Picture Perfect Corpse

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  The force of her rage astonished me. I did my best to listen to the words and not let the emotion sidetrack me, but I have to admit, her ferocity sent me reeling.

  Just as quickly, compassion gave me pause. Rebekkah could never admit these feelings under ordinary conditions. She’d be labeled as selfish, horrible, wicked. In truth, she was a grown-up child who’d never fully coped with the loss of her brother. Now the impending loss of her mother had intensified her grief. Rebekkah was staggering under an emotional load. Nor could she share this with her parents.

  “Rebekkah, no one is perfect. Perfect belongs to the Lord. I can’t imagine being in your situation. It certainly has to be tough. You are right: He’ll never do anything wrong in their minds. They’ve ushered him into sainthood. You’ll have to be a happy second, forever, won’t you?”

  “That’s right. You understand, don’t you?” Her face crumpled in relief and a tear ran a silver course over her cheek before sl-loming off her chin. “Why do you have to dig this up?”

  I marveled at her question. “Is there something that will tarnish your brother’s image? Is that why you want me to drop it?”

  She straightened and looked me right in the eye. “My mom won’t be around much longer. I don’t particularly feel like sharing her with my dead brother.”

  forty-three

  No way was I going to ask Rebekkah to get on Facebook and help me track down the kids who were with Nathan when he died. Ruth Glazer had warned me off the project. Rebekkah didn’t want me to pursue it. I was up the creek without a paddle. All I could do was ask Robbie Holmes to look into the matter. After Rebekkah ambled back to the refrigerator, I dialed his number.

  “Hey, when is Sheila coming home?” I sounded oh-so-casual.

  “Probably tomorrow if they don’t put her out on the curb with her belongings in a plastic bag sooner.” His throaty chuckle was warm with his love for her.

  “She must be feeling better.”

  “Yes, and complaining about the quality of sheets on the hospital bed. I finally went over to her house and grabbed a set of Frette sheets for her. Did you know there’s some nonsense called thread count? It determines how soft fabric is?”

  My turn to giggle. “Not until Sheila educated me. Welcome to the posh life, Mr. Police Chief, sir. I was thinking about stopping by and seeing her this evening. Anya and I have been invited to the Detweilers’ farm for dinner. You’ve heard that he’s under house arrest, right?”

  “Sure did. You must be feeling better about Detweiler’s situation, what with John Henry Schnabel in his corner and all. You ever seen Mr. Schnabel?”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s about your height. Wears a polka-dot bow tie. Glasses as thick as cola bottles. Not a lick of hair on the top of his head, only a fringe around the sides and ears. Voice is high and squeaky like a girl’s.”

  That was not encouraging news. In my mind, the attorney was bigger than life. “Is he up to this?”

  “Shoot, yes. When the Illinois law enforcement officials heard he was on the case, sales of Maalox shot through the roof. You could let a hungry hyena loose in a preschool and have fewer casualties than Mr. Schnabel can cause in a courtroom. His nickname is ‘Blood and Guts’ because he eviscerates his opponents. Already the odds have shifted in Chad’s favor. Although it sure would help it if we could track down the real killer.”

  I told him about my conversation with Hadcho.

  “Stan is one of my brightest detectives. He’s right. When they made their request, I doubt that our clerk checked to see if Chad’s file has the latest tests or not. I try to keep updated ballistics info on all my officers. Saves hassle when there’s a question of whose bullet did what. Otherwise you need to track down the weapon and it’s usually in an officer’s possession, so that takes a man out of rotation. As for access to spent casings, of course we have a department range we use, but Chad did a lot of his practice at that range over by his parents’ house. The GM, they call it. That’s short for great moraine.”

  I misheard him. “Lorraine? Like a woman’s name?”

  “No, moraine with an ‘m’ like ‘Mary.’ During the ice age, the glaciers picked up rich soil and brought it along with on their slide toward the equator. When the ice melted, that dirt was deposited throughout Illinois. Actually in four places. The transported soil is responsible for the great farming they have.”

