The Cluttered Corpse (11 page)

She grimaced.

I said, “It won't hurt a bit. Let them behave as if I'm not here. It will be one morning and one afternoon, and then you'll be rid of me. I think we'll get a better plan out of it.”

“If you say so,” she said.

“Let's get it over with. It's not going to be a huge project, but it will have a big impact on you and the kids if we get it right,” I said.

She nodded and bent forward to pick up a form. “Drat. Here's a permission slip. There will be a total hissy fit if I don't go by the school with it.”

Bernice shrugged into her jacket, grabbed her car keys, and set off down the hallway to chase the three-year-old, who had vanished. “See you,” she said.

It seemed like the right time to leave.

Pepper had not returned my call. Was I surprised? I decided I would leave half-hourly messages with her and also try the desk sergeant at the police station. I left my cell number, although she already had it.

After I watched Bernice shoot off wildly down the street in her tan-colored SUV, I called Sally to report on the meeting, and I use the term loosely, with Bernice.

“Not sure she wants my help, but thanks anyway, Sal,” I said. I filled her in on the permission slip that put an end to our interview.

“Of course, she went to the school, Charlotte. She'll want to protect that child from disappointment. Do you blame her?”

“But shouldn't the child learn to look after her own permission slip?” I said. “She'll have a lot more disappointments in her life if she doesn't take care of paperwork. Our parents didn't protect us that way.”

“Don't be such a priss. Listen to yourself! Our parents were total jerks. We're lucky we're not in perpetual therapy. Bernice is protecting her daughter the same way I, as your friend, am trying to protect you from economic ruin because of your strange attraction to murder on the job.”

“Oh pu-leeze, Sal,” I said. “I so don't need protection.”

I sat in the Miata collecting my thoughts; Bernice and Sally had given me something to ponder: protection. Apparently a powerful need in people when it comes to the ones they care about. I'd seen a small sample of it in a minor matter: a permission slip, not to mention Sally's desire to protect me in addition to her brood of children. Certainly, I'd experienced it myself, wanting to protect my client Emmy Lou from distress and injustice at the hands of the local police.

A sudden thought hit me: What if Emmy Lou was the one doing the protecting? And who would she be protecting anyway? Leaving aside the stuffed toy fetish, she didn't seem to be an overly sentimental person. Wasn't even in touch with her family. That left, of course, the genial affectionate new husband that she was so crazy about. The same husband who appeared to be totally inept when it came to getting past the police to see his wife and, worse, in getting his wife to talk to a lawyer. The same pudgy lothario I'd seen chasing after a beautiful young woman in a slinky red dress less than forty-eight hours earlier.

Dwayne Rheinbeck.

Where had our boy Dwayne been on the Sunday afternoon before all hell broke loose? Hanging around Wet Paint during the quiet period between lunch and dinner? Maybe. Maybe not. Dwayne would have known that I had an appointment with Emmy Lou. And he, unlike Tony and Kevin, was intelligent enough to pull off the prank call to keep me away until the damage was done. Of course, I had no idea why he would kill Tony. But since the law didn't seem to be one tiny bit interested, maybe it was time for me to find out.

I decided, as Dwayne was now my chief suspect, that I should stay close to him. I squealed up in front of Wet Paint hoping it would be open for Monday lunch. Lots of Woodbridge restaurants are closed on Mondays, but this wasn't one of them. I figured Dwayne was doing his best to build a business. That was convenient for me.

The young server who Lilith knew zipped off to the kitchen to tell Dwayne I was there to see him. A minute later, the kitchen door opened and he barreled out. He gestured me over to a table on the side as the servers set the tables up for an anticipated crowd at lunch. Salt, pepper, silverware, napkins were being set out at speed.

“Any luck?” I said, trying to keep my smile natural.

“Luck?”

“With getting Emmy Lou to talk to a lawyer.”

“Not yet.”

I nodded. “How did your parents take it?”

“I haven't had the guts to tell them yet. I'll be heading back over to the jail to try to see her as soon as I finish talking to the kitchen staff. The place might have to run itself while we get this whole thing sorted out.”

