Come on, your mom was pretty neat. She was so glamorous, and she sure could get the rumors flying around Woodbridge. And you can’t complain about the way she treated you. You got all those neat trips. Paris. London. Venice. L.A.”

  “But life was always all about Esme Adams, best-selling author. Right through four marriages, each one wackier than the one before. And I never even got to know my own father. And I can’t even remember the name of this latest guy. No wonder I can’t pick a decent human being for a fiancé.”

  “Never mind our parents. We had a lot of fun. I don’t think we were misfits. That’s harsh.”

  “Let it go, Jack. That comment was just Sally’s way to distract me. Although the WINY news took care of that.”

  “Whoa. Suspected foul play,” Jack said.

  “But it’s almost impossible to believe. Who could have wanted to kill her?”

  “Surely you jest,” Jack said.

  I stared, astonished. “What do you mean? Jest. It’s murder.”

  “She had tons of enemies, Charlotte. Think back. How many kids from her class would have nurtured anger and resentment over some humiliation at Hellfire Henley’s hands?”

  “Kids are always being humiliated. It’s a rite of passage. How are you going to cope with adulthood otherwise?”

  “Hellfire went way beyond. She could twist the knife and make a kid’s life a living nightmare. I know it. You know it. Everyone knew it. We were just talking about how she treated Pepper when her life was already the pits.”

  “Even so.”

  “But you had the guts to stand up to her. Imagine all the kids who couldn’t because they’d get in trouble at home if they did. Or expelled. Or just have to endure more and more bad treatment from the old witch.”

  “We’re talking murder, Jack. Murder. I don’t care what you say. I don’t believe people commit homicide because they’re mad at someone who taught them way back.”

  “Face it, the list of people who never felt like killing Miss Henley would be a lot shorter than the list of people who did. Just about everybody would have had some reason. Even Pepper.”

  I shivered. “They’re not releasing the body yet.”

  Jack said, “They’re not? But I heard on the radio that there’s a memorial service planned tomorrow afternoon, at St. Jude’s.”

  “Really? Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. That’s kind of fast, isn’t it? I wonder what the rush is.”

  “I guess they figure a lot of people can get there on a Saturday afternoon. We’ll have to go.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “If you say so.”

  Keep an extra package of new stockings in your drawer, glove compartment, and briefcase. You never know when you’ll need them.

  5

  As memorial services go, Miss Henley’s had a festive air. And why not? According to the latest rumor rocketing through Woodbridge, all the instructions were in her will, right down to choice of the organ music. If you believed the wagging tongues, Father Timothy wasn’t all that happy to take orders from beyond the grave. True? Who knows? But Saturday turned out to be an excellent day to hold a memorial. People sure made a point of getting there early to get the best seat. When Jack and I drove up in my Miata, it was impossible to find a place to park anywhere near St. Jude’s. Jack is the proud owner of an ancient Mini Minor in an alarming shade of mud brown. It is currently experiencing technical difficulties, so mine is always the vehicle of choice.

  We circled the block three times before spinning off to find a spot four blocks away.

  “Well, crap. I can’t believe it,” I said. “We’re a half hour early. Who are all these people? You’d think it was a rock concert from the crowd.”

  Jack said, “Told you we should have biked.”

  “Not in this outfit, buster.”

  By the time we reached the wide stairs to the church, I was doing my best not to limp in my black suede pumps with the four-inch heels. Sally and Benjamin were right behind us.

  “It’s the place to be,” Sally said merrily. She was one of those blondes who were born to wear black and she knew it. She fluffed her corkscrew curls as she spotted Todd Tyrell in the clump of media types surrounding the church.

  A crowd flowed behind us and swept past up the stairs. Eager beavers took the stairs two at a time. We were lucky enough to elbow our way into the last pew. I recognized quite a few people, from school and just from living in Woodbridge. Kristee from Kristee’s Kandees, Mrs. Tang, and Margaret were sitting closer to the front. I saw the two constables who had come to Henley House, the paramedics, and a pixielike woman with a sleek ponytail who I finally recognized as Mona Pringle, former schoolmate and now emergency services operator. She gave me a conspiratorial wink. I really, really hoped that no one else had spotted that.

  I could feel the buzz in the air, like a midnight madness sale at the Woodbridge Mall, a swirl of excitement that seemed just plain wrong at a memorial service. Especially when the service was for someone whose body I’d found myself.

  To add to the buzz, there was plenty of police presence. Sally elbowed me and pointed toward Pepper and her husband, the noted boy toy, Nick Monahan.

  “There he is, God’s gift to the girls,” Sally snickered.

  I kept my mouth firmly shut. The less said about Nick Monahan the better. But there was a good reason he’d earned the nickname “Nick the Stick.” It was just hard to believe that Pepper, with all her guts and brainpower, couldn’t see past that handsome face and athlete’s body. It had cost her my friendship. What else would it cost her?

