Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

  Officer Rivlin escorted Keisha out. Sylvie, with one of her looks, said, “Fairy godmother?”

  “Keisha’s a sweet child,” I said.

  Even Ears had been there, picking me from the line-up. He couldn’t remember if he saw me the night Mrs. Hemingway was killed. That was a crock. He knew he hadn’t seen me, but he wouldn’t admit it to any cops. Officer Rivlin, who’d pulled in Ears, thought maybe he’d rousted me the next morning. Rivlin was wrong, but who was I to object? Nobody mentioned Lacy.

  “You’ll have to let me go,” I said to anyone who would listen.

  Dear little Miss Wilson said, “They arrested you for breaking and entering, as you pointed out. They may release you, but you’ll have to post bail. There is also the matter of my fee for today, or a retainer should you choose to hire me. A retainer is...”

  “Miss Wilson, I know what a retainer is.”

  Sylvie looked down her nose. “I will pay any bail that is necessary.”

  “You pay your bail, I’ll pay mine.” She’d consider that a low blow.

  I, personally, considered her offer insulting. I did pay the ten percent they needed although it required a telephone call to my home bank and a ton of paperwork. Fortunately, Officer Rivlin was not there to wonder why a bag lady had two bank accounts. Mr. Hemingway didn’t press charges. Mrs. Talbit was not so considerate. Was that because I hadn’t cleaned her house?

  A police person warned me not to leave the area. Another returned my clean, unironed, but folded clothes, the wig, and my back pack, with everything still inside, but minus a few hairs, no doubt. They did insist on keeping the key to the Hemingway door. Too bad. I’d never get that night’s lodging.

  I pulled a hundred dollars from my body pocket and handed it to Miss Wilson. “I’d like to hire you as my lawyer,” I said. She was quite pleased—until I told her what I expected.

  “Find the cause of death for Francine Hemingway and Lacy, known as Lucille Hershey,” I said. That would keep Mel and his rumors out of it. “Also learn the extent and cause of injuries for Zip, the street person they found. The police should know all that by now.”

  “I can’t ask for forensic reports,” she said.

  “One mustn’t be complacent. Just because the police haven’t arrested me for murder doesn’t mean I’m free from suspicion. The murders may have required more strength or agility than I can muster. Should the modus operandi be the same in all cases, that’s a strong argument for one killer, or attempted killer, and I have a solid alibi for Zip’s attack.”

  Miss Wilson certainly resembled an owl. She stared, unblinking. At length, evidently deciding that I was an intelligent human being despite my housing status, she said, “Yes, that’s true.”

  Sylvie, ever the investigator, said, “Miss Wilson, when did you pass your bar examination? Do you have any trial experience?”

  Miss Wilson tried to ignore her, but Sylvie had more questions about her background, her schooling, and even if she had an office.

  Resenting every moment, Miss Wilson answered. She had just passed the bar and I was her second case. She worked for a local law firm, which did have an office.

  “Would you like to look for another lawyer?” Sylvie asked me. “I have retained an excellent one.”

  “Sylvie, butt out. How will Miss Wilson get experience if no one hires her? I have complete confidence in her. Together, she and I will completely clear my name.”

  Miss Wilson beamed.

  Sylvie and I should put that act on the road, although I know strengthening Miss Wilson’s resolve was not Sylvie’s intent. I was equally sure Miss Wilson never dreamed she’d fight to keep a bag lady for a client.

  After I signed still more papers, the police suggested I stay with my sister, or at least, not on the street. That was all Sylvie needed to hear. She grabbed my hand and led me out.

  “They must want to keep their co-conspirators together,” I said.

  “They merely recognize my superior moral values.”

  As if I were really a bag lady. “You were the one who broke into the Talbit house.”

  Sylvie ignored me completely. I chose to drop the subject. But I knew that wasn’t the last of Sylvie’s inquisition.

  ~ ~

  As we entered Sylvie’s house, she said, “Let’s order pizza. I meant to stop for something, and there’s absolutely nothing in the house.” She’d never liked to cook.

