3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (15 page)

“This is your fault, Anastasia. If you’d arrived earlier, I wouldn’t have to stay here another night.”

“I don’t think you’re ready to come home yet, Lucille.”
I’m
not ready for her to come home yet. However, Lucille coming home would certainly put an end to Mama’s afternoon delights.

I pondered which was the lesser of two evils.

“You don’t get to make that decision,” she said. “I know my body better than any of you, and I’m fine.”

Lucille smacked her hand on the top bar of the walker and lost her balance. Shirley grabbed her from the left; I grabbed her from the right. “Take your hands off me!”

“You almost fell,” I said.

“I did not!”

“You shouldn’t even be walking the halls by yourself,” said Shirley. “The last thing I need is a lawsuit. Stay with her,” she said to me. “I’ll call for an aide.”

Shirley dashed into her office.

“I didn’t come to pick you up, Lucille. You’re not ready. What if you fall when no one is home to help you?” I said.

“That won’t happen.”

An aide rounded the corner and headed toward us. I handed Lucille over to him and dashed off, without responding to her and before Shirley returned from her office.

fourteen

I arrived home to
a quiet house. No blaring stereo. No senior citizens’ sexual escapades. Ralph snored on Lucille’s bed; Catherine the Great sprawled across the back of the living room sofa. A glance at the boys’ work schedules for the week told me they were both on the late afternoon/early evening shifts today.

Zack’s car was missing from the driveway, which meant he probably hadn’t returned from D.C. yet, and Lord only knew where Mama was, what she was doing, or with whom.

“Looks like you’re my dinner companion this evening,” I said to Ralph as I released him from his cage.

“
What an equivocal companion is this!
Brrraaack!” he fluttered his wings and took off, squawking, “
All’s Well That Ends Well
. Act Five, Scene Three.”

Ralph settled on his perch of choice, the top of the refrigerator, and alternated between preening his feathers and intently studying me while I whipped up a zucchini and tomato omelet for dinner. Once done cooking, I plated my omelet and moved to the dining room table where I could spread out Lyndella’s journals to read while I ate. Ralph followed, perching himself on the back of my chair and peering over my shoulder.

“Let me know if I miss anything important,” I told him.

“
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend
.
Romeo and Juliet
. Prologue.”

“Then let us both toil away, Ralph, and maybe between us, we’ll solve a murder.”

“
Confer with me of murder and of death
.
Titus Andronicus
. Act Five, Scene Two.”

“Exactly.”

I read for hours, taking notes, cross referencing with Lyndella’s accounts ledger, adhering sticky-note flags on pertinent pages. Alex and Nick came home shortly after eight-thirty, and I reluctantly took a break, although I feared if I stopped my momentum, I’d miss something.

“What are you looking for?” asked Alex, eyeing the clutter of loose-leaf notebooks on the dining room table. “Need some help?”

Three pairs of eyes could scour through Lyndella’s journals in one third the time of one set, but I hesitated. Earlier today the thought of either of my kids having sex had twisted my innards into a knot the size of Cleveland. I wasn’t naïve when it came to what teenagers viewed and read behind their parents’ backs. Or even did for that matter. Hell, I’d sneaked
Peyton Place
off Mama’s bookshelf when I was younger than Nick and watched
The Devil in Miss Jones
one night while babysitting for a neighbor who owned a well-stocked X-rated videotape collection.

However, I can’t imagine the
ick
factor had my mother handed me
Peyton Place
or suggested we view
The Devil in Miss Jones
together. I would have needed therapy for decades.

“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but you guys must be tired after working all day. Why don’t you go veg out. I think the Mets are televised tonight.”

“And you didn’t work today, Mom? You’re not tired?” Alex picked
up a legal pad on which I’d jotted some notes and read aloud.
“Marriage. Wedding. Husband. Birth. Baby. Child. Daughter. Divorce
. Death. What is this?”

I held out my hand for the pad. “Words I’m searching for in these journals.”

“Why?”

“I’m hoping they’ll offer up some clues to who killed the person who wrote them.”

“The woman the cops think Grandmother Lucille killed?” asked Nick.

“That’s the one.”

“You think maybe her daughter or husband killed her?” asked Alex.

“I don’t even know yet whether she had a husband or daughter. That’s part of the mystery I’m trying to solve.”

