A Really Cute Corpse

by Joan Hess

  I dug around until I caught a corner of the envelope, then pulled it free and held it up for Luanne’s inspection. “Do you know what this is? This is Cyndi’s insurance policy. It’s a lovely account of the blackmail ammunition she used on Steve for the last half-year, and was planning to utilize for the final payoff.”

  Luanne blinked. “It is? Is that why Steve came to the theater last night?”

  “It makes sense,” I said as I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. “She’d shown it to him earlier, minutes before the parade. After the parade, she was in this room, in her dressing room, and then at the hospital. The dressing room was too risky, since she knew the police would search for clues to her purported assailant. Steve must have been planning to check the greenroom or the audio booth when I appeared on the scene.”

  “Did he really confess to everything—just out and out admitting he was a philanderer, a blackmail victim, and a murderer?”

  “Most amiably,” I murmured. “So amiably that in retrospect I’m not sure I buy it. The affair is understandable; he was at the age when a lot of men lose their minds, and he sounded rather wistful when he talked about the grand passion.” I thought of someone else who’d seemed rather wistful about beaches and happy-ever-afterness. “Do you think this midlife crisis is a male phenomenon they all go through—a rite of passage to pensions and middle-age spread? Whatever they’ve been doing suddenly seems inadequate, and they decide it’s time to make a drastic change?”

  “Didn’t you go through one?”

  “I haven’t reached midlife yet,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “That’s why I was asking the opinion of an older woman.”

  The older woman sniffed. “I haven’t qualified for a discount at the movies quite yet, but it’s possible I’m somewhat precocious for my age. About two years ago, at the stroke of midnight, no less. I sat up in bed and looked at my second husband, who was happily snoring away like a freight train. I decided he was a great guy—sexy, cooperative, considerate, cheerful, trustworthy, loyal, obedient, et cetera. I then realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with a Boy Scout. Fred took the news well; he was a really nice man. My family, from my college-aged son to my dottery grandmother, all hit the ceiling of the family manor, and those babies are eighteen feet high.”

  “Sounds like a classic example of a midlife crisis to me.”

  “Well, I didn’t start dallying around with the gardener’s youngest son or the delivery boys from the market.”

  “Why not?” I asked through a yawn. “Too respectable?”

  “The gardener’s youngest son was nine, and the delivery boys were covered with zits.”

  “How old was the gardener?”

  “Old enough to weigh several hundred pounds. And his fingernails were always so dirty; I don’t know how Lady Chatterly stood for it. But now that we’ve explored the ramifications of the standard midlife crisis and found it genderless, if not senseless, what else did Steve say before he was killed?”

  “He was terribly eager to admit his guilt, as if I’d already wrapped it up and stuck a bow on it. In reality, I was struggling with a lame story that would place a hypothetical key in his hypothetical pocket. He was a politician. Those guys can explain away a three-billion-dollar deficit—what’s one little key?”

  “Maybe he knew there was proof, once the police took off on the right tangent.”

  “If I hadn’t taken a nap on the couch, no one could have proved he had an affair with Cyndi, much less that he tried to asphyxiate her twice. All he had to do was insist the theater door was unlocked when he arrived to look for his missing papers. Warren knew the truth, and Eunice had an idea what was going on, but—” I sat up so quickly I almost fell off the couch. “Patti knew, too. I heard her say something to Warren. At the time I didn’t realize that she wasn’t demanding an explanation—she was coaching him on his lines.”

  “Do you think she killed Steve because of it?”

  “It ended six months ago, and I can’t see her simmering for half a year while she went hopping down the campaign trail with him.”

  “Six months of luncheons with the Rotarians and I’d kill,” Luanne said with a dry laugh. “Think of the menu: chicken à la something, green beans almondine, new potatoes, salad with thousand-island dressing, apple pie, and iced tea. The woman could get off on justifiable homicide.”

  I mumbled an agreement as I considered the significance of Patti knowing about the affair. No earthshaking conclusions rolled me off the couch. Four people knew for sure: Steve, Cyndi, Warren, and Patti. Eunice suspected. Mac had heard me tell Peter.

