Decorated to Death (13 page)

As usual, Horatio was right. The storm hit about ten minutes after I had arrived at Kettle Cottage. In central Indiana, a tornado warning is synonymous with the loss of cable TV, which happened just as the weather bureau was announcing the names of the towns that were in the direct path of the approaching storm.

Normally, I would’ve called it a night, hopped into bed, and with Pesty clinging to me like a strip of double-sided tape, been fast asleep, leaving Charlie to deal with the storm and its aftermath. Years ago, we agreed that certain jobs were better handled by the wife and others by the husband. Thanks to gender equality, my workload continues to decrease while Charlie’s continues to increase. But Charlie wasn’t home, so it became my job to hold down the fort, or in this case, the house.

Running to the bay window in the kitchen to see if it was time for Pesty and me to seek shelter in the lowest level of our home, I heard a tremendous crack of lightening as Kettle Cottage was plunged into darkness. There is nothing like a tornado warning that comes in the night to renew one’s faith in a Supreme Being or whatever name we mortals give the powers that be.

Thanks to the workers at the Seville Power and Light Co-op, the electricity was restored after a short time and I was able to return to Horatio’s report, my investigation notes, and the copy of Peter Parker’s patient check-in sheet for the Friday before Dona Deville’s murder.

Horatio’s report disclosed that Vincent Albert Salerno was a native of Chicago, a graduate of DePaul University, decorated veteran of Vietnam, and a divorced father of three. After spending almost seven years with the FBI as a special investigator, Vincent Salerno took early retirement and became a licensed private investigator specializing in examining unusual auto fatalities. Hired by the company that had insured Dona Deville’s late aunt, Vincent Salerno was assigned to look into the old lady’s death. Since everyone around Dona knew she was paranoid about her daughter’s safety, he and Dona agreed that the job as Ellie’s bodyguard would be the perfect cover for the investigator. The company had not heard from Vincent since he called on his cell phone Sunday afternoon. They agreed to notify Horatio should any new info regarding the case and/or Salerno surface. End of report. I fervently hoped that it wasn’t the end of the missing investigator.

By the time I was ready to call it a night, I had my own theory about who had murdered the diet diva. I found myself in agreement with Vincent Salerno’s hypothesis that whoever was responsible for Dona’s death was probably also responsible for the elderly aunt’s death. The motive though, like Salerno’s puzzling alibi about looking for signs of change, continued to be a mystery to me.

On an impulse, instead of gathering up the patient check-in list, my notes, the report, and stacking everything in a neat pile, I spread the paperwork in a circle, along the edge of the round oak table. As I did so, the nursery rhyme about the house that Jack built repeated itself in my head.

Staring at the papers on the tabletop, it dawned on me that just as the rhyme started with the name of Jack, my circle started with the name of the person I believed was the murderer, thanks to Helen McCordle’s neat-as-a-pin patient check-in sheet.

Because my investigation wasn’t quite complete, I left a space in the circle. But if my hunch was right, then soon, very soon, both the case and the circle would be closed.

“Why aren’t you wearing black?” Mary asked as she opened the passenger door of the van and eased herself into the seat. “We are going to Dona’s funeral, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are,” I said, answering Mary’s last question before tackling the first, which needed a longer and more carefully worded answer. I certainly didn’t want to upset Mary or even hint that she might be out of step with the current dos and don’ts of today’s fashion police.

Mary and I belong to the generation that grew up always adhering to certain rules of fashion, such as never wear white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day; bikini swimsuits, short shorts, and miniskirts shouldn’t be worn by any woman over the age of thirty; only the bride wears white to the wedding; and black attire is a must when attending a wake or a funeral. Naturally, the always accomodating Mary was dressed from head to toe in black.

“This outfit was my only choice,” I said, as we began the short drive from Mary’s house to Twall and Sons Mortuary on Washington Street. “Everything else was in the washer when last night’s storm hit and knocked out the electricity. I really don’t think Dona Deville will care what I’m wearing and the rest of the people probably won’t notice.”

“My stars, I think a teal top and a white, flouncy skirt will be noticed. Please tell me that the skirt is lined.”