  “Bed-hopping slacker,” Jack said cheerfully.

  Sally added a bit too loudly, “I suppose they deserve each other.”

  Benjamin turned his head and furrowed his teddy-bear face. “Sally, for heaven’s sake. We’re in church.”

  Pepper turned around at that exact moment.

  Sally caught her breath.

  I felt myself blanch.

  Benjamin whispered, “When will you two learn a bit of control?”

  Luckily Pepper’s attention was diverted by the arrival of several elderly women, in navy skirts and sweaters, wearing large crosses. They could only be nuns, in those outfits. I remembered some of the faces from St. Jude’s. It wasn’t like nuns to be late, but I figured this batch was probabl
y from out of town. They were being ushered toward the front of the church to join the rest.

  Although the new arrivals seemed quite solemn, even the somber church and the nature of the event couldn’t mask the upbeat mood of the congregation. Miss Helen Henley was dead. Murdered it appeared. But, as Jack kept insisting, who had never wanted to kill Miss Henley? Tra la la.

  By the time Olivia Henley Simonett, the sole surviving relative, was escorted in her wheelchair to the front of the church, it was standing room only, with stragglers sulking outside on the stairs. Everyone strained to see the fragile figure in the wheelchair. Her long, wavy white hair was held back by a pink ribbon. Each cheek had a spot of rouge like a target, and her bright lipstick had overshot the mark on her upper and lower lips. She wore a strange, shy smile, alternated with an expression of stunned surprise. On her way toward the front, she began to wave coyly at the crowd. Muffled laughter swept the church. Near the front, she began to try to get out of her wheelchair and was promptly shoved back in her place by the sturdy, dark-haired woman who was wheeling her.

  Benjamin shook his head. “Oh, poor Olivia. This kind of circus won’t do her any good.”

  “Do you know her?” I whispered.

  He nodded. “I was her GP before she went to Stone Wall Farm. She’s very fragile.”

  I hadn’t known Olivia Henley Simonett was one of Benjamin’s patients. Of course, I didn’t know much about her at all. I wanted to ask him what he meant by fragile. But I knew Benjamin well enough to know that he wouldn’t spill the beans on anyone under his care.

  The memorial was uneventful. I couldn’t imagine what people would find to say that would be all that heartwarming about Miss Henley. I had admired her passion for order, her spectacular self-discipline, and her shoes. But that would hardly bring a tear to anyone’s eye.

  There were no tears in the church that day. Imagine spending seventy-plus years in one town, and when you die, the church is packed and everyone’s in a mood to party.

  Six St. Jude’s students carried a half dozen large arrangements of lilies and green mums up the center aisle. As the flowers neared the front of the church, Olivia Simonett leapt to her feet, staggered away from her wheelchair, and waved her arms in what appeared to be jubilation. I guarantee you just about everyone in that church experienced a most unChristian thrill. The dark-haired attendant was knocked sideways. Her glasses flew through the air. Olivia blew kisses to the crowd. The attendant recovered in time to grasp Olivia by the arms, just as the elderly woman staggered and sank out of our sight, with a crash that must have been wheelchair related.

  “Holy shit,” Sally said.

  Benjamin pressed past us and hurtled toward the front of the church.

  “He’s great in doctor mode, isn’t he?” Sally said. “That’s what I fell in love with.”

  “He’s great in any mode,” I snapped. “What do you think was going on up there?”

  Jack climbed on the seat of the pew and stretched to see over the hundreds of craning heads. “A celebration, for sure. Seems to have ended badly though.”

  As I strained to see the ongoing commotion, I caught sight of a pair of dark eyes. And they caught sight of me. I found myself staring once again at the man from Tang’s. Mr. I-may-have-the-eyes-of-a-shy-woodland-creature-but-I-also-have-a-wedding-band was heading toward the front of the church too. I turned away but not before Sally noticed.

  “Who’s that stud muffin?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t get all coy, Charlotte. The guy with the leather jacket.”

  “Nobody.”

  “Come on, Charlotte.”

  “Actually I have no idea, and I don’t need to know, Sally. Remember we’re in church. Pay attention to the ceremony.”

  “Since when do you care about ceremonies? Anyway, it’s stopped, as you must have noticed.”

  Benjamin gave us both another of his irritated teddy-bear frowns as he hustled by with the attendant wheeling Olivia Simonett. The attendant still seemed pretty dazed, her glasses tilted at a definite angle. Olivia, her long white hair hanging loose, waved to the crowd. The hair ribbon had vanished.

  As soon as they were out the door, the organ music swelled and the memorial service was under way.

  At least Sally shut up. I tried to pay attention to a succession of retired school principals for St. Jude’s. Each one of them gave the impression that unseen marksmen had high-powered rifles trained on their foreheads. I could almost imagine the red dot from the laser. If you chose to believe them, Miss Henley had brought much joy to their lives by her immaculate record keeping and maintenance of classroom order.

