Murder Passes the Buck (13 page)

over an application.
”

“
An application for what?
”

“
She
’
s applying for a job with us as an investigator.
”

“
This is a nonpaying job. Does she know that?
”

“
I told her we couldn
’
t pay her, and she said that
’
s okay. Her unemployment will start up in a little while and she
’
s getting ready for her rummage sale. She says this job has future monetary possibilities like one of those new stock market companies. An IOR
”

“
It
’
s IPO, Cora Mae
— initial public offering.
”

I picked up Kitty
’
s resume, which was lying on the table. It was neatly typed, but the ink was faded and the corners were crumpled.

“
She said it needs updating,
”
Cora Mae explained.

“
I
’
ll say.
”
I noted her height at five-foot-four and her weight at one hundred and thirty-two pounds.
“
First off, no one puts their height and weight on a job application, and second off, Kitty hasn
’
t weighed one hundred and thirty-two pounds since she was four years old. What do you think about working with her?
”

“
Me? Doesn
’
t matter to me. The business

was your idea and you can run it any way you want. There
’
s something about her that bothers me, though, but I can
’
t put my finger on it.
”

“
She stands too close when she
’
s talking to you,
”
I guessed.

“
That
’
s it! That
’
s exactly it.
”

Kitty stands about a foot closer to your face than you really feel comfortable with, and backing up doesn
’
t do a bit of good; she follows right over. Her comfort zone is way different than the rest of the world
’
s.

Cora Mae shrugged.
“
She says she
’
d be an asset.
”

“
I don
’
t like the idea at all,
”
I said.

“
Well, she said think about it.
”

I thought about it for two seconds. Life was complicated enough without Kitty in the mix. I had my hands full with my own family, especially Blaze and Grandma Johnson.

And with whoever was following and threatening me.

_Six

Word for the Day

MALAISE (ma LAYZ) n.

A vague feeling of physical discomfort

or uneasiness.

Most of the snow had melted on Saturday, but by Sunday morning a cold snap settled in and the remaining snow turned to ice. I wrapped a scarf around my face and started the truck. The ice on the windshield peeled off in sheets under the blade of my scraper.

I hustled inside and while the truck warmed up, I called Blaze.

“
I want you to stop this court thing right now,
”
I said without bothering with any small talk first.
“
I
’
m a busy woman. I don
’
t have time for this.
”

“
I tried to talk to you, but talking to you is like talking to a cement truck.
”

“
If you ever had anything interesting to say, I might listen.
”

Blaze dropped his voice to a soothing level like he was talking to a child or to someone who is deranged. He sounded patronizing and false.
“
You haven
’
t been yourself since Pa died. I
’
m worried about you and just want to help.
”

“
So you want a court to say I
’
m incompetent to manage my own affairs and that I
’
m a danger to society. That
’
s how you want to help?
”

“
Be reasonable,
”
he said.
“
You run around thinking everyone
’
s been murdered, you spray painted my truck yellow, and
— and this is the best one — the bank says you took all the money you and pa saved out of the bank in a paper bag. Where
’
s all the money, ma?
”

“
None of your business.
”

“
If you tell me where the money is and let me help you manage it, I
’
ll drop the hearing.
”

“
See you in court,
”
I said before slamming down the receiver.

Cora Mae came out to the truck when I pulled up. She had on a black pillbox hat and dangly black earrings. She was wrapped in black fake fur.

I looked her over. I wore snow bibs under my hunting jacket, Blue Blockers to cut the

glare of winter sun on snow, my hunting cap with the flaps down, and snowmobile mittens.

“
This isn
’
t church we
’
re going to,
”
I said.
“
You never know where an investigator
’
s work will take her. We might have to track someone through the woods. A near-sighted hunter is going to think you
’
re a bear and that
’
ll be the end of you.
”

“
I always dress up to go calling.
”
Cora Mae looked me over.
“
And it wouldn
’
t hurt you once in a while. We talked about the way you dress yesterday. If you want to make a good impression in court, you better change your attire soon.
”

I decided not to tell her about my conversation with Blaze. My best friend might agree with him.

