by Lois Winston
She didn’t answer.
“Marlys?” I stepped into the cubicle and placed my hand on the chair’s headrest. The chair swiveled around, the keyboard moving off my desk and hovering in the air under Marlys’s fingertips.
FOUR
Marlys stared straight ahead. She had ignored me plenty of times in the past, staring through me as if I were made of cellophane, but this time was different. The macabre scene sent a truckload of the willies careening through my stomach. Marlys wasn’t just ignoring me this time.
Marlys was dead.
Just to be sure, I forced myself to reach for her wrist, hoping to find a pulse. After all, I’m no Quincy. Medical examiner isn’t listed in my Trimedia job description.
Besides, only yesterday I had read about a dog who was run over by a car, shot by the responding cop to put it out of its misery, then stuck in a morgue freezer. And damned if that mutt didn’t survive. You never know.
So I tamped down the squeamy ickies running riot through my own body and gingerly fingered Marlys’s suspended wrist in the hope of discovering a beat. Her skin turned white under my searching touch, and no matter where I placed my fingers along the usual pulse points, I felt no signs of life.
The hot waxy smell of melted glue permeated the small office. Still plugged in, my hot glue gun lay on the counter next to the computer monitor. Its nozzle, caked with remnants of vermillion-colored silk, continued to disgorge grayish-white globs.
Strings of glue hung from Marlys, the chair, and the keyboard. Whoever had killed her had been in no rush to leave. He—or she—had taken the time to glue Marlys’s body into my chair and attach her fingers to my keyboard.
I also noticed that he—or she—had taken the time to remove the Cartier diamond necklace, matching earrings, and hair clip.
For all I knew, the killer could still be lurking somewhere in the building. If my glue gun was still disgorging globules, he couldn’t have finished his task too long ago.
At that thought, my knees buckled, and I grabbed for the first thing within reach to steady myself. Not a bright move, the nearest object being Marlys’s shoulder. Her head slumped toward me, her hair prickling the top of my hand as if a thousand-legger had scampered across it.
I yelped as I jerked away and ran for the nearest exit as fast as my linguini legs would carry me.
Three flights of stairs later, huffing and puffing, thanks to my aversion to any form of exercise more strenuous than racing around Macy’s during a three-hour sale, I pushed open the door and sprinted for the safety of my car.
I fumbled in my coat pocket for my keys. My hands shook like a wino with the DTs. Between rapidly panting breaths, I stabbed in the dark for the lock.
Of all the nights for the damn lamppost bulb to burn out! Or had it? I hazarded a quick glance upward as the key slid into the slot. The lamp was shattered. Jagged edges of glass glistened in the dim glow of a half-moon. Broken glass littered the ground. My heart galloped into my throat. Yanking open the door, I jumped behind the wheel, locked myself inside the Hyundai, and started the engine.
I had to call the police, but I wasn’t about to wait for them in a dark parking lot with a killer on the loose. With my foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor, I sped out of the parking lot. Taking each turn on two wheels, I didn’t slow down until I came to a well-lit twenty-four hour Quickie Mart about a mile down the road.
Leaving the motor running, I grabbed for my cell phone and punched in the three digits.
“9-1-1 operator. State your emergency, please.”
“M...m...murder.” Even though I could barely get out the word, I couldn’t shake the ghoulish image of Marlys’s blank stare and creepy pose filling my head. “In my office,” I added.
“Where are you, Ma’am?”
I stared at the sign above the store, the letters not making any sense to me. Where am I? I’m in some crazy alternate reality. People like me don’t find dead bodies glued to their desk chairs. Then again, people like me don’t get calls telling them their husband dropped dead in Las Vegas when he was supposed to be in Harrisburg. And people like me don’t get threats from loan sharks owed money by that same dead husband. Obviously, this was all one very long nightmare, and if I concentrated hard enough, I’d wake up soon. The sooner the better.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?”
The operator’s question snapped me out of the murder induced stupor. I told her my location. “But that’s not where the dead body is.”
“And where’s that?”
