Organize Your Corpses

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Oh.”

  “I understand you created quite an uproar here today.”

  “Well, yes, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to find out about—”

  “Mrs. Simonett has been extremely agitated since your visit. Her attendant tells me you bullied her, as well as brought in unhealthy snacks and encouraged her to miss out on lunch with the other residents. This is a sick, fragile, elderly woman. We have a responsibility to our residents here and we take it seriously. Stone Wall Farm is a private facility on private property. This call is to make sure you understand you will no longer be welcome here.”

  “What?”

  “Do I make myself clear? Your presence will not be tolerated.”

  “But I may be able to help Olivia. I was working for her cousin, Helen Henley, when she died and—”

  “Good-bye, Miss Adams.”

  Don’t let junk mail get a toehold in your home. Open your mail over the recycle bin.

  8

  I arrived at Sally’s carrying a stack of flat-packed boxes and plastic bags with safety scissors, glue, and fat new tubes of finger paints. There was already a truckload of craft supplies at Sally’s, including lots of stuff I’d brought, but the chances of finding any of it were slim. The kids followed me as I stumbled through the chaos in the foyer and into the living room.

  “Can I wear your shoes, Charlotte?”

  “Where are the doggies?”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “It’s a project,” I said.

  The idea of a project was greeted by squeals. The two kids jumped up and down on the white leather sofa in excitement. “A project! A project!”

  The baby flung a cracker.

  Suddenly Madison plunked herself down. “What’s a project?”

  “We’re going to do a special craft,” I said.

  Sally leaned against the door, arms folded, smiling.

  “We’re going to make a treasure chest for each season,” I said. “We’ll paint them and decorate them.”

  “Yay!” Dallas screamed.

  “What’s a season?” Madison said, frowning.

  “Better start from the beginning,” Sally said. “I’ll clear the coffee table for painting.”

  I stared at her. The ultrachic glass-topped coffee table sat on a pale silk rug. It was all part of the trendy furniture Sally and Benjamin had bought when they were in stylish-young-couple mode. That was before Dallas, Madison, and baby Savannah arrived. Now Tonka toys and Barbies and Barney had been introduced into the mix.

  “Let’s not wreck the living room.”

  “Why not? It’s already wrecked, and the table’s the perfect height for finger painting.”

  Perfect for finger paints? So not.

  “Kitchen table,” I said.

  Sally narrowed her eyes. “Coffee table.”

  “No arguments.”

  “Remember democracy? My kids, my house.”

  “My project, my rules,” I shot back. “For this afternoon, democracy’s dead.”

  The kids painted and decorated intently while Sally and I helped. In between, I filled her in on Olivia Simonett’s story and what had happened at Stone Wall Farm.

  “Sheesh. That’s a sad story.” Sally reached over and stroked the hair of her two little artists. Dallas ignored her. Madison pushed her hand away.

  She said, “My kids are my life. I can’t even imagine it. How would you go on without them? She must have wanted to die herself.”

  “I’m not sure she ever fully understood what happened.”

  “Maybe that’s good.” Sally shivered. “So what’s the story on this Crawford? Why did his name set her off?”

  “I don’t know. But I plan to find out.”

  “On the other hand, why don’t you simply forget it? The Henley situation seems to be bad luck and bad business.”

  “I wish I could forget it.”

  An hour later, Sally’s kitchen brought to mind a bad acid trip, not that I would know, and the first treasure chest, Spring, was complete. The box was now brilliant blue with green strips of grass, birds, and flowers. Baby Savannah had tossed on some cereal. The kids had finished painting a large spiky-rayed sun and cutting it out, with Sally’s help. We glued it on as the final touch. The sun appeared to be snarling, but you can’t win ’em all.

  The Spring treasure chest was a hit.

  “Next time I come over we’ll do Summer,” I said. “And wait until you see what we’re going to do with them.”

  “What?” Both kids stared at me with wide eyes.

  “They’re treasure chests. We’ll use them for treasures. You pick some toys you want to put away to be your treasures next spring.”