“No, it’s not, but before you have an apoplexy, I am wearing a half-slip and if you notice, my purse is black.”

For Mary, the fact that my white sandal shoes didn’t match my purse was too much. “Listen, Gin, if you walk in lugging that monstrosity you call a purse, I’m walking out.”

“Speaking of purses, where’s yours, Mar? If you left it at home, it’s going to have to stay there. It’s already eleven and you know what a stickler the senior Mr. Twall is about starting on time.”

“Well then, I guess it’s going to have to stay there. Maybe you can swing by the house on our way over to the luncheon at the Birdwells’. I hope Sally’s having Billy do the catering. His tiny little sandwiches are to die for.”

Mary was in the middle of carrying on about Billy’s culinary skills when I turned the van into the mortuary’s parking lot.

“Jeez, all the spots are filled. I’m going to have to cut down the alley and take a chance on finding a parking place on Washington. Why don’t you get out here and go in without me. I’ll catch up,” I suggested to Mary, thinking that I was doing her a favor.

“Not on your life, Gin. You know how I feel about seeing dead people. Look what happened the last time I saw Dona.”

In retrospect, I was glad that Mary stuck with me as I circled the block in search of an empty parking space. If she hadn’t done so, the solution to the missing Vincent Salerno’s puzzling alibi might have remained a mystery.

“Now don’t forget, Washington is a one-way street,” Mary said in a tone of voice that really irritated me.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to, thanks to you,” I replied through clenched teeth. “You screamed so loudly yesterday you practically broke my eardrums.”

“And what was I supposed to do, Jean? Just sit there and say nothing while you crashed into oncoming traffic like Dona’s aunt did? What kind of person would do that? I’m surprised you haven’t blamed me for the missing sign.” Mary wasn’t surprised but she was angry.

Neither one of us had much to say after that and things pretty much stayed that way as we walked the short distance from where I’d finally parked the van to the mortuary.

“Mary, wait a minute,” I said, stopping under Twall’s trademark purple-and-black canopy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so snippy. Forgive me?”

“Sure, I do. And I’m sorry if I irritated you, Gin. I was only trying to be helpful. Like I said, what kind of a person would I be if I didn’t do anything.”

“Right, and you’re right about the possible dire consequences had you not screamed,” I reminded Mary before following up with the familiar one word that always ends our petty misunderstandings. “Friends?”

“You betcha. Friends,” Mary replied, and in an attempt to put a different spin on the incident, she added, “You know, Gin, when you think about it, the one to blame is the kid who changed the original sign to read
NO WAY
.”

“You got that right,” I answered as I locked arms with Mary and walked into Twall and Sons Mortuary where, according to the advertisement on the billboard that can be seen from the interstate:
TWALL AND SONS TREATS EVERY BODY LIKE ROYALTY
!

Unaware that the cars in the mortuary’s parking lot, for the most part, belonged to people attending the Claude Hawkins funeral service being held in the Rose Room, I was shocked and surprised to see how few people had come to Dona Deville’s funeral service. Had it not been for a small contingent of townies, most of whom were business aquaintences rather than friends of the deceased, the entourage, minus the missing bodyguard, and the senior Mr. Twall would have been the only people in attendance.

When the elderly Mr. Twall stepped to the podium to begin the eulogy, Ellie Halsted, flanked by Ruffy Halsted and Dr. Peter Parker, sat down in the first row of chairs.

Marsha Gooding (Goody), Todd Masters, Maxine Roberts, and Hilly Murrow were seated in the row directly behind the trio. Todd and Maxine held hands (a pretty good indication that the two had “kissed and made up”) while Goody stared stonily ahead. Hilly Murrow balanced a notepad on her bony, crossed legs. With pen in hand, she struck a pose reminiscent of Rosalind Russell’s screen portrayal of a smart, sexy, tough-talking newspaper reporter. If not for the ban on smoking, a smoldering cigarillo would have been clamped between our star reporter’s oversize choppers.

The next row was taken up by Sally Birdwell, Abner Wilson, Herbie Waddlemeyer, Rollie Stevens, and Dona’s thought-to-be-long-lost first love, Kurt Summerfield. Despite the passage of time, he was recognized by all of us townies. The years had been very kind to him. He was as handsome as ever.