I fixed him with a look. “Have you thought that maybe she's protecting someone.”

He stared. “Who?”

Was that a look of guilt?

“I don't know. Bill Baxter hated those two guys on the other side of you. Tony and Kevin.” Of course, I didn't believe for a second that Emmy Lou was protecting her nutty neighbor Bill. I had Dwayne on the brain for this.

His mouth hung open for a second before he sputtered, “Bill Baxter? But we hardly know him. He's a neighbor. You don't let yourself get locked up because you feel sorry for the guy next door. That doesn't make sense.”

“What about Kevin? Emmy Lou went way back with him.”

Dwayne shook his head. “Nah. I can't imagine it. She's known him since he was a kid. And he is one weird little guy, but I would have said harmless. But if he'd killed his sleazy buddy, why would Emmy want to protect him by confessing? I could understand if she told the police it wasn't his fault. He's obviously not normal, so they're not going to treat him as a murderer. He's like a child. But that confession is bizarre. And it's not like her at all. Maybe you're right.”

“We have to try to find out.”

“Okay, I'll keep you posted once I get over there again.”

I reached up and patted his shoulder sympathetically. A nice guy. A pudgy, gentle lump, worried about his wife. Caring, concerned, confused.

I had no problem whatsoever understanding why Emmy Lou would protect him from a murder charge.

I didn't get far before my phone rang. I pulled over to take the call.

Pepper.

“Perfect timing,” I said, “We need to talk.”

“Better not be about the Tony Starkman murder.”

“Why not? I don't think it's so simple. I have this theory that—”

“No.”

“It will only take a minute, Pepper.” I am used to getting negatives from her. But it takes more than that to stop me. If I let Pepper determine my state of mind, I would have crawled into a hole and died four years earlier.

She said, “No minute. No theory. No Charlotte involved in any way in this case. Because I have enough to deal with without you mincing around making a mess of things. Is that clear?”

Mincing? That was a low blow. I don't mince. Or make messes.

She wasn't finished apparently. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. It will be nice not seeing you.”

At that point in a “conversation” with Pepper, I usually hear a dial tone. This call was no different.

Fine.

I wasn't sure how to handle getting my idea that Emmy Lou was protecting Dwayne from my head into Pepper's, but I'd have to work on that.

Before I could put the Miata back into gear, the phone trilled again.

“Have you heard anything?” I said.

“She still won't see a lawyer,” Dwayne groaned. “She told the public defender she plans to wave her right to a preliminary hearing. He doesn't think she can get bail, even if she asks for it. Her behavior's been too erratic.”

I asked myself how he could have found that out in the few minutes since I had left the restaurant. I'd had barely enough time to drive halfway home and to take that very brief call from Pepper.

“That's terrible.” I feigned sympathy. No point in alerting him to my suspicions.

He said, “I can't understand what's going on. If I had my way, I'd be sitting in jail in her place.” He did a very good job of sounding choked up. Maybe he'd taken a few acting classes. He added, “I'm sorry about all the trouble this is causing you.”

I said, “Don't worry about me. You have to concentrate on Emmy Lou. In fact, I won't be charging for the two visits I made to your house. I wouldn't feel right about it.”

Okay, that was dumb. I do have a rule that says I charge for consultations, one hour minimum fee, no matter what. I don't know why I said it.

“Why not?”

“Considering the circumstances, I can't. And you'll have legal fees and all that.”

He sputtered, “But I told you she won't see a lawyer.”

“I imagine she will sooner or later. I have another idea that makes more sense than Emmy Lou protecting someone.”

He said, “I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but almost anything would make more sense than that crackpot notion. No offense.”

“None taken. She feels guilty.”

I heard a whoosh of impatience from Dwayne. “Guilty! What does she have to feel guilty about? She's an innocent woman, for God's sake. I thought you were on our side!”

“I'm not saying she is guilty. I'm saying she
feels
guilty. Maybe Tony tripped on the toys and that's how he died. Or maybe she thinks if she'd reported him to the police, he wouldn't have been in the house. Maybe he came up behind her and she pushed.”

