The Cluttered Corpse (13 page)

I rubbed my temple briefly, not that Patti noticed. I said, “Do you think deep down she wanted to reconnect with them?”

“I don't know that they were all that connected in the first place. Could be she wanted to spite them. Sunflowers, I think that's what I miss the most. That's what she reminded me of too.”

I raised an eyebrow.

She said, “You know, Emmy Lou: big, bright, full of color and life. She was doing well, happy, fancy house, beautiful property. She spends hours out there. It's going to be a wonderful spot in the summer. Anyway, I don't think she had a very good childhood growing up there. So perhaps she wanted them to see that she was happy, well-off, living the good life without them. Giving them the finger without having to lift her hand, if you know what I mean. Sort of saying, you can't get to me now.”

“Makes sense. And in a way, it might explain the two thousand plush toys.”

Bill was getting into his car when I strolled toward the Baxter house. He returned my grin. “How's Bonnie?” I said.

“Not so good today. Headaches. Any kind of upset is bad for her MS. After yesterday's upset, she's pretty anxious. It could take days for her to recover.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

A wave of worry crossed his face. “Yeah. She's real worried about Emmy Lou. I am too. She even feels bad about the boy, not that I can understand that. She says I was too hard on him.”

“Okay for me to visit? I'm in the neighborhood.”

“She'll be glad to see you. Got to say, I'm surprised you came back to Bell Street.”

“I have that job to do for Dwayne. He wants it done before Emmy Lou gets back.”

“Huh. Well, go on in. You'll make Bonnie's day. She gets lonely.” He opened his car door, grimaced, and turned back to me. “Be careful!” he called.

“Oh, I won't tire her out or talk about anything stressful.”

“That's not what I meant. I mean with Dwayne. Watch out for that guy. I don't think he's exactly what he makes himself out to be.” He slid into the Dodge and spun gravel leaving the driveway.

I was still wondering what he meant by that when Bonnie limped to the door. The smell of a thousand delectable cupcakes wafted out when she opened it. “Checking to see how you were,” I said.

Bonnie sighed. “Been better, for sure.” Her pretty heart-shaped face was greyish today. She leaned on her cane, knuckles white with the pressure.

“Hard to avoid feeling stress under the circumstances.”

She smiled wanly. “I'm not the only one. I keep seeing your face on television even though you managed to avoid the cameras.”

“WINY. They're relentless, but if they come up empty, they've got file shots.”

She glanced toward the Rheinbeck house. “I'm glad they're gone. WINY, I mean.”

“They're probably circling the courthouse or the county jail. Or sniffing around elsewhere. Speaking of sniffing, it sure smells good here.”

“Thanks. You want to try my latest experiment? White chocolate amaretto fudge cupcakes. I was playing around with new combinations to take my mind off things.”

“No need to ask me twice.”

Of course, my ulterior motive was not to eat cupcakes, although that was good too. It was to sound out Bonnie about whether she'd seen Dwayne the day before. All the questions I'd asked her before had pretty well flown out the window once I'd developed my twin theories: a) either Emmy Lou was protecting Dwayne because she thought he'd killed Tony, orb) Emmy Lou had accidentally killed Tony and was overcome by guilt and remorse. I hated both these theories, but I was pretty sure that one of them would turn out to be true.

The cupcakes were enough to bring tears of joy to my eyes. I said, “I want to become your best customer. Honestly.”

The smile lit up her eyes. The first sign of animation I'd seen. “Thanks.”

“Out of curiosity, who are your customers? I'm always interested in how other small businesses run.”

“I supply some of the new cafés here and in the surrounding towns. It's a delicate balance: every café wants to have something special, so you don't want to stock two in the same neighborhood. If my health was better, I'd set up a storefront, but I can't manage it now. Can't stay on my feet that long. I get exhausted, but it's getting better with therapy. When we first came here, Bill had to carry me downstairs in the morning and back up at night. It's been hard on him, looking after me. He's getting going with his business too. It takes a while before you start making a profit after you meet all your expenses.”

“Let me know if you decide to do a bit of accounting work on the side. My friend Jack could sure use someone like you. He'd buy your cupcakes too. Perhaps you remember his reaction yesterday.”

She chuckled. “Yes to cupcakes. No to accounting. Been there. Done that. Burned the T-shirt. Don't need the stress.”

“Oh well, for a while it seemed like the perfect one-stop shop. By the way, I meant to ask you if Dwayne Rheinbeck is a customer.”

“For sure. Emmy Lou set that up for me. Wet Paint was one of the first.”

“Nice guy,” I said

“Nice enough. She is the friendly one.”

“I've been wanting to talk to him about what happened yesterday. When you and Bill were loading the car with deliveries, did you happen to notice if he was home?”

