Organize Your Corpses

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Besides feeling guilty, I had another good reason to try and figure out who might have wanted Miss Henley dead. I knew Pepper wouldn’t jeopardize her career just to give me grief and she was a detective on the fast track. But I was equally sure that she wouldn’t mind a bit if I got dragged through the doo-doo in the course of her investigation. I had to stay a step ahead of her and offer up some credible suspects. So far I was batting zero. But I had an idea.

  I planned to spend my afternoon checking out laundry-room equipment, shelves, storage, and new gizmos to make my client’s life easier. Plus I wanted to find some special little trinket for Rose since she kept filling me with cookies and information. I headed across the street from Ciao! Ciao! to the gift store, Mystic Mabel’s Magic Tables. I paced up and down the aisles ogling an array of wonderful objects. Thanksgiving decorations, polka-dot martini glasses, even a whimsical erotic cookbook. Neat stuff but none of it quite right for Rose, so I kept hunting. I knew the owner, Mrs. Neufield, as a teacher who spent thirty years at St. Jude’s until her abrupt departure at the end of my senior year. I had seen her at the memorial, but I hadn’t had a chance to talk there. I decided today was a good time to pump her for information about teachers, parents, and students who might have hated Miss Henley. Too bad Mabel Neufield was the kind of person who had never whispered a negative word about anyone, probably in her life. I should have remembered that.

  “Oh dear, Helen was a strong character, for sure,” she said, wringing her hands. “But she played by the rules. Who knows? Perhaps her students are all better because of her.”

  Your nose is getting longer, I wanted to say.

  “That may be true,” I said, with just a tiny bit of emphasis on the “may.” “Did she have any enemies on the staff? Someone who might have reason to . . .”

  A bead of sweat sprang up on Mrs. Neufield’s downy upper lip. “Charlotte, dear, I know this is hard on you, especially finding her like, um . . . but really, I think it will turn out to have been a terrible accident.”

  “Uh-huh, maybe,” I said. “But then again, probably not.”

  Her eyes didn’t meet mine, not even a little bit. In fact, they kept drifting to the far corner of the store. I glanced there and she gave a nervous little jerk.

  “The other teachers respected her. I imagine some of them might have liked her. I can’t think of a person who would wish her harm. I mean that kind of harm. Anyway, we’ve all been retired for years.”

  Well, that was so much horse dropping. Mrs. Neufield was either unwilling or unable to speak the truth. Whatever. I kept my thoughts to myself and smiled. I picked a small orange plate that said “SIMPLY THE BEST” in white letters. It would go with Rose’s décor and certainly summed up her cookies.

  While Mrs. Neufield wrapped the plate for me, I moseyed around the shop a bit more and checked out the corner she’d glanced at. A collection of small framed paintings of vegetables were displayed artfully. The veggies beamed out, bold and adventurous, even mischievous. Why was I not surprised to see them signed with a dashing “SK”? The hand of Mr. Kanalakis at work unless I missed my guess. I lifted one off the shelf and peered behind it. Sure enough, “Spiros Kanalakis, RR 2, Oxbridge, NY,” and a telephone number were written on the back. I copied down the number and returned, smiling, to the cash register.

  I left with the gift-wrapped plate and a new plan. Not everyone was as nice as Mrs. Neufield. Not by a long shot.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of cutting-edge laundry technology: front-loading washers that saved water, flat drying systems for delicates, flexible wall storage, collapsible drying racks to save power, fashionable detergent containers, lightweight ironing boards, baskets, baskets, and, yippee, more baskets. Plus a surprising encounter with a $350 iron. By the time I exited my last stop, I had come up with some easy options to give my client a premium laundry room at a penny-pinching price. I just loved that. I figured she would too.

  I was smiling when I eased into my driveway. A red Jeep pulled in behind me, taking me by surprise. A man stepped out. I stayed in the driver’s seat and clicked down the door lock. I guess I still have some of the old habits of living in the city. I unlocked it as soon as I saw who it was.

  Dominic Lo Bello. I rolled down the car window. The wind ruffled his hair. His smile lit up the late afternoon.

