by E. Joan Sims
“Maybe not, but I think your mother’s right, Cassie,” agreed Horatio. “I can’t say exactly why, but something about leaving her here under our noses smacks of the same vicious intent.”
“My, I’m feeling a little faint,” said Mother in a tight little voice. “Do you think we could open the window just a crack. Some fresh air might help.”
Cassie jumped up to do her grandmother’s bidding. I dabbed a kitchen towel in some cool water and handed it to her.
“Well, it’s no big mystery how the murderer got in,” observed Cassie from across the room. “One of the window panes is broken.”
I heard the crunching of broken glass as Horatio walked over to inspect the window. He raised it all the way and stuck his head outside. “There’s a ladder in the garage,” he mused. “I had a painter here this week for some touch up work on the eaves. His wife became ill and he left some of his equipment in his hurry to get home. It wouldn’t have been difficult to find the ladder. The garage is always open. My bet is that’s how he got in, and we know he exited from one of the back doors.”
“But why leave them both unlocked?” asked Cass.
“To put us off the track?” I guessed.
“Perhaps,” said Horatio in a distant voice. He seemed deep in thought.
I finished my hamburger and reached for the fries. They were cold and lifeless, like Wanda’s fingers. I shuddered, but I was still hungry. “Does anybody else want Wanda’s burger?”
“Mom!”
“Well, she surely won’t want it.”
“Eat it, Paisley, dear, and shut up!”
“Gran!”
“Really, Cassandra! Can’t you finish your sentences? You do, after all have a college education.”
Cassie blushed to her roots and dropped like a rock—an injured, dramatic rock—into the armchair.
“Anna, dear,” asked Horatio as he took her hand in his, “Are you quite all right?”
“I’ve never been better,” she snapped. “But you all have forgotten one small detail.”
“What’s that, my dear?” asked Horatio soothingly.
“Wanda’s body, of course! A murderer that arrogant will surely have no qualms about informing the police anonymously that an unexplained dead person can be found in the Raleigh Funeral Home. I quite expect to hear them pounding on Horatio’s door at any moment. And even though she‘s gone, we would have some explaining to do.”
“Your mother is quite right, you know,” pointed out Horatio. “We mustn’t waste any more time. We need to straighten up here and go home like nothing has happened.”
Cassie looked as exhausted as I felt but she squared her shoulders and went to look for Wanda’s clothes in the bedroom.
“They’re not there,” she announced from the doorway.
“Come on, Cassie,” I protested. “We don’t have time to fool around.”
“Get real, Mom! I’m not kidding. All of Wanda’s clothes are gone.”
“How about her duffle bag? She brought a big duffle bag from the house. I helped her carry it.”
“Nope! No duffle bag, no toothbrush, no nothing.”
“Oh, jeez!”
“Language, Paisley,” admonished Mother automatically.
I bit my tongue and stood to clean up the mess of paper cups and used ketchup packets. The debris was mostly mine. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t eaten. I felt decidedly queasy somewhere beneath my belt.
I bent over to police the floor—to make sure that no errant French fries had fallen between the cracks. I tried to stifle it, but a loud and comfortable burp escaped my lips.
“Paisley Sterling!”
“I know, Mother, I know…Hey! Look at this!” I knelt down, wincing as my weight rested on my sore knee, and fished a dark little dome-shaped object from under the sofa.
Horatio came over to look as I held it up in my palm.
“A cigar end,” he mused, “and not from just any cigar. This is an expensive, and I might add, quite illegal, Cuban cigar. Difficult to come by in this neck of the woods. I should know, I’ve tried.” He looked somewhat chagrined. “I’m quite fond of them myself.”
“Then this is yours,” I laughed. “You must come up here to hide and fire up your contraband stogies.”
“Sorry to disagree with your deductions, my dear, but I haven’t enjoyed one of those in quite a few years. And I’m certain I’ve never smoked a cigar of any kind in these quarters.” He plucked the piece of cigar and held it up to the light. “This might be the only clue to our murderer.”
“There’s one more,” I said, and told him about the pizza box on Wanda’s kitchen counter.