  “I’m sure you have the makings of our favorite meal.”

  “You mean your Spam and beans dinner?” She did the eye-roll thing and added, “If you insist.”

  I headed for the kitchen, turned on the oven, and started opening the cans I knew would be there. As I put the pan into the oven, Sylvie joined me. “Do you need to freshen up?” she asked.

  “Be ready in twenty minutes.” I did my call of nature thing, collapsed for a few minutes before I returned to serve the casserole with a side of applesauce. Sylvie had moved the vase of purple and white tulips off the kitchen table, laid out matching mats and cloth napkins, and took paper plates, the expensive kind, out of a cupboard. She’d even snipped two sprigs of parsley from a pot on the windowsill and laid one on each plate. I was getting the elegant treatment, the better to illustrate the poverty of my current lifestyle.

  I waited for the boom to drop.

  She beamed and heaped her plate full. “Most people don’t appreciate the simple foods that one savors during their childhoods.”

  That wasn’t what I’d expected. “I guess.”

  “In Hawaii, Spam is considered gourmet food. They serve it in restaurants.”

  Maybe we wouldn’t get into a verbal battle. However, her pleasant tone didn’t last. As I scooped up the last bite, she began. “You did borrow Mrs. Hemingway’s house. How could you, when you knew she was dead? Why did you stay in a house with a body?”

  I poured myself another swallow of milk. “I didn’t stay there.”

  “Uh-huh, with your fingerprints all over and a witness who saw you enter?”

  It was late, and I’d rather skip the whole thing, but it was time to tell Sylvie everything.

  “Okay. I was there that night, and I meant to stay. Hey, Francine was supposed to be on a month’s vacation and I had a book to write. There was an opportunity—an empty house. You do recall, I promised to pay for anything I used in my homeless persona.”

  “What? You left money?”

  “The house needed to be cleaned, so I cleaned it. Unfortunately, I rearranged or eliminated a few clues. I do closets too.”

  “Closets? Why?”

  “Her body was in the basement closet.”

  Sylvie’s eyes brightened. “You saw the body. I knew it. Was she bloody?”

  “Actually, no. She was hit on the head, but that only stunned her. She was suffocated with a plastic bag.”

  “That wasn’t in the newspaper.”

  “And the M.O. for Lacy was similar, only the head blow killed her and the plastic bag was unnecessary.”

  “If you know all that, why did you ask Miss Wilson?” After a moment, she added, “I get it. Protecting your sources, as they say on TV. And now it’s far too late to leave Queensboro without a trace. Much too late.”

  It was a pleasure talking to an intelligent woman. Of course, there was a drawback. Sylvie often understood more than I wanted to admit. “Someone tried to kill Zip. He’s a most unusual guy. Says he’s from New York, but he’s got that Caribbean accent.”

  “Homeless like that Lacy, but is he connected to Francine?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely.” But, had I heard his voice when he called Mr. Talbit? Could have been another man. “If he is, the cops know it wasn’t me who bashed his skull in. And before you wonder how I know that, my lawyer told me.”

  “Um.” Sylvie gathered our paper plates and shoved them into the waste basket under her sink before she answered. “How could any of them be connected? Let’s go over the things you rearranged when you cleaned Mrs. Hemingway’s house.”<
br />
  I yawned. “Let’s not. Let’s do it in the morning, when we’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “Don’t stop now. Give me more. My subconscious works best while I’m asleep.”

  “Sorry. My conscious mind isn’t up to it.”

  “Now, Jo. Don’t leave.”

  “I mean it.”

  She must have been tired too because she capitulated. “First thing tomorrow morning. Breakfast is at seven.”

  “Right.” We headed for bed, but I relented. “I heard Mr. Hemingway make a blackmail call. Feed that to your subconscious.”

  Her subconscious and my exhaustion took its toll. We actually had breakfast at eight. Instant oatmeal and 2% milk. The morning sunshine brightened everything. I began answering before Sylvie started questioning.

