Caught Dead in Philadelphia

by Gillian Roberts

  We walked slowly toward the next assignment.

  “Fifteen minutes before the auction,” the loudspeaker squawked. Other quitters straggled into our area and settled on the hard folding chairs. They carried balloons, stuffed toys, and sleeping babies.

  The plump purple woman greeted us extravagantly. “Would you carry this up for me, dear?” she said, pointing to an oversized picture frame. “I’ve got tons more to arrange. Don’t peek, though. It’s an absolutely marvelous acrylic on velvet. The saddest-eyed boy and his puppy. My son painted it.” She waltzed off with Mackenzie, explaining something intricate about the remainder of the folding chairs.

  I stretched to get the ends of the package in my hands, and I staggered blindly toward the stage, managing to avoid too many collisions with people and chairs, finally making it up to the wooden platform. I found myself in a dog-eared treasure house. A lavabo lay on a drab piece of needlepoint; a set of tarnished candelabra poked out of the drawer of a chipped mahogany drum table. On the podium, held down by the mike, a stack of certificates promised less tangible goodies. I flipped through them. Math tutoring, a casino weekend in Atlantic City, and, most intriguing, three free marriage-counseling sessions. I wondered what brave and shameless couple would bid on that one. I bet they’d say it was a gift for someone else.

  I managed to control the urge to examine the saddest-eyed boy and his puppy, and I had started back down the steps when I heard voices floating up behind a curio cabinet.

  Sissie’s whisper was sporadically loud and intense. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Not to me.”

  Silence. I strained toward the cabinet.

  “…don’t know what you mean,” Hayden said.

  “We all make mistakes. What’s past is past, Hayden.”

  He shushed her, and all I could hear were sibilant whispers, a great many of which sounded like the word “us.”

  I tiptoed down the steps.

  “Miss Pepper. How do you do?” Hayden said from behind me. He looked at Sissie, then back at me and up to the platform. He didn’t look serene.

  Sissie held his arm possessively and she, too, glanced nervously from the platform to me.

  “I’m bringing things up,” I said gaily. “Really great things you have here.” I hoped my wide-eyed admiration of the droppings of the gentry would convince the two of them that I heard and suspected nothing.

  “Yes,” Hayden agreed. “Interesting things up here. I’m keeping guard until we begin. Minding the shop, you might say.” He released one brief, apologetic laugh.

  Sissie let go her tentacles from Hayden’s arm. “I’ll call Mother Cole now, Hayden dear,” she said. “I’m worried about her,” she told me, as if I were suddenly a part of their group. She pulled off her black wig.

  “Isn’t your mother well?” I asked Hayden, trying to be polite.

  “She’s been very…shaken by Liza’s…” His voice fogged. He cleared his throat. I clucked sympathetically.

  He looked grateful. “She wanted to come tonight. All her friends are here. But I discouraged it. The doctor’s given her sedation. She would have liked talking to you. She looked for you yesterday, after the funeral.”

  I didn’t dislike the man anymore. He had become human. He looked dangerously vulnerable, as if his former small share of spirit had oozed away. I watched him fold and unfold an auction program and had trouble imagining him bludgeoning anyone.

  Sissie seemed annoyed by my presence. She stood, wig in hand, waiting for something. “Give Mrs. Cole my regards,” I said, feeling like a fool.

  Sissie nodded. “She’ll appreciate that,” she said, and she swished away.

  “I’d better go help Mrs., ah, that woman in purple,” I said because Hayden showed no sign of being able to end our awkward time together.

  He nodded and continued smoothing the creases of his paper.

  The program lady had me carry a porcelain vase that looked as if it had been through hard times, an enormous stuffed lion I was sure Karen would covet, and a basket of cheer containing wine, cheese, and crackers. I lusted for the third object, a quiet place, and Mackenzie, and I finally realized that I had no connection with Main Line Charities and had no need to continue working for them.

  I went to resign, but the lady popped a stack of programs in my hand. “And since it was your marvelous idea,” she chirped, “could you just give one to everybody?”