“How come you have all her journals?” asked Alex. “Why don’t the cops have them? Aren’t they evidence?”

“Apparently, the cops didn’t think they were important. I rescued them from landing in a Dumpster.”

“You think the cops are wrong?” asked Nick. “That you’ll find something in them?”

“I think the cops didn’t look closely enough and dismissed them as merely journals recording her various crafts projects. However, I suspect they might contain facts relevant to the case. I’ll know for sure after I finish reading through all of them.”

“So let us help you,” said Alex.

“I don’t think Mom wants us to see what’s in these,” said Nick. He’d picked up one of the journals and held it up for his brother to see.

“Holy shit!” said Alex. “Is that what I think it is?”

Heat rose up my neck to my cheeks. “This is why I don’t want you helping me.” I reached across the table and grabbed the binder out of Nick’s hands.

“I thought Grandmother Lucille’s roommate was practically ancient,” said Alex. “Like in her nineties.”

“She was.”

He screwed up his face. “Eeuuww! That is just too gross. Guys don’t really do that to themselves, do they, Mom?”

It was nice to know that my nearly grown son was still naïve when it came to certain less-than-mainstream sexual practices. As much as I hated to enlighten him, I couldn’t lie. “I think some do.”

Alex turned green. He looked like he was about to hurl at just the thought. “That’s totally sick.”

“Are all these notebooks filled with stuff like that?” asked Nick.

“For the most part.”

“How can you even look at them, Mom?”

I glanced down at the photo of the ceramic sculpture in question, a lifelike rendition of a tattooed and pierced piece of male anatomy, and wondered if Lyndella had created it for shock value alone or if she’d actually used it, either on herself or someone else. “It isn’t easy,” I said.

“I may need to bleach my brains to get that image out of my head,” said Alex.

“Ditto,” said Nick.

That made three of us. The more I combed through Lyndella’s journals, the dirtier I felt. If what I suspected about her past was true, I could understand how and why she felt forced to turn to prostitution. I sympathized with Lyndella, the girl; I disliked Lyndella, the woman. Immensely. From what I was learning, she took extreme pleasure in hurting everyone with whom she came in contact. And she certainly had a strange way of getting her kicks. No wonder the other residents of Sunnyside rejoiced in her death.

I continued reading, partly because no matter how bleary-eyed I grew, I couldn’t stop myself. Lyndella’s journals presented a fascinating puzzle. Every so often I’d discover a full name written somewhere within a craft journal page. Just a name. No other reference. Often the name was hidden within the text of the directions. When I cross referenced the start and completion dates of the craft project with the accounts journal, somewhere within the corresponding dates I’d find a client with the same first name.

And sometimes I’d recognize a name. A congressman. A senator. A former cabinet member. Even one sitting Supreme Court justice. I suspected if I were familiar with Georgia politics the last half of the twentieth century, I’d recognize far more names. With all these politicians as clients, was Lyndella’s establishment in some way responsible for Savannah being known as the Hostess City? How ironic would that be?

I jotted down each man’s name as I came across them. Once I read through all the journals, I’d Google each name.

Was it possible Lyndella had been blackmailing some of the former patrons of The Best Little Whorehouse in Savannah, as I’d come to think of The Savannah Club for Discerning Gentlemen? Did one of them hire a hit man to rid himself of a potentially damaging scandal? A plausible theory that contained one huge hole. If Lyndella had been receiving blackmail payments, why did she remain in a shared room at Sunnyside? With all her accumulated crafts and her active sex life, wouldn’t she want a single if she could afford one? She certainly couldn’t have been stashing the cash away for her old age. For that reason, I dismissed the blackmail theory.

Lyndella also made cryptic references to other people and events
without actually naming names or places, but I began to see her writings
as a breadcrumb trail that if I followed to its end, might reveal the truth of her murder.

I also continued to read because I wanted to wait up until Mama
arrived home. She, too, was becoming something of a puzzle lately. Her deliberate sidestepping of all my questions concerning this new mystery man in her life was driving me crazy. Who was this guy? Why didn’t she want me to know? Should I be worried for her?

Three hours later, Mama still hadn’t appeared. Bleary-eyed and knowing I should stop for the night, I made myself a cup of coffee and kept reading.

At one in the morning, Mama waltzed through the front door, but I barely noticed. I had finally hit pay dirt, having discovered a huge clue in unlocking the mystery of Lyndella’s past and quite possibly the name of her killer.