  All three kids started to wail as I left, reminding me I still had a lot to learn.

  “Sorry,” I said to Sally as I peeled their small hands from my legs. “I have to find out about this Crawford. I’ll be back for the next stage of the project.”

  Sally leaned against the door frame, and for the first time I noticed the deep blue circles under her eyes. She said, “Maybe you should just forget this whole crazy situation, including Crawford, whoever he is, if he’s anyone.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Isn’t that just like Hellfire to keep making trouble even after she’s dead? Let it go, Charlotte.”

  “You know, sweetie,” I said, opening the door and preparing to make a break for it, “that’s so not going to happen.”

  My next stop was Rose Skipowski’s house on North Elm. I’d brought along a nifty little bribe, my gym bag—which I keep stocked with jeans and T-shirts for grubby work, plus a couple pairs of old sneakers—and a fresh package of dust masks. I sniffed the wood smoke in the air and waited. The fat grey cat trotted down the hill to join the party.

  “I’ll be damned, hon. You did come back.” Rose was resplendent in an acid green jogging suit and her electric white running shoes.

  “Well sure.” A tantalizing scent of fresh baking drifted out the door.

  “And there’s that miserable cat again. Don’t let it in.”

  “It’s obviously not starving.” I shooed the cat away from the door.

  “I think Helen fed it after Randy died. Now it’s seeking a new slave. I suppose I should call the ASPCA about it. But it seems cruel, when someone in the neighborhood is feeding it. Here, scoot in before it gets past you.”

  “I know a person who can find a home for it,” I said.

  “That would be a big weight off my mind.”

  Inside the door, I bent and picked up the day’s mail on the floor. “I brought you a little gadget to solve your mail problem.” I produced a trim basket with suction cups that fastened to the metal door under the mail slot. “This will catch your mail and flyers, and you won’t have to bend down to the floor.”

  A loud meow sounded through the mail slot.

  “I’ll brew up some coffee. Come in and have a cup.”

  I closed the door behind me and followed her slow progress into the living room. I remembered Rose’s lousy coffee just in time. “Thanks, but I’m trying to cut down.”

  “I should too, but I’m still hooked. You’ll have some peanut butter cookies though? Fresh made. They’re even better than the sugar cookies, if I do say so myself. Won more than one ribbon with this recipe. You’re just a slip of a girl. Don’t have to worry about calories.”

  “Peanut butter cookies for sure. Let me help.”

  Rose shuffled off to the kitchen. “I have a bit of trouble breathing. But I’m not a basket case, you know. I can take care of myself. Now what else can I get you?”

  I waved my gym bag. “I brought some gear to help you sort out upstairs, anytime you want.”

  “You know something, hon? I’m not up to that today. Just join me for a snack.”

  “No problem. I’ll leave the bag here though, and I can pop in when I have a bit of time and you are up to it. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds good
to me.”

  “Where can I stash it?”

  “Right in that closet, hon.”

  I placed the gym bag on the floor of Rose’s hall closet and made myself comfortable in the living room.

  I called out, “Okay, now. I hope this is not going to upset you too, but I really need to know about Crawford Henley.”

  “What do you mean?” she said, returning with a plate that had enough cookies for a football team.

  “I got into hot water at Stone Wall Farm when I asked Olivia about him.”

  Rose set the cookies on the retro coffee table. “You went to see Olivia?”

  “I took her some truffles. I wanted to talk about Randolph Henley and Helen. She was fine with all that. But the question about Crawford set her off. She flipped. I got a call from the executive director. I’m not even allowed back on the property.”

  “That’s peculiar. Don’t worry, hon. Olivia might flip, but old Rose is not about to. Poor Crawford. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll start at the beginning. Eat your cookies.”

  No arguments from me.

