The Cluttered Corpse (16 page)

Todd's voice over added:

“Questioning again!” I squeaked.

Truffle and Sweet Marie barked. Maybe they were upset that Todd could manage to infuse such innuendo into “Sunday afternoon.”

As the phone began to trill, I braced myself for another round of client cancellations.

The best thing about closets is that you can always clean them out when you have to clear your mind. They're always fair targets. I wanted to take my mind off Emmy Lou on the one hand and my collapsing business on the other. It was a week ahead of my regular seasonal pruning, but hey. It helped that I was mad as hell. Tuesday's not my regular cleanup night, but I was willing to be flexible on that. I spent the evening putting away my winter gear. I cleaned both pairs of my leather boots and stuffed paper in the toes. Fifteen minutes later I snagged one of each pair from under the bed where Truffle and Sweet Marie had relocated them. The dogs love seasonal cleanups. So many opportunities to make themselves unhelpful.

I put my winter shoes in boxes and clipped to each box a digital photo of what was inside. Saves time when you're looking for shoes on the top shelf of your closet. This makes sense for people with a few too many shoes, like me. I never said I was perfect. I stuck the boxes on that top shelf and brought down my warm-weather footwear. I set my winter coat and my casual jacket aside to take to the cleaners before storing in the basement. I examined my hats, scarves, and gloves. Anything I hadn't worn in the past year went into the box for the Woodbridge Winter Warmth Fund, a charity that I support. Someone might as well enjoy them. The rest got washed and packed. Possibly I slammed the closet door a few times.

“Charlotte?”

I jumped.

“Wow, what's all this?”

“Putting away my winter gear, Jack. Of course, if a person wears shorts and a Hawaiian shirt every day of the year, then that person doesn't need to know about seasonal changes.”

“That's not true. I wear cycling gear a lot. And I have lots of these shirts,” he said. “I suppose I could—”

“Oh be quiet. I should rat you out to
What Not to Wear
.”

“Whoa. Are you mad at me about that baby comment? I'm sorry. I was thinking about how I felt, and I shouldn't have imposed my feelings on you.”

“That's very modern of you, Jack. And I guess I'm taking my frustration about this case out on you. That sleazeball Todd Tyrell keeps insinuating that I am connected to Tony's death. I've already lost a bunch of clients over it.”

“Take a breath, Charlotte.”

I took a breath. And another one.

Jack said, “I thought you said you had a waiting list for clients.”

I made a face at him.

“Just trying to help. If you have too many clients, does it matter if you lose one? Maybe that one would have given you grief anyway.”

“I reserve the right to be miserable.”

“No one takes that Todd Tyrell seriously. How could they with that fake tan and those—how would you describe those teeth? Rushmore-size?”

“Todd Tyrell's cheesy chompers are not the point, Jack.”

“What is the point?”

I stopped and thought. “Aside from how am I supposed to run a business if everyone in this town keeps getting murdered, I'm worried about Emmy Lou. She couldn't have done it. And yet they hauled her off to jail and now she's in the psychiatric ward. At least WINY hasn't picked up on that yet. It's enough to make you weep.”

“Did you eat dinner?”

“No. Why? What's dinner got to do with anything?”

His face lit up. “An idle thought: How about pizza? My treat? I'll call El Greco.”

He picked up the phone and ordered a large all-dressed double cheese. He remembered extra anchovies for me. Jack has the gift for cheering people. No wonder people drop thousands in his bike shop. Or they would if they would only walk through the front door.

He said, “And I have a bottle of red wine downstairs. Be right back.”

Truffle and Sweet Marie positioned themselves by the door to wait for the El Greco guy. They love pizza, although it's not officially on their diet. They're not fooled if you spell it.

I called after him, “I might have some ice cream in the fridge. I'll kick it in.”

Tails thumped on the floor.

Jack and I got in a quick game of Where's Charlotte? Truffle and Sweet Marie managed to find me in the shower, behind the bedroom door, and downstairs in Jack's apartment.

Jack said, “They're getting faster. We'll have to put a bit of challenge into this.”

I could imagine myself hiding out on the roof or under the Miata one of these days. “Maybe we should quit while we're ahead,” I said. “Teach them to count or something.”