  Sally said, “I hear the old witch left a serious bundle to the school, and the catch was they had to have all the living principals speak at the memorial.”

  “That would explain it,” Jack said. “Principals losing their principles.”

  Benjamin’s face was pale as dust when he ducked back into the pew. When Sally opened her mouth, he said, “What is the matter with you people? Keep your voices down.”

  Jack gave me a nudge. I refused to make eye contact with him for the rest of the memorial. The high point continued to be the fracas at the front with Miss Henley’s fragile elderly cousin. By the time the last representative of St. Jude’s wiped his brow with a handkerchief, the crowd was pleased to exit and head for the bread portion of the circus.

  By the time we reached the bottom of the stairs, the big white wheelchair-accessible van from Stone Wall Farm had arrived, the attendant had her glasses straightened out, and Olivia Simonett had shipped out. The eager crowd could surge toward the reception without distraction.

  The reception was held, not in the church hall with the parish’s Women’s League traditional egg-salad sandwiches, but in the ballroom at the Woodbridge Arms, Woodbridge’s recently renovated historic hotel. It was a two-block hike from the church. I suggested we skip it, but Sally and Jack nixed that idea. The chocolate brown van from Kristee’s Kandees was parked by the hotel.

  I pointed to it. “That’s good news, at least.”

  “Get a load of that.” Jack smirked, staring around in wonder as we walked in. “Everything but the disco ball.”

  But I approved. The ballroom was quite splendid. Tables of canapés and tiny pastries, chocolate truffles, huge silver coffee urns and tea services. Small glasses of quite tolerable white wine were handed around by busy servers in black and white uniforms. Miss Henley had made sure her memorial would be one to remember, even if she couldn’t have counted on her cousin to give it that little extra touch.

  I spotted Margaret Tang frowning at some canapés. She radiated expensive professionalism in a severe navy suit, with just a whimsical bit of lace camisole showing. There was always more to Margaret than you’d expect. There was no sign of Mrs. Tang. I figured she’d hustled back to the store. I slipped up behind Margaret and said “hi.”

  She turned and squealed, “Charlotte Adams.”

  “That’s me!” I squealed back.

  “Did you come back for this happy event?” she said, picking up a small plate and adding a few sandwiches and a pastry.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Margaret’s mother hadn’t been passing on messages. I figured that was typical for the Tang family.

  I said, “I’ve been back in Woodbridge for more than six months now. I’ve set up a business.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I heard you’d set up a law practice. That’s great. I left you a couple of messages at the store. I left my business card too. I figured you were too busy getting settled to get in touch.”

  She shook her head. “Mom’s weird. You should know that after all these years.”

  “Jack tried to reach you too, when Pepper hauled me in for questioning. You were somewhere in court.”

  The hand with the sandwich froze. “Pepper hauled you in?”

  “Yeah. She questioned me about Miss Henley’s death. I think she wishes I’d done it
.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t even hear about that. I’ve been up to my ears with a deposition in Albany. And I didn’t get that message. Of course, that’s what happens when you have your cousin working in your office. Mom probably issued a ‘no message’ list. This kid’s scared to death of her. Anyway, here’s my cell number if you ever need me again. I’ll give it to Jack too.”

  We went through a juggling act with plates and wine-glasses until we’d completed the ritual exchange of business cards. It sure felt strange to do that with an old friend like Margaret.

  I said, “Let’s hope. Listen, why don’t we get together? Come on over and catch up with Sally and Jack. It’ll be just like old times.”

  Margaret made a face. “Hope not,” she said.

  I took it the way I thought she meant it. I couldn’t blame her. Margaret had been a chunky, brilliant Asian in a small town that didn’t value any of those attributes in a girl. She’d complicated matters by wearing glasses and winning school medals. Her science projects had been jaw-dropping. All that wasn’t quite the kiss of death, but close. I never remembered Margaret having a date or even a conversation with any of the popular kids in our school. She’d worked hard at the store under the eye of her sour mother, and endured ethnic slurs and cracks about her weight at school, when she wasn’t being completely ignored by prom queens and football players with half her brains. Except for Jack, Sally, Pepper, and me, no one ever spoke to her. And of course, no matter what Jack said, we were the misfits.

  So what on earth had possessed her to return to Woodbridge now that she had a size-two figure, a thousand-dollar suit, a law degree, and a pair of contact lenses? Knowing Margaret, I decided it was better not to ask.

  I slipped my new business card into her pocket. “That was then, this is now. You know what they say: doing well is the best revenge. Anyway, we had fun together, you and me, Sally and Pepper and Jack.”

  “You’re right,” Margaret said. “We did. Maybe the only fun I’ve had in my life. I’ll call you. And you call me.”