“Home when?”

“Anytime before Tony's body was, um, discovered.”

“I didn't notice, but I don't think so. Why?”

“It's probably crazy, but I wondered if Emmy Lou might be protecting someone. And, if so, he's most likely to be the someone.”

Bonnie sank back onto the kitchen chair. “I don't understand what you mean. Protect him how?”

“I had this idea that Emmy Lou might have pushed Tony by accident, or he might have tripped if he was hiding in the house trying to surprise her. Or something.”

Bonnie shivered. “That's horrible.”

“Yes, but not as horrible as murder.”

“But wouldn't she have said it was an accident? That would make more sense. And everyone would believe her. I mean, he was huge, and if he lumbered out at her and scared her, then who would blame her?”

“Exactly. But she didn't say that. And here we are, nearly a day later, and her story hasn't changed.”

“Oh boy. But it explains a lot.”

I added, “Plus she won't see a lawyer. A lawyer would probably insist on finding other explanations. Dwayne told me she doesn't want that. That makes me wonder.”

Bonnie's dark eyes widened. “Because she thinks he did it!”

“You got it.”

“That's awful. I don't think he could have. I vote for the accident.”

“Anyway, it's why I asked if you noticed him around early that afternoon.”

“Oh. I wish I could help, but we were in and out, and we weren't looking out the window when we were around. Bill was giving me some extra help. We had an unusual number of special orders to yesterday. The only thing on our minds was cupcakes.”

“I'm sure you're right. Dwayne wants me to finish that job for Emmy Lou, and if I'm going to work for him, I want to feel safe.”

“Of course you'll be safe! Dwayne is a good guy.”

“I like him too,” I said, “but the thing is, Bill and Mrs. Dingwall both insinuated that things weren't as they seemed with the Rheinbecks.”

“They did?

“Yes. But you don't think so.”

“Not that I know. Bill is a bit paranoid. And I've never spoken to Mrs. Dingwall. It's awkward because of Bill yelling at Kevin and Tony. You'll be fine doing that project. I hope you'll come over and see me when you're there too. I get a bit of cabin fever here.”

“Be glad to. You know I shouldn't have mentioned those theories to you. I'm thinking out loud, and if I'm wrong, I'll feel like a rat.”

“I hear you. Your secret's safe with me. Want a couple of cupcakes for the road?”

Here's the thing: if you have a business that requires you to be on call seven days a week, then during those seven days, you'd better make time for friends and socializing. All to say, if you have something special to eat, you'd better share it. Jack was the ideal person for camaraderie and cupcakes. The fact that he had eaten an acre of them the day before wouldn't deter him in the least. I decided to swing by CYCotics before getting on with the rest of my day. It left plenty of time to catch Lilith and do a bit more research on mudroom possibilities.

As I reached the Miata tucked away behind the big Dumpster, I did a double take. The car seemed to be sitting low on the ground. It took a second for that to compute. Ribbons of rubber stuck out in all directions. I experienced a great big “Huh?”

All four of my pricy radials had been slashed.

I dropped the box of cupcakes and dashed forward. For a moment I thought that I might have driven over some sharp metal debris from the demolition. But as I leaned forward and examined them, I realized the pattern of slashes had to be deliberate. More than deliberate: they were deep and vicious. Who would do that? Workers angry because I'd parked in their construction site? But there were no workers, and even though it was private property, no one had posted a No Parking or No Tresspassing sign. This was Woodbridge and I'd had no reason to avoid that spot.

Who could have done this?

Kevin was very angry as well as frightened of me. I glanced over toward the Dingwall house. There was no sign of him. But then even Kevin wouldn't hang around to be fingered. He and Tony had loitered on the lawn after their crazy stunt at Emmy Lou's window. Waiting for what? To see the effect? I felt a chilly tingle down my spine at the idea of Kevin with a sharp object and a grudge. Was he as damaged and innocent as his mother and Emmy Lou believed? I shivered and shook myself. I sure hoped there were other possibilities.

Random vandals? It occurred to me, a bit late, that I was alone and out of sight, blocked as the Miata was by the Dumpster. I hurried away from the demolition site and stood on the sidewalk. For once, Bell Street was empty. Not a single pedestrian. Not a dog or cat walker. No one puttering in the garden. Not even the taciturn letter carrier. As I stood staring down the street, an orange El Greco delivery car started its engine near the corner. I waved the teenaged driver over and asked if he'd seen anything.

“Your tires slashed? Whoa. That's harsh, man.”

I let the “man” thing pass. “Did you see anyone?”

The kid shook his head. “But this street's getting bad, man. There was that dude got smoked yesterday. Right over there.” He pointed across the street to the Rheinbeck house.

