The Cluttered Corpse (18 page)

I sat back and pondered this. On the one hand, it was good. I didn't really want Dwayne to be guilty, even if there were some strange pesky behaviors. But it left me without a good theory to explain why Emmy Lou was acting the way she was.

“You see?” Jack said. “Sometimes you are way off base. Are those Toll House cookies?”

“I'm not wrong. I'm incomplete,” I said. “Or my theory is.”

Jack leaned forward, probably salivating, “Can I eat one?”

“Don't get distracted. Here's the thing: he might have been there, but where was Bryony Stevens?”

Jack's hand stopped short of the cookies. “You didn't tell us to ask about that.”

Naturally there was no Bryony Stevens listed in the phone book. Or in the online listings. A quick Web search turned up a site and a few articles praising the jazz singer. Aside from a series of photos of Bryony at the microphone, always wearing the same red dress, the Web site didn't give much detail. Although you could click on the link and hear her sing. I did that. The girl had talent, no question about that. Her voice was smooth, almost fudgy, soft and sweet, but with a haunting edge. There was no address, no telephone number, no booking information. Nothing but an e-mail address in the contact section. If she had something going with Dwayne, I wasn't going to blow my cover by contacting [email protected] and asking her what she knew about Emmy Lou Rheinbeck and Tony Starkman.

I took the dogs for their midnight constitutional, made my to-do list for the next day, brushed, flossed, set out my outfit for the morning, and hit the hay.

For once, my subconscious gave me a break. I needed the sleep, but a bit of inspiration would have been good.

My to-do list was full. I had to touch base with Dwayne to see if the bookcase project was a go with payment up front and to see if there was news about Emmy Lou. Then I needed to check back with Gary Gigantes. I wanted to follow up on Ramona's lead on high school yearbooks. I had to return Rose's plate that had contained the Toll House cookies. A trip to Hannaford's was on my list since the fridge had an empty echo. And it goes without saying, I was itching to find out all about Bryony Stevens.

When I picked up the phone to call Dwayne, I found that he'd returned my message at two thirty in the morning.

“Go for it,” he said. “I'll write a check to Gary Gigantes and leave it at the house for you to pick up.”

I figured that Dwayne would be sleeping when I set out, but I let Gary know I'd deliver the check later in the morning.

My first stop was Woodbridge High School. I figured I'd get a better reception there than at my old school, St. Jude's. Getting into the school wasn't the piece of cake I'd expected. In the main office I produced picture ID, and recorded my name, address, telephone number, reason for visit. Even the time. I resisted the urge to make witty remarks about how dangerous I was as I waited for Eve Renfrew, the school librarian, to collect me from the office.

“Any friend of Ramona's is a friend of mine,” she remarked as I followed her to the secret hiding place of old yearbooks. She was about my age and had her blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail that bobbed as we sidled past tables full of teenagers who were more interested in each other than whatever they were studying. The library was a hum of hormones. Took me back to the bad old days at St. Jude's. Of course, that was why I'd chosen Woodbridge High for the yearbook hunt.

I found myself in a pleasant interior room where the yearbooks and other archival materials were held, along with filing cabinets and a photocopier.

“We keep them here, because they'd walk away otherwise. Kids find their parents or their boyfriends' parents. Or they find their teachers and decide to add some facial decoration with a Sharpie,” she said, bringing me the books from 1978 through 1984. In case. “Have fun. Don't feel you have to rush. I'll be out here in the trenches.”

I could see why Ramona liked her. Same no-nonsense approach and sense of humor. I could have used some of that.

I leafed through the old yearbooks, gasping at the hairstyles from time to time. So much mousse. So many mullets. Some of the students looked vaguely familiar to me. Woodbridge is a fairly small city and chances are some of these kids lived and worked in the area. Of course, they'd be in their forties now and if fortune had smiled on them, they had better hair. I started at the end of the 1983 yearbook and found Emmy Lou Wright almost immediately. The luminous smile and the shining green eyes hadn't changed much. Emmy Lou was heavier now and had long ago ditched the feathered hairstyle for her expensive bob. She'd wince if she saw this picture, although it was certainly the least of her problems at the moment.

