Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

  “You are a true history buff,” Ms. Nordstrum said. “So few people know that Maryland’s first export was tobacco. They cite menhaden, crabs, even rock fish.”

  I nodded now and then as Nell regaled me on the history I had skimmed, but never used in an article. Remarkable how fortuitous a smattering of trivial knowledge can be.

  “...and one would think, with ship building and thousands of pounds of tobacco exported to England, a spot could be found for that chapter in Maryland’s history.”

  “I quite agree,” I said, sensing a break in her recital. “But the new exhibit, the one from England, is outstanding. It makes one realize how long the history of civilized Europe really is. How did you find such a prize? Is there some clearing house of available exhibits?”

  “Actually, one of the museum’s directors found the artifacts while vacationing.”

  “Serendipity,” I said, and decided against asking the director’s identity. “And that gold band you showed me piques my curiosity, although I haven’t visited it today.”

  “It isn’t here.” Her words were sharp, her face closed to questions.

  As if I noticed no change in her manner, I said, “I’m not surprised. The police want to take everything, put it in their evidence room, and keep it until some trial three years later. They don’t care how much you need an item.”

  “It was stolen.”

  “Oh, dear!” That put an entirely different light on the matter. “What did the police say? Do they have any suspects? How was it done?”

  “I really can’t discuss it. Nor do I wish to.”

  Nodding, I touched her shaking arm. The sharp words gave her away. “That would make me furious,” I said.“It’s a violation even worse than the possible theft of any other artifacts that may have accompanied it.”

  She said, “I’m madder than hell, excuse my French. We had it. It was ours, with no one to claim it.”

  I’d guessed correctly, but I kept pushing. “You suspected Francine Hemingway, I know. You probably were suspicious of me, since I used her ticket. I want you to know, I haven’t been completely truthful. I never met Mrs. Hemingway. Her ticket came my way in the course of my work. Certain things are under investigation. I should have taken you into my confidence from the first, but one must be careful.”

  I hadn’t lied. Things were under investigation. I found the ticket. Because of my work? Perhaps that was pushing a bit too far.

  Nell’s emotions played across her face. Was I an interloper, or a potential ally? Finally she decided and snorted—one of those laughs that doesn’t quite make it.

  “Yes,” she said. “You want information from me, and I want information from you. But I fear neither of us can help the other.”

  What could I say? “That’s assuming I need information. Actually, I enjoy speaking to knowledgeable people in authority, people who share their passions. As you do with the history of the Chesapeake Bay. And with your knowledge, perhaps you can tell me—how has the Chesapeake Bay changed over the last few hundred years? Say, since the Europeans settled the area..”

  Nell Nordstrum had stepped away, but she turned back. “Like any wilderness when civilization arrives. Writings of the time mentioned the abundance of fish, the clear water, the forested shores.”

  I nodded in agreement. I had her. “Settlers cut down the forests and everything warmed up. Black squirrels moved north and brown ones took their place. Wolverines headed for Canada and opossums came to Pennsylvania.”

  She continued, “Whole islands have disappeared under the water. I’m sure part of that is from soil washed off deforested fields to raise the water level.”

  Trying to bring the conversation back to Mrs. Hemingway, but slowly, I said, “The England exhibit. Do you suppose there are similar artifacts buried beneath that silt from our colonial past?”

  “A good question,” Nell said. “Please excuse me.” She charged through the closest door. I’d gotten a few words out of Ms. Nordstrum, but that was all. She’d talk history, but nothing else. I headed for the museum’s second floor.

  The case that once held the gold ring was completely empty. Were the other artifacts missing too, or had they been removed for security reasons? The glass top was unbroken. The key hole and wooden edges of the case showed no signs of forced entry. Either glass had been replaced, or a key was used. Or, the thing was never locked in the first place. Remarkable how often that happens.

  I hadn’t seen Keisha, so when I left, I circled the museum and found her car in a rear parking area. She had to be in some area off-limits to the public. At least that had worked out. Between us, we could search the whole place.

  At a restaurant I dialed Sylvie again, and she finally answered her telephone.

