An Accidental Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “Just because we’re off duty doesn’t mean we stop being cops,” he said. “This is a small force here, no detective, and it’s the busy season, as you can tell. They have their hands full even without two deaths and a serious injury. I know they’d do the same for us if the situation was reversed.”

  “Let’s get these groceries into the kitchen and I’ll fix us some lunch,” said Nita, “or maybe those donuts were enough.”

  Her two men looked at each other as if to say, Is she kidding? She took the hint, and chuckled indulgently.

  “Of course not. What was I thinking? All right, sit down while I make sandwiches. And here’s some fruit if you can’t wait. There’s cold pop in the icebox.”

  With lunch over and the remaining donuts safely stashed away, Fitz suggested an afternoon on the beach.

  “What do you say about heading to the beach, buddy?” he asked TJ, who replied with enthusiasm, “Yeah! I want to go body surfing! I saw them doing it yesterday.”

  “We have to wait an hour before we go in,” his father cautioned. “But we can build another sand castle in the meantime. And some of the other kids will probably be down there, too.” In addition to the families in the cottages, there were several in the inn itself, which even fed their youngsters in a separate children’s dining room.

  “I hope the same lifeguard is there today,” said TJ. “He let me climb up on the bench with him, and told me all about how they learn to save people from drowning. And how to body surf.”

  “You’d both better put some zinc oxide on your noses,” Nita advised as they changed into their swimsuits. She dabbed some on her own nose. “You’re going to look like boiled lobsters if you don’t cover up more. I have my sun hat, and I’m going to keep my robe on when I’m not in the water. Just look at these freckles!” She pointed to her cheeks, at which Fitz and TJ burst out laughing.

  “You call those freckles? That’s nothing. Look at the two of us and you’ll see real freckles.” It was true, they were both covered head to toe. Fitz was especially proud of his crop. “What’s a redheaded Mick without freckles?” he boasted.

  Nita’s heart melted at the sight of her husband and son admiring each other’s sun-spotted skin. The boy certainly was a chip off the old block, more Timothy than Juan, for sure. His first name came from Fitz’s father, and his middle name honored her late father, a Cuban immigrant who was killed in a bank robbery in 1936, when she was eighteen. That was what had motivated her to join the police force, in spite of the dual obstacles of her sex and her Hispanic heritage.

  In 1938 she was among the nearly five thousand women who took the first civil service exam for the rank of Policewoman, and was one of only three hundred who passed it. By now there were more female and minority officers, though it was even harder for women to get in than it had been in her day. A college degree was now required, while she had entered with only a high school diploma.

  Being a fluent Spanish speaker was essential at the Twenty-third Precinct, in the heart of Spanish Harlem. She was also fortunate in befriending Detective Hector Morales, El Zorro, who had taught her the fine points of investigation, evidence gathering, and interrogation, a detective’s three indispensable skills.

  When she’d reached her thirtieth birthday she had decided it was now or never, and told Fitz she was ready to start a family; but she’d been afraid she’d lose both seniority and respect. “Don’t worry,” Morales had assured her, “your place here is safe, and you can use your time off to study up for your promotion.” As the proud father of three, he should know perfectly well that having a baby was not time off—as in a relaxing leave of absence—but, grateful for his support, she didn’t contradict him.

  But even more important than Hector’s backing was the willingness of her mother, Blanca, to act as TJ’s babysitter. Nita would drop him off each morning at her apartment, only a few blocks from the precinct house, and pick him up on her way home. In the baby carriage and later in the stroller he went everywhere with Blanca, whose girlfriends fussed over him and called him lindo niño pelirrojo, cute redheaded boy. When he grew into an energetic toddler, she took him to the playground and the park. If a case kept Nita late, no problem—Blanca was only too happy to have him for the duration.