“Oh my stars, if I’m not mistaken, that’s Kurt Summerfield,” Mary exclaimed in an Irish whisper. Her voice bounced over the empty row of chairs that separated us from the others. With Mary by my side, I had a wide-angle view of everyone in attendance, including the person whom I believed was responsible for two and possibly three murders.

Anxious to keep a low profile, I used my own version of sign language to convey a message to Mary that she should cool it for the time being. She answered with an affirmative wink.

In his dry-as-dust voice, the mortician droned on for nearly an hour, crediting Dona Deville with every virtue known to humankind and then some. I suspected the eulogy was crafted by Maxine Roberts in an attempt to reap some positive press, via Hilly Murrow, out of a negative situation, something that surely would be a plus on Maxine’s résumé.

Dona’s body had been cremated, which eliminated the viewing of the body and the usual scramble by family and friends to come up with loving, memorable remarks about the deceased. In Dona’s case, judging from everything that I’d learned about the diet diva, it would have been a real challenge. Although I must admit that I would’ve loved to have had the opportunity to observe the murderer in that type of situation. Dona’s cremation made things easier for everyone, including her killer.

I was beginning to doubt that the eulogy was ever going to end when the senior Mr. Twall began what amounted to a litany of thanks. I think the thing we were all most thankful for was that the ordeal was almost over. By the time the poor man got around to thanking us for joining in “this celebration of the life of a woman who had given so much of herself to others,” everyone, including yours truly, was ready and eager to move on to the final phase of Dona’s send-off: catered lunch at Sally Birdwell’s house.

Seeing that the luncheon was in close proximity to Kettle Cottage, I parked the van in my own driveway and took a minute to run in and check on Pesty before going to Sally’s.

My purse was still in the back of the van. Knowing that smoking was allowed on the redwood deck, I fished the cigarette case and cell phone from the bottom of my purse before returning it to the van. Tucking the case into the single pocket of my skirt, I was about to do the same with the cell phone, but Mary, who was standing on the drive waiting for me, offered to put the phone in her skirt pocket. Because the luncheon wasn’t exactly a festive occasion, I set the phone on vibrate so as not to disturb anyone with the cancan music I’d chosen as an alternative to the standard telephone ring.

We were welcomed to the luncheon by Ellie, who, like everyone else, was dry-eyed and in pretty good spirits considering the solemn nature of the occassion. Standing next to her was Kurt Summerfield.

“I believe you two already know Mr. Summerfield,” said Ellie. “Wasn’t it nice of him to drive in from Indianapolis for the service? Mother would have been so pleased.”

“And surprised,” Mary added, beaming at the former basketball star and prom king of Seville High. “How long have you lived in Indy?”

“I moved there about two weeks after graduation. I had a chance to go into business with a relative and took him up on it,” Kurt answered, matching Mary beam for beam, “and as things turned out, it was a damn good chance. Five years ago, I bought out the relative and I’m happy to say that now I’m the sole owner of Fantastic Towels.”

“Well, good for you,” said Mary, “I’m not familiar with that brand but next time I buy paper towels, I’ll look for yours.”

“Mr. Summerfield’s company doesn’t manufacture paper towels or any other kind of towel. Fantastic is a towel service company that provides towels and linens for almost every private health club in the Indy area,” Marsha Gooding said, elbowing Mary out of the way.

To me, it was obvious from the looks Goody and Kurt exchanged that they had more than a nodding acquaintance.

“And was Dona’s Den one of those?” I asked, directing my question to Kurt Summerfield. Again it was the personal assistant who provided the answer.

“Let’s just say we were about to enter into negotiations but then Dona gets herself murdered and we’re back to where we started.”

Goody didn’t clarify her use of the personal pronoun “we,” leaving me to wonder about her allegiance. I had serious doubts that Dona would’ve been all that pleased or even surprised with Kurt Summerfield’s appearance at her funeral service.

“Afternoon, Miz Hastings, Miz England,” Abner Wilson said as Mary and I moved from the foyer into the dining room.