“You know, that makes sense. That's just like her. She's got such a soft heart.”

“Right.”

“But she's stubborn too. We'll have to find a way to make her understand she's not guilty.”

I interjected. “The police don't want me to interfere with the case. You know, talk to witnesses. That kind of thing.”

“They said that? Why?”

“It's a power trip. I'm a civilian, and there's a bit of history.”

“But you have a lot of insight. This notion that Emmy feels guilty, it explains everything.”

“Possibly.” I thought: Dwayne, if you get the police to reconsider Emmy Lou's motives, you open up the possibility that she may be protecting someone. And that someone could well be you.

He burbled on. “We can work together. The police don't need to know where I got this idea. Emmy wanted this project. It was important to her. I want you to go ahead and organize those stuffed animals. I'll pay whatever it takes. I wouldn't know where to begin. It will be something for her to look forward to. I don't mean to get rid of them or anything. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't like that. This way, I can bring her news about how the project is going. I think it will make her happy.”

I thought: as happy as you can be when you're in jail for a murder you probably didn't commit but for some reason want to take the rap for, like for instance, you want to protect your husband.

He sounded genuinely pleased to my ear, not that I trusted him. “Do you think I should keep it a secret and surprise her when they let her out?”

Pepper Monahan wasn't likely to let Emmy Lou off the hook. She'd made sergeant in record time and was well on her way to being the first female lieutenant in the history of Woodbridge. Letting confessed murderers slip wouldn't fit in well with her career plan. She would have a solid sheaf of evidence for the prosecution. If Emmy Lou ever went to trial.

“There's a hitch. Actually, I can't do the project without Emmy Lou in the loop. I have to organize them to suit her. And she'll want it to suit you too, of course.”

“I told you, the toys don't bother me. It's all my fault that she let the collection get out of control. You get started and we'll take it from there.”

“I need an inventory. I have a colleague who can help me.”

“Listen, feel free. We've got no secrets. Look everywhere. You want that in writing?”

“I do actually.”

“You got it. When can you start?”

“Whenever you want me to.”

“Soon as possible. I'll get you a set of keys made. I'm going to talk to the cops again. Even if Emmy Lou doesn't want to see that lawyer you recommended, I'll find someone. I have to do what I can to protect her from whatever she's trying to do to herself. So let's get going.”

I said, “I'll need your cell number, in case of a hitch. Never mind. It's showing on my phone.”

“Are you free this afternoon around three?”

“Sorry, I have a client booked for that time. How about this evening?”

“That won't work. I'm shorthanded at the restaurant. How about tomorrow morning around ten?”

“Sounds perfect.” That gave me the amount of time I needed to talk to a few more people.

“Hello,” I said as she came to the door. “I'm—”

“I know who you are,” Mrs. Dingwall said, looking down at me. She was taller than I'd realized when I'd seen her from a distance. She looked more like a stereotypical American grandmother with her white hair in a no-nonsense blunt cut. Maybe someone from a Norman Rockwell illustration, bright cheeks matching her red, work-worn hands with their large knuckles. Today's apron was periwinkle blue cotton.

“Oh.”

I wilted briefly under her stern gaze. I wondered if she'd been the person to call the police and claim that I'd threatened Kevin and Tony.

“I'm Myrna Dingwall. What can I do for you?” she said. She sounded curious, not stern.

“I wanted to see how Kevin was doing. I met him the other day with Tony, and I could see yesterday how distressed he was, when Tony was, um, found.”

She nodded and let a smile slip out. “That's very kind of you. Come in. I have coffee on, if you'd like some.”

She spoke softly, her words almost musical, a storytelling, child-soothing kind of voice.

I entered, feeling guilty.