  “He’s a perfect little angel,” she would tell her daughter in Spanish. “Never a moment’s trouble.” Nita doubted the truth of that, but she recognized it as her mother’s way of affirming the commitment to help her pursue her career. It gave her five years’ grace, until TJ started kindergarten, where his ability to curse in two languages made him something of a celebrity.

  Twenty-five.

  It was nearly four o’clock when Ossorio’s Lincoln turned off Fireplace Road and parked beside Lee and Jackson’s house. A mile to the south, as the car had rounded the curve, Alfonso couldn’t help seeing the skid marks, and hoped Lee hadn’t noticed them. Thankfully she seemed to be paying no attention to anything en route, only breaking the silence twice during the three-hour drive from the airport.

  Alfonso had said the funeral was scheduled for Wednesday. She had asked what time, and was told four-thirty p.m. Later, she had asked if her mother had been notified. “No,” said Ted, “we thought you’d want to do that yourself.” “Yes,” she’d replied, and lapsed into silence again.

  When the car came to a stop Ted hopped out to open the back door for her, but she got there ahead of him, suitcase in hand. It was a small but characteristic gesture of self-reliance—she never waited for a man to hold the door for her or to pull out her chair in a restaurant. “I can manage,” she’d say, or “I’ll do it myself.”

  Lee carried her suitcase to the back door, and placed it on the cast-iron garden bench that sat on the porch while she searched in her handbag for the key.

  She had brought the little bench with her from the city when she and Jackson had moved to Springs. If she were having an especially rough time with him, more and more in the past year, she would come outside and sit on the bench to calm down.

  It reminded her of her life before Jackson, of her apartment on East Ninth Street, where the bench sat under a tall oval mirror in which she would admire herself in the chic outfits she wore in those days. It reminded her of the parties with friends from the Hans Hofmann School of Art, where she was one of the most accomplished pupils. It reminded her of the days when she had supported herself, even as a student working part-time as a model and a waitress. Later, when the WPA Federal Art Project came along, she pulled down a regular paycheck like any other respected professional and rose to the rank of supervisor.

  But most of all it reminded her of Igor, her handsome White Russian boyfriend, with whom she had shared the Ninth Street apartment in the 1930s. He had found the bench on the street and lugged it up three flights of stairs. He called it a love seat, just big enough for the two of them. They were a couple for nearly ten years, and she sometimes wondered how different her life would have been if she had married him instead of Jackson. Not that such a thing was likely—his aristocratic émigré family, proudly Russian Orthodox, had no use for her, the daughter of a Jewish fishmonger from the shtetl.

  Besides, in those days she thought marriage was an outmoded bourgeois custom, that the word “wife” always had “house” attached to the front of it, and she had no intention of falling into that trap. And frankly, as charming and debonair as Igor could be, he wasn’t the world’s greatest catch. He was feckless, he drank too much, and he was serially unfaithful to her, sometimes bragging about his conquests right in front of her. After she had protested once too often, he moved out and expected her to forward his things at her expense. That’s the kind of nerve he had or, as her family would say, chutzpah.

  She supposed she should call Igor, let him know about the funeral. He and Jackson weren’t on the best of terms—he used to show up from time to time and take her for a stroll down Memory Lane, just to get Jackson’s goat—but
it might be a comfort to have him around. Then again, maybe not. He’d probably get tight and start bragging about what a terrific lover he had been, and would be again now that Jackson was out of the picture—not that she had any intention of taking up with him again. She finally decided not to risk having to put him in his place in front of her family and friends.

  There were a lot of other people she needed to call, and one of the first would be Gerry Weinstock, her lawyer. He was a loyal friend as well as an attorney, and she knew she could trust him to safeguard her interests. His in-laws had a house just down the road, where he and his wife, Margaret, could often be found on long summer weekends. Maybe they were out now, but even if they were back home in Mamaroneck, she wanted Gerry at the funeral. As determined as she was to take charge, she realized she couldn’t handle everything alone.