  “Just remember, I cleaned the Hemingway house before I knew Francine was dead. The shoes I moved were the most suspicious. You might kick your shoes off in the living room, but not one there and the other upstairs in the bathroom.” Thinking out loud, I continued. “If Francine were hit on the head in the bathroom, then dragged down to the basement, that could explain the shoes.”

  “And you say the drapes were pulled off the hooks? If she struggled, she might have grabbed them.”

  “Out of the way.”

  “Or yanked the chair.”

  “That’s possible. Only, not Francine. The killer, to clear his path so he could...”

  “Drag her through,” Sylvie finished. “Let’s make a list. Did you tell all this to the police?”

  “Well, maybe not all.”

  “What didn’t you tell?”

  “Mr. Hemingway’s blackmail call. Let’s see, that was Monday. I was rained out of the park. And yesterday I went back for my laundry. I wonder why Mr. Hemingway didn’t press charges.”

  With a huge sigh, Sylvie said, “Then you did say that.”

  “Say what?”

  “Blackmail. Mr. Hemingway and blackmail. How under the sun did you know that?”

  “I told you I did laundry.”

  “Jo, stop it! What about Mr. Hemingway and blackmail? What did he say and how did you find out?”

  “Like I said, I was in the basement putting my wash in the drier.”

  “Jo, get to it.”

  “If you’d stop interrupting, I’d get to it.” We exchanged glares before I actually ‘got to it,’ explaining how I’d hunkered down behind the furnace when I heard him overhead.

  “He was thumping around the basement, not ten feet away. And he picked up my wet sock.”

  “Jo, I don’t care about wet socks.”

  “He could be the killer. Your very own sister is in danger, and you don’t care.”

  “Jo!”

  “Okay. Fine. I heard him make a telephone call. Not every word, but he yelled. That I heard. He blackmailed someone and accused them of murder, and they accused him right back.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me. It was crystal clear.”

  “Trust you,” she mumbled. “We have to tell the police, you know.”

  “Put it on your list.”

  “Now, the first time you were inside, did it look like a struggle took place?”

  “How should I know? I wasn’t looking at a crime scene. I was looking at a house to clean. I ran the dishwasher. Polished furniture, decorative accents, and door knobs.”

  “And there went the fingerprints. Can you think of anything else?”

  “Well, Waterman’s Museum.”

  “Yes, Jo, the gold ring deal. You told me before. And, if there were a robbery, Francine might have been involved. The robbery angle doesn’t go anywhere for me. I mean, are there any other clues I can include on my list?”

  Were there? I thought back over familiar territory. “Other than that, there was only the office stuff, the boyfriend and the jealous woman. And, evidently Francine was a party animal.”

  “Three suspects. The blackmailing husband, the jealous woman...”

  “Vanessa.”

  “And the boyfriend.”

  “Asher. And she may not have been true to him either.”

  “And she only died once?”

  We sat over coffee while Sylvie said, “You’re handed a true crime story that would be a sure best seller and you’re tied up in a silly idea. I thought this homeless research would last a week, but you’ve been at it for two months.”

  “You can’t believe I’d get enough material for an entire book in a week. Even the super-size-me writer kept at it for a month. It took me a week just to win over the guys. To really write this book, I’ve got to feel homeless.”

  “And while you’re feeling homeless, will you still think, ‘I’m a writer’?”

  “Sure.” Although, Sylvie did have a point. “Put me in my apartment with my computer, and the words will flow.” Had to be true. Always had, at least. “How about more coffee?”

  We were on our third cup when Miss Wilson called. For a new lawyer, probably without contacts, she must have been persuasive because she had police reports. Mel’s rumors were true. Francine was suffocated. Lacy died of a crushed skull and the plastic bag did not contribute to her death. The report on Zip was the one I wanted to hear.

  “I can’t say there’s any similarity between Zip’s attack and either Lucille Hershey’s or Francine Hemingway’s murder,” she said. “True, Lacy was bashed on the head, but only once, while Zip was severely beaten. Also, there was no plastic bag anywhere near Zip.”