“Still,” he mused. “It did take some deduction to arrive at the funeral home.”
“Not so much,” disagreed Cassie. “You are probably the only ‘Horatio’ in these here parts.”
“Then the obvious assumption is that the murderer knows me.”
“Or knows of you,” I amended.
There have been many times in the last few years when I was tremendously grateful and vastly relieved to arrive at Meadowdale Farm. Tonight was one of those times.
“I think we’ve earned a small libation, my dears,” announced Horatio.
“Not me,” sighed Cassie. “I’m exhausted. And I have to work tomorrow. A bath and my little bed is all I want.”
“Cassie, are you okay? I mean…”
“If you mean, will I wake up in the middle of the night screaming, I don’t know, Mom,” she admitted.
“I love you, sweet pea,” I told her, feeling the guilt ooze through my body like something oily and foul.
Mother opened the French doors and stood aside as we trudged tiredly into the library. Cassie kissed her grandmother goodnight and waved a weak farewell to Horatio before she went to her room.
I plopped down on the sofa and stared down at the stains of cherry coke and blood on my tee shirt. It was only a second or two before I started bawling. Mother poured me a cup of hot tea from the tray she had hastily prepared, and Horatio topped it off with a generous tot of brandy.
“Here, dear, drink this. You’ll feel better.”
“No…uh, uh,” I sniffed. “How could I have let my sweet baby help me hide a dead body?” I cried. “A naked dead body at that!”
“How, indeed,” muttered Horatio. “I am feeling somewhat guilty myself,” he said clearing his throat. His hands were shaking as he filled his pipe. He got up and walked over to the window to finish his task.
I took a deep swallow of tea and brandy and closed my eyes, then slumped back against the sofa cushions and tried to relax as the sweet smell of Horatio’s tobacco smoke wafted across the room.
“Wussies!” muttered Mother under her breath.
“What’s that, my dear?” asked Horatio.
“Wussies!” she said aloud.
I opened my eyes and turned to look at her in surprise.
“The lot of you—all wussies!” She straightened her smart tailored jacket and adjusted her pearls. “Paisley had no choice. It was something that simply had to be done. We don’t have any idea what we’re dealing with here. For all we know, we could be in very serious danger, and besides, Horatio’s reputation had to be protected. His father and grandfather would turn over in their graves if anything happened to that funeral home. It’s too bad that Cassandra had to be involved, but there was nothing for it. Andy Joiner was already questioning the reason Rudolfo called out for Cassie from his deathbed. He…”
“How’s that?” I asked coming out of my stupor. “He asked for Cassie? Whatever for?”
“I don’t know, dear. The ER doctor called here for Cassandra, and when I told him I didn’t know where she was—that we had only just arrived ourselves, he said we’d better come right away. He didn’t know anyone else to call, and the man was dying.”
“Was Rudolfo dead when you got there?”
Horatio sat back down on the sofa. He appeared to have regained his composure and was ready to take u
p the narrative.
“Not quite gone,” he said. “But he had lost a great deal of blood and could barely speak.”
“He spoke to you?”
“Two words only—a woman’s name—Effie Diaz.”
“Who the hell is she?” I asked crossly. Dead or not, Rudolfo could have given us a better clue, I thought.
“His injuries were lethal. There was no way anyone could have saved him. He died shortly afterwards.”
Mother took over the story. “There was nothing in his pockets. No identification or personal items. Quite tragic, really. The poor man! Who could have had a reason to end his life? What manner of threat did he pose to anyone?”
“Cassie says he was a Mexican government agent.”
Horatio didn’t raise an eyebrow, but I felt him focus on me with the intensity of a laser beam.
“I guess we should have told you earlier,” I admitted with a faint attempt at a smile. “Rudolfo told Cassie he was posing as a migrant worker and on the trail of someone he’d been after for nearly two years. He showed Cassie his identification and a letter from the Attorney General. ”
“My goodness!” said Mother. “We have to let Andy know. He’ll want to inform the Mexican government right away.”