  I stood in the chilly air like a zombie, handing out programs. Finally, when he was sure he wasn’t going to be asked to set up any more chairs, Mackenzie shambled over. I handed him the remaining programs.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Equal opportunity. I’ll be right back. I absolutely must find a restroom and my sweater. It’s in the car. Save me a place.”

  “Wait a minute.” He looked at the programs as if they were a pestilence.

  The bathrooms were a more popular attraction than the auction. The line, at least in front of the one cunningly labeled “Porta-Jane” was packed with women, young girls, and small boys who still needed their mothers’ assistance. I heard the auction begin in the distance. The missing gavel had obviously been found, because it was smacked down several times. “This…vase…” Hayden’s electronically shored-up voice said. “Do I hear one dollar?”

  When I came out, Hayden was still at it. “Do I hear ten? Fifteen? Seventeen?” I wondered if it was the same cracked piece of porcelain.

  I shivered. I was near the parking lot behind the stores, and I walked toward Beth’s station wagon. It was parked directly behind Denim Heaven, blocked in by a burgundy sedan. I wasn’t pleased by the sight, since it meant we’d have to stay until the burgundy driver decided to leave. On the other hand, maybe Mackenzie would wrap things up or give up and whisk me off into the night.

  I tried each handle of the car. Cautious Sam had locked them all. My red cardigan was a warm beacon on the back seat. I kept stupidly tugging on each door in turn and then, as I persisted, I had a feeling of déjà vu. The evening had dragged on, to be sure, but had I done this already?

  I had, but not here. On Gus’s car, in the rain, last Monday. My car had been blocking it.

  I shivered from the cold, but I felt a warm surge of something near elation. Because if I was blocking Gus’s car all day Monday, then he couldn’t possibly have driven away during the day, and he couldn’t possibly have walked on that bad leg to get to Liza. Now I had hard proof of what I’d known all along; he couldn’t be a murderer.

  I gave up on the sweater and walked quickly back in the direction of the supermarket, eager to tell Mackenzie. That, the memory of the blocked car, had been the thing I’d remembered and instantly forgotten Wednesday night when C.K.’s car blocked my street and the other driver honked. Nothing, however, would push it out of my mind this time.

  I was near the market’s solid brick side when a bulky figure came around its far corner. “Miss Pepper? Is that you?” Mrs. Cole made her way toward me. “I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure. What a nice surprise!”

  “I’m surprised, too,” I said. “Your son said you weren’t feeling well.”

  “Nonsense,” she said emphatically, convincingly. “I am perfectly well.”

  And then she stepped off the narrow sidewalk that ran around the building, wobbled and toppled and collapsed onto the blacktop.

  Sixteen

  My good Samaritan instincts were hampered by the old woman’s unyielding bulk. I fumbled and faltered, she pulled and struggled, and we looked like Laurel and Hardy in drag.

  Finally, I had her standing up, braced against me.

  “My ankle,” she said in a surprised, small voice. The lady was not used to leaning on anybody, and she kept putting tentative pressure on the offending leg, wincing each time, then leaning on my shoulder once again. Her right knee was scraped and slowly bleeding onto her dress.

  I didn’t know what to do about her. I considered dropping her onto the blacktop or propping her like a piece of lum
ber against the supermarket wall. Both ideas lacked a certain finesse.

  “I look a mess,” Mrs. Cole said.

  Frankly, she hadn’t been eligible for any best-dressed lists before her tumble. Her flowery blue dress was the pick of a litter of Main Line frumpies. Over it, she had a slightly worn gray cashmere sweater and a patterned lilac scarf that crisscrossed her ample bosom. But now, her faded hair was rumpled, and the scrape on her knee oozed onto shredded stockings.

  “I don’t feel at all well,” she added. “I should have stayed home.”

  “Do you think you could sit on the curb while I get help?” My shoulder throbbed. She had elected the already-damaged one as her makeshift crutch.

  “What curb?” There was merit to her question. The curb was low and sporadically nonexistent as it dissolved into market-basket ramps. “I’m not a young woman, Miss Pepper.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. But I should go get your son.”