Attired in a pair of new overalls, white dress shirt, and tie, the old man looked clean and sober. “I want to thank you,” he said as he filled his plate with a selection of finger foods from the scrumptious buffet courtesy of Billy Birdwell’s fledgling catering service.

Abner Wilson’s thanks took me by surprise. “You’re welcome,” I replied, “but what are you thanking me for?”

“For takin’ care of that Salerno fella. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since I told you to tell him to stay away from my barn property.”

“If that’s the case, then thank yourself, not me. Like everyone else, I haven’t seen or heard from him since Sunday.”

“Some of them college boys that help me out think he’s the one who broke into those cars Monday night,” said the old man in a stage whisper.

I was saved from any further conversation about the missing bodyguard by, of all people, Herbie Waddlemeyer. The man may have a pumpkin head but he’s got the ears of a fox. Upon hearing Abner Wilson’s comment about the car break-ins, Herbie the victim was eager and ready to talk to anyone who would listen about the tragic loss of his bowling shirt, the one with his name on it.

I made my excuses to both Abner and Herbie and ducked out to the redwood deck. Taking the case from my pocket, I lit a cigarette and thought about what I hoped would be the next and final step in my investigation. It was Mary’s earlier comment about the real culprit being the person who’d changed the sign on Washington Street that pointed my mind in the right direction. Or perhaps it was Dona herself who reached back from the great beyond to assist me in the investigation. Either way, Vincent Salerno’s alibi, a puzzle within a puzzle, finally made sense.

I recalled the Sunday morning when Salerno told me, “My horoscope said that I should watch for signs of change, so Saturday morning I got in my car and went looking for them.” And I thought about Horatio’s report on Salerno—he was really investigating the death of Dona Deville’s aunt who, for no apparent reason, headed the wrong way down the highway. And I thought about how signs can be intentionally changed…

“Mind if I join you?” Not waiting for my answer, Ruffy Halsted stepped out on the redwood deck and planted himself about two feet away from where I was standing.

“I didn’t realize that you’re a smoker,” I said as I instinctively stepped back.

“I ain’t,” he replied, “but I used to be. I still miss it, even the smell. You know you really should give up. It ain’t healthy. It’s almost as bad as all them drugs Dona got hooked on. Ironic, ain’t it?”

Not sure what he meant, I asked a question of my own. “Is that a comment on how your former wife lived or on how she died?”

“You know somethin’, lady, the police chief just got done tellin’ me about how you fancy yourself to be a detective. He warned me about talkin’ to you.”

“The name is Jean Hastings, and that’s Mrs. Hastings to you, chum. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back into the dining room. Here,” I said, handing him what was left of my cigarette, “since you miss smoking so much you can have it. I’m finished with it, you, and our conversation.”

Leaving the openmouthed Ruffy Halsted in my dust, or I should say smoke, I returned to the house and went in search of a couple of aspirin, a cup of coffee, and Mary. The coffee and aspirin I found in the kitchen along with Billy, Tammie, and Sally.

Always the perfect hostess, Sally fixed me a small plate of sandwiches to go with the coffee and aspirin.

“Now, Jean,” she informed me as she set the items down on the granite countertop, “you’re welcome to stay in here for as long as you want. That bunch in the dining room is enough to give anyone a headache, especially Kurt Summerfield. I don’t know what it is exactly, but there’s just something about him that makes my skin crawl. I don’t trust him. And that Goody woman is all over the man. Why, I don’t know. She’s got to be young enough to be his daughter.”

“Mom,” said Billy, “maybe me and Tammie should stick around, at least until these people clear out of here. I don’t like leaving you alone. For all we know, one of your paying guests could very well be a murderer, right, Mrs. Hastings?”

Before I could say yea or nay, Tammie spoke up. “Well, if you ask me, I think the gruesome twosome, Mr. M. and Ms R., had something to do with D. D.’s death.”

“You mean Todd and Maxine?” I asked once I’d translated Tammie’s verbal shorthand into conversational English.

“You got it, Mrs. H. I told Mrs. B. if I was her, I sure as heck would count the towels and the silverware before I’d let those two check out of here today.”