  She settled into her orange armchair. The acid green of the jogging suit made a stunning contrast. “To begin with, hon, Crawford wasn’t the least bit like the rest of them. I remember him as a teenager. If there was a tree, he had to climb it. If there was a pond, he had to swim in it. If there was a squirrel, he had to smack it with a slingshot. He was a real boy. That was a pretty stifling household, and Crawford wasn’t the type to be stifled.”

  “Go on,” I mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.

  “He grew up to be the same kind of man, full of adventure. Went off hiking in the Himalayas, went prospecting for gold in Alaska, and even spent some time in the Brazilian rain forest. You getting the idea?”

  “Did he ever settle down?”

  “Didn’t have to. He had just enough inherited money to live life on his own terms.”

  “So he never came back to Woodbridge?”

  Rose shook her head. “Never say never. Last time I saw him was at the funeral for Olivia’s husband and babies. Don’t think he showed up again after that. He thought the world of Olivia, but he used to butt heads with Helen, and he’d tell anyone who’d listen that poor Randy was a waste of space.”

  “Did he get along with his grandfather?”

  Rose snorted. “Well, I guess not. That was where the real fireworks came in. Old Mr. Henley used to ride him pretty hard. Crawford always took it in his stride. Then there was some strife about a girl. There were lots of girls, of course. He was so good-looking, with that white blond hair and those blazing blue eyes. A real heartbreaker. But Crawford fell hard for this one girl. Father was a bricklayer upstate aways. As if that mattered. The old man didn’t think she was good enough. He wanted each of his grand-children to make the kind of marriage that Olivia made.”

  “Money attracts money.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So it didn’t work out with this girl?”

  “I heard the grandfather tried to pay off her family. Then all hell broke loose when Crawford found out that the old man planned to mess up his engagement. Crawford shot off his mouth, and old Mr. Henley said he was going to cut him out of his will. There was some kind of trust fund for the cousins. I don’t know whether he cut Crawford out or not. Crawford left town, and he never set foot in Woodbridge again.”

  “It’s just that Olivia got so agitated when I mentioned his name. I wonder if he might gain from Miss Henley’s death.”

  Rose blinked at me. “Not likely. I’m pretty sure he’s dead, hon.”

  “Dead?”

  “That’s what I heard anyway. I mean, not officially. The family never had a funeral for him that I knew of.”

  “Oh. But I thought . . . when you said, ask me about Crawford . . .”

  “That was silly of me. I was just talking. Glad to have someone here. Wanted you to come back. I didn’t realize it would cause trouble with that sweet, sad soul, Olivia.”

  “It’s entirely my fault, Rose. I have a habit of looking before I leap. But, so after Crawford died, would the money have gone to the other cousins?”

  “Helen and Randy got the benefits while they were alive, although I don’t think it was any great amount. Grandfather Henley didn’t believe in giving anyone a free ride. They had to earn their own money too, or marry it. Olivia married it. Helen earned it. She couldn’t have lived high on the hog on her teacher’s salary or pension, but with that trust fund, she had a good life. She was always able to buy a new car every year, dress beautifully, and travel to Europe. She had enough to buy whatever she wanted.”

  “But what about Olivia?” I said before snagging another irresistible cookie.

  “Olivia was rolling in it. She was the sole heir to the Simonetts. Her husband was the last of that line. The Henleys were paupers next to them. So Olivia, the poor lamb, could buy and sell Woodbridge a couple of times over. Trust me, that place, Stone Wall Farm, costs the earth. Then on top of it, she’s got all those private nurses. Even so, she probably doesn’t even make a noticeable dent in her interest every year.”

  “Mpph,” I said with my mouth full.

  “But to be fair to Olivia, she’s never been mean with it. Always gives generously to others. Her whole estate will go to good causes. That’s nice.”

  “I heard a big chunk is going to Stone Wall Farm. Apparently there’s some kind of foundation.”

  “I guess I’m out of the loop lately,” Rose said. “But no reason that place shouldn’t get something, especially if it meant that needy people could get in.”

  I carefully didn’t glance around at the spare, worn possessions of Rose and her seventies time warp. I knew she wasn’t thinking about herself, but in my mind I couldn’t help making a comparison with Olivia’s luxurious life.