  “Jo, where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Trying to reach you. All day,” which was almost true. “I’m having dinner now.”

  “You didn’t go to the police station.”

  “But didn’t you hear me as I left? I said I was going to work. They didn’t need me. They’d hired another employee.”

  She sputtered. “To, to, to work?”

  “Then Barb invited me to lunch at the Waterfront Hilton. I couldn’t turn that down. I called to invite you, but you didn’t even have the answering machine on. Where were you all day?”

  “Here. Except when I went to the police station. They want to hear more about that blackmail call.”

  What else had I told Sylvie? Now the police knew it all and they’d probably want to lock me up for withholding evidence. Could I say I’d forgotten? I should keep out of their way. Yes, much more exciting that way. And safer. However, I said, “Okay, I’ll call them right away.”

  “Will you?” Sylvie asked distrustfully.

  “Anyway, where were you all day? It didn’t take that long to visit the police.”

  “I was here, but my stupid telephone was out of order.”

  I tsk-tsked. She haltingly told me she had a date, but she’d leave the door unlocked, since I didn’t have a key.

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “A friend wants me to stay with her. She practically begged me, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, all right,” Sylvie said, obviously so relieved she didn’t stop to consider I had no local friends except the homeless.

  First I called the police. I had, after all, promised Sylvie. I asked for Officer Rivlin.

  “He isn’t in,” the desk sergeant said.

  “Thank you. I’ll call back later.”

  I always keep my promises.

  Next I went to Fu Lee’s Karate. I changed into my gi and took a class, then had a leisurely shower and shampoo. I sat through two more classes in the observation room filled with mothers of white belted youngsters. Finally, the mothers started asking me if I were there with a grandchild. I pointed in the general direction of a few moppets, and then, when that class was over, I left. By then it was well after time to meet Asher.

  That, of course, was the whole idea. I certainly didn’t want to see him at Sinking Springs Park. Naturally, he wasn’t there.

  It was a beautiful night. I’d avoided the outdoor experience too often. A favorite spot was open so I claimed it. I inflated my pillow, put my space blanket down, and sat, enjoying the fresh air and the few stars that outshone the city lights. I defied anyone to move me.

  Ears walked by, eyeing my spot.

  “Back, I see,” he said.

  “Guess you aren’t afraid of getting killed either.”

  “Nah. It was just old Lacy. Her time came.”

  A nice, fatalistic viewpoint. One I didn’t share, but what the hey? Life was full of danger. “How about Zip? I hear he was attacked.”

  “That’s a different story. He was runnin’, you know?”

  “Somebody caught up to him, is that what you mean?”

  Nonchalantly, he grunted, “Yeah.”

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Who me?”

  “Sure. You
know everything, don’t you?”

  “I know it ain’t too smart to know anything. Fer instance, you hear Chick left town?”

  Chick? What was he telling me? “Chick knew too much?”

  “They got cozy, you know?”

  So maybe Ears did know more than he wanted to tell, but he wasn’t about to admit it. I could sympathize. Who wanted to be the target of some hired thug?

  He moved on, but no one else came by. A night so warm and starry, and no one there. Were the rest of them afraid of murder in the street? I wasn’t in the street. I was in the park. Still, I found a new spot, behind several bushes and away from any eyes, or even any whiff of air. I put on my sweats, two sweaters, and my jacket. Clyde and I snuggled together wrapped in my space blanket. Most comfy.

  How would I write up this week, on a personal level? Definitely little Keisha. And Asher, was he the killer? Vanessa? Or Mr. Talbit? It was a tossup. Maybe even Nell. No, not Nell. She was too uptight to kill anyone. With all of Queensboro to choose from, why should the killer be someone I knew? How about a random killing? No, Francine was killed inside her house, and one does not kill randomly inside a locked house. Zip’s attack didn’t seem to be connected. But why Lacy?