  “Isn’t he auctioneering now? I wouldn’t want him to stop, make a fuss, and disrupt everything. He’d be so angry. I wasn’t supposed to come. I wasn’t supposed to drive, either.” She winced again.

  “Then I’ll ask Sissie to come.”

  She shook her head. “Please. Sissie has Petey here and responsibilities, and she’s just like family—she’d be angry because I sneaked out, didn’t even have the driver bring me. Anyway, I would like to get out of these ripped stockings and get my ankle into some warm water. Could you possibly be very kind and drive me home? My house is nearby, in Ardmore. Five minutes away. You were there for the engagement party. You must remember.”

  Of course I did. Who would forget the hilltop palazzo? Its grounds were the size of territories that issue stamps.

  “If you’d drop me off, my housekeeper would help me, and my driver would bring you back.”

  “But still, I should—”

  “Ten minutes all told.” She sounded very unlike herself, fragile and frightened. “Oh, please, Miss Pepper?”

  There is just so much pressure from disabled old ladies that I can withstand while maintaining my self-respect. “Which way is your car?” I asked.

  She gestured, grunting with each slow step we took, and we made our way across the supermarket lot and down a side street. Finally we reached her car, a discreetly weathered gray Mercedes. At least I was chauffeuring in style.

  What an interesting line the Coles teetered on, wrangling for the popular vote, proclaiming democracy, while hanging on to every vestigial aristocratic right.

  I helped Mrs. Cole onto the right front seat, and I settled in behind the wheel. The leather was soft and luxurious. She handed me the keys.

  “That’s it, you’re doing fine,” she said as I cautiously started the car and managed to pull away from the curb without denting the fender.

  She fanned herself. “My! The exertion! I’m quite warm suddenly.”

  I was sweaty myself. I don’t like to handle other people’s valuables, let alone drive them. I concentrated on the car, on finding the turn signal and making a smooth right off Lancaster Avenue. I bade a silent farewell to the lights of the fair.

  Mrs. Cole meanwhile fanned herself and removed the drab sweater and pale scarf, folding the latter into a tidy square.

  “Do I turn at this light?” I asked.

  She didn’t seem to hear me, so I looked over, repeating myself. “Is it this next light or—” The words died as I viewed the newly revealed Mrs. Cole. Above the demure scoop of her blue frock, her bared neck bore the wattles and lines of age. But, more significantly, it also sported a small, filigreed locket.

  She saw my stare, and she raised her hand protectively. “Next corner,” she said in a flat voice. “Is something wrong?” She looked down, toward her hidden cleavage.

  I concentrated on driving and on locking my bottom jaw back into place.

  “Dear? You looked…startled.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I was just admiring your locket. A student of mine, Stacy Felkin, has one just like it.”

  “I doubt that. Not like it at all.” Her voice was at its most imperial, somewhat amused that anyone could presume her locket was one of a series. “It’s quite impossible,” she said. “This was Grandmother Lucy Bolt Hayden’s, my dear. She gave it to my father, Benjamin Sedgewick Hayden.”

  What is “déjà vu” for sounds? I’d heard those words, that same voice saying them before. Or a voice giving a perfect imitation. Liza, in my classroom, mimicking this woman. And Liza, wearing that locket while she spoke. It had been given to her with that presentation speech.

  “It’s been in my family for generations,” she said sweetly.

  I could still hear and see Liza, hunched a bit, making her body bulky and putting a nasal edge on her voice. But long ago was long ago. Had she kept the locket? I tried to think about last Monday morning.

  “You can drive a bit faster, dear. My ankle is more painful than I realized at first.”

  “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “The, ah—car. I’ve never driven a Mercedes before. Kind of intimidating.” I tugged out every memory of Monday morning. I remembered Liza’s gestures as she smoked and fidgeted with her hair, with her T-shirt, and with something at her neck. A glinting, gold thing. The locket. She always wore it. That’s why Stacy imitated it.

  She was wearing it Monday morning.