When the orange Neon with the El Greco sign on the top skidded to a stop outside, Jack and I were clinking our wineglasses. The dogs set up a racket at the thunder of steps up to my door. A guy with a buzz cut and a Celtic tattoo on his neck grinned at me. I got the impression he had a pretty high opinion of himself. The grin vanished and he yelped as the dogs lunged for his ankles. Jack snagged his El Greco orange sleeve before he could tumble down the stairs.

I snatched up the dogs and tucked them into the bedroom for a five-minute time-out. It's not like I can cut off their allowances. Or ground them.

Jack's a whiz with a pizza. He cuts and plates like an artist. “Charlotte. You can't let this stuff make you miserable. Your job is to help people. Put it all out of your mind. Let it percolate. Your subconscious will take care of it. This is time to relax.”

“Thank you, Dr. Jack,” I said.

I took Jack's advice and turned my attention to another project that evening: my former mudroom client. Sure, she'd fired me. But she was merely doing her job as a mom, trying to protect her children from being in proximity to a possible killer. I couldn't blame her for that, although I could, and did, blame Todd Tyrell. Even though I knew it wasn't personal. Anything for ratings.

I decided to take the optimistic view and start up a little plan in case she got over her fears and called me again. Most of my clients who had canceled during the murderous events the previous fall had called back. Including Emmy Lou. Sometimes it took a while, but it pays to be prepared.

I studied the digital pictures of Bernice's hallway, scattered with orphaned shoes, crumpled papers, forgotten lunch boxes, coats, mittens, and more. Bernice had been overwhelmed by this, but it seemed fairly straightforward to me. I drew up a couple of principles that I felt confident she could agree with if I ever saw her again: first, every home should have a pleasant and welcoming entryway, front and rear. It sets the tone. Perhaps that seemed more important to me because I didn't have it when I was growing up. I thought the children would benefit from a sense of order and control: their permission slips would have a spot incoming and outgoing, their shoes would be easy to find, their raincoats dry, their lunch pails devoid of strange green growths.

I knew it would help if there was a place for the children to sit down to get dressed and undressed and a spot for each one to store their gear, clothing, and papers. They each needed hooks at the right height to hang up jackets. I could only estimate the heights.

I sketched away.

I figured Bernice's family could use a bench with shoe cubbies underneath, a row of colorful hooks on top, and a gadget to dry wet shoes or boots near the vent. The closet could be reconfigured to stash the odd-size sports gear so it was out of sight but still easily accessible. The opposite wall of the entryway would be ideal for a corkboard to post notices, main family schedule and calendar with key dates marked, and of course, the children's artwork currently crumpled and curling on the floor. And each child could use a container for incoming school and sports notices, treasures, information, and a separate container for outgoing signed permission slips, notes to the school, and so on. I thought those could be inexpensive magazine holders on a sturdy, low shelf. If Bernice and her children didn't like that look, we could try a variety of in-basket/out-basket solutions.

I picked up my paint color wand and put sticky tapes on several paint shades I thought would be harmonious, welcoming, and cheerful without being jarring. Color is so personal that Bernice and her children would make the choices. I'd offer them a jumping-off point.

A couple of hours later, I had drawn up a plan for first discussion, shaded in a wall color, and clipped on sample pictures of cubbies, magazine holders, in baskets, and sports-gear organizers.

I sat back and smiled. I hadn't fretted about Emmy Lou's problems or my own for hours and I'd accomplished something. Jack tells me I'm born to help people, and I have to admit, there is a lot of satisfaction in it. Of course, I might never get to go over this with Bernice, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I put the project in the plastic folder I'd started for it and filed it away. No matter what Bernice decided, it would probably come in handy some day. And if it didn't, I'd had fun doing what I love.

Something tugged at the back of my mind and yanked me awake at three a.m. The dogs stirred resentfully. I couldn't go back to sleep. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if I would ever sleep through the night again. This time I had Bell Street on my mind. There was something about it. But what? I shouldn't have been surprised to have a fitful sleep, after an evening of sulking, more because of the television coverage linking me with Tony's death. I lay awake and thought back to what I'd seen on the WINY coverage. I made an effort to blank out Todd Tyrell's face as I closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct the scene outside the Rheinbecks' place after Emmy Lou's meltdown over Tony's death.