  “Mac is involved in this somehow,” I muttered. “He’d like us to believe that Cyndi had a mild bit of dirt on him, and that on her orders he gave her a key, ignored her peculiar behaviors, and fired at the convertible. She’s not around to confirm or deny his story.”

  “But Peter said that Mac claimed he came to the theater to get the rifle before it was waved under a meddlesome amateur’s nose, thus setting off all manner of questions.”

  I told her what Arnie had told me, which didn’t take long. “So someone paid Arnie to snatch the convertible. It wasn’t Mac and it wasn’t Cyndi; Arnie may be a sot, but he’s a credible sot. What if Patti were behind the shooting? She might have staged it for the same reason Cyndi was so frantically staging her pranks—publicity. The Senator didn’t have the primary in the bag. His popularity would have shot up if he could stand tall against union thugs.”

  “You can’t run around accusing her of that,” Luanne protested. “She’s the heiress apparent to a powerful political dynasty. She’s not going to hire someone to fire a shot at a convertible simply to stir up publicity. She crosses her ankles when she sits down. She knows her linens. Her children wear petticoats and write thank-you notes.”

  “Okay, okay, she’s not likely to have her photograph on the post office wall. But she is a political animal, perhaps more so than her good-looking, affable, manicured husband. Steve had more dimples than brains. Her father plotted out his career, saw him through an apprenticeship, and then patted his fanny and told him to end up in the White House. Everything was going quite well until Steve lost his mind over an eighteen-year-old beauty queen.”

  “You’re fantasizing, right?”

  “I haven’t had anything to eat since five-thirty last night,” I said as my stomach rumbled in unison with the thunder. “Low blood sugar, along with a night of interrogation, always makes me giddy.” I heard the drawer open. Seconds later something landed on my lap. After a moment of fumbling, I discovered it was a cellophane-wrapped Twinkie. “Did a little truck with a tinkling bell just cruise through the lobby?”

  “Elevate your blood sugar and continue with this theory.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. I polished off the Twinkie, licked my fingers, and then intertwined said fingers under my neck. “We’ve got hapless Steve Stevenson, destroying his career over a small-town girl. Warren covers for him, but when the affair is ended, the girl digs in her claws and demands money to keep quiet. Steve doesn’t mind—until she ups the ante to an impossible level. He then feels obliged to silence her.” I sat up and brushed the crumbs off the front of my shirt. “But suppose he wasn’t the one who received the ultimatum? What if Cyndi assessed the perspicacity of the potential blackmail victims and realized Patti was the most promising?”

  “You’re beyond the curative powers of a single Twinkie. We need at least a half-gallon of Häagen-Dazs.”

  “This makes sense—sort of,” I protested, licking a sticky lip. “Here’s the scenario: Cyndi Jay decides to stage a few harmless pranks to get publicity. She acquires a key from Mac so that she can pull up a pertinent nail, saw the rope of the weight, and write a threatening message on her mirror. None of that works, to her chagrin. Unbeknownst to her, Patti Stevenson is playing the same game.”

  “How did Patti convince Mac to do the dirty deed?”

  “Power and money, for starters. Now, if I
may continue … When the shot is fired, Cyndi does her best to take credit as the victim, but that doesn’t work, thus forcing her to pull the final desperate stunt with the space heater. Someone happens by for a chat, and locks the door on his or her way out.”

  “Patti wasn’t in the theater,” Luanne said heartlessly. “She couldn’t have done it.”

  “Then she had help. Anyway, if you’ll stop interrupting for a minute, I’ll finish the story. Cyndi now realizes she has someone in the vise. She calls the hotel and arranges to meet Patti at the theater.” I stopped. The very obvious became … well, obvious. “Cyndi didn’t have her car at the hospital. She went there in the ambulance, and left under her own steam.”

  “Fascinating,” breathed the devil’s advocate, who was clearly enjoying herself.

  “But it is fascinating. Think about it—who might have picked her up? Steve? No, he and Warren were at the Thurberfest. It’s one thing to escape for a few minutes, but it’s decidedly another to trot back to the hotel to fetch the car, drive across town to the hospital, drop Cyndi off at the theater, murder her, and then run the car back to the hotel. We’re talking serious time-frame problems here.”

