The Corpse Will Keep

by Pat Capponi

  I nod, and she picks up her story where she left off.

  “Anyway, it was Lorraine’s voice. As soon as I heard it, down in that crowded church basement, I knew it was her. If she hadn’t spoken, I never would have made the connection. She’d aged terribly. I drew closer to where she was sitting with Jesse. He had his back to me, he didn’t know I could hear him, the ugliness of his words. He was cursing her, it was horribly abusive and shocking. Everyone else thought he was such a treasure, but now I could see right through him, that evil man. It was clear she was in thrall to him, probably on drugs.

  “I saw the possibility of making amends, saving her from herself and from him. I made a real effort to spend time with her, to get her to confide her problems and find a way out. He warned me off, before he knew our history, in that back room. I told him to go to hell where he belonged and he knocked me down, kicked me like a dog. So I hid in a place where I could monitor visitors, telling no one where I was, or so I thought. He found me, made me an obscene proposition in the rest home. He would sell her back to me, that’s what he said, he’d sell me the mother of my son. I’ve never in my life encountered anyone so cruel. He had to be compensated for the investment he had in her, the training he’d given her, and the annoyance of having to find a replacement, he said, someone else to take care of the girls. And all the while he was talking, she just stood there, her head down, her whole body shaking. What could I do?

  “When I agreed, finally, he told me I was to go home and wait there. He would come, and exchange her for cash. He showed up with her, it was after midnight. I just handed him the envelope right at the gate and pulled her in with me. She was on drugs, I think; she was mumbling and incoherent, couldn’t or wouldn’t answer any of the questions I asked. I put her to bed in the guest room and waited for morning.

  “I could hardly sleep myself, I couldn’t believe that she was actually here, that I’d managed to free her. I suppose I was very foolish, naive. She was gone when I woke up, she’d left the front door wide open, she didn’t leave so much as a note. At first I thought he’d broken in and snatched her out of her bed, but there was no evidence of that. When I realized it was me who’d been taken, I was too ashamed to do anything about it. And I still thought she could be saved. I told myself he’d made her so dependent, of course it would be incredibly hard for her to break away, to trust me.

  “She came back. Less than two days later. He had her ring the bell, I looked through the peephole and saw only her, and for a moment, I was so excited, so happy she’d come back. I flung open the door, and they bullied their way in, must have been half a dozen men. He came in last, looking around like he owned the place.

  “I’m an old woman, I was depressed, hurting. I wouldn’t have minded very much if he’d killed me right there.” I’m riveted, horrified, and beginning to see what a dangerous situation we’re in. Mrs. Preston takes a shaky breath and continues.

  “But he’s cunning, you know, he grabbed her by the hair, she fell to her knees, but he pulled her up, held a little knife to her throat, made a small cut, little bubbles of blood broke through, dark, dark red. He said if I didn’t do exactly what he said, he’d kill her.

  “So I’ve co-operated. He’s looting my accounts, driving my cars, eating my food, and I’m left to fend for myself in here. He only brings me out to sign cheques, or when he wants me to call my son back, to ensure there are no questions about what they’re doing. He listens in every time. Now I’m afraid he’s killed her anyway. I haven’t seen her in days.”

  She’s run out of words.

  “I’m so sorry.” The words seem inadequate, but they’re true. I feel terrible for her. “This isn’t the end, Mrs. Preston, we’re going to get out of this, and Jesse will get what he deserves.” I’m hoping I sound more positive than I feel. Jesse is a very frightening man, capable of great cruelty.

  She doesn’t bother to reply, just turns over, and asks me to let her nap for a while.

  I don’t think she really sleeps for the first half-hour, though she doesn’t cry, or at least not the kind of crying I can hear. Then her breathing deepens, steadies, and I start searching the room in earnest.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Stop that!”

  My heart leaps in my chest, missing a few beats before starting up again; this situation is really getting to me. I lean against the dresser, my arms trembling, trying to calm down before responding to her.

  “I’m looking for something that could help us, something sharp, something pointy.” I’m pleased at how reasonable, how calm I sound as I resume my search.