“Have a seat. Be right with you.” She gestured to the living room. I would have preferred to follow her, although you can put that down to pure nosiness on my part, but I sat. There was no sign of Kevin. The house was in much better shape than the Baxters', nothing patched with duct tape, although it was not at all trendy like Emmy Lou's. It seemed like a nice old family home: well worn, comfortable, and unpretentious. I sat on the sofa and waited. The room was full of framed photos, mostly of Kevin. I got up again and made my way around the perimeter of the room, studying each one: a smiling baby, held by Mrs. Dingwall twenty years younger. Another one of Mrs. Dingwall with a large-eyed, dark-haired infant. I hadn't realized that Kevin might have a brother or sister. Even then Mrs. Dingwall had been an older mother. Was that why he had problems? I wondered briefly if I should pay more attention to that biological clock. I shook my head to stop that thought. Anyway, Emmy Lou had said it was oxygen deprivation at birth, something like that.

I leaned in to study a shy little boy holding a lunch pail. A school photo, big grin despite two missing teeth. The little boy morphed into a gangling teenager. A cluster of faded photos going back generations indicated that Mrs. Dingwall cared about family.

She arrived carrying a tray loaded with coffee, cream, and sugar. I'm an old-fashioned girl. I like trays and blue and yellow china cups. They remind me of a more gracious era.

“Lovely photos,” I said.

“Mmm.” She hummed as she poured the coffee and I helped myself to a bit of cream. Why not? I think it reduces stress, and I certainly had been feeling stressed, facing Kevin's mother and thinking she'd accused me of threatening the boys. It was obvious from her behavior that she had no idea about what they had done to Emmy Lou or about my relationship with them. Whoever had called in that complaint, it wasn't Mrs. Dingwall. That was quite a relief to me, because it meant we could have a conversation that might produce the information I needed. I decided the baby pictures would be a good place to seek common ground.

“My friend is expecting her fourth child. She has three little girls. Maybe this one will be a boy. Kevin was a beautiful baby.”

“He was a sweetheart.” She was almost beautiful when that wide smile cut across her weathered face.

“I didn't realize that he had a brother,” I said, pointing at the other picture in which a brown-haired, thinner Mrs. Dingwall held the other baby who stared at the camera with huge dark eyes. “He was adorable too.”

The smile vanished. “That was Keiran,” she said. “My first. He had a hole in his little heart. He was a brave wee fellow and he put up a good fight, but he didn't make it. Nowadays, they can do so much; they could probably have saved him, but thirty years ago, well…”

“I am so sorry.”

She said, “These things happen more often than you'd think. People love and want their babies and they lose them, and other people throw theirs away. This world can be a strange place.” She busied herself pouring her coffee. “My husband never got over it. I suppose I didn't either.”

“How is Kevin today?” I said after a while. “He seemed very upset yesterday.”

Her smile faded. “Not good. What can you expect? He lost his friend.”

I hesitated. I wondered how much Mrs. Dingwall knew about Tony.

She said, “At least he didn't have to find Tony dead. Didn't have to see the body. I feel so sorry for you.”

I blinked.

She said, “It must have been awful for you.”

“How did you know that I found him?”

“The same way I knew who you were. I saw the report on the news,” she added. “Even though we were next door, you couldn't tell anything with all the police cars and ambulances and the sirens and everything. Todd Tyrell said you found the body.”

“Ah yes, of course. I imagine everyone in town will have seen that. And it
was
terrible.”

“Would you like a shortbread? Old family recipe.”

Anyone who thinks that American women are no longer spending time in the kitchen hasn't dropped in to visit Woodbridge lately, that's all I can say.

I accepted. “Worse for Emmy Lou Rheinbeck,” I said.

She frowned. “Yes. That was very strange. I can't imagine what happened there. Why would the police keep her in?”

I said, “She said that she'd killed Tony. Of course, I—”

“She couldn't have. That's impossible. They didn't mention it on the TV last night. Todd Tyrell said that she was being questioned. I thought perhaps the—”

“So you know her well then?”

“Well enough to know that she couldn't kill Tony.”

“You didn't hear anything yesterday? See anything?”

She shook her head. “No, the police have been by asking the same thing. We left around noon. We went to visit my mother. She's in a nursing home half hour away, and we go every Sunday and take her a nice lunch. I wash her clothing too and I bring that back to her. The laundry at the nursing home can destroy anything in two weeks.”