  The DA had to concede that one. “So it might have been a little awkward to bribe the pony man to cover for an hour. Warren and Steve couldn’t have done all that, but Patti might have. You may resume.”

  “How really, really gracious,” I said. “Patti’s at her leisure long enough to do all of the above, and still be back at the hotel by midafternoon in time for tea. She accommodatingly arranges to pick Cyndi up in the hospital parking lot. They chat, Patti does the bit with the hair-dryer cord, and when Cyndi’s s thoroughly unconscious, she turns on the gas, locks the door, and drives back to the hotel to wait for Warren, hubby, and the kids to come home from the Thurberfest and tell her all about the clowns and pony rides. When the Feds decide to blame everything on Cyndi, it’s confetti sprinkles on the cupcake.”

  “And she did all this to protect Steve’s reputation? How very liberated of her. When I was younger, we used to fret about the girl’s reputation—especially if she was seen in certain backseats after midnight.”

  “Well, he didn’t have enough sense to do it, and she was keen to redecorate the Rose Room and hang the girls’ photograph in the Oval Office. She had as much at stake as he did, if not a good deal more. All she had to do was keep him untarnished and dimpling, and White House here we come.”

  “That’s tenable, if not terribly concrete. If she’d risked everything to protect Steve, who killed him?”

  I rolled over and rested my cheek on the cool plastic cushion. “You can be very demanding at times.”

  “And how did he get the key to the theater last night? If he wasn’t roaming the Thurberfest with the key in his pocket, having taken a quick break to murder Miss Thurberfest incarnate, how’d he end up with it? If he’s so all-fired innocent, what’s the point in shooting him? I hope you’re not going to fall back on the maniac-off-the-street routine after all your whining and complaining about how you don’t like that.”

  “Patti shot him. She gave him the key and told him to go to the theater and find the papers Cyndi hid. He obediently did as directed, but she must have had second thoughts about his ability to find anything, including the theater, and followed him.”

  “Weaker than the third cup of tea on one bag,” Luanne said. “You were doing so well, Claire. I must say this is a letdown.”

  “If she didn’t follow him,” I mumbled to the cushion, “she followed someone. Mac was here; maybe she came to the theater to pay him for the sniping.”

  “Patti may be determined, but she’s not demented. Why would she suggest they meet at the theater, especially when her husband was inside searching for a vital packet of evidence. Sorry, dear, it won’t play in Peoria. The rain is letting up. Why don’t you go home and call a certain cop to relate all this, as any civic-minded citizen would do.”

  “My car’s been stolen,” I said, sighing. “I guess I’d better report it. Then you can drive me home, and I will indeed call that man and offer my theory.” I dragged myself up and across the room to the telephone. I called the police station and duly recited make, model, color, and license number. After a moment. I banged down the receiver. “My car wasn’t stolen. The officer in charge of the investigation, one Lieutenant Rosen of the CID, had it impounded last night. Some goon towed it away to a fenced yard in the south part of town. The desk sergeant has no idea when it’ll be released.”

  “He did that?” Luanne said, feigning dismay.

  If I hadn’t seen the smile, I would have been more impressed with her sympathetic tone. “Yes, he did, and he did it because he was angry with me. He then told the officers at the police station to refuse to give me a ride to the alley or even to my apartment. When it started raining, he must have been overcome with amusement.” I went back to the couch and sat down, muttering under my breath. “He’s not going to get away with this,” I added when I could trust my voice.

  “I’ m not sure you can do anything to a police lieutenant,” Luanne said dubiously.

  “I’m not going to go home and tell him my theory,” I said. “I may solve the whole thing and call a press conference in front of the theater. Certain police lieutenants will look rather foolish when a civilian solves the case for them.”

  “Oh, Claire,” she said, shaking her head mournfully. “This may be your midlife crisis. Luckily, you can’t prove any of your theory, and Patti Stevenson is not going to admit it to you so that you can show up the local CID.”