  ~ ~

  In the morning, after a dreamless night, I crawled out from under my space blanket earlier than usual. I didn’t want Officer Rivlin rousting me when I was supposed to be at Sylvie’s. I carefully folded my silver foil blanket, deflated my pillow, and stashed them. I had to move fast. The soft glow beyond the tower was brighter than city lights alone. I had my flashlight in my hand, but I didn’t use it as I cut through the bushes to intersect the sidewalk.

  “Oops,” I said as I tripped over something in my path. It wasn’t as solid as a boulder. It didn’t meow, so it wasn’t Clyde.

  I flashed my light. It was some drunk, dead to the world, sprawled where he fell. But why didn’t he stir when I tripped over him? I aimed my light at the face.

  It was Asher. “What are you doing?” He had a dark blotch on his forehead. A real bruiser. I reached down to touch his arm, wake him up.

  He was cold. Cold and dead.

  Chapter 30

  The Mini-Mart manager at Fourth and Chesapeake handed me the restroom keys. “Haven’t seen you in a week or two,” he said. “Sorry about the mess in there.”

  Whack my head! Why hadn’t bells rung, warning me to avoid anyone who knew me. I’d only thought, “Hank is a trusting sort. He doesn’t mind if I use his facilities.”

  I took the keys with a nod and headed around back. Unlocked the door and pushed in. “Sure, that’s the woman I saw the morning the body was found,” he’d say, pointing to me. I lined the toilet with tissue before I used it. Wouldn’t matter to the police that Mini-Mart was half a mile, maybe more from Sinking Springs Park.

  Could the cops prove I’d been at the park? “Not unless they talk to Ears,” I told Clyde, who knew that as well as I did.

  I dampened paper towels to cover my eyes and wash away the sleep. I’d had no dreams during the night, a rare occurrence. My nightmare came when I was fully awake. Someone would find Asher, probably Officer Rivlin. Maybe a dog. They would find out I was there. Not only had Ears seen me, I’d told Barb that Asher was coming to meet me. I didn’t see him, but nobody knew that.

  A body in the park wouldn’t stay hidden long. I didn’t need to tell the police. Still, I hadn’t told anyone about Mrs. Hemingway’s body and that was major trouble. But they found my fingerprints in the Hemingway house, and I left none there.

  I might have. I’d tripped, off balance, onto one knee. I put my hand out to touch him, which was how I knew Asher was dead. What part of him did I touch? I couldn’t remember. Could they lift a fingerprint from clothing?

  “Don’t panic,” I told myself. I was an innocent bybystander. But I’d “stood by” too many incriminating circumstances. No, I wouldn’t get involved. Besides, I had a restroom to clean.

  Hank’s second key opened up the supply cabinet. I cleaned the place like I always did. I swept up trash. Mopped. Squirted Windex on mirrors and Ajax on sinks.

  But, a park wasn’t like the basement closet in a private home. Some kid would find the body and have nightmares for years. Could I live with that, I wondered as I sprayed industrial strength Lysol on the toilets? I finished the women’s restroom then unlocked the men’s. Propped the door open, so no men would surprise me. I polished everything, as much as one could polish a sink with rust marks, a floor with cracked linoleum. Hank couldn’t claim I’d skimped when the police came.

  “I didn’t restock the paper products,” I said as I returned the keys.

  “Okay,” Hank said. “Have a couple of donuts and some orange juice. The coffee’s fresh. Need anything off the shelf?”

  “Deodorant.”

  “Ban, regular?”

  He even remembered my favorite deodorant? I took it with a nod of thanks and a donut. I didn’t really want the second donut, but he’d remember if I didn’t eat it. “Yeah, Officer, she was too jumpy to sit still,” he’d say. “That woman never turns down free food.” They were jelly donuts, not my favorite. And I burned my tongue on the coffee.

  I couldn’t use my cellular phone, like I did when I called Officer Rivlin, because they’d trace it. Nor could I use Hank’s phone, not with him listening in. My call was anonymous, from the only pay phone left in Queensboro a block and a half away. I didn’t even leave fingerprints, although holding the receiver and punching numbers with both hands wrapped in my scarf was awkward, to say the least. A woman answered my 911 call. “There’s a body at Sinking Springs Park, near the tower,” I whispered, and hung up quickly before she asked any questions. They taped those calls. Could they identify even a whispered voice?