Emmy Lou had been a beautiful girl. Of course, I'd already known that. I flicked backward through the pages of her classmates that year, hoping to find a familiar name, someone who might know where Emmy Lou had lived. Every one of the graduating students had completed the statement “In ten years I will be…” Emmy Lou had written, “In ten years I will be R.S.'s wife and the happiest girl in the world.”

I flipped to the S's and began to search for anyone with the initials R.S. I gasped. A dark-haired, arrogantly handsome face stared out at me, assessing, daring. The handsome features belonged to someone called Roger Starkman.

R.S.

Well, well.

I checked through the other parts of the yearbook, the clubs, awards, record of adolescent school life in 1980s Woodbridge. I found no evidence that Emmy Lou had taken part in anything. No debating or drama club. No basketball or field hockey. No academic awards. Nothing. Knowing what I did about this high-achieving woman, that struck me as very strange. But of course, people change. Maybe Emmy Lou had been a late bloomer.

I photocopied the page with Emmy Lou's picture and the one with Roger Starkman's too. For good measure, I also copied the pages that had any faces that seemed even faintly familiar.

Eve knocked and stuck her perky blonde head into the room. “Did you find what you wanted?” she said with an encouraging smile.

“More than,” I said. “I made a couple of photocopies. I realize I should have checked first.”

“Hey, what I don't know won't hurt either of us.”

Dwayne had already left when I picked up the check. I cashed it at my bank, dropped off the cash to Gary, and kept going. Next in my circuit was the Down Town Flower Shoppe. I chose a spray of brilliant yellow tulips for Rose and a deep pink azalea with a sympathy card. I zoomed off toward North Elm Street.

Rose opened her yellow door wearing a smile and sporting a brand-new perm and a jogging suit in an electric shade of purple. She had a fresh pair of sneakers that matched and, of course, her rolling oxygen equipment. She was accompanied by Schopenhauer, who was thrilled to see me.

“For me?” she said as I handed her the yellow tulips. “You didn't have to do that, Charlotte.”

“I wanted to. Those Toll House cookies saved my life last night. I brought your plate back too. Lucky no one ate it.”

“That was Lilith's doing, but I'll accept your flowers anyway.”

“Speaking of Lilith, is she around?”

“She's out at one of her gazillion jobs. I can't get them all straight. But you can chat with Schopenhauer and me.”

A tantalizing smell of cinnamon buns wafted by my appreciative nose. I glanced toward the kitchen and sure enough, I caught a glimpse of a tray of them, the glaze glittering as it cooled.

“Thought you might drop by,” Rose said.

I made the coffee and Rose took care of everything else. That's the arrangement we have. Rose is not as gifted at coffee as she is at stuff that comes out of the oven.

I heard the follow-up to her daughter's short visit and the newly made promise of a trip to L.A. and the Universal Studio tour. I guessed that was the daughter's way of making up for cutting the visit short.

Rose said, “I'm thinking about it. Been out there before and I can't breath that valley air. Nothing to do alone in an apartment all day either. You need to drive. And the girls are all so skinny. At least in Woodbridge I can find someone to eat my baking. Never mind, I'll probably go. Family's precious.”

“I'm glad you're baking,” I said, my fingers twitching for a cinnamon bun.

“What's going on? I got a complicated story from Lilith before she tore off last night. I can't believe you're involved in another murder. But anyway, I want the lowdown.”

I filled her in on the most recent developments.

“Terrible thing,” she said. “I can't believe it happened on Bell Street.”

I nodded because by this time my mouth was full.

Rose said, “I think I mentioned I knew people in that area. Of course, I used to know people all over Woodbridge. That was then. Things have changed quite a bit in my seventy some years.”

I straightened up and swallowed. I hadn't thought about Rose knowing anyone on the other side of town, although I wasn't sure why not.

“So who did you know on Bell Street, Rose?”

She closed her eyes. “Let's see. Feeneys. Mrazeks. Van Loons. Lots of folks, older than me, so they're probably all dead,” Rose said.

“Van Loons and Mrazeks are still alive, I heard.”