  I thanked her profusely. However, I was worried. The attack on Zip couldn’t have been connected to the murders, and his attack was the one I had an alibi for.

  “Now you have your official source,” Sylvie said. “So what does it prove?”

  “It eliminates Zip from the mix.”

  “And?”

  “It provides an alibi that is totally irrelevant.”

  Sylvie allowed herself a huge sigh and a moment of meditation. “Perhaps we have all the clues we need, if we can only think it out. Are we ready for theories? I vote for Vanessa, the jealous woman at work.”

  “Anything’s possible, but I favor the Norse god, Asher. He was wild when he saw me instead of Francine, but that could have been good acting. And the files disappeared at the same time he searched my desk.”

  “What files? Were they important?”

  “Uncollected receivables.”

  “So? They probably just didn’t mark them off as paid.”

  “No, I checked that out. The files were together and set apart.” Of course, the company did have a weird system.

  “Was there anything else suspicious at work?”

  “I only worked there a few days. What would I know?”

  “A little late to claim ignorance after everything you did find.”

  More to myself, I added, “Mr. Talbit wanted a key from Francine’s desk.” And if he meant the single key, I still had it.

  “A key? When we’ve got all these guilty people to consider, why worry about a key?”

  “It’s all part of the mix,” I insisted.

  “Yeah, like the museum and its gold ring.”

  Sylvie headed for the shower. I washed breakfast dishes and polished the stove. My brain thrived on mindless chores.

  The key in Francine’s desk, the one that wasn’t on her key ring, what did it open?

  “Sylvie,” I said at the shower door, “I’ve got to run an errand.”

  “Wait for me. After all, I’m watching you so you’ll stay put. Police orders, remember?” She turned the shower on full.

  “I’ll meet you at the police station. Bring your list.”

  She didn’t answer. Had she heard me? Finally she said something that I barely heard. “...a half hour,” and, “What’s the rush?”

  I walked away before I turned and said, “I have to go to the office.”

  My conscience was clear. I’d told her my plan. If she didn’t hear, was that my fault?

  We’d made a list
of clues and there wasn’t one new item on it. I had to find more evidence. And since Sylvie didn’t think Francine’s key had anything to do with murder, I had to do it alone.

  Chapter 27

  There were no sentries to halt my progress in the lobby, the elevator, or at the door to Abbott Computing Services. No one noticed me until I sailed into the room I’d so recently occupied. Even then, only the new receptionist sitting at my desk saw me and politely asked, “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Talbit,” I said, which was my intent, but anything but the truth.

  My voice activated Vanessa. Super-efficient office manager that she was, she stepped right up. “You! You have a nerve. Walking in here like you belong! Before I toss you out, did you mail that envelope?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I have your receipt right here.”

  “I gave you twenty dollars. Where’s my change?”

  “It’s all there,” I said, allowing her to snatch the envelope with her $4.83 as well as the receipt.

  “There’s the door. Leave now, or I’ll call the police. They’ll be glad to see you. They turned this building upside down looking for you.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said, although I wasn’t. “They found me. They had questions.”

  “Oh yes? And a homeless woman can tell them anything at all?” Obviously, my secret was out, and she equated “homeless” with “stupid.”

  My controlled decorum took flight. Lifting my chin, I blew her off. “I could solve their case for them, and maybe I will, if it’s not too much bother.”

  She wasn’t impressed. In a voice laced with venom she said, “Leave this building immediately.”

  Instead, I charged into Mr. Talbit’s office. He looked up as Vanessa rushed after me. His surprise changed to something quite darker.

  “Mr. Talbit, this woman forced her way in,” she said, yanking my arm. “She’s gone.”

  I jerked my arm from her grasp. “Mr. Talbit, you asked about a key.”

  “A key.” His voice of steel matched his expression. “Never mind, Vanessa. I’ll handle this.”

  As soon as she stomped out of the room, he locked the door behind her and turned to me. “Sit,” he said.