  Her brother Irving had to be there, too. The eldest, and the only boy, among the six Krasner children, he was the one person in the world she could completely rely on. Twelve years her senior, he was always there for her, even when they were kids growing up in Brooklyn. He would get up off his deathbed to help her, she was certain. If things hadn’t turned out like this, he would have dealt with that little bitch. Too bad she wasn’t the one who broke her neck.

  What about Lee’s mother, Anna? Irving could rent a car and pick her up on his way out. On the other hand, maybe it would be better if she didn’t come. She was elderly and frail, and had never been the warm, comforting type. She wouldn’t know anyone, and the whole Pollock clan was likely to show up, which would just intimidate her.

  So many things to think about, so much to do, and she was so tired. The taxi to the airport in Paris, the tedious wait until her flight was called, nearly twelve hours in the air, and the one-hundred-mile drive from Idlewild, not to mention the six-hour time difference, had taken their toll. She wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed, but that was not going to happen.

  Ted had managed to get hold of the small suitcase and he carried it inside as they entered. Cile had done her work well. The house was neat and tidy, everything in place, no indication that anyone other than Jackson and Lee had ever been in residence. But it was unnaturally quiet.

  “Where are the dogs?” Lee asked.

  “Cile took them up to her place,” said Ted. “She thought they’d be better off there than here alone.” Lee understood and approved. Gyp, the mongrel, mostly border collie, that had adopted them not long after they moved in, and Ahab, a purebred standard poodle that was a gift from Alfonso and Ted, were deeply attached to Jackson. They sat with him for hours in the studio, patiently waiting for him to start working but indifferent to his idleness, never nagging or complaining like Lee. They accompanied him on long walks in the woods or down to the beach at the end of Fireplace Road, where he would throw sticks out into Gardiner’s Bay for them to retrieve. In his absence they needed companionship, which Cile and her husband, Sheridan, could provide. And while she was attached to them herself, she was glad to have one less thing to worry about and two fewer mouths to feed.

  “I hope she and Sherry can keep them for a few days,” said Lee. “It would be better to have them out of the house after the funeral. I’m sure there will be a lot of people coming back. I’ll have to see about getting some food.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lee, let us take care of that,” said Ted, somewhat exasperated. Why did she have to act so damned independent? Why was she trying so hard? Of course he knew it was a way of distracting herself from the grief and pain and anger, but it wasn’t healthy to be so bottled up. Still, she couldn’t afford to fall apart now, not with the whole art world watching.

  She was in the spotlight and she knew it. What was it Jackson used to say? That he felt like a clam without a shell. Lee would never let herself be that vulnerable. She had created an armor-plated shell to protect herself, and she was going to need it.

  Twenty-six.

  Tuesday, August 14

  “We couldn’t have been luckier with the weather,” remarked Fitz as he leaned back in his rocking chair and propped his feet on the deck railing. Nita slipped into a chair beside him, and together they enjoyed the cool morning breeze that swept in from the ocean. The dune in front of the cottage blocked their view of the water, but the relentless throbbing of waves on the sand was a constant audible reminder that they were at the seaside.

  Their breakfast of fresh farm eggs and homemade pork sausage from Dreesen’s, followed by coffee and the remaining donuts, had been a leisurely affair. TJ, a bit frustrated by his parents’ slow start to the morning, was eager to get back into the surf, but Nita wasn’t going to be rushed.

  “Just hold your horses, young man,” she ordered. “Your dad and I have some planning to do. We’ll get to the beach before too long, don’t worry. Meanwhile, why don’t you run over to the inn and see what the other kids are up to? Maybe there’ll be a softball game, you don’t want to miss that.”

  Effectively distracted, TJ went to his room to retrieve his glove. He stopped for a moment to admire the Pollock print, which he’d tacked to the wall over his bed. Sure looks like a lizard to me, he said to himself. Lots of other funny-looking things in there, too. He liked the way it puzzled him, like a visual guessing game. Plenty of time to study it later, he thought. He grabbed the glove and headed out while Nita and Fitz settled down to enjoy their second cup of coffee in peace.