Now what should I do?

I needed to brainstorm with someone, but Zack must have decided to spend the night in D.C. Either that or he’d flown off on some clandestine mission, and his meeting in D.C. had been nothing but a bogus cover story. Photos of siren-sounding lemurs aside, I still didn’t know what to believe and what not to believe when it came to Zachary Barnes, photojournalist/secret agent.

I grabbed the phone to call Cloris, but hung up at the sound of the dial tone. She’d kill me if I woke her up at this hour. Worse, she’d never feed me again. I couldn’t risk starving to death. So I crawled into bed.

Between the late-night coffee and my racing brain, I spent the remainder of the night trying to figure out what to do with the information I’d uncovered.

Going to the police seemed useless. Detective Spader would listen to what I had to say and write me off as a raving lunatic grasping at straws to keep her mother-in-law out of prison. The police dealt with hard evidence, not conjecture and speculation, which was all I really had. But that conjecture and speculation made a hell of a lot of sense to me. Too bad I couldn’t prove any of it.

Or could I?

_____

I never fell asleep. At four in the morning I realized I’d forgotten to download the crafts photos to my computer and email them to Clara. Since I couldn’t sleep, anyway, I dragged myself out of bed and fired up my computer. Then I nuked a cup of milk in an unsuccessful attempt to catch at least a couple of hours of sleep.

The milk didn’t work. At six I rose and padded into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. While it brewed, I took a long, steamy shower, then dressed, walked Mephisto, and ate breakfast, all while Mama and the boys slept.

At seven twenty I was ready to leave the house. Having decided what I needed to do, I was antsy to get under way, but it was too early. The person I wanted to speak with wouldn’t be available until eight thirty. So I caught up on a few chores—throwing in a load of wash, emptying the dishwasher, wiping down the stove and countertops—all of which only ticked off another fifteen minutes.

By that point, I thought I’d jump out of my skin if I didn’t get
going. I stared at the clock. Seven thirty-five. I should have scrubbed
the bathroom or cleaned Ralph’s cage before showering and dressing. That would have killed sufficient time. Too late now, though.

I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out the door. The muggy heat immediately smacked me in the face and sucked the oxygen from my lungs. Not even eight in the morning and already close to ninety degrees. When would this weather break?

I glanced around at the yard as I headed for my car. Only early July and already every plant and blade of grass had withered and died. By August my yard would look as bleak as a moonscape.

Up and down the street my neighbors’ yards weren’t faring much
better, even the ones who had in-ground sprinkler systems and enough money not to worry about their water bills. That made me feel better. At least mine wasn’t the only dead yard on the block.

I slid behind the steering wheel of my Hyundai, cranked down the window, and started the engine. I’d rather cool my heels at Sunnyside. Maybe one of my crafters was an early riser, and I could squeeze in an interview for my article while I waited for Shirley Hallstead.

“Girl, you’re here early,” said April when I entered the building. She’d traded her
Jerseylicious
T-shirt for one that stated
Jersey Girls Do It Down the Shore
, written in flowing hot pink glitter script on a black background. “You scheduled to work today?”

“No, I was hoping to catch Shirley before she got busy with her day.”

“She generally arrives around eight fifteen. Grab yourself a cup of coffee at the nurses’ station. You can wait for her in her office.”

I decided to forego tracking down one of my crafters for an unscheduled interview. Being allowed to wait in Shirley’s office meant she’d have to make time to speak with me.

I grabbed some coffee and settled in behind Shirley’s desk to wait for her. Part of me itched to nose through her files, but the sensible side of me figured she wouldn’t dare keep any evidence at Sunnyside. She’d made too much of an effort to conceal the facts to be that careless. Instead, I settled back, sipped my coffee, and watched the second hand journey around the dial of her crystal desk clock.

At precisely eight twenty-one, with Birkin in hand and wearing her double-breasted cherry red power suit and matching stilettos, Shirley Hallstead entered her office. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“April suggested I wait in your office. We need to talk, Shirley.”

“Your mother-in-law is not ready to leave, Mrs. Pollack. I spoke with her doctors yesterday, and they all agreed she needs more time until she’s capable of getting around on her own. You saw that for yourself yesterday when she lost her balance. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like my chair.”