Motion for Murder (10 page)

"Oh, God." I couldn't think about Hilary. I accepted a cup of coffee and blew off some steam. "I wonder who'll be at the funeral."

"It'll be the usual turnout, I'm sure." Curt spooned sugar into his cup and stirred. "The bench, the bar, the poor, the downtrodden."

"Not funny," I said. Suddenly I thought of Adam Tiddle. Now Adam wouldn't need to think of any more inventive ways to kill Dougie.

Maybe he'd already succeeded.

"You need to stop thinking about this," Curt said, which would have been funny if it hadn't been ridiculous.

"I don't know how." I sniffled once, for pity.

"You do it the same way you always do," Curt said. "You eat. Why do you think they have meals after funerals? Now where do you keep your soup?"

I blinked. "Soup?"

He sighed. "Broth. Noodles. Meat. You do keep some in the house, don't you?"

"Oh." I took a sip and hid behind the column of steam. "I think I'm out at the moment."

Curt gave me a look. "You should've bought some food at the supermarket instead of helping your sister get arrested."

My mouth fell open. "You know about that?"

"Honey, the whole county knows about it." He grinned. "My brother's a cop, remember? I heard she looked kinda cute, for a hooker."

"My sister is not a hooker," I said, indignant. "She was just looking for a man."

"Like I said."

I took another sip of coffee and my stomach growled again. He was right; I should have bought some food. "Do you have any pizza left?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "I'll go grab a can of soup downstairs."

"I'd rather have pizza."

"Veggie okay?" he asked, and I
rolled
my
eyes. It was like talking to my mother, only sometimes my mother listened. Lucky for Curt, I liked vegetable soup. I also liked sitting there at the table while he ran downstairs to get it, then sitting there watching him heat it up for me. It made me feel pampered and cared for. He'd brought half a loaf of bread, too, and he toasted two pieces, buttered them, and put them on a little plate, then stuck the rest in the fridge beside a container of nonfat yogurt that had seemed like a good idea three months ago. I squinted and thought I saw green fuzz on the yogurt container. But then the door swung shut, and I decided I was wrong.

He pointed. "Eat. Or you won't get your dessert." He held up a giant bag of Peanut M&Ms and flashed his dimple at me. You'd think we were married, the way he could push my buttons. Anyhow, I ate, and he tore open the bag and put it in the middle of the table, and that's where we were a half hour later, full of coffee and Peanut M&Ms and good feelings. He was right about the eating; it did take my mind off Dougie. Or maybe it was Curt's company that did it. Either way, I was finally able to relax.

Finally, when it became clear that he had no more surprises in his pockets, I got up to put my dishes in the sink. "You're a good landlord," I told him, squirting the remnants of my dish detergent in the empty soup bowl.

"Remember that on the first of the month," he said. He put his hands on the small of his back and arched gingerly, then stood up. "Listen, you want some company for the funeral?"

That was like asking a dog if he wanted food. I ran the dishcloth around on the dishes while I thought of a graceful way to accept. Then I decided I didn't need grace. I needed company. "I'd love it," I told him. "I take back what I said about your being cold."

"Don't." He put his cup on the counter. "I'm doing it for you, not for Heath. Get some sleep, will you? You look like hell."

"Good-night, Dad," I yelled after him as he walked out the door.

"Lock this," he yelled back through the closed door. I pulled a face and stuck out my tongue, and he grinned and vanished down the stairs. As soon as he was gone, I hurried to the door and threw the deadbolt.

*  *  *

Sherri called while I was lying in bed debating whether to watch Leno or yet another rerun of
The Breakfast Club
. "I've got an idea."

Uh-oh. Sherri's ideas usually ran along the same synaptic path that led to the invention of the Edsel. Witness her recent arrest.

"Bowling," she said into my silence. "We'll go bowling Friday night, after dinner. You're coming alone, right?"

"Well
" I began.

"They turn off all the lights at eleven o'clock," she said. "And you can swap lanes with anyone you want. It's kinky."

"But I'm not coming a
"

"I think I'll wear my hot pink sundress. What do you think about my hot pink sundress?"

I thought if she wore that bowling on Friday, I might have to bail her out again on Saturday. "That won't look too good with bowling shoes," I said instead.

"Yeah, you're right." She fell silent.

I said, "I'm not coming to dinner alone."

"Shut
up
!"
she said, which really meant: Tell me everything.

I snuggled down into the blankets and hit the Mute button the remote. Jay Leno converted instantly to pantomime. "Don't make a big deal out of it," I said, "but I'm bringing Curt."

"The guy that lives in your basement?" She sounded dubious. "He's sort of hot. Is he blonde?"

"He's not hot," I said. "He's my landlord."

"Why's he live in your basement?"

Patience. "He doesn't live in the basement. I have no basement. He lives on the first floor."

"Well, that explains a lot." Not to me. She went quiet, considering. "I mean, he's always there," she said.

