A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  She released her grip and I felt suddenly alone. “We can’t decide on anything. We’re at complete opposites. He wants a church ceremony; I want to be outdoors. He wants a reception with a dance band, I just want friends to gather at home. He wants the tux and fancy white dress and aisle of candles, and I want us dressed as we really are—nice clothes, of course, but the real us. I want this to be a ceremony I can feel, Margo. I need to look at the space we’re in and feel a part of it. ‘Place’ is very important to me. I have to have that link with God or Nature or people who have gone before us to feel truly alive and one with the world. A church wedding won’t do that for me. I can’t stand there in a dress I’ll never wear again, have my friends sitting in rigid rows, seeing the back of me. Outdoors they can stand facing me, I can feel the nearness of heaven through the beauty of nature. Adam doesn’t understand what a church ceremony will do to me.” I looked at Margo, trying to see her reaction.

  Her arm slipped around mine and we started walking again. “This is probably negotiable. Does Adam know how you feel about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he won’t let you have the wedding you want? I always thought him intelligent and head-over-heels crazy for you. What’s wrong with the man?”

  “His mother.”

  Her silence stated she understood.

  “To be fair,” I added, “it’s his parents. They want to meet with us and talk.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Exactly my question. They want to help us pay for the wedding. His mother has suggestions about which caterer to use, what reception hall, what church. She even has ideas about our honeymoon.”

  “Just so it isn’t her and Dad going along.”

  “This is serious. I haven’t met them yet and already they’re trying to take charge of the whole thing. This is Adam’s and my wedding—his parents have had theirs. This is our turn to have what we want.”

  We came up to the Harper house. Rather than it being the blaze of lights I had assumed, only two lights burned—one in the front room and the other farther back, perhaps in the kitchen. It gave a vague impression of comfort and protection in the surrounding darkness.

  “I think you need to sit down with Adam and tell him exactly how you feel, Bren. I mean exactly. This is no way to begin your marriage, hurt and angry and resenting his parents—and probably him. You’ll never last a year; your love will never endure. Am I right?”

  I felt her staring at me, even through the blackness. I nodded, wondering how I would find the courage to tell Adam. But I’d have to say something tomorrow, for I had told him I’d speak to him then.

  We had nearly completed the circular route around the village and were just approaching the takeaway when Marian Harper and a man walked toward us. They strolled hand in hand, their faces turned toward each other, their voices low in conversation. As they passed, the man dropped Marian’s hand and slid his hand around to her waist. He pulled her closer to his side and Marian clutched his near shoulder as they took the hill. I made some sound and Margo replied that they looked awfully cuddly.

  “Maybe he’s just comforting her,” I said, feeling particularly vulnerable about relationships at the moment. “Who is that chap? Do you know?”

  “Even if the streetlamp isn’t a blaze of light, I’d know that physique anywhere. I talked to him today in conjunction with the fabric found with the bones.”

  “So, who is he? Her brother?”

  “Close. Her brother-in-law. Well…by halves. Edmund Worrall. Reed’s half brother.”

  “Looks as though he wants to become more closely related,” I muttered.

  For some reason, we watched until they disappeared. Either the night or a stand of massive oaks swallowed them.

  “Going to her home,” Margo said, her voice abruptly loud in my ear.

  I nodded and murmured something about there being a lot of details to attend to for her husband’s death and estate. “I can’t imagine what she’s feeling,” I said, moments later when two dogs had quit barking. “Or how she’ll carry on without Reed. I can’t fathom what it must feel like to lose a spouse, or face the empty bed and house.”

  Margo stepped in front of me, laid her hands on my shoulders, and peered at me. I caught the look in her eyes, the streetlamp’s light revealing her lowered brows. “Bren, something’s wrong. What’s the matter? And don’t tell me again it’s Adam or his parents or your ceremony plans. No one talks like you just did if everything’s rosy. You sound like you’ve lost your best friend.”

  “I feel like I have.”

  “I thought you were about to marry him.”

  “Well, I am. At least…”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Margo, I’m so muddled. It’s not just the problems with the ceremony and reception and dress. It’s Scott.”