  You learn something every day, but only if you keep your ears open and your mouth shut.

  “You’re telling me he practiced shooting over in Illinois?”

  “Nearly every Sunday. He and his dad would go to the GM and squeeze off a couple of clips.”

  My heart sank. Now I had another prime suspect, Louis Detweiler. Was it possible that Louis was sick of Brenda’s shenanigans? That he wanted Chad to be able to marry me and bring a boy Detweiler into this world? All his grandbabies were girls so far.

  More importantly, should I share my worries about Louis and Patricia with Robbie?

  I decided not to. I really didn’t have enough to go on. Besides, there wasn’t much Robbie could do except call over to Illinois and hope to find a sympathetic ear. The man had his hands full, what with Sheila in the hospital and needing to tie up loose ends from the shootout we’d had at the slough. But I was about to lob another ball in the air for him to juggle.

  “What do you remember about Nathan Goldfader’s death?”

  “Not much, why?”

  I explained about Dodie’s request.

  “You sure do get yourself into tough situations.”

  “What do you mean? Cherise Landon walked into the store and told Dodie that she was responsible for Nathan’s death. I didn’t ask for this assignment. Believe me, it’s the last thing I need right now. But what can I do? Drop it? If I were Dodie, I’d want closure.”

  “You don’t want to be messing in Shep Landon’s business. I can’t tell you why, I can’t tell you all that I know, but trust me, you thought you had problems with Bill Ballard? Shep is ten times worse and Shep has a law degree.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I’d rather have my throat slit fast with a razor than have someone tie me down and poke holes in me until I bleed to death. That’s how lawyers kill their prey, Kiki. They whittle away at you in court. Shoot, I’ve watched innocent people wreck their businesses, their marriages, and their health dealing with court cases. I’m an officer of the law, and you’d think that I would believe in our criminal justice system, but I don’t. There are too many vagaries that work against a person. Especially if you’re a novice who doesn’t know the system. Did I ever tell you what I hate most about sending individuals to jail? It’s the learning process. They come out better, smarter crooks. They teach each other how to play the system. You and I haven’t a clue.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Walk away. For once in your life, walk away.”

  forty-four

  Anya was in a marginally better mood when I swung by the house to pick her up. Mainly she was happily anticipating a trip to the Detweiler farm. My daughter loves critters of every size, shape, and species. If we could live on a farm, Anya would happily turn her back on her fancy clothes and hoity-toity school. She loves everything about farm living—the sights, sounds, and smells of life in the country. Once I caught her smuggling home a plastic baggy of new mown hay after an overnight with Mimi and Pop Detweiler.

  “If I close my eyes and sniff it, I can pretend I’m in the barn,” Anya had told me earnestly, fingering the bag with reverence.

  Of course, there was another reason she loved going over the river and through the woods to the farm. Chad Detweiler’s oldest niece, Emily Volker, and Anya were the same age. From the moment they met, the two girls became fast friends, staying in touch through text-messaging and Skype.

  “Why didn’t you invite Nicci along? She migh
t like to visit the Detweiler’s farm,” I asked as I turned over the car engine.

  “She’s busy,” my daughter said far too quickly. There might be legitimate reasons, so I held my tongue. The last time that Nicci came along with us, there had been a touch of awkwardness among the girls. Emily had invited Nicci and Anya to come swim in her above-ground pool, but Nicci quickly declined. Even when Thelma produced a bathing suit that would fit Nicci perfectly, the Moore girl said a very firm, albeit polite, “No.”

  There is that old truism that three’s a crowd. More to the point, Nicci’s idea of roughing it is a four-star hotel. Maybe an above-ground pool didn’t seem appealing when compared to lounging around the beautiful pool at the St. Louis Country Club. Nicci didn’t particularly like getting grubby, playing in the dusty barn, or running through the fields covered with cow patties. Not her cup of tea. Nor was she overly fond of animals. She would go with Anya to pet shops and view critters in cages. She liked our cats and Gracie well enough, but I’d seen both the Moore kids squeal in fear when a large fishing spider crawled onto their back patio. Stevie grabbed a stone to smash it, but Anya tugged at his arm and warned, “Don’t you dare! He eats bugs! I’ll move him into the bushes.”