“That's a good sign. I didn't know the Wrights. You were talking about them last night. I knew Myrna and Fred Dingwall. He worked with my late husband. She's about my age, but he was older. So he's long gone, of course. Why don't you ask her about Emmy Lou Wright?”

“Um, I'm not welcome at the Dingwalls. A misunderstanding about her son.”

Rose couldn't muffle the grin in time.

I ignored it. “And of course, there's Patti Magliaro. Everyone knows her.”

Rose chuckled. “She's a good soul and a great asset to Betty's. I don't know that I'd believe a word she says though. Smoked a bit of funny tobacco in her time. She gets a bit more vague every year. But you know, I run into Myrna Dingwall every now and then at Hannaford's. I could ask her about this Emmy Lou when she was growing up. If that would help.”

“It would. Now I'm heading off to talk to someone I should have seen much earlier.”

I braced myself for one of the hardest tasks I'd ever done. I waited until after lunch, even though I don't usually procrastinate. “Do the worst first” has been one of my mottoes. My heart was pounding as I rang the doorbell to Rhonda Starkman's house. I knew I should have come by earlier to express my condolences to Tony's mother. But I'd found nothing online about a service or visitation. No suggestion for donations. No fund to help the family. It was as though Tony Starkman had never existed. And, of course, I'd hated the idea of it, especially since I'd had that encounter with Tony and Kevin. I was more ashamed of myself by the minute. For sure, sudden death can bring out the coward in us.

The woman who answered the door was pallid, brimming with sorrow, and wore her despair like a heavy garment. Her eyes were red rimmed and swollen, her dark hair streaked with silver. She was slim and neat though. I never would have recognized her as the greasy-haired harridan shown in the newscasts.

“Yes?” she said.

“I'm Charlotte Adams. I'm the person who found Tony. I am very sorry for your loss,” I said. I offered her the azalea and the sympathy card. I had struggled with the words to express my sympathy. She stared at the plant and finally reached out for it. Her dark eyes filled with tears. One rolled down her cheek, but she made no move to wipe it away.

“I don't know what to say. I love plants,” she said. She stared at me, then said, “Do you want to come in?”

I followed her into the apartment, which was clean, homey, and comfortable, not what I'd expected. A framed photo of Tony sat on top of the television set. A Bible sat on the coffee table, next to a stack of library books. No one else appeared to have sent flowers.

“I still can't believe it,” she said as she stood gently fingering the frame on the photo with her free hand.

“I didn't know when the funeral was.”

“They haven't released his”—she gulped—“body yet. I guess it takes a while. I can't stand thinking about it.”

I had a sharp stab of guilt sitting in this woman's living room under the worst sort of false pretences.

She sniffed. “He wasn't perfect, but he was all I had in the world.”

“I didn't know him well,” I said. I chose not to add that I had shouted at, and in some interpretations, threatened her son. Obviously, she wasn't the person who had phoned the police.

“Tony wasn't very easy to know. He had his problems. But he was a good boy, in his own way.” She flipped open a cigarette package and lit up. “Filthy habit,” she said. “Can you believe I was off these things since Tony was born? Now, look.” Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Not that it matters anymore. I felt I needed something.”

I had wanted to ask her some questions, but now the raw pain of what she was experiencing caused them to catch in my throat. Finally, I managed to speak. “Eventually they'll figure out what happened to him.”

She sighed. “What difference will it make? Won't bring him back. It was an accident anyway, no matter what they say.”

“You don't believe Emmy Lou…?”

“Of course not. She couldn't do that to Tony. Or anyone. I don't know why she's saying it. She's having another breakdown, I guess. I told the police, and I told that blockhead on the television, but that didn't get on the air. Sorry, have a seat. I'm not myself. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

I shook my head. “No thanks. I've had plenty.”

“And I've had way too much.” I had a belated flash of insight. This woman was nothing like the impression I'd had of her. Yet, I'd believed the images that flashed in front of me, even though I hated how they presented me: unfair, unkind, unreasonable. Looked like I wasn't the only one. “I guess the media is misrepresenting both of us.”