  “You’re joking. He’s married!”

  I shook my head. This wasn’t what I had meant at all. I started walking toward the pub. Margo fell in beside me and asked me to explain myself.

  “I know I’m over reactive, like I said earlier. But I haven’t heard a word about Scott, and he’s one of my closest friends.” I stopped abruptly. Margo took a step backward and stood with me just beyond the pub’s door. “I know Adam’s supposed to be my best friend. Well, he is…in a way. But not like you are. We’ve not been close enough for that long.”

  “But you will.”

  “Oh, sure. Of course! But not like us. Not to share girl stuff with.”

  “That’s natural, Bren. My married girl friends always tell me stuff they don’t share with their husbands. Guys do that, too, with their wives. That’s why they’ve got all that male bonding. You know—punch each other in the shoulders when they meet, call each other names like Old Soak and Son of a Bi—” She stopped and grinned. “Well, you know. They paint their faces to watch football matches, they prove they’ve still got it by being weekend warriors or playing sports till they can’t move without groaning the next day. It’s like a ‘pack’ thing and an alpha male syndrome rolled into one. I can’t figure them out. They probably can’t either. But the point is we’re different creatures, Bren. I think you’ve got the wrong expectation about husband/best friend. You can still have me or anyone else as a best friend, but you relate to Adam in a different way.” She stared at me, her eyes mere dark spaces in the shadow from the streetlamp.

  “Yeah, I guess. I know that,” I added. “Like I said, put it down to nerves or Scott’s condition or worried about King Roper or something.”

  “Let’s ring him up. That’ll make you feel better if you talk to Scott.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Awfully late.”

  “Then, tomorrow. You’ll look at this whole subject differently when you find out how he’s doing. Now, off to sleep. For both of us.”

  Nodding, I followed her through the pub door. As I passed close to the end of the bar I saw the publican pick up the phone and nearly immediately heard his explosion of joy and banter. “Keeler, you old soak! Why you ringing me up during serving hours…or is this a subtle way of telling me business has fallen off at your ruddy gaff and you’re finally on the teapot? Or is it that you want some advice about running a proper pub?” His voice died under the conversation of the room as I walked upstairs. I faltered on the first step, wanting to listen to the publican, needing to hang onto that little connection with Scott. I knew Keeler was the publican at Scott’s favorite local and, as such, offered me a thread to him, a thread I wanted right now to keep hold of, for I fiercely missed Scott. But I climbed the steps, letting the link and the moment drop away, and half-listened to Margo’s good-natured chatter.

  We said goodnight where the hallway branched. Margo told me to go straight to bed, waved, and disappeared down the dimly lit corridor.

  My room was several doors down but I don’t recall walking to it, opening the door, or washing my face. I do remember debating briefly if I should brew a cup of tea or just fall into bed, but the
ringing of my mobile ended that discussion. I glanced at the caller ID, curious about who would be phoning me. I flipped the phone open as Scott’s name registered in the front display window.

  “Not disturbing your sleep, am I?” he said.

  “You couldn’t disturb anything.” I settled on the mattress. “You are not going to believe this, but I nearly rang you up a few minutes ago.”

  “That just proves that line about great minds. Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know if you would be sleeping.”

  “Well, we’ve got that question answered, then. How are you, Brenna? How are Mark and Graham and everyone?”

  “More importantly, how are you, Scott?”

  “I’m out of hospital, but I suppose you know that.”

  “Yes, but how are you feeling? Any update on your condition?”

  “Oh, the usual medical jargon. Doesn’t really mean anything. You know.” I imagined his green eyes darkening in his frustration, the corners of his mouth screwing up in his lopsided grin. He could be propped up in bed, pillows behind his back, or on the sofa—anything to accommodate comfort to his tall frame.

  “Are you keeping something from me?” I almost couldn’t form the words, for the image of tubes stuck into his hands and conferring doctors gripped my throat. “You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you?” My heart rate soared at the thought of him permanently disabled. What would he do with his life, I wondered as the quiet welled between us. Scott was not the sort to sit behind a desk; what other career would suit his temperament if he had to leave the job?

