The Goodbye Body (17 page)

“They’ll be out of luck. I dispose of them every night”

The technician picked up the case and the tool kit, and headed for the front door. “By shredding them, or just tossing them in the trash? Let me know if you have any problems with the equipment.”

Paranoia is not an agreeable sensation. I looked down at the black box, pondering what else it might be able to do. Secretly record any conversation within a fifty-foot radius? Analyze voices for abnormal levels of stress? Send alerts to the authorities if anyone used words remotely related to potential criminal behavior? Activate surveillance cameras that had been surreptitiously installed while we were asleep? Surely not in the bathrooms, but in the kitchen, hall, den, and patio? Had federal agents vandalized the Book Depot to cover up whatever perfidious acts they deemed vital to national security?

I stopped myself before I started speculating that the robins I’d watched in the backyard were avian agents. It was near enough the cocktail hour to justify a splash of scotch. I was annoyed to find my hand trembling as I took the bottle from the liquor cabinet. Earlier, I’d been uneasy—and with reason. However, I hadn’t felt that Caron, Inez, and I were in any danger, since we were not withholding information or dark secrets. I hoped that Dolly was innocent, but I wouldn’t have been stricken with anguish if evidence ultimately proved otherwise.

A guttural cry from the den distracted me from my disjointed thoughts. Most parents would have been alarmed, or certainly should have been. Listening to the ice cubes cheerfully clinking in my glass, I ambled to the doorway. Caron had the notebook. Inez was clutching her own neck and staggering backwards, her face distorted as if she’d taken a swig of vinegar. Her utterances were not indecorous, but they were highly creative.

When she finally collapsed on the floor, I said, “Have we arrived at a climactic moment?”

Caron looked up from the notebook. “Do You Mind, Mother? Inez is in the middle of a dynamite scene where—”

“Don’t use that word!” I snapped.

Inez recovered from her self-induced death throes and blinked at me. “What word, Ms. Malloy?”

“The d-word.”

Caron wrinkled her nose. “Dynamite? What’s wrong with that?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the black box on the hall table. “Just don’t, okay? I’m sure the scene was fantastic, extraordinary, and breathtaking.”

“It’s not an obscene word, Ms. Malloy,” said Inez. “It was invented by Alfred Nobel in the middle of the nineteenth century, after he found a way to stabilize”—she gulped— “the n-word by combining it with the s-word.”

Caron gave me a baleful look. “Some of us should be more concerned about the p-word, as in
peculiar.”

“Perhaps so,” I said, sighing. “I’m going out to the patio to make a call. If Sara Louise wanders in, please be so kind as to inform me.”

“You going to call Peter?” asked Caron.

“No,” I said, wishing it were as simple as that.

But it wasn’t.

I scooped up the receiver and went out to the patio. I was working up my courage to make the call when Caron opened the sliding door.

“It’s not Sara Louise,” she said in one of her better long-suffering, why-me whines that surely surpassed Job’s rudimentary efforts. “It’s these other people. Should I let them in?”

“Media?”

“Not unless they’re in disguise. Some old guy and a younger woman. I could frisk them to see if they’re wired with tiny microphones in their navels, but I’m not going to do a body cavity search.” She paused. “Although navels might be considered cavities, in the precise definition of the term.”

“I’ll handle it,” I said. “You might make better progress upstairs, where your creative flow won’t be disrupted. Make your bed while you’re at it.”

She stomped back toward the den. I went to the front door, where I found Daniel and Lucy Hood. Before I could open my mouth, Lucy said, “I hope you won’t think we’re presumptuous in coming without calling first. I did try to call a while ago, but got one of those insufferable recorded voices telling me the line was out of order.”

“Which stirred her up all the more,” inserted Daniel. “I told her this was a bad idea, but she insisted. If we’re bothering you, please say so and we’ll leave.”

Lucy nudged him aside. “Yes, I know we just met yesterday, and you can hardly consider us friends. But when I read that article in the newspaper this morning, I was so worried that I couldn’t stop thinking about you. What a horrible thing, and then to have that ghastly photograph on the front page! The media have no respect for privacy, and what’s more, they’re all idiots. I’m sure they stuck microphones in your face and demanded to know how it felt when you opened the freezer. That’s almost as tasteless as cornering some woman whose children perished in a fire.”