The cameras had panned to the crowd that had gathered around. Neighbors. Friends. Delivery truck parked. Patti Magliaro anxiously wringing her hands. Bill Baxter pacing and running his hands through his hair. I wasn't in that footage, but I knew I'd been upset and it would have showed plainly on my face and in my actions. We'd all had the kind of confused and distressed reactions you might expect. But when I'd reached Dwayne and the restaurant and told him about Tony's death and Emmy Lou's arrest, his first reaction had been anger rather than shock. Emmy Lou's loving husband had been red faced and furious, banging the bar with his beefy arm when I gave him the news. He'd shown belligerence instead of worry. Fury instead of panic. That seemed plain wrong to me. A nagging voice in the back of my mind kept asking what Dwayne was angry about. That would be the same Dwayne who had the only other set of keys to the house. Pepper would sneer if I tried to convince her about Dwayne's out-of-character reaction, for sure, but she might take the part about the keys seriously.

I flicked on the light. Three thirty. Aak. I got a dark look from Truffle before he burrowed out of sight. I switched off the light again, tossing and turning until a soft light filled the sky and I drifted back to troubled sleep.

First thing in the morning, I dropped off my dry cleaning at Klean and Brite in the uptown sector. I chatted vaguely with the pleasant, blowsy woman behind the counter. Next I cruised to the outskirts of town to meet with Gary Gigantes, carpenter, painter, and all-round miracle worker. In his workshop, surrounded by tools and half-finished projects and breathing in the pleasant aroma of freshly cut wood, I showed him my designs and requirements. He saw no problem with picking up the two dozen inexpensive standard bookcases. In fact, he figured he could negotiate a bulk discount with the supplier. And he could deliver them within two days of making the order.

“It's why I have a truck, Charlotte,” he said, flashing his endearing gap-toothed grin.

“Can you connect them so they look like long built-in units in each room, but still have the section slide forward to get at the units in the back?”

Gary nodded. “Nothing to it, once I figured out what you were talking about. I can attach some crown molding on top and a little flute trim to hide the joints where we stick 'em together.”

“Crown molding is lovely, but the first floor of this house is very contemporary minimalist,” I said. “Of course, the toy collection is definitely maximalist. I brought along these samples. There are thousands more where they came from. We think we're going to display them by color.” I passed him the wedding mice and the stuffed animals that Emmy Lou had dropped on the street in her hysteria after Tony's death and tried not to laugh at the expression on his face. I told myself it was to give him an idea of what we were dealing with, but I wanted them out of my tiny home. I missed the empty space on the top shelf of my closet. I also showed him some digital pictures of the inside of the Rheinbecks' upstairs rooms, crammed with plush occupants. I followed that with some shots of the elegant, magazine-quality main level.

“Okeydoke. I got it now,” Gary said. “Good to know the scope. Leave it with me. I'll use the compressor to paint up the bookcases, give 'em a professional built-in look. They won't be as classy as millwork, but they'll cost you about twenty percent what a custom job would. And the supplier I deal with, if you pay cash in advance, you can save an extra ten percent. Your choice.”

“Wow. And this will be ten times faster than custom,” I said. “Plus, once the collection is in place, the eye will focus on that.”

“Can't wait to see this collection. To confirm, you sure you want those joined units on casters?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not that good to look at, but I'll come up with something.”

“She needs access to the items stored in the row behind.”

“Good thing us guys like a challenge.”

“I appreciate that. And thanks for letting me jump the gun. Are you sure you don't mind? I know you have a lineup of clients,” I said.

“No worries, Charlotte. Once you told me the whole story why, I felt sorry for that lady, and this is a pretty small job. No one's going to notice they slipped two days. And if they do, too bad. You've brought me a lot of business this past year, and that counts for something.”

I left a message with Dwayne asking if he was willing to pay up front to save the extra ten percent. I had an idea that ten percent was the least of his concerns. Maybe that's why he didn't call me back.