  “God, what a worrywart you are, Brenna.” The humor in his voice was as good as cold water thrown on a sleeping person. “Of course I’d tell you anything. We’re friends, aren’t we? And second,” he continued, without giving me time to respond, “there’s honestly nothing to tell. Just lying about the house, getting in my wife’s and kids’ way, eating too much and watching too much telly. What a wasted life I lead. Pathetic.”

  “And playing poker.”

  “Okay. You know me too well for me to pretend to be the perfect patient.”

  “But the doctors have talked to you, right? They’ve told you what to expect about your recovery time and if you’ll be back, good as new.” The scene in the wood near Howden Reservoir flashed again in my mind, Scott’s body lying beneath the massive trees and ferns, his blood staining the rocks and seeping into the ground. “I mean,” I shook off the nightmarish picture, “you can return to active duty…soon.”

  “They told me—sorry?” A muffled voice floated over the phone line and then Scott replied to the speaker. He must have turned back to me, for he said rather too cheerily, “The wife’s telling me I have to get some rest. As though I’m running a marathon or something.” The sound of springs compressing and of heavy breathing seeped into my ear. “Never disobey the spouse, Brenna. Second rule of a good marriage. Sorry. Gotta go. Talk to you again.” He rang off before I could even wish him good night.

  I eased the phone closed, laid it on the bedside cabinet, and slid into bed. The curtains at the open window angled into the room, like pale arms rising to pronounce a blessing. I turned onto my right side and stared through the window, into the night. Scott’s wife must have been frantic when Scott was in hospital. Had she nearly panicked, thinking him close to death? Or could she cling to her faith, receiving a calm hope that Scott would fully recover? After my marriage, what will I feel if that is Adam? Will I find a way to live with my fear every time he goes on a call at night? Millions of other police spouses could do it, so why not I? I punched the pillow up beneath my head, encircling it with my arms, pretending I could be strong—for Adam and Scott. But despite Scott’s assurances, I remained uneasy about his recovery. The knife thrust had been deep, the blows to his body multiple and severe. He would need months of recovery. Maybe even physical therapy. Was I about to lose my best friend in the job, my best source of help and advice? The night closed around me, lulling me to sleep with the sounds of baying dogs and singing whippoorwills, mixing with the suspicion that Scott’s wife had ended the phone call at an opportune time. He never did tell me when he would return to duty. Or if.

  FOURTEEN

  From the desk of Scott Coral

  “Scott! Answer the phone, you lazy-ass man! How long does it have to ring! Ahhhhhh! I’ll get it myself!”

  Quiet small talk and murmuring in the background as I sat in my favorite recliner. I’d just returned to watching a replay of Chelsea/Arsenal from last week, after concluding the phone conversation with Brenna, when another vocal tirade cut through the air.

  “Itttt’ss foorrrr youuuuu!”

  Most men married for 15 years would cringe at that, but I was just happy to hear a voice. The only sounds, courtesy of murderer King Roper, I should have been hearing were the sounds of dirt hitting my coffin weeks earlier. It was good to be alive.

  “Hello?” I said cautiously.

  “Is it really you, Coral?”

  “Good to hear your voice, too, Keeler.” I grinned at the straight-to-the-point greeting. Even if I hadn’t recognized the voice, the accompanying environmental noises swelling in the brief conversational quiet identified the place. I could almost smell the cigarette smoke and feel the dimples of the heavy glass mug beneath my fingertips. “Perfect timing. I could use some of that swipes you keep with my name on it.”

  “You’re dreamin’, man. You’ve never had anything bad at my pub. You must be thinkin’ of that slop The Mottled Duck serves.”

  “I guess so. I think that’s where they get their beer, actually.”

  Keeler’s laugh roared over the phone line, drowning out the shouts from a nearby darts game. I refrained from saying what I thought of his miserable hospitality as he added, “The lovely Alexa Coral says she has had about enough of you around the house, Scotty. I believe she would be more than willing to get shut of you and let you out for a few pints. Which, by the way, could be on the house as long as you keep us well chuffed with stories of how the nurses ‘took care of you’ in hospital.”