  But was she wearing it when I found her? I forced myself back over every second of that nightmare homecoming. I had buried the memory as far away as I could, but I forced myself to look at it, at her again. I had put my head on her chest, listening for a heartbeat. Was there a locket nearby? Could I feel its pressure on my temple? Could I see it at all?

  “Turn right here, dear. The light’s green.”

  I crept along.

  Maybe the police had returned the locket to the family. Maybe I shouldn’t be leaping to conclusions.

  Mrs. Cole was tidying up, shuffling around in her brown purse, putting away the folded scarf.

  The ring had been on Liza’s hand. I remembered the police mentioned it, and I saw it, too. But the ring was new and hadn’t mattered to the Coles. Liza had said so.

  Mrs. Cole held her hand up to her neck protectively again. “My grandmother, Lucy Bolt Hayden, was a fine woman,” she murmured, her voice placid and self-satisfied. “And her father was a great man.” She sounded almost like someone telling herself a beloved fairy tale.

  I tried to sort out the questions bombarding my brain. I couldn’t think coherently with Mrs. Cole doing her genealogical monologue and my consciousness divided into the figuring-out part and the driving part, so I pulled over to the side of the road. Nobody passed us. Not one single moving vehicle troubled the Coles’ neighborhood with noise and exhaust fumes.

  “Don’t stop the car,” Mrs. Cole said. “My ankle—”

  “I’m dizzy for some reason.” Mackenzie! Mackenzie, we talked through the entire crime, except we didn’t realize that the necklace was a clue. Was it on the body when I found it?

  Mrs. Cole stared at me intently.

  I saw myself again, and again, bending over Liza, shaking her. I saw her head wobble.

  There hadn’t been anything on that slender neck.

  “Do you feel better now?” Mrs. Cole asked.

  I nodded.

  Would Hayden have removed the locket and returned it to his mother?

  No. Nobody attached that degree of significance to it except the woman beside me. She had taken it herself. She had watched Liza die, waited for her to die, and then taken the locket.

  I shuddered.

  “Are you well?” Mrs. Cole asked.

  “Chilly,” I said, fearing that my teeth were going to chatter. I thought of Mrs. Cole staring impassively at Liza and tried not to think of Mrs. Cole, now staring at me with mild and distant interest.

  “Then please start driving again,” Mrs. Cole said. “I’ll put the heater on if you’re cold.”


  I put the car into gear once more.

  She didn’t know that I knew anything about the locket. I was safe. Innocent. I repeated the idea to myself several times. We passed the train station and crossed under the tracks of the Main Line of the railroad. We were now on the right side of the tracks. Literally. The Cole house was very near here, looming somewhere above our tree-lined, meandering road.

  I glanced down at Mrs. Cole’s ankle. It looked just as it had before, swaddled in its wrinkled stocking. Shouldn’t it be swelling? Had she hurt it at all?

  She swiveled toward me, using the “wounded” foot as a pivot, and I had my answer.

  Why had she gotten me into her car? Why did she want me in her house? I didn’t think we had a similar conception of what could provide an evening’s amusement.

  “How provident to find you on the parking lot,” Mrs. Cole murmured. “Turn right at the end of this road. We’re around that bend and off to the left.”

  She took that locket off Liza’s neck, my brain said with finality. It printed it in caps. In neon.

  SHE MURDERED LIZA.

  I was near the corner. She murdered Liza. She murdered Eddie. Even an old lady can push. Even an old lady can pour boiling water. Even an old lady can tape newspaper headlines on a piece of paper and shove it through a mail slot. She knew I was at the carnival. Sissie phoned her. I sent regards. The only surprise was that I was right there for her on the lonely parking lot.

  I turned left.

  She is going to murder me.

  I sped by the long entryway to the Coles’ estate.

  “You’ve missed it! You missed the turn after I clearly—”

  “I’m sorry! I’ll get us right back.”

  But not back here. Back to the fair. I needed Mackenzie, who was undoubtedly sitting calmly at the auction, covering his Big Three suspects. Dear God, but we’d been stupid. Even the detective with his revealed truths. We’d figured out the probable why of the murders, but goofed by a mile on the who.