by June Shaw
“There it is!” I pointed to the dangling body.
Everyone stared at a rope attached to a ceiling beam. Hanging from the rope was what I did not expect to see—a life-sized inflatable doll.
“Oops,” I said and stepped closer to get a better angle.
The doll was female. Full lips with red lipstick and wide powder-blue eyes with thick eyelashes. Her pantsuit appeared more manly than feminine. The suit was what had led me to believe it was a man up there. A rope circled the doll’s neck like a hangman’s noose.
Most of us stared at the doll. At each other. At the doll. At Ish.
Detective Renwick turned harsh eyes toward me.
I shrugged. “It sure looked like I saw a dead person.”
“You’re getting experience with that,” he said.
I puffed up my chest. “Are you insinuating something?”
“Not at all.”
Ish stepped closer to us. “If you’re all finished checking out my body, you can leave my home.”
“We will,” the detective said.
Ish gave my cousin extra-mean eyes. “It appears you’re connected with having this circus come to my home.” He swung those mean eyes toward me, making sure I knew I was included in his statement.
“I’m really sorry,” Stevie told him.
The front door remained open. People in uniform crammed together there, craning their necks to see the doll.
They moved away as the detective stepped toward the door. He turned to Ish. “I can understand why Mrs. Gunther thought there was a dead person here and called us.”
Terrific. Ish didn’t need to know I was the one who’d made the call. Why not hang a sign around my neck? Major Troublemaker.
Ish leaned so close, I smelled barbecue sauce on his breath. “I just met this woman, and she gets the cops coming after me?”
“My mistake,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause you problems.”
“I guess you came here for some other reason.” He turned to Stevie. “You wanted something for the class and couldn’t wait for our next session?”
She gazed at the floor, shaking her head.
The police listened.
Ish faced me. “Did you want something here?”
“Yes.” I hitched up my chin. “I wanted to ask about Pierce Trottier.”
Detective Renwick appeared more interested. So did Stevie, staring at me.
“What about him?” Ish asked.
“He was your accountant.” I was proud to convey that information in front of the police.
“And?”
“And…he died.”
Ish squinted at me. His cheek twitched. “So do you plan to find out who each of his clients were and go visit them?”
Good point, now that I thought about it.
“Are you a private investigator?” Ish asked me.
“No, but Mr. Trottier was also in your stop-smoking class.”
“So was your cousin. So do you think quitting smoking killed the man?” He aimed his pointed stare at Stevie.
Redness flamed up her cheeks.
Darn, I hated to see this man make her so embarrassed.
Detective Renwick stepped up to me. “Did you find some other connection between Mr. Muller and the victim?”
“No. But maybe y’all should be checking into all of Pierce Trottier’s clients. Maybe his stop-smoking group, too.”
“Thanks for your suggestions. It’s possible we already thought of that.”
“Y’all are so clever,” I said and followed him to the door.
“Other detectives and myself didn’t make up the procedures, ma’am. They’re already written for us to follow.”
“I,” I told him.
The detective stopped walking. “What?”
“It’s I. You can’t use myself as a subject. Sorry, I hate to correct you, but I have this bad habit—among others. I own a copyediting agency and have offices throughout the country. I have to stop myself from correcting people’s grammar. I don’t mean to do it but often can’t stop myself in time.”
He stared at me. “What are you talking about?”
“You said, ‘The other detectives and myself didn’t make up the procedures.’ It should be ‘The other detectives and I.’”
Renwick eyed me for the longest time. I feared he wanted to slap handcuffs on my wrists. He sucked in a breath. “Is that true?”
“Sure. When you have two words as the subject, and one is a pronoun you aren’t sure of, take the other word out. You’ll find it’s much easier then. You wouldn’t say ‘Myself didn’t make up the procedures.’”
“That would sound real stupid.”
I nodded. “Also, myself is a reflexive pronoun. Only use it to refer to I that you’ve already used, for example I hurt myself.
He shook his head. “I wish I’d paid more attention in some classes. We need to write so many reports.”
“I didn’t make great grades in all of my classes, either. I think we’re all given different talents and interests. I couldn’t do your job.”
“I don’t give a damn about your talents or jobs!” Ish stood behind us at the door.
Well, ex-cuse me. I didn’t mean to bring up the correct grammar thing. Habit. It was one I wanted to break.
“Sorry we troubled you,” Detective Renwick told him. “I may want to ask you more questions later.” He looked at me. “May is correct there, right?”
I did a thumbs-up.
“If you come back,” Ish told Renwick, “don’t bring all of your troops so my neighbors think I’m a criminal.” He slammed his door behind us.
I walked to the driveway with Renwick. “I didn’t mean to cause y’all any trouble. That guy is weird though, don’t you think? I mean, having a blow-up doll and hanging it from your ceiling.”
“If we sent people out every time anyone did something weird, nobody would be around to handle the real emergencies.”
“Good point.”
He went to his car and drove off. Stevie was already in hers. I climbed in. We took our time buckling up. She started the motor.
“That went well,” I said, and her angry face snapped toward me. “I’m kidding, Stevie. Darn, what happened to your sense of humor?”