I was getting used to that. I'd left several messages with Pepper over the fact that only Dwayne had a second set of keys to the Rheinbeck house, but no response. I had a feeling none was coming either.

Although I was turning my sights onto Dwayne Rheinbeck, I was well aware that I had asked Ramona to find out if Emmy Lou had lived on Bell Street back in the seventies. I didn't want her to think I was wasting her time, although I wasn't entirely sure that this question was worth pursuing anymore, so I swung by the library.

Ramona shook her silver brush cut as I entered the reference section. Her earrings glittered. “Sorry, Charlotte,” she said, inserting a binder and a pile of files into an oversize briefcase, “gotta run. I'm on my way to a meeting, so I can't chat. A planning session. We're up to our patooties in planning sessions around here. No luck so far with your request. When I was at the central branch, I looked into the older city directories. Back in the day, they sometimes listed all adults living at a residence. I found that a T. Wright did live at 7 Bell Street, but no record of anyone else. But you know, you might get some useful information at the high school. Check the yearbooks around the time Emmy Lou Wright would have graduated. You might find a connection, someone who can help you, a teacher, a classmate. They keep the yearbooks in the library in Woodbridge High. The archives are in the dean's office at St. Jude's.”

I shuddered when she mentioned St. Jude's.

“I hear you,” she said. “I know the librarian at Woodbridge High. So I took the liberty of calling her and saying that I had directed you there, because you were trying to track down an old friend. She'll be glad to help you out. I guess she doesn't watch the news.”

“You're the best, Ramona.”

“Not until I connect you with the rest, I'm not,” she said.

“You always give me great advice.”

“Here's a bit more: you might want to try to avoid the media.”

“Very funny,” I called after her as she strode toward the door.

A couple of library users glanced up frowning. Oops. Two dirty looks and one definite
shhh
.

Ramona laughed out loud and kept going, earrings swaying merrily.

Jack doesn't have creature comforts at the shop. I picked up some homemade Italian meatball soup to go and ciabatta bread from Ciao! Ciao!, Jack's Italian bistro of choice, when he can actually get out to lunch. I added espresso and tiramisu for two. He was going to love me for this. And that was good, because I needed a big favor that he would hate.

Truffle and Sweet Marie were thrilled to have a visit to CYCotics. Jack was equally happy to see them and his lunch.

I took over from Jack in the front of the shop while he wolfed the soup and bread in back. Lucky for me no one entered, as my product knowledge was near zero. Okay, I know that bikes have wheels and handlebars and brakes, I suppose.

But there were no customers so I made myself busy at the front desk, trying to create a little bit of order. Really, Jack had the latest point-of-sale equipment, machines for credit cards, debit payments, detailed receipts, customer files. Very high tech and snazzy. On the downside, the desk was cluttered with his scrawled notes, keys, invoices, odd bits of stock, and even a broken sandal. We had a deal that if a human being entered the shop, I was to let him know. But Jack had a customer-free zone that lunchtime.

“So,” he said afterward, “where are you hiding the tiramisu?”

“Not so fast, big boy, I need a commitment from you.”

“I knew this was going to cost me. But it's tiramisu from Ciao! Ciao!, so sure. I'll even overlook the fact that I'll never find anything on my workspace now that you've changed it all around.”

“It's organized now. You'll be much happier. Consider it a favor. And I can do more tomorrow.”

“No thanks. I liked it the way it was. I knew where everything was. What did you do with my invoices?”

I pointed to a now-neat stack in a basket that I'd rescued from under the counter.

“Where did you hide my keys?”

“They're right here. In plain view. I put them on a hook so they wouldn't get covered over. You waste time looking for them. Anyway, I don't want to argue with you. I'll put it back the way it was, if you're not happy. I want you to find out what Emmy Lou's husband has been up to with a certain beautiful young woman.”

“What happened to bring this on? I thought you were working for the guy.”

“I am and he seems like such a great guy, but a couple of things are troubling me.”

Jack reached for the tiramisu. “Such as?”