We drove over to the far side of Stonely without incident, unless you count the dip into the ditch when I over-steered pulling onto Crevit Road and lost control.

I backed easily, if not exactly straight, out of the ditch and glanced at Cora Mae. She straightened her pillbox hat and cleared her throat.
“
That was a tricky corner,
”
she said.

We pulled up in front of a house shingled with asphalt roofing tiles that were peeling loose. A Toyota sat in the driveway, which I figured must belong to Barb, since no one

from around here would ever buy a foreign car. Detroit
’
s reputation as the capital of car country has nothing to do with it. It
’
s leftover bad feelings from World War
II.
Stonely folks drive Fords, sometimes GMs, but never a Japanese car or a German car. Grandma Johnson says,
“
Remember Pearl Harbor?
”
She checks labels and tags before buying clothes so she doesn
’
t accidentally buy something made in Japan.
“
Remember Hitler? No one in this family better ever buy a Kraut car,
”
she says.

She always looks me straight in the eye when she talks about Hitler, like he was my fault. At least she hasn
’
t called me a Kraut right to my face. Although she serves me sauerkraut every chance she gets.

Barb Lampi answered the door in a pink robe, her hair uncombed and makeup smeared around the bottom of her eyes, but she woke up fast when she saw me.

“
Yes?
”
Her tone sounded suspicious, her speech thick and slow in that Southern manner.

“
We came to pay our respects,
”
I said, waving to include Cora Mae.

Barb eyed Cora Mae up and down, and Cora Mae eyed her back, and I could feel the sparks boomeranging and whizzing overhead.

“
Well, you
’
ve paid them,
”
she said and began to close the door.

I stuck my boot in the doorjamb and called out,
“
Wait a minute, there. We need to ask Bill a few questions.
”

Barb leaned on the door, trying to close it.
“
Like what kind of questions?
”

“
I
’
m investigating his father
’
s murder. I need his help.
”

Barb opened the door, and, caught off-guard, I almost fell in. She wrapped her fist around my arm and squeezed, and I could feel the muscle in her grip, the surprising strength.

“
Listen, you busybody,
”
she said.
“
Get off my porch and don
’
t come back.
”

“
Or?
”
I asked. It appeared to me that I was being threatened, a daily occurrence lately. Barb
’
s throaty voice reminded me of a smoker. I sniffed her robe and thought I detected stale smoke.

“
Or I
’
ll call Sheriff Johnson to come and get you.
”
Barb still had my arm and twisted it, forcing me to step back out on the porch. I hoped I didn
’
t embarrass myself by dropping to my knees.

“
What
’
s the trouble?
”
I heard from inside the house.

“
Nothing at all. Just a saleswoman and she
’
s leaving.
”
Barb released my arm.

“
Bill,
”
I called out.
“
I
’
d like to have a word with you.
”

“
I
’
m calling the sheriff.
”
And Barb shut the door.

“
Did you see that?
”
I said to Cora Mae when we were back in the truck.
“
She assaulted me. And where were you when I needed help?
”

“
You looked like you were handling things just fine.
”

I huffed.
“
We
’
re going to have to tackle this problem from a different angle.
”

“
I can
’
t believe you stuck your foot in the door like that,
”
Cora Mae said.
“
That was aggressive behavior, exactly what you
’
re supposed to be working on controlling. I
’
m just pointing it out to you.
”

“
Cora Mae, an investigator has to do what needs to be done.
”

“
Just pointing it out.
”

We had time to kill, since our visit with the Lampis was cut short. Cora Mae wanted to go to the cemetery to check on the graves of her three dead husbands, all buried in a family plot Cora Mae bought right before husband number one hit the dirt. She bought four plots, thinking maybe they would have children and eventually might