Organize Your Corpses

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “For the record, she’s not my Mrs. Vanclief. I don’t actually have my own Mrs. Vanclief. And I’m glad.”

  “Sorry, I got carried away. This is the same administrator who told Benjamin that Olivia didn’t want him as her doctor anymore.”

  “Hmm. Old people can be difficult. And if you don’t mind me saying so, this Olivia Simonett sure didn’t act normal at that funeral. But in a place like that, the staff has to make sure the clients aren’t upset.”

  “Hear me out. The last thing is that Olivia’s longtime caregiver has been murdered.”

  His fork clattered. “Did you say murdered?”

  “I did. Shot. Right in her car. Uptown, not all that far from here. Can you believe that?”

  Dominic frowned and rubbed his own perfect chin. He said, “That random shooting? I thought that was a case of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Wrong place for her.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just try and see if Olivia’s all right. Maybe they have her drugged or something. She could easily have a fall if she’s overmedicated. There has to be some reason why they’re doing this.”

  A small smile played at the edges of his very nice mouth.

  “Do I sound crazy?” I said.

  “Maybe a little bit paranoid. But on you that’s kind of cute.”

  I felt a ridiculous blush starting around my waist and rushing upward. “I don’t want to jeopardize your contract with them. But I’m very worried. I already found one dead person this month. That’s not paranoia.”

  He nodded. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “And I shouldn’t have even asked you to do this. Now it sounds presumptuous even to my own ears.”

  “I can understand why you’re worried. Sorry about the paranoia joke. But your reaction might be just the shock of finding that body. That kind of stress plays hell with your emotions. I know I went right off the rails after my wife died. But I’ll do what I can to check things out.”

  “You might not get near Olivia. But where there’s money, there’s talk. She’s been there a long time, and people love to gossip and speculate. You could pick up something useful.”

  “I’ll find a way to talk to Mrs. Simonett herself.”

  I felt such a ridiculous rush of relief, all I could do was grin like a fool.

  He said, “I’m a photographer. My job involves getting close to people, even if they don’t want that. Anyway, maybe she’d like to have a photograph taken.”

  “Wonderful idea. She’s on the second floor. You can see the door to her suite from the entrance.”

  “Suite? You mean she has more than one room?”

  “Living room and bedroom, bathroom, with space for her attendant.”

  He said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The place has a Cordon Bleu-trained chef and an amazing wine cellar. Why wouldn’t the residents have suites?”

  I agreed. “Stone Wall Farm really is a fabulous place. Except they may be in the business of murder.”

  When Dominic and I arrived at my house, Jack followed us, uninvited, up the stairs to my apartment. We were going to have one hell of a serious talk about boundaries the minute we were alone.

  “Glad to meet you,” Jack said, grabbing Dominic’s hand with a grip that looked more like a wrestling move than a handshake.

  “What are you doing here?” I mouthed.

  Jack beamed. “You’re just in time to join us to walk the dogs. They may be small but they can sure poop up a storm.”

  My neck felt very strange. Were my veins popping? I’d had one date in the past year. Was that too much to ask? One solitary miserable date without Jack dropping by to talk about dog poop?

  “Charlotte’s thinking about getting another dog,” Jack added, with a tired chuckle. “Don’t know if I can handle the workload.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, perhaps a bit sharply.

  Dominic’s eyes widened.

  Jack bellowed, “Here Truffle! Here Sweet Marie!”

  Two small torpedoes arrived on the scene, stopped in their tracks, and took an instant dislike to the latest competition for my affection.

  “Thanks a whole hell of a lot,” I snapped at Jack after Dominic had left.

  “Cut your losses, Charlotte. He didn’t put up much of a fight. How much work do you really think he has to do tonight? Didn’t you say he was a freelance photographer?”

  “Oh shut up, Jack. He wasn’t in a fight. He was on a date. A date with a weird ending.”