  My daughter showed nascent signs of wanting a career in veterinary sciences or biology. Being around animals gave her tremendous joy. Nicci claimed to want a career in fashion merchandising.

  Anya brought me back to the here and now. “I just texted Emily. She says we can saddle up the new pony and go for a ride. Did you know Mimi rescued Apollo? He was bound for the glue factory, whatever that means. And he’s not really a pony. He’s a short horse. Only fourteen hands high.”

  Detweiler’s parents had given my daughter permission to call them “Mimi” and “Pop” way back at Christmas. They were lovely people, really wonderful, and I was happy that my daughter and I had been welcomed into their lives.

  “Hands?”

  “You measure the height of a horse or pony in four-inch increments, called ‘hands’ because it’s almost the width of a hand, see?” She held up her palm for inspection, before lecturing me. “While a pony typically has a stockier frame than a horse, the more obvious difference is size. A horse is anything over fourteen-point-three hands high and above. A pony is anything fourteen-point-two and below.”

  “That’s fascinating.”

  She prattled on about how Apollo had been used as a trail riding mount until the company went bust and decided to shoot him rather than feed him. “Can you believe how cruel that is? Can you imagine? You work your whole life and then—BAM!—right in the brain because you aren’t useful anymore. Makes me sick. I want to have a fundraiser at school. Will you help me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

  She’d thought it through pretty carefully. Several boys at school had started their own rock and roll bands. Anya thought a “battle of the bands” would be a fun way to get attention for them and money for abandoned horses.

  “Does Missouri really have that many horses without homes?”

  My daughter rolled her eyes at me. “Didn’t you know that in 2007 a court ruling upheld the ban on the slaughter of horses for human consumption? That along with the economic downturn means that more and more irresponsible owners are simply abandoning their horses in farmers’ fields, on the side of the road, and in parks. It’s a crisis, Mom. Where have you been?”

  “Under a rock?” Is what I said, but I was thinking, “Shot in the head, trying to keep my future husband out of jail, and struggling to hold down a job.” But I didn’t.

  “That creep who’s been saying all that mean stuff about you and Detweiler? Mr. Kloss? He’s trying to open a slaughter facility on his farm. Wants to turn horses into dog food. Can you believe that? Claims it would be more humane than letting them starve.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, but there’s no guarantee he’ll kill the horses in a humane way. He’s saying all this because he’s greedy. If he can open the first slaughterhouse in the country, think of all the abandoned horses he can turn into cash. I mean, it would be like printing money. Shipping them wouldn’t cost much. The cities that are trying to care for the strays would get off cheaper by trucking them to Illinois. It’s a central location. His place isn’t far from the headquarters of Purina. I bet he could work a deal with them.”

  My daughter the cynic.

  Then I corrected myself. I’d grown up with a Pollyanna view of the world. A messed up assumption that most people were innately good. That when someone talked to you, they were telling the truth. After all, in an alcoholic family if you don’t believe the hogwash you’re told, someone is going to get hurt. And if you’re the littlest person in the family, it’ll more than likely be you. So I learned to accept what I was told, to nod my head, and go along.

  By contrast, I’d raised my daughter to question authority. Respectfully. The world had taught her to be a skeptic. She had far too much access to information. Or maybe not, because if I could guide her properly, she’d learn to sift through what she heard and come to intelligent conclusions.

  “You’ve been following Mr. Kloss’s campaign?”

  “Yep. Even before Detweiler’s wife got shot. Last time I was at the farm, Mimi told me she hated the man. Couldn’t stand him and hoped he wouldn’t get elected. She said he’s a scoundrel, and I had to look that word up. While he was a county councilman, he voted for development only when it would line his pocket.”