“Not so fast, my dear Anna. We cannot allow sentiment to sway us. I admire young Joiner for many things, but finesse is not one of them. If we want to uncover our murderer we must cause him some discomfort—perplex him, as it were. That will take a great deal of careful thought.”
“How?” I asked tiredly. It was beginning to sound like a game of chess to me, and I lacked the patience for chess.
“He will expect the police to find Wanda’s body where he left it. And he will expect them not to find the body of the gentlemen Chief Joiner brought in this morning.”
“Fatty! By the way, where is he, Horatio. He wasn’t in the morgue.”
“No, but a certain Mr. Harold Hemmings was. Harold was one of Rowan Spring’s homeless, an unfortunate gentleman without friends or family. At Joiner’s request, I put the first body—your Mr. Fatty—in the refrigerated storage cooler. Mr. Hemmings died later this afternoon. They were both of a size—er, somewhat corpulent, that is, and in the vinyl body bags it would be hard to tell the difference.”
“But…but…” I sputtered.
“He wasn’t there tonight? I was not unaware of that, Paisley. I checked before I left. Wanda’s murderer took the only other body there, thinking, no doubt, that it was the man Joiner transported to the morgue this morning. But why the killer would want to steal the body…”
“Because Fatty was a Texas Ranger!” I sat on the edge of my seat, my exhaustion all but forgotten. “Rudolfo told Cassie they were working undercover together. As soon as Andy checked Fatty’s fingerprints he would have found out who he was. That’s why his body had to go missing.”
“My goodness!”
“Well put, Anna my dear, well put, indeed,” agreed Horatio with a sagacious nod.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I found Cassie sound asleep in my bed when I finally bade Mother and Horatio goodnight. Aggie was snoring quietly from a comfortable nest between her mistress’s knees. I knew better than to try and move her.
I slipped out of my clothes and splashed some water on my face to get rid of the stickiness from Cassie’s spilled cherry coke, then dabbed some first aid ointment on my chin and the scrape on my knee and pulled on my pajamas. Despite the fact that it was after midnight when I crawled in beside my daughter I couldn’t sleep. I lay wide awake for hours, listening to the soft pitiful moans of Cassie’s nightmares before I finally fell into an exhausted slumber myself.
When I awoke at ten the next morning, my hair wet with sweat and my arms and legs caught in a mad tangle of sheets, I felt as though I had been in a wrestling match all night.
Cassie had already left, so I pulled myself out of bed along with the wrinkled linens—much to the displeasure of the puppy, who was still sleeping peacefully. Aggie growled fiercely and tried to bite me. I just managed to tip her off the bed before she did any real damage.
“Stupid dog! You’re not really in charge here, you know. You don’t pay rent and you eat for free, so don’t give me any more grief. AND STAY OFF MY DOWN PILLOW!”
Aggie gave me a look of such royal disdain that I had to laugh. It felt good. I laughed some more when she turned tail and trotted off to the kitchen, pausing once in the doorway to throw me another dirty look over her shoulder, and I felt even better. It had been a long time between laughs. I even sang loudly, and way off key, as I took my hot soapy shower and washed the night sweats out of my hair. I shouldn’t have counted my grins before they hatched.
Mother was having a very sparse petite dejeuner at the kitchen table. I was starving. I offered to fix her something more substantial as I rummaged around in the refrigerator.
“No thanks, dear. I didn’t sleep very soundly, I’m afraid. Tea and toast is quite all I can manage.”
I didn’t tell her that I tossed and turned all night, also. She might criticize my need for a big slice of baked ham and a biscuit or two. I busied about fixing my plate, trying hard not to react to her frequent and dramatic sighs. When I sat down to eat, she upped the ante.
“Oh, dear. Oh, my!”
I put my fork down and swallowed my first big hungry bite with difficulty. “Okay, Mother. Out with it. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Paisley. Don’t mind me,” she said with another deeply exaggerated exhalation.
“Okay, fine! Glad nothing’s wrong.” I said chomping down angrily.