  “It’s not my fault the dogs were misbehaving. And don’t get hissy. I’m just saying,” Jack said.

  Saturday my jaw seemed to be turning greenish. There are worse things I suppose, but I couldn’t imagine what they might be. Anyway, the green chin line went well with the black cloud over my head.

  There was no point dwelling on my problems, though, because I had a full to-do list:

  • Let Rose know Lilith can drive her.

  • Ask Lilith if someone had power of attorney for Olivia.

  • Library re: Crawford

  • Boots fixed—where?

  • Hannaford’s for groceries

  • Call Mom.

  “Hello, Rose. This is—”

  “How are you, hon?”

  “Good news. I forgot to tell you yesterday. I found someone who will be really happy to drive you places. In fact, it will help her out because she needs a bit of a break. So don’t argue. You’ll both benefit. And you’ll get some use out of your husband’s car.”

  “Let’s hope it runs.”

  I chirped, “I have to go now, but we’ll drop by soon.”

  I dialed again as soon as I hung up. “Lilith? Charlotte Adams here. I was hoping we could get together to visit my friend Rose. We talked about you driving her every now and then because . . . Lilith?

  I thought I heard a faint snuffling noise.

  “Are you all right?”

  Lilith said, after a long pause, “I can’t talk now. I’m having the crappiest week in my life.”

  “I can imagine. It can’t be easy getting fired unfairly. But sometimes . . .”

  “Listen, little Miss Sunshine. My freakin’ building is on fire and I said I don’t want to talk.”

  “But perhaps I can help. You remember my friend who needs the drives? Wait a minute. Did you say your building is . . . ?”

  “Can you take a hint? For all I know, you’re tied up with this somehow. I’ll take care of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was fifteen. I survived the streets and I’ll make it through this.”

  Survived the streets? “Lilith?”

  Too late.

  Five minutes later, I tried to turn the Miata onto Lilith’s street, but as if the Saturday traffic wasn’t bad enough, the fire department had the area closed off. In the distance I could see billowing smoke. I could smell the acrid stench even from two blocks away. I nosed the car into a makeshift parking spot and tried to proceed on foot, but a police officer was turning people back. “Sorry, miss,” he said. “This street is off limits. We’d like to clear the area.”

  Poor Lilith. She’d been pretty upset, but I was sure I could do something for her. I didn’t blame her for being angry. Or even for suspecting my motives. She’d been on the receiving end of quite a few kicks lately and she didn’t have anyone to turn to. There must be something I could do for her.

  But what? As I sat there racking my brain, another police officer came along and gestured to me to move my car.

  I almost missed Ramona’s call. I was busy ignoring Jack, who had made himself at home. Making himself at home included checking the amount of ice cream in the freezer. Jack was now flaked out on my sofa, surrounded by my dogs and gazing longingly at the fridge.

  Jack said, “Aren’t you going to get that phone?”

  I snapped back to reality and snatched up the receiver.

  “Good news,” Ramona said. “I had a bit of quiet time here
at information central and in addition to your articles, I was able to find the obit for one Crawford Lincoln Henley. I’m sorry about the interruption the last time you were in.”

  “Thanks for calling. Did you say obit?” I said.

  “Believe it or not. Oops, can’t talk long; the place is filling up.”

  “And we’re sure it’s the same Crawford Henley?”

  “Says he was born in Woodbridge, New York, in 1934, son of James Washington Henley and Cecily Beryl Crawford. Died in San Diego on December 3, 1966. Survived by . . .”

  “What?”

  “Excuse me a second. Can I call you back? Now there’s a line at the ref desk.”

  “But just tell me survived by whom?”

  “Whom?” Jack said from the sofa. “Whom is very classy.”

  “Shh,” I said. “I’m waiting for Ramona to come back on the line.”

  “We don’t get a lot of whoms around here,” Jack chortled. “Maybe you’ll start a trend.”

  “You still there, Charlotte?” Ramona’s voice came on the line.