I gave her the office address. “I was too scared to stay. I didn’t know if the killer was still in the building.”
“Okay, ma’am. I’m sending a squad car to meet you. Stay where you are, and I’ll remain on the line until the officers arrive.” Her calm voice attempted to soothe my jangled nerves. She wasn’t succeeding.
I had seen dead bodies before, most recently my own husband’s, but I had never stumbled across a murder victim. I doubt most middle-class working mothers do—unless they happen to work in law enforcement. Which I didn’t.
Besides, a dead body in a casket reposes peacefully. Cushioned in satin, the deceased’s hands are either folded across his chest or placed comfortably at his sides, his eyes closed. You can pretend he’s sleeping. Marlys definitely wasn’t sleeping.
When a black and white cruiser pulled into the parking lot three minutes later, I felt safe enough to end the call. I unlocked my car, left the motor running, and stepped out into the frigid night.
“Mrs. Pollack?” asked one of the officers, a giraffe of a man. I had to crane my neck to see his face.
I nodded—as best I could with my head cricked back to my shoulder blades.
“I’m Officer Garfinkle.” He indicated the driver of the cruiser. “This is Officer Simmons.”
I had heard that shock can make normally sane people do really stupid things. I can now vouch for the truth of that statement. I glanced first at Officer Garfinkle, then at Officer Simmons, a squat, beefy-muscled black man with a shaved head and a gold stud in his left ear.
“Simmons and Garfinkle?” The hysteria I had fought back since finding Marlys’s body erupted with a force equal to when Vesuvius buried Pompeii. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but not from crying.
I couldn’t stop laughing.
The officers exchanged glances. Garfinkle sighed. “Mrs. Pollack, have you been drinking?”
I waved the question away with a flick of one hand while my other arm clutched my torso. “I’m sorry,” I said, fighting to regain control.
I knew I’d pass a Breathalyzer test hands-down. A sanity test might be another story. Brushing the stream from my cheeks, I took a deep breath and tried to explain. “I...it’s been...I didn’t mean... first a dead body and now Simmons and Garfinkle.” I slapped my hand over my mouth and fought back another gush of hysterics. “And me standing in a Hazy Shade of Winter on my very own Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”
Simmons cocked his mouth into a wry grimace. “We’re used to it.”
I gasped, the laughter dying on my lips mid-chortle. “To murders?”
“The reaction to our names,” said Garfinkle.
“What makes you so sure the victim was murdered?” asked Simmons.
Odd as it seemed to me, I suppose from the officer’s viewpoint the question was legitimate. We weren’t in Newark or Camden. We were out in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by cornfields. Or what would become cornfields after spring planting.
“We don’t get many murders around here,” said Garfinkle. “This would be the first in over three years. If it is a murder.”
I exhaled, my breath forming a cloud in the icy night air. “That’s a relief, but you’ve got one now, and it’s certainly not your run-of-the-mill murder.”
Garfinkle raised his eyebrows. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, Officer, I doubt you’ve ever seen anything as bizarre as what I found in my office.”
Simmons took a step closer
to me and placed his hand on my upper arm. “We’d like you to accompany us back to your office, Mrs. Pollack. We have a forensics team on the way that will meet us there.”
I rubbed at my quickly numbing arms. I was afraid they’d ask that, but someone needed to let them into the building, and I was the nearest someone—besides being the person who had discovered the body. They probably had a gazillion and ten questions to ask me. I turned to step back into my car, stumbling as I reached for the door.
Garfinkle grabbed for my other arm, nearly lifting me off the blacktop. “Would you like one of us to drive, ma’am? You look a little rattled.”
A little? Any more rattled and I could pose as a baby’s toy.
~*~
Less than fifteen minutes later a forensics team descended on my office. From the hall, flanked by Simmons and Garfinkle, I watched the technicians do their CSI thing—which bore little resemblance to the Hollywood version. Not surprising. I’ve seen plenty of television sitcoms set in magazine publishing houses. All of them were as realistic as SpongeBob SquarePants.