“Yes, I know. But this doesn't have anything to do with—”

“If you say so. But there was a van that peeled out from here when I pulled up with my delivery. Do you know a dude in a white van?”

“How long ago was that?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

I would have been in Bonnie's. “Are you sure? That seems like a long time to deliver a pizza.”

“Tell me about it. You get these losers that have to count out all their change. Then they don't have enough because they forget they ordered extra cheese or whatever and they got to go sticking their hands under the sofa cushions to find quarters.”

“Any lettering on the van?”

“Not that I saw. A plain white van. There's a million of 'em around.”

No kidding. “Thanks anyway. Can you keep an eye on me while I check something?”

He hesitated. “Okay, but make it fast. I got pizzas cooling.”

I rushed back to the car as I made a call to my roadside assistance provider. When the tow was arranged, I followed up with a slightly hysterical call to Jack. Like the good buddy he is, he closed his shop and burned rubber getting to Bell Street. I reached for the note that I'd spotted under the windshield wiper, returned to the sidewalk, and waved my thanks to the El Greco guy. I was melting like an ice-cream sandwich on a July day when Jack's Mini Minor shot into the lot. He must have had it parked at the shop. He stood on his brakes.

“Stop consorting with the murderer or you will be next!” I yelled as he unbent his long frame from the tiny car.

Jack blinked. “What are you shouting about? I don't consort with—”

“Not you! That's what this note says.” I passed it to him with shaky hands. Then I caught myself. “Hang on. That's kind of hokey, isn't it? ‘You will be next'? Do you think it's a joke?”

Jack snorted. “Jokes are funny. Slashed tires are not. Threatening notes don't get even a chuckle. Someone was sending you a message, Charlotte.”

“That's obvious. But what does the message mean? I'm not consorting with a murderer as far as I know. Unless it refers to Emmy Lou. I don't believe she killed Tony. But people who watch the WINY news probably do. Or maybe it means Dwayne. I'm going to be working for him on the project. What if someone believes Dwayne was involved? All four tires. I can't understand it. I can't begin to—”

“I know that at some point you will take a breath and then I'll get to make a point,” Jack said.

“Fine. Make your point. Whatever it is.”

“It is that your tires were slashed with a very sharp object. A knife. And slashed by someone who was strong enough to do that kind of job on them. So my point is that you have to be careful. Someone intends to scare you. Or worse.”

“No kidding. I definitely feel intimidated.”

“That's a good thing. Feeling intimidated is the mind's way of telling you not to get hurt.”

“But who would want to intimidate me?”

“Any nut watching the news.”

“How does this alleged nut know where I'm going and what kind of car I'm driving and where I've parked?”

Jack put his hand on my shoulder. “You have to be careful. Maybe he's not a nut.”

“Then who?”

“Is that a box of cupcakes on the ground?”

“Yes it is. Pay attention to the topic.”

“Wow. Lucky it didn't spill open.”

“Pepper,” I snapped.

That distracted Jack from the cupcakes long enough for me to say, “Pepper. She knew I was here. She wants me to butt out of the investigation and not help Emmy Lou. She knows what my car looks like. And she hates me.”

“I don't think Pepper would stoop that low.”

“You're not just saying that?”

“It's not Pepper. And you know what? She's right. You should keep your nose out of this whole thing. And furthermore, you have to tell her about this.”

“No way. Then she'd know I stayed in the neighborhood after she told me to leave.”

“Yes way. But what
were
you doing here?”

I gave him the short version, emphasizing my kindhearted visits and Pepper's mean streak. Didn't work.

“Yowza, you have more to worry about than Pepper being angry.”

“Like getting charged.”

“Let's cross that bridge after we've had a snack.”

“Here comes the tow truck. Save the snack until we've been towed to the car dealership.”

In addition to rescuing friends and providing a shoulder to cry on, Jack doesn't mind lending his car. His heart is way bigger than that car. After we left the Miata at the car hospital, we swung by CYCotics so he could get back to work. My cell phone began to chirp as we were pulling up in front of the shop. Sally.

“Hey!” she said. “The ankle biters are feeling better.”

I said, “That's wonderful.”

“I think they'll conk out early and sleep through the night. I'm feeling better and Benjamin has a meeting. So guess what?”

“Come on over?”

“You got it. See you, say, about seven? I will be fresh and fragrant and ready for big-people talk by then. I'll call Margaret and tell her too.”

“Who was that?” Jack said when I clicked off. “Your client?”

“Sally. The on-again, off-again shower is on. Again.”

“Hey! When do we go?”