  “Yes. Crawford was survived by somebody, you said. Who was it?” I made a face at Jack.

  “Got a serious outbreak of business questions here. I’m up to my patootie in patrons and they all think their questions are urgent. Five restless taxpayers standing in line. We’re supposed give priority to people who actually come in over phone inquiries.”

  “But you called me,” I said.

  “I have to go. We close at three today. Why don’t you pop in before then? I’ve made copies of the items for you.”

  “Just give me the name,” I shouted.

  Damn dial tone.

  “Time for Vitamin IC,” Jack said.

  “Later. I’m heading over to the library to join the taxpayers in the line with my urgent question.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. It can’t wait until tomorrow. The library’s closed Sunday. You know that. Come on, Jack. We have to find out who’s involved. If Crawford had heirs, then they’d have a stake in Olivia’s estate. She’s elderly and frail and absolutely loaded.”

  “But I thought she was leaving her money to Stone Wall Farm.”

  “We’re just dealing with a rumor there. And even if she is, I’m guessing with her mental health being what it is, a good lawyer could challenge that ‘of sound mind’ stuff in favor of blood relatives.”

  “Huh.”

  “Hey, where’s my other black boot?”

  “Search me,” Jack said. “They’re not my style. Especially not if there’s only one.”

  “Stop cracking jokes and help me find them.”

  “But the pooches just got comfortable.”

  “That would be the same pooches who stole the boot, I suppose.” I headed into the bedroom and crawled under the bed. That’s the hiding place of choice for plundered objects. No boot. I peeked behind the sofa. Nada. I called out to Jack, who wasn’t being all that helpful. “The boot is not in the freezer. And answer the phone please!”

  “It’s Sally.” A muffled shout from Jack.

  “Tell her I’m going to the library to get Crawford’s obituary.” I tried the closet. I keep my shoes neatly arranged in clear shoe boxes. There was no boot on or behind the boxes. Hmm. I tried behind my dresser. Sometimes that was a good hiding place for my possessions. No boot. But I did find my missing telephone bill, slightly chewed, so that was worthwhile. I could hear the phone ringing in the distance, and Jack appeared in the door. “Margaret Tang,” he said. “She said you’ve been trying to reach her.”

  “Oh crap. Tell her I’m going to the library. Explain that it’s urgent. They’re closing soon and I need to get that obit. I’ll call her as soon as I get back.”

  Jack wandered away, giving the party line. He added an uncomplimentary phrase about my butt being visible from behind the dresser. Ingrate.

  By the third call, when I was checking behind the clothes hamper, Jack no longer required guidance. He picked up and rattled off the party line. Library, obit, tonight. Butt behind dresser. Will call later.

  “Who was that?”

  “Rose.”

  “Really? I wonder why. I just spoke to her this morning. Do you think she’s all right?”

  Jack said, “She sounded fine.”

  “Mmm. She’s not in the best of shape. Maybe I should have . . . well, as soon as I get back.”

  But Jack had gone off again, to answer the phone. Big surprise.

  He stuck his head around the corner and snickered. “Todd Tyrell. Wanting an interview. I told him to try the library, you might be there. He found the idea of obits really interesting.”

  A vision of the next news item flashed through my head. “Maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

  But Jack was following the ring again. “You should get a portable for this room,” he said.

  “Put it back on call answer,” I said before moving the bed away from the wall, just in case the boot was wedged there.

  “I just did. And oh yeah, that guy you know called.”

  I’d been checking behind the Christmas decoration box and stuck my head out. “Can you be a tiny bit more specific, please?”

  “You know, claims to be a photographer.”

  “Dominic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The same Dominic who was here last night and you know perfectly well what his name is?”

  “I don’t think that sentence is grammatically correct, Charlotte.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Wanted to talk. I told him library and obit, butt behind dresser, the usual blah, blah, blah. You’d call tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Tomorrow? Or the next day? Did you get a telephone number for him?”