“What makes you think they might have something to do with Doha Deville’s death?” I asked, taking a bite of the most delicious chicken salad sandwich I’d ever tasted in my life.

“Because of what I heard her say to him when I was setting up the coffee urn on top of the console. I had to get down on the floor and practically crawl halfway under the darn cabinet to plug the pot in. I guess they didn’t see me when they came up to the buffet. She says to him, she says, ‘Like I told you, Todd, I’m a lot harder to get rid of than Dona, so don’t you forget it.’ Then he says to her, he says, ‘How could I with you reminding me about it every chance you get.’ Maybe they would have said more but Police Chief S. comes over and squats down right next me and asks if I needed help.”

“Like they say, Tammie, timing is everything, and speaking of time,” I said, “I’ve got to get going. There’s a little something I need to take care of and Mrs. England will be going with me. We shouldn’t be gone long. If it makes you feel any better, Billy, when we’re done with our errand, we’ll come back here and keep your mother company until everyone leaves.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hastings, I’d appreciate it,” Billy said, looking relieved. “I’ve got another catering job to set up and Tammie’s scheduled to work up at the club this afternoon. Neither one of us will be back ’til almost suppertime.”

It was indeed time for me to leave. Thanking Sally for the coffee, Billy for the sandwich, Tammie for the info, and God for the aspirin, I went in search of Mary.

Seated in one of the beige and rose chenille upholstered morris chairs that formed a conversation area in the cozy living room, Mary was enjoying a bite-size fudge brownie, one of the several brownies that made up a pyramid of the dessert on her plate.

“Oh, Gin, you’ve got to try these little thingys. Billy made them himself and they’re even better than the ones at the club, but don’t tell Stella I said so. I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings or cause Billy any trouble, seeing that Stella’s the top chef at the country club and Billy’s her assistant. He says Stella’s taught him so much, especially about baking. Here, try one.”

Taking the tiny pastry from Mary, I tossed it into my mouth and washed it down with a swallow of ice tea from Mary’s glass.

“Yeah, it was great. You about ready to leave?” Not waiting for an answer, I added, “I’ll meet you in the car.”

In addition to being a best friend and sister-in-law, Mary was also a problem. I didn’t know how much, if anything, I should tell her. I certainly didn’t want to alarm her but then again, she was a grown woman, and if she was going to come with me, she certainly should be made aware that we might possibly be putting ourselves in danger.

If things went the way that I thought they would, we would be in and out and back at Sally’s before the murderer was even aware that I’d figured out the how and why of the elderly aunt’s murder. Once that was accomplished, I would get in touch with Martha and give her the good news that I’d kept my part of the bargain. Then, with my nose back where it belonged, I’d be free to focus all my time and energy on my husband, whom I sorely missed. I was almost out of patience and notepaper and was seriously thinking of stopping by the hospital administrator’s office. One of the quickest ways to spring someone out of a hospital is to hint that the patient’s insurance has been depleted. It’s amazing how that tiny bit of information can turn a two-to three-week stay into practically an overnighter.

The luncheon was still going with no signs of letting up soon. As I passed by Kurt Summerfield, he turned away. I had a sneaking suspicion that he, too, had been warned by Rollie Stevens about my sleuthing activities. I made sure that everyone, including the person who I truly believed to be the murderer, heard me tell Ellie that Mary and I were making a quick trip to Garrison General to bring Charlie a hot dog from Winnie’s Weenie Wagon. I said the poor guy was sick of hospital food.

When Ellie heard that, she insisted on fixing a to-go box with enough sandwiches and brownies to feed Charlie and the entire nursing staff. She also came up with the bright idea that her fiancé, Peter, who was Charlie’s primary doctor, could perhaps save me a trip because he had said something about having to run over to the hospital. But alas, the good doctor was nowhere to be found.

“My goodness,” cried Ellie, “he was right here a minute ago. You don’t suppose that he’s disappeared like Vincent, do you, Mrs. Hastings?”

“I wouldn’t worry about Peter. He’s probably around here someplace. Maybe he stepped out in the yard for some fresh air or decided to walk off his lunch. But thanks anyway for the offer and for the box of goodies for Charlie. We’re not going to be gone all that long.”