  “You’re a hard girl to track down,” he said. “I’ve been checking out every ice-cream cooler in town. But no you anywhere.”

  Be still my foolish knees. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Maybe hiding. But one of your friends ratted you out.”

  “Ah.” Sally. Hopeless romantic, unrepentant match-maker. Watcher of biological clocks. And way out of line as usual.

  He grinned. “I ran into her downtown and we had a chat. I told her I wanted to ask you for a coffee.”

  “And she told you where I live?”

  “She made me give references, if that eases your mind. And she checked them out first. You can call her and ask her.”

  “I will.”

  “So how about it? You want to get together for a cappuccino? There’s a new fair-trade coffee shop with a nice view by the river.”

  “Jumpin’ Java. I know it.”

  “Does tomorrow work?”

  “Tomorrow would be fine.” I barely managed to keep from squirming with joy. References. What a riot.

  “Three sound about right?”

  “Sure.”

  He waved as he headed off in the Jeep.

  I was very, very happy that he hadn’t heard my heart beating.

  Jack was waiting as I walked through the door. He had his cycling gear on, ready to head out onto the rainy, slick roads, a perfect target for any distracted driver.

  “What did that guy want?”

  “Um, you’re not going out on a night like this, are you? It’s really dark and slick.”

  Jack had his own agenda. “I don’t like the look of him. Kind of unsavory.”

  “Hmm. You are wearing black clothes and a cap at night. How unsavory is that?”

  “Very funny. I have all these reflective stripes. No one can miss me. I’m heading uptown to check out what I think is going to be the perfect retail location. What do you really know about this total stranger who mysteriously popped into your life?”

  “Not a lot. But he appears to have enough sense not to ride around on a bike in the dark. And he comes with references. Can we say that about you?”

  From the top of the stairs came a racket. Apparently Truffle and Sweet Marie weren’t impressed.

  “That reminds me,” Jack said. “That other dog is still available. Maybe you should rethink your decision. You know, in case you need protection.”

  But I was a big girl. Not at all afraid of a cup of coffee with a man with shy-woodland-creature eyes.

  Wednesday is always catch-up night for me. Truffle and Sweet Marie love catch-up night. Perhaps because I start by cleaning out the fridge. Of course, this week all it contained were three kinds of Dijon mustard and a curling slice of pizza from El Greco, heavy on the anchovies. I put on my new Black Eyed Peas CD and picked up my basket of cleaning supplies. I dusted, vacuumed, and generally slicked up the apartment to the music. I tossed the covers of the doggie beds into my washing machine and hand washed two sweaters and my lingerie. I made another attempt to find out where the dogs might have hidden my lucky pen, and then put an extra coat of waterproofing on my winter boots. I checked my seasonal to-do list and moved my winter coat from the back of the closet, along with my basket of wooly socks, gloves, and scarves. I paid my bills and straightened up my business files. I made my obligatory weekly call to my mother and left my usual meaningless weekly message. I didn’t mention the murder. I’m not completely out of my mind.

  Finally, I updated my current list and wrote “Lilith—job help?” on it. I added “Crawford? Olivia? Mrs. Young? St. Jude teachers—Mr. Kanalakis!”

  I actually get goose bumps whenever I finish my we
ekly cleaning ritual. I can’t really share this feeling with any of my friends because they tend to get a bit irritable any time I talk about catch-up night. Especially Sally.

  Never mind. I raided the freezer and made a crisp and tangy shrimp stir-fry and settled in for an evening of relaxing with my two favorite cuddlers. They appreciate my systems. The missing pen was just an oversight, I was sure.

  On the downside, I had plenty of time to think about Dominic Lo Bello. I reminded myself, the trouble with letting your knees melt is that you might need those knees someday. Say, to stand up for yourself.

  I turned my mind from Dominic to Mr. Kanalakis and used my cell phone to call the number I’d copied down from behind the vegetable painting. I borrowed the name of my mother’s main character in her detective series and booked an appointment for the next day.

  At nine o’clock when I heard Jack arriving home, I called out, “Come on up. I have your favorite chocolate.”