  “Interesting.” I tried to keep my hands steady on the wheel. I wondered what had gotten into Thelma. Here I’d thought her the sweetest person on earth, protective of her grandkids, too, but she’d given my daughter an earful about Milton Kloss.

  “Mimi never liked Brenda, either, because of how she treated Detweiler. Emily told me so. See, Emily says that Brenda tricked her Aunt Patricia, too, but I don’t know how. Something about talking Aunt Patricia into an investment scheme. How then Aunt Patricia and Uncle Paul lost a bunch of money and almost had to give up their house. And then Mimi and Pop had to get a loan and Mr. Kloss signed it.”

  “I heard that, too.” I gripped the wheel tightly. Illinois highways are notorious for their bad repair. There are only two seasons in Illinois: winter and road repair. The potholes bounced us up and down. I worried that Gracie might hit her head on the rag top.

  “Emily told me her Aunt Brenda laughed at her mother when she confronted her about making life miserable for Detweiler. And she was mad at Aunt Brenda about the mean trick she played on Patricia. Really mad, says Emily.”

  “Ginny? Brenda laughed at Ginny?” Ginny Volker was Chad’s other sister, the oldest of the two Detweiler girls, and Emily’s mother.

  “Yes, Emily heard the whole argument. Her mother told Brenda that she wished someone would shoot her and put her out of her misery.”

  More Detweilers to put on my suspect list.

  forty-five

  A late-model navy blue Mercedes Roadster sat on the Detweiler’s gravel driveway. I pulled in beside it. When he heard my car door slam, Detweiler rushed my old BMW and swept me up in his arms à la Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. I giggled because he was being so darn romantic. He kissed me repeatedly, and at close range I could see how gaunt his face had become. The last few days had certainly been hard on him.

  “You okay? How’s the baby?” he asked.

  “Fine. We’re all fine. Just worried about you,” and I hugged him tightly.

  After setting me on my feet, he threw an arm around Anya, kissed her on the top of the head, and asked, “How’s life, Anya-Banana?”

  Her eyes brightened at his teasing, but she didn’t have much time to react because Gracie had wriggled her way out of the back seat of my car—and launched herself at him. The big girl loves Detweiler more than anyone on earth. Those front paws hitting his chest nearly kn
ocked him to his knees, but Detweiler kept his balance. We couldn’t move until Gracie had her ears scratched.

  “Gracie, you are such a flirt,” I told her. “Get your fat paws off my boyfriend. I’m starving. What did Thelma make us for dinner?”

  “A huge pot roast. A piece of meat so big that she had to divide it into two slow cookers. Everyone’s on the way. Ginny and Jeff are coming with Emily. Patty and Paul should be here right now.”

  More red meat. And here I’d claimed I never eat the stuff. Oh, well.

  A battered gray Camry pulled in next to my red car. Paul Kressig hopped out to help Patty retrieve two foil-covered bowls and a pan from the back seat.

  I never knew exactly how to greet Patty. At our first meeting last Thanksgiving, the air was so frosty, my nose turned numb. But after I helped Patty find her lost necklace, she warmed up. Since then I’d seen her at Christmas and at Easter. She was polite, but in a sort of “I could take you or leave you” way.

  Until Anya filled me in on the family dynamics, I had thought that Patty and Brenda were still friendly with each other. I’m sure my relationship with Detweiler had put Patty between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

  Since I didn’t know where I stood with the youngest Detweiler sister, I hung back. Her husband tipped his green and white Pioneer Seed Corn cap at me in greeting. Patty nodded to me solemnly and said, “Heard you got Schnabel to take Chad’s case. Thanks. Thanks a lot. Did Chad tell you there’s to be a memorial service on Monday for Brenda? It’s at the Penney and Queen Funeral Home. Most of the people who’ll be there are either staunch Republicans or owe Milton money.”