“So how do you think she died?” I heard one of the homicide detectives ask one of the evidence collectors. “I don’t see any outward trauma.”
“You’re not gonna believe this one.” Wearing a rubber glove, the technician unplugged my heavy-duty—emphasis on the heavy—hot glue gun and started to drop it into a plastic evidence collection bag.
“No, don’t!” Everyone in the room spun around to face me. I pointed to the glue gun. “That nozzle is extremely hot. It’ll melt a hole in the bottom of your bag.”
Rather than appreciating the fact that I stopped him from contaminating evidence, the forensics investigator took offense. He dropped the gun into the bag and sealed it. “You telling me how to do my job, lady?”
I waved a hand at the bag. “Heaven forbid. You obviously don’t need me, so I’m out of here. The front door will lock behind you when you leave.”
I turned on my heels. One of the detectives placed his hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Garfinkle, why don’t you take Mrs. Pollack down to the lobby so she can sit down?” he said. “We’ll be with you shortly.”
As we headed down the hall, Simmons to my left, Garfinkle to my right, I heard the unmistakable sound of plastic shattering against the Terrazzo floor. An extremely annoyed “Shit!” followed.
Simmons and Garfinkle exchanged glances, then stared at me. I offered them an I-told-him-so smile.
A few minutes later, two detectives joined us. “I’m Detective Batswin,” said the woman who had asked about the cause of death.
She stood nearly six feet tall, dressed in a dark gray conservative suit with a powder blue and white pinstripe oxford shirt. She wore her silver-streaked sable hair tied back off a face devoid of makeup except for a slash of peach gloss across her lips. A long loop of liquid silver earrings that swayed as she spoke were her only adornment.
With a tilt of her head she indicated the man who had stopped me from leaving. “This is my partner, Detective Robbins.”
I nodded to both of them, keeping my lips pursed tight for fear of letting loose another eruption of laughter. This was getting too weird. Simmons and Garfinkle as uniformed officers. The dynamic duo of Detectives Batswin and Robbins. Holy Spoonerisms, Gotham City! What was next? Woodstein and Bernward waving press passes?
“Can you tell us your connection to the deceased and how you happened to discover the body, Mrs. Pollack?” asked Robbins.
A compact middle-aged man who looked like he’d be more comfortable in sweats or jeans than his navy blue serge suit, he stood nearly a head shorter than his partner. The fluorescent lights of the lobby sparkled off his polished head. His Scooby-Doo tie suggested a sense of humor hidden behind steely gray eyes and a grim expression.
I explained why I had come back to the office. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be here this late. Especially Marlys. I was surprised to see her car in the parking lot.”
“Why is that?” asked Batswin.
“This morning she mentioned she had a dinner date in Manhattan.”
“Was she meeting her date here?” asked Robbins, taking notes on a small pad with a stub of a pencil. Just like in every cop show I’d ever seen. Were all police budgets so tight that cops couldn’t afford regulation size pencils, let alone PDAs?
“I was under the impression she was meeting him in the city.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Some new designer. I can’t remember. One of the other staff members might. Or Marlys’s assistant. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”
“Why is that?” asked Batswin.
“Because Marlys is always bragging about her celebrity connections. I tune it out.”
“You don’t sound like you cared for her very much,” said Robbins.
I laughed. “No one liked Marlys. Except Marlys. She collected enemies the way my kids collect video games and baseball cards.”
When both detectives raised their eyebrows and glanced sideways at each other, I realized my mistake. “Look, in the past week I’ve lost my husband and discovered I’m in debt up the wazoo. Marlys and I didn’t get along. That’s no secret. She didn’t get along with any of her coworkers. But she’s way down on my pain-in-the-butt list. I didn’t kill her.”
Robbins paused taking notes and trapped me with that steely-eyed stare of his. “We didn’t suggest you did, Mrs. Pollack.”
Refusing to blink, I eyed him back. “I’m glad we have that cleared up, Detective.”
“Can you think of anyone who hated Marlys enough to kill her?” asked Batswin.