  “Mr. Kanalakis? You’re kidding,” Jack said when I had sidetracked him with chocolate and filled him in on my plan. “Holy crap. You’re going to track him down?”

  “I already have.”

  “And what? You’re thinking of going to see him?”

  “Not thinking. Planning.”

  “Not by yourself, you’re not,” Jack said.

  “That’s the whole idea, Jack. Have another truffle.”

  Thursday dawned, mild and sunny, probably because I’d hauled out my winter clothing the night before. Never mind. I woke up early with plenty of time to give the dogs the kind of long walk they refuse as soon as it’s the slightest bit wet or cold.

  Later as Truffle and Sweet Marie slipped back to bed, I savored my first morning coffee and planned. I had the can’t-find-her-passport-to-go-on-her-honeymoon client scheduled for nine and the out-of-control dolls for eleven. I was meeting Dominic at three. I planned to pop in to see Rose in between. The rest of my list had lovely tasks on it, including “sketch laundry room solutions” and “read up on doll storage.” And some not so lovely: “buy food.” For some reason I didn’t feel much like heading to the grocery store. I was sketching up a few tentative concepts for the laundry-room client when the doll client called and muttered an excuse for canceling. Perhaps the dolls had pulled the plug on the project. The minute I hung up, the missing-passport client called to say she’d found it and didn’t need anything organized.

  All right. Roll with the punches. I used the time to plan a drive in the country.

  A tempting aroma wafted gently around my nose when Rose opened the door. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  I breathed in deeply and said, “You made Toll House cookies?”

  “Why, hon? You don’t like ’em?”

  Like them? I love Toll House cookies more than is normal for a functioning adult. Maybe because my mother never made them. Of course, she never made any cookies, as I may have mentioned. In fact, I’m not certain we had a working oven. Never mind. I’m trying to stay in the now, as they say.

  “Sure I do,” I said with restraint. “And I have something that will go nicely with them.” I handed over the gift-wrapped package containing the pretty plate.

  Rose said, “Aw, hon. You didn’t have to do that.” But I could tell she was pleased. Her cheeks still had a pink tinge long after we settled into the living room. The tinge went well with the robin’s egg blue jogging suit. The suit itself was a jolt to the retina, especially against the orange background of Rose’s chair. Sometime after her second cup of coffee and my fourth Toll House cookie and tall glass of water, Rose said, “You know, hon, you don’t need to bring me presents.”

  “I thought that plate would go well with your living room. And with your cookies.”

  “Listen, hon, I’m stuck here on this street with no one around, and I’m not much good at getting out with this claptrap oxygen tank on. I have a bad addiction to baking, and here you are showing up, happy to chat. I should be buying you presents.” She raised an eyebrow.

  I said, “In my defense, it was just this one gift, one time.”

  “And it’s beautiful and I love it. But I want you to feel free to drop in anytime and help me eat my cookies. No gifts required. So now that the politics are out of the way, what can I do for you, hon?”

  “Talk to me about Henleys, of course.”

  “Don’t you think you should try to put that whole Henley problem behind you?”

  “I still feel guilty because I cashed Miss Henley’s check.”

  “Well then, give it away. Maybe the food bank. Or the historical society. You could even ask Olivia if she’d like it to go to a certain charity. She used to support the Children’s Hospital.”

  “I’m not allowed back in to see Olivia, remember? She was so upset when I asked her about Crawford that they had an awful time with her.”

  Rose frowned. “I still don’t understand that. Olivia always had her little tantrums, even when she was a kid. Pitch a fit and then get over it. Sounds like that’s what happened here. Although I have no idea how Crawford’s name could set her off. Maybe it just hit her that she must be the only cousin left. And she’s old and fragile too. You want another cookie? I made a double batch.”

  “So you don’t think Crawford ever upset or hurt her.”

  “No, I don’t. He thought the world of her. End of story. Come on, just one more won’t hurt you. They’re only cookies, you know.”

  I took the cookie. Information doesn’t come cheap.

  I said, “When I asked her about him, she was shocked. No act, no time lag. Her face changed, as if she’d been slapped.”