  Maybe Rose read my mind. “Never mind that, hon. I wouldn’t have traded my life for Helen’s or Randy’s. Not even Crawford’s globe-trotting adventures. And especially poor Olivia. You see, I had love in mine. I had someone I cared about and who cared about me. A kind, good person. And I had him for a long time. That’s more than any of the Henleys could ever have said.”

  Every time I walked through the door, my phone was ringing. Although I’d pretty well given up on any of these calls turning into business, I answered to hear the anxious voice of a woman who needed five years of paperwork sorted so she could find her passport and go on her honeymoon to Paris. I slotted her in for an assessment the next morning. Five messages waited on my voice mail. The most intriguing one had to do with an out-of-control collection of dolls. That presented a striking image.

  Speaking of out of control, my collection of miniature dachshunds fit that bill. I discarded the crank messages and recorded the numbers of the would-be clients, noted the problems, and turned my attention to Truffle and Sweet Marie. I grabbed their leashes and headed out with them into the fading afternoon light. They repaid me by barking at people with hats, small children, and all items with wheels. I hustled along, heading for the next block where we are usually alone to attend to nature’s call. Truffle and Sweet Marie scampered happily, apparently pleased that two adorable children wearing cute little hats had run screaming from them. Ah yes, my little cream puffs were happy to be outside making trouble.

  I was stooping to scoop when I noticed a young woman sitting on the grass. She was slumped over, leaning against a tree, her head in her hands. Her jeans had to be wet from the damp grass. Her grey hoodie didn’t seem nearly warm enough for this chilly evening.

  Not your problem, Charlotte, I told myself firmly. You do not have to rescue everyone. In fact, you do not have to rescue anyone. You just have to get that doggy doo into this bag. That’s your task. Take care of it and walk on by. If you are bothered by people’s problems, make a donation to an appropriate charity.

  Really, I hate it when I get into that self-talk mode.

  And it so rarely works.

  As Truffle and Sweet Marie continued thei
r walk, I watched the girl out of the corner of my eye. Not many people have hair that shade of purple. Noticeable even at dusk. Truffle and Sweet Marie spotted her too and barked like they each weighed ninety pounds instead of ten.

  “Settle down, guys,” I said, pretending not to stare.

  It took a minute before I realized it was the young woman from Stone Wall Farm. I brightened. That meant she wasn’t homeless or destitute, probably not desperate in any way. Maybe her favorite sitcom had been canceled. Or her boyfriend hadn’t called. Or she’d found a zit. Whatever the tragedy, it had no connection to me.

  Truffle and Sweet Marie thought it had to do with them though. They broke away from me and zoomed straight for her, barking their pointy little heads off. She glanced up in time to see two small torpedoes shooting her way.

  I caught up breathlessly, bleating apologies. “They’re all bark,” I said. “They hardly ever bite. Ha, ha. Here, let me get my mitts on them before they . . .”

  Of course, they were already jumping all over her. Maybe she’d had liver for lunch.

  “Never mind,” she sniffed. “They’re cute.”

  I was close enough now to see the tear tracks. Sweet Marie licked her cheeks.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “Can I help?” Damn.

  She managed a crooked smile. “I doubt it. Not unless you can get me my job back.”

  “You lost your job? That’s rough.”

  “Not your problem.”

  “Sorry to intrude. My name’s Charlotte. Charlotte Adams. I saw you when I was visiting Olivia Simonett yesterday,” I said. “So I sort of felt that I knew you.”

  “That’s why you seem familiar. I’m Lilith Carisse. And that’s where I was working. Until today.”

  “You worked for Stone Wall Farm?”

  “Not directly. I was on private duty for Gabriel. He was my patient. I’m a nurse’s aide. I was his regular caregiver.”

  “Gabriel. Right. The young man in the wheelchair?”

  “Now I’m out on my butt with no good reason. I don’t even know what happened. It makes me really crazy.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I’d like to kill her.”