  “Well, you won’t find anything like that in my scarf drawer!” She’s up and refolding the patterned silk swatches of colour, slapping my hand, and slamming the drawer shut, just failing to trap the tips of my fingers.

  “Help me, then, check all the drawers. You may have forgotten something.”

  “Such as a carving knife, nestled in amongst my stockings? Don’t be foolish.” She is maddening, aristocratic, and sharp-tongued. Those intimate confessions such a short while ago might never have happened. Fine, two can play that game.

  “Just look. We need a weapon. Unless you have something better to do?”

  She gives a very unladylike snort of derision, but pulls open the next drawer down and stares into it. I survey the room for the hundredth time. The bedside lamps could crack a head or two, but taking out one guard wouldn’t do us much good. The others, however many there were, would swarm us, and the punishment could be very bad.

  “Dana.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you see your mother at all?”

  That stops me dead in my tracks. It’s the tone of her voice, wistful, almost needy. I think for a moment about lying to her, telling her there was a fairy-tale ending to my story, in case she is looking for a reason to hope, but I’ve learned the hard way that the truth is always better.

  “No, I don’t.” I have to cut off an apology that almost rushes out on the heels of that admission. “Since my meeting with Bernie, I’ve found myself thinking of her a lot more, wondering how she is.” If she hates me for leaving, if…There’s no point in dwelling on this now.

  I start in on the closet just as we hear footsteps in the hall. I dive for the bed, land just short and hurt my bum. Mrs. Preston gives me a look that could curdle cream, and turns regally to the door.

  “You should always knock before entering a lady’s room,” she says to the tattooed thug, while I try to look as though I always sit on the floor. It occurs to me that I’ve seen him before, that he’s one of the men I saw with Michael.

  With blazing wit, he shoots back, “Shuddup and come wit me.” I’m up and heading toward the door when he says, “Just the old bag. Orders.”

  He grabs her arm, she’ll have bruises later—if there is to be a later—and hustles her out before I can intervene. I stare at the closed door. “Damn.” It feels good, saying a four-letter word, so I release a torrent of curses I didn’t even realize I knew. That feels even better.

  I go back to the closet—in Parkdale it would be advertised as a two-bedroom apartment—and continue rummaging. Mrs. Preston is not one to throw things away. There are gowns, zipped up in protective bags, that would have made her the belle of the ball a few decades ago, revealing necklines and all, and some wicked stiletto heels that could easily put out an eye with a well-placed kick. Silk blouses in all the pastel shades, other more age-appropriate dresses, the ones she wears now, immaculate and mysteriously perfumed, as is everything in this closet. Skirts, some awfully sensible and tweedy and below the knee, and absolutely luxurious slips in full and in halves.

  I keep rummaging, trying not to leave finger marks, going deeper, half hoping to find some Narnia gateway concealed way in the back. No such joy, but on a built-in shelf I do find an unassuming cardboard file holder, the kind that accordions out when you open it. Inside, there are papers and pictures, cufflinks and tie pins, maybe all that’s left of her husband’s
things. I reach down in every section, and hit pay dirt. A slim, pearl-handled pocket knife. It’s quite beautiful and quite sharp, once I pry the blade out. It’s stainless steel, no longer than my middle finger but, depending where it’s aimed, potentially much more lethal. I practise with it, trying to get the hinge or whatever loose enough so that the blade extracts itself more smoothly, as I wonder where to conceal it. I settle on slipping it into my tube sock, grateful that this pair, unlike most of mine, still has enough elastic to hold the knife still.

  I shamelessly go back to look at the pictures in the folder, a collection of old black and whites, and there they are, both of them, posing, laughing, dancing, in restaurants, at charity balls. She was a stunner, no question. He was no slacker himself, dressed in tuxedoes and white scarves draped rakishly around his neck. They look like they might have loved each other, but maybe it was all show. I close up the file and replace it, worry gnawing at me: where have they taken her and why? She is the golden goose, I remind myself—kill her and they kill their chances of getting to the remainder of her fortune. I rummage through the rest of the cupboard, then the drawers Mrs. Preston didn’t go through, but come up empty-handed.