  The killer was long gone before I tripped over the body. He hadn’t followed me. He didn’t see me. He was nowhere around. All the same, I left in a hurry. Who knew how soon patrol cars would surround the telephone booth?

  I’d visit Sylvie. I donned the red wig for my walk to the bus. Certainly, after what Sylvie told the police about the blackmail call, they were looking for me. Would she lie and tell them I’d spent the night with her? No way.

  So, where had I been? I’d happened upon friends, unnamed. Where? Oh, hell.

  Why did I ever take Francine’s keys, enter her house, even come to Queensboro? Sure, I wanted to reclaim my career. I’d chosen Sylvie’s town for the convenience, but, I could have started writing that book a couple of weeks ago. I stayed too long. I was becoming the bag lady who feared the police. I shouldn’t have hesitated, but called them immediately. Still, anonymous was the way to go. So far, I’d only been told not to leave Queensboro.

  By the time I reached Sylvie’s home, I’d regained my composure. I leveled with her, to a point.

  “The night was too beautiful. I didn’t go to my friend’s. Hey, it’s my research. I had Clyde to keep me warm.”

  “Clyde?” she asked sharply. Then, “Oh, you mean that cat. Which, I might add, I’ve never seen. Has anyone?”

  Why not introduce them? With a smile that was as sneaky as any cat’s, I threw my arm out to indicate a broad expanse of carpet. “Meet Clyde. A beautiful, large tom with luxurious tiger stripes. For a long-hair, he keeps extremely well groomed, don’t you think?”

  She gave me one of those looks before getting into the spirit. “Oh, quite.” She giggled. “And you made me put a saucer of milk out for him.”

  “He drank it, didn’t he?”

  I should have introduced them sooner. Sylvie stooped and stroked Clyde’s fur. Clyde loved it. I asked her about her date. It was so-so, but she’d see him again. She asked about my lunch at the Breakwater. I described my Crab Louis and Death by Chocolate dessert in scrumptious detail.

  Then I ruined the whole scene. “I found another body.”

  Sylvie rubbed her head, then she shook it. And shook it some more. Finally, she said, “Why?”

  She didn’t mean, “Why did y
ou find a body?” She meant, “Why am I blessed with you as a sister?” Or, possibly, “Why was I ever born?” However, I chose to answer the question she’d asked. “Because it was there. I tripped over it.”

  “Okay,” she said, all business. “When, where, who? Or, I should say, man, woman, child, animal, what? And, do the police know?”

  “Of course I called 911,” I said, like I never considered any other course. “When—this morning early, at Sinking Springs Park. Who—a man. Asher Yost, salesman and former boyfriend of the very dead Francine Hemingway and the very jealous Vanessa Kline.”

  “My God.”

  Sylvie resorting to profanity was like Cinderella spurning the handsome prince.

  “There’s more,” I said, then hesitated. No matter what they say, confession is not good for the soul.

  “More,” Sylvie said, rather coldly I thought. Then, quite conversationally, she said, “I suppose you killed him?”

  “Lord love a duck!” Suddenly, my confession became easy. “He wanted to meet me, more or less at that spot, but I deliberately stayed away. He could have been the killer. Obviously, he wasn’t. However, you see what this means, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. You’re a suspect.”

  “That too. But it all goes back to Abbott Computing Services. Francine worked there. Asher worked there.”

  “And the murdered bag lady?”

  “Okay, there’s no explanation for Lacy. Unless the killer heard her rave. I mean, she had the most outlandish stories. She actually told me she saw a man kill Francine, but first he ate her dog.”

  “You told me that already. How about the Zip person?”

  “Not the same M.O.” Then, thinking out loud, I said, “I do have a key.”

  “A key? What key do you mean?”

  “It is Saturday.”

  “Jo, if you’re going to use actual words, please make them sensible.”

  “The answer must be at Abbott Computing Services. Forget Zip and Lacy. Everything else is connected. I wonder what’s so deadly about that office.”