  I picked up the envelope and studied it. “I might not be able to prove my theory, but I can confirm it. Watch this,” I went to the telephone, ascertained the number of the hotel from directory assistance, and dialed the number. While Luanne made disapproving noises, I briskly asked to be connected to Mrs. Stevenson’s suite. The operator said no calls could be put through, but backed off readily when I said I was calling from the Governor’s office.

  “Mrs. Stevenson,” I said, “this is Claire Malloy. I’m dreadfully sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to express my condolences for the terrible tragedy last night.” Before she could mention the inappropriateness of the hour or the lack of gubernatorial connections, I added, “And I wanted to let you know I found something at the theater that I thought might interest you. I haven’t called the police yet, but I suppose I ought to. However, it’s of such a personal nature that I hate to involve them.”

  “Is this a cruel joke?” she demanded.

  “I wish it were. I was napping on the couch in the office and discovered an envelope hidden between the cushions. It has your name written on it, Mrs. Stevenson.”

  “Did you—ah, open it?”

  “No,” I said truthfully, “that would be tampering with evidence, and the police take a dim view of that.”

  “Then how do you know it’s of a personal nature? My husband often wrote out his itinerary for me and stuck it in an envelope. In fact, he mentioned that he’d lost the next week’s schedule.” She stopped, and after a melodramatic moment that would have done Caron proud, said, “That’s why he went to the theater last night, Mrs. Malloy. He was looking for a few insignificant papers that I needed in order to arrange baby-sitting for the girls. My God, if we’d only known …”

  “It’s unfortunate that Warren couldn’t have come in his place, but I suppose he was too devastated by Cyndi’s death to do more than sit in a dark theater and watch dwarfs sing.”

  I was treated to another melodramatic moment while she decided how to field that one. I made a face at Luanne, who was shaking her head and clucking like a brooder hen. I covered the receiver and whispered, “I’m just checking on my theory. If she admits Steve was the one who had the affair, then we’re back to first base. If she—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Malloy,” Patti said carefully, “Warren is very upset about the girl. We all were, of course, but he took it hardest. All the passions of youth, you know, and she was suc
h an intense girl. Are you at the theater now?”

  I said I’d had a bit of car trouble and was indeed stranded at the theater until the storm passed. We agreed it had been quite a storm. I offered to call the police and have them deliver the envelope to the hotel; she stumbled all over herself to say that was too much of a bother over a minor thing, a few sheets of paper with no intrinsic value. She added that she would run right down to the theater herself, because—well, she’d like to have the schedule as a keepsake. I said I’d be more than happy to wait for her, and replaced the receiver with a Cheshire cat smile.

  “Good work, Marple-Malloy,” Luanne said without enthusiasm. “You’ve just arranged to meet the alleged villainess of the plot in a basically deserted building on a dark and stormy morning. If she had no compunction about killing Cyndi, I doubt she’d evince any concern for your welfare. And if she shot her husband—why, she has a gun. Didn’t you ever read any Gothic novels?”

  I fluttered my eyelashes and clasped my hands together. “But I just have to go to the attic on the fifth floor to learn the truth about Baron von Nosepick’s first wife. Why, whenever the wind blows across the moors, I can hear all those pitiful cries and the pitter-patter of feet around the turret. Every time I gaze in the mirror in her boudoir, I have amber eyes and raven hair. It’s so very, very vexing. Whatever can it mean, my old and faithful nursemaid?”

  “It means you’ve lost your mind, Veronica Angelica. You run along to the attic. I’ll call Peter and tell him we’ve arranged to tête-à-tête with a possible murderer.”

  “I’ll call him,” I said, sighing. “But I hate to wake him up in the middle of a midlife crisis.”

  FOURTEEN

  When Patti tapped on the glass door, I let her in the lobby and locked the door. She wore a tailored dress with all the right accessories, and despite the steady dribble of rain, looked fresher than a Junior Leaguer embarking on a charitable mission. Others of us were rumpled, frizzled, dusty, and tired. Accessories were out of the question. Patti studied me for a moment, politely disguising a grimace as a faint smile, and said, “I don’t understand why you’re here, Claire. There’s a sign posted on the door that says the building is sealed until the investigation is completed. Aren’t we trespassing?”