  “I didn’t notice any scratch marks on Ossorio,” he said, “but then I wasn’t looking for anything like that when we met him. Still, I think I would remember if his face had been scratched.”

  “I’m sure there was nothing,” Nita agreed. “But, you know, she might have scratched her killer’s arm or hand, trying to get him to release his grip. Marks like that would be much less obvious. Or, as a matter of fact, she could have scratched herself while she was clawing at him. Do you think there was enough under her nails to get a blood type?”

  “I wonder whether Cooper thought of that,” said Fitz. “I don’t suppose he’s done many autopsies. From what the chief said, they haven’t had a murder around here in years.”

  “Maybe not, but there must be plenty of accidental deaths. How many did he say died on the roads last weekend—eight, wasn’t it, not counting Pollock and Metzger? Seems like drunk driving is a blood sport out here. And I’m sure there are at least a couple of drownings every summer, what with all the city folks who don’t know how treacherous the open ocean can be, not to mention the inexperienced boaters. Heart attacks, strokes, people choking on food, all those things can happen any time.”

  “You’re right. These country doctors probably get more than their fair share of autopsies. And the fact that Cooper realized that the broken neck didn’t kill her, and actually found the skin under her nails, shows he didn’t do a superficial job. I wonder if he’s tried to run a blood test. I guess they’ll have Pollock’s blood type. He’d be the first one they’d want to eliminate.”

  “But he had no scratches on the left side of his face or neck.”

  Fitz continued to examine the possibilities. “No, but suppose he grabbed her from behind. If she reached back with her right hand, she would have scratched the right side of his face, and those wounds would have been masked by his later injuries.”

  “Damn,” said Nita. “I should have thought of that. Some detective I am! Hector would have my shield if he knew.”

  “I promise not to tell, but it’s gonna cost ya,” Fitz teased. “Price: a kiss. Terms: immediate payment.”

  Nita shrugged. “You drive a hard bargain, but what choice do I have?” She shifted from her rocker to his lap and paid him in full, with interest.

  Struggling to keep himself from sweeping her up and carrying her to their bedroom, he contented himself with burying his face in her hair, still damp from her morning shower and smelling of Lustre-Creme, the shampoo of choice for famous redheads like Rita Hayworth and Maureen O’Hara.
He brushed her curls aside and kissed her neck as she snuggled closer.

  “Besides,” said Fitz to make her feel better, “it isn’t exactly a foregone conclusion. I’m not even sure the marks on her throat could have been made from behind. But all this guesswork will be over once Kligman comes to. Surely she knows what happened.”

  For the time being there was nothing more to be said. They lapsed into silence, each trying to put the case aside and concentrate on this moment of intimacy. The natural beauty all around them—the dune grass waving in the sea breeze, the refreshing salty tang in the air, the murmur of the waves against the shore, the cloudless blue sky—and the pleasant sound of children’s laughter from the beach just beyond their shaded deck were barely perceived as they focused on each other.

  Only a few more days and they’d be back in the city, dealing with the bar fights, gang rumbles, domestic disputes, and other consequences of tempers shortened by the summer heat. Burglaries rose, too, since people left their windows open all day and forgot to close them when they went out.

  This far east it was at least ten degrees cooler, and you could leave your windows and doors open all day and night without worrying—though, cops to the core, Fitz and Nita were not about to drop their prudent urban habits just because they were on vacation in the country. When they went out, everything was locked up tight, including the car whenever Fitz parked it.

  “Hey, you guys, stop smooching!” TJ had caught them in the act. Startled, they sat up and looked momentarily embarrassed, then grinned at their son as he scolded his father, using a phrase he’d learned from Grandma Blanca. “¡Qué malo eres, Papá! Behave yourself!”

  Fitz pleaded innocent. “It’s not my fault, buddy. Your mom threw herself at me, and I just couldn’t resist.”