“His wife is obviously distraught and possibly having a breakdown. What else would explain her behavior? When I first met her, she was jumpy and edgy. Even though she kept up the pretense of being so professional and on top of everything, I thought perhaps she was afraid of something, but now I'm asking myself if she wasn't distraught about her husband.”

“She has a good reason to be distraught. Finding Tony dead.”

“I know. But Lilith and I saw Dwayne with that gorgeous girl at the restaurant. Something's going on there.”

“Can't always trust your eyes. You don't have all the background information. Maybe it was a dispute about business.”

“This wasn't business. There was something so intimate in the way he touched her. So I'm asking myself: What if Dwayne was not as besotted with Emmy Lou as she was with him? What if he was faking it?”

“That seems like a big logical leap, Charlotte, based on one event, if you don't mind me saying so. Can I have that tiramisu now?”

“When I told him about Emmy Lou, he got angry. The rest of us were panicky, upset.”

“Maybe he was angry with the way his wife was treated.”

“She was treated quite well, considering she kept shouting she'd killed someone. The police were respectful and gentle, given the circumstances. Remember you told me to let my subconscious take care of it. My subconscious is whispering maybe he decided to get rid of her.”

“Small logical flaw in the thinking of your subconscious, Charlotte. He didn't get rid of her.”

“That's the problem. Tony wasn't supposed to be in the house. Emmy Lou was out and then heading home for a meeting with me. Afterward, she kept saying that she didn't know he was there.”

“This is hard to follow. So you think the husband killed him?”

“I am saying Dwayne might have intended to kill Emmy Lou, who was supposed to be alone in the house.”

“But—”

“No buts. Hear me out. Emmy Lou hadn't told Dwayne the kinds of dumb-ass stunts that Tony and Kevin were pulling. I mentioned it and he seemed surprised. He said he'd tell Mrs. Dingwall, but he never did. He seemed a lot less upset about it than even Kevin's mother and the Baxters. Or me. Anyway, what if this time Tony got inside the house without Emmy Lou knowing?”

“You're heading somewhere with all this?”

“I sure am. Then suppose if Dwayne had rigged up something to kill Emmy Lou, say a booby trap on the stairs. Tony could have been caught instead. See? Don't blink like that. Not a good look for you. Too owlish.”

“Rigged up what? I thought the guy fell down the stairs.”

“I haven't figured out what or how. Then when I came along for our meeting, I'd have found the body. I would have been part of the plan.”

“Why?”

“Because I would have then told the police that the escaped toys on the stairs were a hazard and in fact were one of the signs that Emmy Lou's collecting was much more than a storage issue.”

“Okay. And you think he planned to slip into the house somehow between the time she fell and the time you found her and he would have gotten rid of…?”

“Exactly. The evidence. You've got it.”

“Could he have done that without anyone seeing him?”

“That would be tricky on Bell Street. Patti Magliaro seems to be out all the time walking her cat and—”

“I thought you spoke to her.”

“Not about this. I came up with this hypothesis overnight.”

“It has a nightmarish quality to it.”

I ignored that. “I didn't ask Patti if Dwayne came by. The older man who might be Emmy Lou's father is out all the time too, but I'm sure he wouldn't help. And the Baxters were coming and going. And she has a side view from her kitchen window. I have to check with them, to be sure that no one saw Dwayne.”

Jack perked up at that idea. “Try and get some more of those cupcakes if you do.”

“Because Emmy Lou was screeching that she did it, she killed Tony.”

“That's the part that doesn't make sense.”

“It does if she's trying protect him. In fact, it's the only thing that does make sense. Maybe she realized what was going on.”

“You think it makes sense to protect your husband after he tried to kill you?”

“She's crazy about him. He'd get life for this. She's going to try to work it out. She might even blame herself if things were going wrong in their marriage. This was a new start for her. A dream come true.”

“Huh. Don't get upset, Charlotte, but this sounds totally ridiculous.”

“There are some kinks to be ironed out. Can you go to Wet Paint tonight and see what you can find out about Dwayne Rheinbeck and the jazz singer? And even more important, find out if he left the restaurant on Sunday afternoon.”

“But why don't you do it? You seem to be attuned to the subtleties that I miss.”

“I would, but Dwayne will recognize me. He'll behave.”