“It vanished the minute my cousin made a fool of me!”
“What, here? But you thought we should come over here, too.”
“Because you made a big deal out of some far-fetched connection between Ish and a dead man.” Her voice pitched high.
“Far-fetched connection? The strange guy who lives here could have easily killed that man!”
Stevie threw up her hands. “Easily? How do you know that? How do you know how that man died?” She stretched her face toward me. “It’s exactly like when we were kids—you make up the best stories.”
“I make up stories?”
“Yes! Like when you went crying to our mothers, saying I pulled your hair.”
“That again? Well, you did. And it hurt, so I cried.”
“I’m talking about the time we were at Grandma Jean’s house, and you ran in whining and told ’em I did it, but I didn’t!”
“Oh, that time.”
“You decided you’d get even for the time I really did it.” She slapped the steering wheel. “Our moms were reading poems they wrote to their mother, but your fake tattling made them stop. I even saw you pinching your palm once you lied.”
Oops, she did know my habit. I raised my right hand, admitting guilt. “That was bad timing, but I didn’t know it.”
“Of course you didn’t know it would be the last time they’d get to read their poetry or talk to their mother!”
“Stevie, I didn’t know.” She needed to back off with the dramatics. I felt bad enough remembering that day.
“Your mom got so upset she took you away from Grandma Jean’s house, and mine took me away, too. And later that night, Grandma Jean died.”
She was trying to dump too much guilt on me. I didn’t wa
nt to hear any more or continue the shouting match. I pressed my hands to my ears, letting her know I’d heard enough. I surely didn’t want tears to gather in my eyes, but she probably didn’t see them.
It was so dark, sitting in the Jeep in the driveway. I envisioned Grandma Jean the last time I saw her. Normally a calm, sweet person with soft white hair curled close to her scalp, she’d gotten so angry with Stevie and raised her voice, telling her not to pick on me.
And Stevie hadn’t that day. We’d had some stupid argument in the yard, and I’d determined it was time to get even. I forced tears while I ran inside Grandma Jean’s house and pointed at Stevie, who marched in behind, protesting that she hadn’t touched me.
Grandma, she didn’t do it. Stevie didn’t lay a hand on me that day. I made up that story. I admitted my guilt to Grandma Jean while I sat in the now quiet car. I’d wanted to do it at her wake. But I’d eyed her in the casket and hadn’t been able to muster the courage. I’d only cried. I was especially sorry after Mom told me what they’d been doing, she and her sister reciting special poems to their mother. It was the first time Grandma Jean really took notice and understood both of her daughters loved to write poetry. My mom had read a couple of her poems to me but never did after that day.
Stevie was probably also reminiscing and wishing our elders were still near. And that I hadn’t ruined their last special time together. I imagined warm tears were coating her eyes, just like they were doing to mine. I looked at her but couldn’t see well.
Except for the monstrous face pressed close outside Stevie’s window.
“Look out!” I yelled, pointing.
Stevie jerked her head away from the glass. I hit the lock button for all the doors.
The face, I determined, belonged to Ish. He still looked furious.
Stevie slid her window down an inch.
“Are you two planning to camp out here to watch what goes on?” Ish snarled.
Not a bad idea. But I didn’t mention that thought.
“No,” Stevie said. “We’re only talking.”
Ish pointed down the road. “Take your discussion elsewhere, or I’ll call the cops to come get you for trespassing.”
“All right, enough,” I said, unable to hold my tongue. “We were discussing our childhoods. We weren’t even talking about you. And your…toy-girl.” I waved my hand toward the top of his gorgeous triangular window.
“Ceal-ie!” my cousin warned, whipping her head toward me.
Ish stuck his face near the opening of her window and glared at me. “I don’t care to know a thing about your childhood, which must have been terrible to make you grow up to be the person you are.”
I leaned toward him, opening my mouth to retort.
“We’re going!” Stevie said and threw the car into reverse. I bounced toward my side. We shot forward so quickly, I grabbed the dashboard. She zipped down the dark winding road. I closed my eyes and prayed.
I smelled fire and looked.
An unlit cigarette stuck out of her lips. She held a lighter, moving it closer to the deadly cigarette.
“No!” I grabbed the lighter, hit the button to lower my window, and tossed the lighter.
“What are you doing?” she screamed, cigarette dangling from her mouth.
I grabbed that and pitched it.
She slammed on the brakes. We stopped.
A horn blasted, and a truck swooped around us from behind. Its inside lights were on, probably so we could see its teenage male driver shooting Stevie his middle finger.
I shot one back but didn’t think he saw it. Stevie slapped my hand down. I looked around. Thank goodness no other cars were near when my cousin decided she’d brake without checking both ways.
She heaved a breath, then started the car forward. Neither of us spoke.
Way sooner than it had taken for us to reach Ish’s house, we were back at Stevie’s. She rushed into the house. I trailed her inside. A door slammed.
I didn’t see her. The door to the candle room was the only one shut. She was doing her thing.
Fine. I’d do mine.
My stomach grumbled, wanting dinner. Stevie surely wasn’t fixing a meal in that room. I rapped on its door. “I’m going out to eat. Do you want to come?”