I could think of a long list of people who probably dreamed of boiling Marlys in oil every night, but I also knew them well enough to know they weren’t killers. Hugo had neither the strength nor the temperament. Naomi wouldn’t stoop to something as low class as murder. And Erica was too much of a wuss to say boo to her boss, let alone whack her.
That left Vittorio Versailles. And he had threatened Marlys in front of an office full of witnesses. I mentioned to the detectives how he and his entourage had stormed into our offices earlier in the day.
“Anyone else?” asked Batswin.
“I suppose whoever wanted the diamonds.”
“What diamonds?” both detectives asked in unison.
“They were on loan from Cartier. Marlys was wearing them this morning. A necklace, earrings, and hair clip.”
“You mentioned your debt,” said Batswin.
“For godsake, Detective, do you think if I took the diamonds, I’d be telling you about them?”
“Stranger things have happened, ma’am.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You aren’t planning any trips, are you, Mrs. Pollack?” asked Batswin.
“Does a trip to the supermarket count?”
“Cute. Don’t leave town,” said Robbins. “We’ll be in touch.”
A snappy rejoinder about how I didn’t live in this town, let alone this county, probably wouldn’t be an appropriate response at the moment. Not when I suspected that Detectives Batswin and Robbins had already mentally placed me on their Who Killed Marlys Vandenburg List. So I kept the comment firmly sealed behind my closed lips.
I wondered if the Dynamic Duo would even bother questioning Vittorio Versailles. Why should they? My big mouth had already handed them both motive and opportunity. As for method, it didn’t take a Ph.D. in Forensics to figure out my glue gun had played some part in Marlys’s murder.
Detective Batswin reached into her pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. “If you think of anything else, here’s where you can reach me.”
~*~
By the time I arrived home, it was nearly two in the morning. In less than five hours I had to turn around and head back to the office—if I’d even be allowed in my office. None of the cops had said anything one way or the other, but I suspected I’d find lots of yellow crime scene tape blocking the entrance to my cubicle tomorrow morn
ing.
And I still had work to finish up before tomorrow’s scheduled photo shoot. If there’d even be a photo shoot. At the moment, I was too tired to care.
I pulled into my driveway, expecting to find a darkened house. Instead every window was lit up like Rockefeller Plaza at Christmas.
A not-very-welcoming committee greeted me when I opened the front door.
FIVE
“Anastasia, where in the world have you been at this ungodly hour?”
“Mama!” My mother enveloped me in one of her all-consuming embraces, my nose and mouth smothered by her eggplant-colored nubby wool suit. I twisted my head to gulp in some air, the wool scratching against my icy cheek.
“My poor baby. So young to be a widow!”
I stepped out of her bear hug and stared at her. “You know?”
“The boys told me.” She jutted her chin toward the sofa where Lucille sat camped out in all her angry glory, the Devil Dog on her lap. “That despicable woman tried to keep me from entering the house.”
“No one in her right mind comes calling after midnight,” said Lucille. “She woke me out of a sound sleep. And scared Manifesto half to death the way she wouldn’t stop pounding at the door.”
Ignoring Lucille, Mama turned to me and launched into an accusatory tirade. “Why didn’t you call? You had our itinerary in case of an emergency. If Karl dying doesn’t qualify as an emergency, I don’t know what does!”
Seamus O’Keefe, Mama’s current husband, had taken her to Ireland several weeks ago to meet his family. I wanted to call her—would have called her—if I could have called her. “Because you mailed me your dry cleaning claim check instead of your travel schedule.”
Mama’s face glazed over in puzzlement. “Did I? So that’s what happened to it. I turned the apartment upside-down looking for that damn piece of paper. Good thing the cleaner knows me. You remember that nice Mr. Wong, don’t you, dear?”
“Focus, Mama.”
“At this hour? You want coherent conversation, I need eight hours sleep.” She shook her head to dismiss the birds from her brain. “Anyway, like I said, it was a good thing my grandsons woke up or I’d have frozen to death on your doorstep. That nasty taxi driver zoomed off the moment I stepped out of the cab.”