  I try sitting on the bed, but I’m too worried about Mrs. Preston to keep still. Pacing is frustrating as well. Though the bedroom looked large for those first few hours, it seems to grow smaller the longer I’m confined here. Finally, I lie down on the bed, intending just to shut my eyes for a few minutes, drifting on the down pillow, wondering about her, wondering about Michael, what the guys are doing back at the house, if they’ve called the police yet, if Ed knows I’m missing, and the next thing I know the door opens and there she is, tired, a bit trembly, but in one piece. I rush over and embrace her. She’s all elbows and hands pushing at me, but I manage.

  “Are you all right? What happened, what did they do?”

  I think that, in spite of herself, she’s pleased that I was so worried. “Let me sit down, don’t fuss like that, I’m exhausted.”

  I do as requested and wait impatiently as she takes a seat at the vanity, stares into the mirror, and pokes a few errant hairs back in place. “You’d never guess in a thousand years.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Etiquette.”

  “What?” I can’t have heard right.

  “A lesson in etiquette. That’s what they wanted, that’s what I gave them.” She’s almost vibrating with nervous energy, even her voice is shaky. I sit on the edge of the bed, zip my mouth, and fold my hands in my lap.

  “I haven’t been in my kitchen since they came. So it was something of a shock to see these boys, barely out of their teens, slumped around my table, the one my husband and I bought from an antique store in the west end. He loved it so, the craftsmanship that went into making it. And then here’s this pile of grocery bags, from Valu-mart of all places, just dumped in the middle of it, cans and pop bottles spilling everywhere, no cares at all about scratching the surface. I was furious, but there wasn’t much I could do.”

  “Wait a second,” I interrupt. “Those boys, was there someone—” I describe Michael to her, but she shakes her head, no, no one like that had been there. She takes up her narrative again.

  “‘We got everything you’re going to need,’ said the one who had me by the arm. ‘Jesse says,’—I remember he stopped for a minute, scratching his head like he was trying to find the right words—‘he says you should make a gourmet meal for two, and show these guys how to set a proper table for dinner, use your best stuff, he said, and learn them how to serve an’ all.’ Then he shoved a smudged piece of paper at me, it had a three-course menu handwritten on it, and told them to behave themselves and do what they were told. And he left. Well! I just stood there for a couple of minutes, I had no idea what to do with them, and they were no help, they were busy staring at their feet, or their dirty fingernails, anywhere but at me.

  “I decided, fine, if I have to do this, it will be done right. I started with the one sitting in my husband’s chair. ‘You!’ I said, ‘Wash those filthy hands, and scrub under your nails. None of you is touching anything until you’ve cleaned up. Food poisoning is not on this menu!’ And I shook the paper right under their noses.” Mrs. Preston has had only me to berate and bully; she clearly relished pushing the gang members around.

  “I demanded that the dirtiest of them change their clothes. ‘The stench of dirty socks does nothing for the appetite,’ I told them. Off they went, meek as lambs. And I stood over the rest of them while they scrubbed in the sink. I had them wash right to the elbows, some of their tattoos are really quite vulgar. When they’d finished, I had them disinfect the sink.

  “Next, I emptied out the grocery bags, and had to call for a pen and paper. Iceberg lettuce, brown, spotty mushrooms, dented cans of tomato soup, I mean really! At least the steaks were fine, they should be, since they’d come straight from my freezer. I drew up quite a detailed shopping list and sent one of them out to take care of that.”

  “Did they say what this was all for? Who was expected to dinner?”

  “No. But do let me finish without interruptions.” It’s almost like she doesn’t want to stop talking, doesn’t want to face silence. “Everything was to be ready for seven o’clock. I had one of them, a tall fellow, take down my china and the wine glasses, and started another polishing the silver. I was amazed it was still in the drawer, not sold piece by piece on some dreadful street corner. It was my grandmother’s, you know, a very elegant set. Much like her, a magnificent woman.