I pressed my ear against the door.
“Ahroom. Ahroom.” Softly, those sounds echoed from inside.
“Stevie, you can ahroom all you want. I’m going to have dinner at Cajun Delights. Do you want to come?”
I knew she heard me. I tapped my foot, giving her time to wrap up her prayers or chants.
Still nothing.
“I’m leaving. Stevie, I’m getting my purse and going. I can take you with me.”
I went to my bedroom, glanced in the mirror, and reapplied lipstick. I fluffed my hair. My shirt and slacks looked okay. I could dress them up a bit by wearing heels. I kicked off my Keds and went for the red spikes tucked into side pockets in my suitcase, still atop the unused side of my bed. If I had to stay much longer, maybe I’d take it down and put a few things in drawers. But I didn’t expect to stay long enough. My hanging clothes in the closet seemed enough of a down-home feel for me here.
I opened my suitcase.
My first thought was that the young cop who’d fingered my chamois sweater in the closet had picked through everything inside my luggage. All of my panties were open on top of my other clothes.
Fear gripped me. My back stiffened.
I hadn’t opened my panties and strewn them over other things. I’d left them folded in a small neat stack.
I stepped away from the suitcase—and felt the wind.
Jerking around, I spied the sheer curtains flapping.
“Stevie!” I yelled, running out of the room.
She met me in the hall. “What’s wrong?”
“Somebody came in my bedroom. Maybe they’re in there right now.”
Chapter 12
Stevie clutched her throat. “Oh no. You saw him?” she cried as we dashed toward the living room.
I shook my head. “Just the open window. And my messy panties.”
She slowed. “Your window’s wide open?”
“No.” I realized I’d seen how much of it was open. “Only about two inches.”
Stevie stopped. “You think somebody really skinny came through your window?”
“I don’t know. He or she could have come through and rummaged in my suitcase and then slipped back outside. Or opened it wider to come in, and then…”
I visualized what she must be thinking. A person, probably a man, shoved that window open wide enough to climb through. And then pulled it back down—just part way. Why? To keep a nice breeze wafting through the room?
Why not either leave it wide open or close it all the way so nobody knows he’s come in?
“Cealie, nobody came through that window.”
“How do you know?”
Stevie inhaled and exhaled a couple of times.
“You’re short of breath,” I said.
“It’s no problem.” She took another visible deep breath. “What about your underwear?”
I glanced toward my room, imagining some large guy stomping out towards us. “I think we ought to get out and call the police.”
She grabbed my chin and turned my face up toward her. “Tell me about your panties.”
“They’re messy.”
“Excuse me?”
I withdrew my head from her grip. “I had my underwear in neat stacks in my suitcase but found my panties messed up.”
“Your underwear is still in your suitcase?”
“Yes, like a lot of my other things. And still on the bed, and I believe somebody went through it and might still be in that room. We should get out of here.”
“Du-uh.”
“What?”
“Don’t you dare tell me you think someone came in while we were gone so they could mess up your suitcase.”
“I don’t have any idea what anybody around here
would want. Do you?”
“No, and I’m not going to spend another second entertaining the thought of a person being here tonight.”
“But—” My fear started to dissipate.
She leaned near my face. “You think someone was watching to know when we’d leave. And then while we were at Ish’s house, they came in here?”
“Possible.” Not too probable.
“Okay, Cuz, we’re going in there right now. We’re going to see if anything’s missing, or if a killer’s waiting in your closet.”
That thought zapped my throat dry. “My closet?”
“I’m kidding. When did you turn into a big baby? Never mind, I’ll bring you some protection.” She sauntered down the hall, muttering so I could hear. “I can imagine calling the cops again tonight. Right-o, Cealie, you’re going to leave this town soon, but not me. Nope, I have to stay around and have everyone call me a fool.”
She said I’d become a big baby? When did that happen—recently in Chicago, when I needed to square off with a killer? Or after I’d arrived here—and tripped over a body? Okay, I was not a crybaby. But being around her, I almost felt like one.
Darn, I was a grown woman. Mature—except when I was around my cousin.
She returned carrying a baseball bat. “Let’s go check your room. I’ll go first.”
She might have been trying to make me feel like I’d cried wolf. But if she really thought that, she wouldn’t use both hands to grip the bat in front of her face. She went into the doorway and stopped. Surveyed the room, as I did.
No one visible. No wide open window. Only the edges where curtains met, moving slightly, enough for us to see the window open an inch or two.
Stevie ran across the room, surprising me. She reached the window, yanked back a curtain panel, and bent down.
“Ah,” she said and let the curtain drop. She lowered her baseball bat. “The screen is still on the window. Nobody came through there.”
Okay, she was probably right. Still, I crept toward the bed, dropped to my knees, and yanked up the bed skirt. Only one fuzz ball underneath. I pulled the closet doors open. Nobody and no feet of someone standing behind Stevie’s stored winter boots. I shut the closet.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
I went to the window and checked closer. A shiver of fear swept through me. “This screen isn’t locked.” I grabbed the lock at the base of the screen and tugged. It wouldn’t reach the eyehook.