“Except maybe…”
I got up and put my plate in the sink—biscuits and all—and filled my cup with more hot tea. “Out with it, Mother,” I said crossly as I sat back down. “Or do you want to wait until lunch so you can ruin that for me, too?”
“Well, I never…!”
“Please, Mother, dear,” I said with a sarcastic attempt at politeness. “Whatever is troubling you will be less disturbing if you share. How’s that?”
“Better,” she acknowledged with tight little nod. “It’s Cassie.”
I nodded in agreement. “I know. I feel terrible about last night, too,” I sighed.
She looked up at me in surprise. “Last night?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember our little debacle with the dead body?”
She got up from the table in a swirl of pink satin. Her dressing gown looked better on her slender figure than most of my regular clothes looked on me. “Not that! I don’t mean that,” she said angrily. “That silly little job she has at the coffee shop. That’s what I’m talking about.”
I looked at her over the rim of my teacup in astonishment. I was getting as mad as she apparently was. “Let me get this straight,” I said with firm deliberation. “Our little game of musical chairs with the deceased didn’t phase you, but your granddaughter’s choice of occupation does?”
“Exactly!” She stomped her dainty foot so hard some of the ostrich feathers on her bedroom slipper came loose and floated about the kitchen. “That business at the funeral home was unavoidable. We had to protect Horatio. Or rather, you did. After all, you started this whole thing.”
“I did? Well, that’s news to me!” I dumped the rest of my tea in the sink on top of my uneaten breakfast, and turned to face her with fire in my eyes. “Perhaps you’d care to explain just how I accomplished that.”
“Gladly!” She sat back down at the table and began to enumerate my sins one by one on her beautifully manicured fingertips. “Firstly, if you had taken proper care of our darling puppy she never would have gotten lost. Then secondly, Mr. Rudolfo would not have found her and brought her home, prompting us, thirdly, to hire the Mexicans. And fourthly, if you hadn’t gone out to the trailer park in the middle of the night and nearly killed your daughter, Wanda Blake would not have been caught up in this misadventure and gotten,” she stuck out her little finger, “killed herself.”
“
For Pete’s sake!”
Mother held up her other thumb, Persian Passion Pink gleamed from her freshly lacquered nail in the morning sunlight. “And number six…”
I marched out of the kitchen before I heard number six. I did, however, hear Aggie barking her own displeasure with me from under the safety of Mother’s skirt. Someday I would get even. Someday I would have the last word. I solemnly promised myself that elusive pleasure as I quickly dressed and left the house.
Main Street was busy. The mayor had been threatening to hold a referendum on traffic lights for a over year. I could see his point. I had to circle the block twice, and dodge two tractors pulling wagonloads of hay before I found a parking place in front of Celestine’s Coffee Shop.
Cassie was behind the counter brewing a pot of Jamoca Chocolate Cherry Supreme when I entered. The place was cozy and charmingly decorated, and smelled of freshly ground coffee, cinnamon, and nutmeg. My resilient daughter seemed to have recovered completely from our nocturnal activities.
“Mom! I’m so glad you came,” she said with a huge, welcoming, grin. “Sit down and I’ll make you some tea, unless you’ve already had your cup for the day?”
“No,” I sighed, “as a matter of fact I haven’t. And I would love some. Just plain old English Breakfast, if you have it.”
I settled myself on one of six comfortable stools and rested my elbows on the long gleaming walnut bar. “This is beautiful. Who did the wood work?”
“Tommy, Celestine’s husband. He remodeled the whole building, even the apartment upstairs.”
I raised my eyebrows. Mother would hate to hear that. I would have to remember to tell her. “I thought the upstairs was designed by some grand pooh-bah architect back in the thirties?”
“Yep!” grinned Cassie. “Granstaff Armstrong-Jones, himself. Tommy didn’t touch the original design, but he did update the wiring and plumbing—new hot water heater, new kitchen appliances, that kind of thing. It’s really nice,” she added wistfully. “I’ll miss living there.”
“You’re not moving?” I tried to cover my own quick happiness by taking a big sip of tea, burning my tongue in the process. I didn’t fool my daughter.