  I didn’t need to see him to know he had emphasized that last phrase in finger-wiggling quotation marks. Of all the times for me to be out of arm’s reach…

  The laugh exploded in my ear, underscoring that he was having me on. “It’d be smashing to clap eyes on you, Scotty. Besides, I’d like you to meet someone. What are the chances of havin’ a chinwag soon?”

  “How about now? I’m actually on the mend and can use the time away.”

  “Right, then. I’ll be here, but I warn you—we’re busy. Don’t go gettin’ yourself in another dust-up. I wouldn’t want to have to save your sissy ass for the millionth time.” Click.

  * * * *

  I laughed for a good two minutes after I left home. As I drove to the Black Eagle Pub, I recalled the first time I met Stanley Keeler, the pub owner. I was a new copper on the beat when several units responded to a massive brawl. The man, although in his late forties at the time, towered above all others, and displayed massive strength in his broad shoulders and chest. Years in Her Majesty’s Navy had given him a weathered look, thinning gray hair, and a fondness for the occasional scrap—of which I doubt he ever lost. His common sense style of dealing with a variety of patrons, as an owner and as a man, during day or night shifts earned him my respect and praise. I thought he would have made the perfect copper, but I was glad he owned a place I considered my refuge.

  “Coral!”

  Keeler’s booming voice somehow echoed through the entire establishment upon my entry. This was quite the accomplishment, what with the music, the loud replays of the day’s matches on the tellies, and the obligatory drunken debates on who was really to blame for last year’s World Cup debacle.

  The bear hug was as powerful as the voice still pounding in my head. I hadn’t even had my first Bass yet and I was already squiffy from sensory overload. Intensive care and lying around the house really did take it out of me. “Easy, old timer! I hav
e a scar as long as your wanker and it’s not quite healed.” As I said it, I pulled the top of my shirt down across my shoulder and back. Although it was mostly hidden from my view, it was in full clarity to the others by the looks on their faces. The scar was a full 11 inches from shoulder to lower back.

  “My Lord, Scotty, he filleted you like the cod I got in fresh from O’Leary’s market this morning.” Keeler chewed on his lower lip as he exhaled heavily. I thought he was going to storm out of the pub, jump into his car, and drive off to find Roper. Shaking his head, he said, “Well, not to worry about your little souvenir. When you speak to my friend Hugh, here, I’m sure he’ll brighten your day. Hugh Claxton, meet Scott Coral.”

  Claxton smiled, but looked a bit dubious as he inclined his head toward Keeler. “Are you a friend of this chap, Mr. Coral? He tells me you’re one of the few who can get through a scrum under any condition. And by the looks of that scar, and the fact that you’re here to speak of it, I believe his assessment of you is spot on.”

  I grinned and tried to yank my shirt back into place. “For that compliment, the first round’s on me.”

  Keeler smoothed the shirt across my back and carefully laid his arm across my shoulder. “Bahhh! I told you I had you covered this evenin’, boy.” He paused as he looked around the packed room. On the fringe of the main area, three chairs had been tipped forward so that they leaned against a table, making it the only unpopulated spot in the entire place. A subtle space, perhaps truly distinguishable only to the regulars, had been created by shoving the nearest tables somewhat away from this table. In the room, yet apart. It had the feel of a moat isolating a fortress, a no man’s land designating opposing forces. So anyone sitting there could talk without being overheard? I glanced at the window near the table. It was set high enough into the wall so that no one standing outside could see in. Plus, it was closed. Nothing was discernible beyond its white painted wooden frame but the blackness of the night. The whole thing reeked of Secrets and Riddles. Pressing slightly on my shoulder, he nudged me forward. “Now, let’s grab you a table so we can chat. Hugh, here, can be trusted. He’s worked at Wakefield Prison for seventeen years and is now a Principal Prison Officer. He has some power—make no mistake, Scotty—and he gets that power through information. You may be shocked to hear what he’s discovered.” My face whitened as Keeler revealed the real reason I was summoned to the Black Eagle. Pints of Bass with old friends discussing all things fun was no longer a possibility. This was all about King Roper.