  “I asked who would be doing the serving at the table, and two of them raised their hands, just like they were in school. Very odd. I found an old jug, and some plain glasses for them to practise with, had one of them fill it with ice water, and showed them how to hold it, how to pour without spilling everything everywhere. It took them a few tries, necessitating mop-ups of the floor and table, but they finally mastered it. Then we graduated to the platters, not my good ones, not just yet. I showed them where to stand, how to keep their fingers out of the food, how to hold the serving tongs. They really are all thumbs! I knew preparing the food would take half as long as teaching them how to serve it.

  “Setting the table was next. I think they expected a knife, fork, spoon and dish would do. ‘You’re kidding me,’ one of them said. ‘All this for two people?’ It was quite an eye-opener for them. I had to explain what every piece was for. I brought out my candlesticks—they’re lovely, I haven’t used them in ages—and a vase for the flowers I’d put on the shopping list. Do you know, I think they were starting to get into the spirit of things, it was almost touching. Each of them took a turn to practise serving me at the table. They didn’t do badly, though they did accidentally jab me with an elbow once or twice.

  “I sent the two servers off to shower—I hate to think of the state of my towels—and started on the meal preparation. The rest of the boys chopped up onions, washed the greens, scrubbed the potatoes, while I made a start on the soup.

  “Now the steaks are in the warmer, everything’s ready. It’s silly, I know, but I wish I could be a fly on the wall to see how they do.” She stands, clearly finished with her story, but still, I have a feeling there’s something else, something she’s not telling me. She doesn’t give me space to ask, saying, “I do wonder what it’s all for. Is someone coming to dinner? And why? Could it be someone who could help us?”

  “Well, it’s seven now, so they must be about to sit down.”

  Our door opens a crack—we’ve been too focused to pay attention to the noises out there—and a scruffy head pops in.

  “You,” he says, pointing at me. “You’re wanted.”

  Mrs. Preston and I stare at each other, appalled.

  “Oh dear,” she says faintly, turning pale.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He rises from his chair, which is placed, not surprisingly, at the head of the long, impressively laidout dining table. He moves toward me, one hand out, a beaming smile visible even in the half-l
ight of Mrs. Preston’s flickering candles. I can’t help but notice how well he’s dressed, in stark contrast to my jeans and pullover. His suit—it might even be Armani—is charcoal grey, his shirt, crisp and white, accented by the redness of his narrow tie. I also notice that the no-shoes rule doesn’t seem to apply to him, any more than it does to Mrs. Preston.

  “Dana, what a pleasure to have you here as my guest.” So he knows who I am. He must have gone through my jacket, found my wallet. Still, that wouldn’t have told him much more than my real name. He takes my hand, holding it almost delicately. For a moment, I think he’s going to bring it to his lips, and if he does I’m going to start laughing, and I may not be able to stop. Instead, he murmurs, “Please, come sit down.” He leads me to my chair like a competent maître d’, pulling it out, waiting patiently as I hesitate, considering my options, which are few to none. I sit.

  I’m positioned to his right, close enough that our knees would occasionally bump through dinner, were I to go through with this farce. He pours wine into two of Mrs. Preston’s lovely glasses, one for me, one for him, without spilling a drop. Before he can propose a toast, which I think he’s about to do, I empty my glass in one long gulp, setting it down on the white linen cloth with a thump.

  Buoyed by the warm liquid courage making its trickling path down my throat, I look him in the eye. “Let’s not mince words. I’ve been abducted. You are holding me against my will, both me and Mrs. Preston.” A brief flare of anger in his eyes—he quickly masks it, but I take note of it.

  “Yes, that’s true. But let’s put that unpleasantness aside for the moment, shall we?” He waves one hand in the air, as though brushing away something as inconsequential as a fly. “We’re about to enjoy a delicious meal together, let’s not spoil it with accusations and acrimony.”

  There is just enough of an undertone of threat, veiled as it is, that I decide it’s in my best interests to do as he asks. I gaze around the room to buy time. It’s huge, there’s a lot of dark furniture, and paintings that I can’t quite make out in this light, but the frames look impressive enough. I’m aware of his eyes boring into me as the silence lengthens. What sparkling dinner conversation does a person have with a kidnapper? The weather? Sports? Home invasions in the neighbourhood? Miss Manners does not cover this kind of social event; I’m on my own. Still, he’s a man, and every guy loves to talk about himself.