  Jack brightened. “You don’t have one?”

  “No. Did he leave it?”

  “He didn’t. Sorry.”

  “Yeah. You look crushed. Can you check the caller ID?”

  “Caller ID blocked. Gee that’s too bad. Anyway, I told you I don’t trust that guy. Why block your caller ID?”

  I flopped down on my bed and felt a sharp point. I flipped back the throw and sure enough, the missing boot. Truffle and Sweet Marie managed to exude splendid innocence. The best I could do was deranged. I hoped that wasn’t going to work against me at the library. What the hell did it matter? I dashed down the stairs and scrambled into the Miata.

  I peeled up in front of the library and parked just as a crowd of people exited. I raced up the stairs and tugged on the door.

  “Library’s closed.” An imperious grey-haired woman who had just left the building stared down her substantial nose at me.

  “As you can plainly see on the ‘Hours’ sign,” said another small plump woman with a tight, mean little mouth.

  If these were the taxpayers in Ramona’s line in the reference department, she had my sympathy. “I only need a minute. I need to speak to Ramona. It’s a reference emergency.”

  “Aren’t they all?” said a wild-haired woman with wool kneesocks, Birkenstocks, and a nasty smirk.

  “I was in the middle of my information on the phone . . .”

  “We had to leave, and we’d been standing in line for ages. You’ll just have to come back Monday like the rest of us.”

  “Monday? I can’t wait until Monday.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to, won’t you?” The smirk broadened, showing a couple of snaggly teeth.

  “Young people. Very inconsiderate these days,” the long-nosed woman said.

  Her companion added, “That’s right. They think they’re more important than everyone else. For no reason that I can imagine. It’s not like it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “It is, actually,” I said, raising my bruised chin.

  “I doubt that. Now will you please stop blocking the stairway? I have things to do.”

  “And so do I,” said the other woman.

  “I am not blocking the stairway. There’s plenty of room for
you to pass.” I peered beyond them, squinting at the door and hoping for a glimpse of Ramona.

  “Really, some people will do anything to get their own way. Of course, the way you were raised, I suppose you’re used to that.”

  I turned back and stared at them. “What are you talking about? I don’t even know you.”

  “We certainly know who you are,” the long-nosed woman said.

  “Breeding tells,” the smirker added.

  “Breeding tells?” I echoed. “Tells what? Have I blundered into a Victorian novel?”

  “I think you know. Like mother, like daughter.”

  All right. I’ll be the first to admit that my mother had raised a lot of eyebrows in Woodbridge before she finally blew this pop stand. And sure, some of it had to do with other people’s husbands. But I am not my mother. I live a sensible, ordered life. Clean, honest, toilet paper stockpiled. Serene. Well, except for the previous few days.

  I stretched myself to my full height. “Excuse me?”

  “I think you heard me the first time. Like mother, like daughter. Nothing but trouble.”

  For reasons I will never truly understand, that was the first and only time I have ever raised my middle finger to another human being. Really. Never before. Not even in the school yard. Not even on the interstate. Not even when I broke off my engagement. It is just so not my style.

  At that moment I noticed a sudden explosion of light and spotted Todd Tyrell’s super-white grin as he stood in front of his cameraman.

  Don’t keep chocolate in the cupboard too long. The fat rises to the surface, leaving a white coating. Buy good-quality chocolate. Eat it often.

  15

  In case you think no one in Woodbridge would be watching television late on a Saturday afternoon, you would be wrong. The phone shrilled on and on, as I slumped on the sofa letting it go to message while I chugalugged chocolate. Eventually I deleted a dozen crank calls from people with no life at all. But I had also missed a return from my returned call to Margaret Tang. She said to try her again tomorrow. Dominic had left a message saying he’d wondered if I’d be up for a movie and to get back to him by four o’clock if that sounded good. It sounded good all right, but it was now after five. I wanted to pull the wooly throw over my head and spend the rest of the night gnawing on the fringe.