I might not have been able to accomplish much for Emmy Lou at this point, but I had plenty to do, besides worrying about what had led to Tony's death and who had slashed my tires. I had four new tires to buy. Of course, I also had to worry about mudrooms. I wanted to check out what was trendy in the wonderful world of entryway storage. I swung by my apartment and took the pooches for a good long walk to tire them out. I tossed them some dog cookies and made myself a sandwich. I poked around on the Net getting some ideas. I leafed through design and organizing magazines too. I checked my notes from National Association of Professional Organizers courses. Truffle and Sweet Marie wanted to play their favorite game. It was hard enough to concentrate without playing Where's Charlotte? Truffle was particularly miffed when I wouldn't. I immediately felt bad. My two cuddly wieners had been trying so hard to be good dogs. They'd more or less stopped hiding keys and shoes. They hadn't killed a sofa cushion in months. All they needed was a bit of challenge every day. It was up to me to give it to them.

“Fine, you win. When Jack gets home tonight, we'll play the game before the shower. It's a promise. Now where's my other shoe, Truffle?” I flicked on the television in case there was an update on Emmy Lou. Todd Tyrell's teeth filled the screen. As the camera pulled back, I could see he was talking to a rail-thin, sunken-faced woman with straggling greasy black hair. She was smoking intensely, and Todd moved back as she exhaled in his direction. I chuckled. I needed a break.

“We stand here,” he intoned, “with the grieving mother of yesterday's tragic victim, Tony Starkman.” For some reason he always sounds like he's either watching a space launch or conducting a funeral service. A long pause ensued as the cameras scanned a run-down street, a dilapidated apartment building, and an unbroken wave of graffiti on the street-level walls. From the look on Todd's face he wanted out of there before someone sprayed a gang tag on the back of his thousand-dollar suit. “What evil has torn this young man from the bosom of his family?”

A camera zoomed in toward the woman's chest and zoomed out again. She inhaled once again speculatively.

“You are devastated, of course,” Todd instructed her, “by the death of your only son.”

She cast her eyes down and turned away from the cameras. Todd tried again. “But this loss of young Tony is tearing you apart.”

Nothing.

“Do you have anything to say to the community about your son's death?”

She turned back to Todd and squinted, “Like what?”

“Like how you appreciate the outpouring of sympathy?”

“And I will too, when it comes. Are you going to put that on the television?”

“Of course,” Todd said, looking like he'd like to get his mitts on a flamethrower. “And what about to the person who is alleged to have threatened your son the night before his death?”

Her eyes filled and she shook her head.

A picture of Tony, at about age ten, flashed across the screen, an awkward, smiling little boy. Horrible to imagine a child dead. The picture was followed by a shot of me. Forget mean, I looked downright dangerous. By that time I could see it coming: the visual implication was that I was the person who threatened, allegedly, the poor innocent boy the night before his death.

Once I got my breathing under control, I picked up the phone and called Margaret.

“Not much we can do about it. The damage is done. People get away with way too much by using ‘alleged.' I can scare them into retracting if you want, but they'll keep airing that retraction and people will ask themselves if there's something behind it.”

“Terrific,” I said.

“Never mind. Hey, I hear the shower's back on tonight.”

“About that, I hope the three of us will fit into Jack's Mini Minor.”

“It doesn't matter. I have some running around to do. I'll come on my own. And Jack also told me someone slashed your tires.”

“That's creepy, isn't it?”

“For sure. So here's a thought: maybe you should stay away from those people on Bell Street.”

“I would, but I have to finish the job for Dwayne.”

I had a feeling that Margaret was rolling her eyes. She said, “And you should also ask yourself why you get so overly involved with your clients' problems.”

So much for sympathy.

I arrived at my mudroom client's house just as the school bus rumbled down the street. Lucky for me, the elementary school children in this area didn't arrive home until after four. I'm sure they didn't appreciate it, but I did. Two kids tumbled off the bus and raced into the house. Shoes, jackets, backpacks, and papers went flying as they bolted through the door. They left it open. One shot off to the family room and switched on the television. The other made for the kitchen, from where the smell of something fresh from the oven wafted through the air. I smiled at Bernice from the doorstep.

She stepped outside, her arms crossed in front of her. It's a bit of body language that you learn to read quickly in this business. Usually it translates into “Game over.”

Bernice said with a pathetic attempt at a fake smile, “I'm not sure this is the right time for us to take on a project like this. We're pretty busy.”

The changeable client is the only constant in this business, so that didn't throw me off. In fact, I could have lip-synched that dialogue along with her; I'd heard it so often. I countered with, “Why don't we get it over with? Won't take long.” I looked past her into the mudroom, where a new layer of debris was scattered.

She lowered her voice and said, “I will not be working with you. I don't want my children exposed to danger.”