  “I still think it must have another explanation. Someone she saw passing by in the hallway at that moment, perhaps. An image on the television.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What puzzles me,” Rose said, “is why Stone Wall Farm would take that attitude. They must know that it’s good for their residents to get visitors.”

  “Well, that’s the sad bit. It’s not just Olivia. There’s Gabriel Young too.”

  “I’ve got lots of time and plenty of cookies, so tell your story, beginning to end. Don’t be springing surprises on me. Who’s Gabriel?”

  By the time I finished, Rose had a faraway look in her eyes.

  “It sure seems wrong,” she said. “I used to be able to visit Olivia every now and then when my husband was alive. Now that stupid old car of his just sits in the back of the house, rusting. It really burns me.”

  I nodded. My mouth was full.

  Rose said, “Oh well, what can you do? People die. You know, I’ve been feeling bad that I missed out on that memorial service. It’s only right that I go by and see my old friend Olivia. Bring her a little treat and talk about old times. Maybe tote along some of the old photos that I have of the family. Yes. That’s just what I’ll do.”

  “I would really appreciate it, Rose. But how will you get there? You can’t be seen with me. Or Jack. They wouldn’t let you through the door.”

  “I can always take a cab.”

  “Forget the cab. That will cost you a fortune to get out there. I know someone who can probably take you. You’ll like her too. I’m pretty sure she’ll go for your cookies. I’ll let you know as soon as I clear it with her.”

  “Have it your way.” Rose shrugged. “Something wrong with that last cookie on your plate, hon? You think it’s gonna kill ya?”

  Ask a friend to help you with those really unpleasant or scary jobs.

  11

  Finding Mr. Kanalakis was like taking a trip back in time in more ways than one. After a lot of false turns, Jack and I finally bumped along the dirt track to a log cabin in a clearing. The cabin could have been straight from a history book except for the dusty Ford van parked near the front door. Mr. Kanalakis emerged from the cabin as we got out of the car and blinked in the bright light. He’d been fresh out of university with a master’s in fine arts and the ink barely dry on his teaching diploma the semester he’d taught us art at
St. Jude’s. We’d never seen anyone like him. Not just because he’d been a hunk, which he had been. But also because he was the size of a truck, with more enthusiasm and fun than the rest of the staff squared. He’d boom with laughter and the light fixtures would shake. Keeping order hadn’t been any kind of problem, not with those hamlike hands. We’d called him Hercules. “Herc! Herc! Herc!” had been a favorite refrain. The kids had loved him, while he lasted. Which was less than six months.

  Now his ponytail was greying and his hairline had crept back a couple of inches. He must have been carrying an extra sixty pounds. But his wicked black eyes hadn’t changed. This was still a man to command attention.

  “Looks like you got me,” he said. He still had that hint of the South about him; I never could put my finger on his origins.

  I had trouble making eye contact. “I needed to talk to you. I didn’t know how you’d feel about that if you knew it was me.”

  He shrugged one massive shrug and headed into the log cabin. Jack and I followed him. Jack was trying not to sniff the air too obviously. Me too. Turpentine, for sure. But perhaps an underlay of cannabis, unless I was mistaken. The walls were covered with dark brooding canvases, oozing menace and testosterone. I found my eyes drawn to them. Each had at least one dramatic slash of red.

  Jack seemed riveted by the interior of the cabin. “Hand-hewn logs?” he said.

  “Yep.” Mr. Kanalakis didn’t offer us any hospitality, not coffee, not cookies, not hash brownies.

  “You heat by wood?” Jack said.

  “Heat pump and passive solar for electricity. I’m off grid here. Produce more than I need.”

  “Wow,” Jack said.

  I just hoped it didn’t mean that Jack now needed an off-grid, passive-solar bike shop in an upscale part of Woodbridge, because that was going to take some effort.

  I said, “I just want you to know that I’ve always been sorry for my part in what happened.”

  “You were just kids.”

  “I wanted to tell the principal it wasn’t true. Pepper was with me that afternoon, but her father would have beaten her black-and-blue if he found out she’d played hooky.”