"He owns the house," I snapped. "Look, he's only coming as a favor to me, alright?"

'Why?"

That was a good question.

"What about Frankie Ritter?" I asked. "I thought he was on the short list."

"Mom's short list," Sherri said glumly. "My friend Rea Khrys ran into him at the CVS, and she told me he dyed his hair black. She said he looks like Marilyn Manson."

And she was worried about eating with Curt.

"So? He's still the same guy," I said, without much conviction.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Sherri said. "Maybe I'll meet someone at the Headpin Friday."

I didn't think hugely successful men spent their Friday nights at the Headpin Bowling Alley, but what did I know. I tended to date the type of men who considered Taco Bell gourmet cuisine.

Sheri's sigh crept through the line. "Lookit, they say you should try to meet men in church or social functions. Bowling's a social function."

"So's food shopping," I said. "And look how that turned out."

"It wasn't so bad," she said. "I met a perfectly lovely inmate who
"

"Okay," I said. "I'll go. But we'll have to stop here first to drop Curt off. I'm not subjecting him to a night of rental shoes and lane swapping."

"You're a good sister," she said. "Just let me know if there's anything I can do for you. I mean it."

"You could let me tell you about the day from hell," I began, but she'd hung up. I shook my head and put the phone back in its cradle and said a quick prayer that when I woke up, I'd be living in Sherri's world.

I didn't get much sleep that night. What little I got was tainted with dreams of Dougie, most of them featuring spandex. When I woke up, exhausted and bleary-eyed, the last place I wanted to be was the office, so I called in sick. When I got the answering service, I thought maybe the others had called in sick, too, so I went back to bed with a clear conscience and stayed there.

By four o'clock Friday morning, insomnia seemed preferable to Dougie dreams. I finally hauled myself out of bed and did twenty minutes of yoga by candlelight, drawing deep lavender-scented breaths. When my mind was marginally quieter, I headed to the kitchen, walking lightly so as not to disturb Curt, to fix myself toast and hot chocolate. I sat staring at it with glazed eyes while the silence of the early morning hours roared around me. Don't be fooled by the yoga; I've never been a morning person. Since I got tired around nine o'clock at night, I wasn't much of a night person, either. That left about five good hours a day, which probably explained why I was still single and unaccomplished.

But I didn't think I was going to have even five good hours today. Dougie's presence still filled every nook and cranny of Parker, Dennis, and Heath. His office had to be cleaned out. His files had to be reassigned. His clients had to be notified. Plus Hilary was supposed to pay a visit.

By six o'clock, I'd managed to finish off the toast. I dumped the remainder of the hot chocolate down the drain and added a bowl of Puffed Wheat to the toast. When I was still hungry after that, I added three more bowls and another slice of toast. Light eating only works to a certain point. Today I needed calories.

I stood motionless in the shower until the water began to run tepid, then plowed through the usual routine of face washing and mascara application and tooth brushing. Wardrobe selection was slow and painful. I wanted to look appropriately somber under the circumstances. We were an office in mourning, after all. No bright colors, no short skirts, neither of which was a problem since hiding my knobby knees was a religion, and I liked to blend in drab blues and greens. Finally I picked a dark green pantsuit, threw on a black T-shirt under the jacket, tied my hair in a ponytail, and headed for the office.

Dougie's Mercedes was still parked in its usual spot per the pecking order, third closest to the door after Ken and Howard. I avoided looking at it on my way to the door. Everyone else was already inside. I found them assembled in the conference room with Howard presiding this time. He had a legal pad in front of him and was checking things off as he went down his list, occasionally glancing at us over his glasses, a gesture I generally found intimidating, but now found pompous. Wally sat alertly to his right, nodding his approval. Ken was to his left with his chin on his chest and his eyes closed. Apparently Ken and I were getting the same kind of sleep.

There was a pitcher of orange juice in the center of the table next to a stack of paper cups and a tray of Danish that looked untouched. Missy motioned for me to sit beside her and poured me a cup of juice.

"Did I miss anything?" I whispered as I slid into the chair.

"Wally's getting Doug's office," she whispered back.

"That was fast." And not all that surprising, since Wally worked in a linen closet.

"Howard's not exactly drowning in grief," she said with a tinge of bitterness. I blinked at her over my juice cup. Above the table, she was giving Howard her polite attention. Below the table, her fingers were shredding a napkin to bits in her lap. If that napkin had been Adam Tiddle's gun, I wouldn't have given Howard long odds.

My gaze wandered around the table. Besides Missy's agitation, Wally's adoration, and Ken's apathy, there wasn't much to see. Paige was focused on her inventory of Clinique products. Janice and Donna both seemed disinterested and anxious to return to their routines. There were only two people who appeared affected by Dougie's death, and Dougie was one of them.

"That brings us to the support staff," Howard announced, glancing up at said staff, who at the moment were being less than supportive. "As you know, this office has been functioning with a secretarial pool. Doug introduced that practice. I never cared for it."