I stepped back before she could hug me. “It’s kind of you to stop by.”

“And then Gary told us what happened this morning. If I were you, I would have checked into the hospital and made them let me stay for a week. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Daniel held out a paper plate covered with foil. “Brownies are Lucy’s version of chicken soup.”

“Chocolate has been clinically proven to trigger endo-morphins,” she said as she came inside. “I like to think of it as a jogger’s high, but without the shin splints and sweat.”

“Thank you,” I said. I accepted the plate, along with the inevitable. “Would you like a glass of wine or a cocktail?”

“If you’re sure we’re not disturbing you,” Daniel said stiffly. I could imagine him rolling over in bed to pat Lucy’s bottom and express the same sentiment.

Lucy squeezed my shoulder. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you’re looking a bit haggard. Point me to the bar and I’ll fix the drinks. Bourbon and water, Daniel?”

“Yes, dear. Please don’t panic, Claire. We’re having a little party this evening, so we can’t stay for more than a few minutes.”

He and I retreated to the patio. “Nice place,” he commented. “Very peaceful, and with the wall and gate, secure as well.”

“I used to think so, too.” I sat down at the table and picked up my glass. “Have you had any luck looking at properties?”

“We’ve seen a few promising ones.”

Lucy came out with a glass in each hand. “And once we’re settled, I’m going to write a twenty-first-century version of
The Stepford Wives.
I’ll title it
The Stepford Golf Widows.
After that, I may update
Lady Chatterley’s Lover,
but with a greenskeeper rather than a gardener. May I count on you to host my premier signing?”

I remembered the last signing I’d hosted, which also became the author’s last in a different sense. She, like her prose, had been strangled. However, I smiled and said, “Of course. Then you’ve decided to retire in the area?”

“We’re considering it.” She sat down and gave me a searching look. “I have to admire you for remaining so composed. Are the police providing adequate protection? Will someone be patrolling the grounds at night?”

Daniel grunted. “Damned rude, if you ask me. First that woman who lives here goes off, leaving you to find the body in the freezer. Then some maniac makes an unholy mess of your bookstore and attacks you. The two events have to be connected. You have any idea who’s behind it?”

“So you can give him a good thrashing?” murmured Lucy. “Daniel has some very old-fashioned ideas. His staff cowers when he swaggers in every morning, fuming about the difficulty in finding a parking place. The men avoid him, while the women fuss over him as if he were a befuddled great-uncle.”

“Some of ‘em find me sexy” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Like that Sean Connery fellow. And so do you, my dear, even if you won’t admit it.” He turned to me. “So what do the police have to say about all this? That man in the photo, Lieutenant Rosen, for instance. He have any theories?”

“None that he’s shared with me.”

“What about this Dolly Goforth? Have they found her?”

“Daniel, stop it,” said Lucy. “The last thing Claire wants to talk about is all this. Claire, why don’t you come over for a barbecue this evening? The conversation on the deck is likely to focus on state-of-the-art putters, and in the kitchen on recipes and drooling grandbabies. Now that I think about it, it doesn’t sound all that intriguing, but at least you can get away for a few hours. We’d love to have you, and your daughter as well.”

“Did Gary put you up to this?” I asked.

Daniel adroitly cut her off. “Of course he did, but with Lucy’s complicity. Both of them ought to take a few lessons from the pro and get out on the course. They could expend their excess energy fishing balls out of the pond or trying to get away from the geese. You hit a ball into their territory, you stay on the tee and take a second shot. The last damn fool who insisted on retrieving his ball ended up in the emergency room.” He stood up. “Come along, Lucy. I need to pick up a bag of charcoal, and once you’re in the store, you’ll think of two dozen things you need.”

She finished her wine. “Yes, dear, and I promise not to say a word when we drive all over town looking for some esoteric brand of charcoal.” She paused in front of me. “This must be a terrible strain for you. How much longer will you have to stay here before Ms. Goforth returns to answer some questions? It’s too much of a coincidence to believe she’s in no way responsible.”

“I couldn’t say,” I said vaguely. I led them to the front door, wished them luck in their search for the consummate briquette, and watched them drive away. I waited for a moment, hoping to see Dolly’s Mercedes coming up the hill, then returned to the patio. The telephone call needed to be made, and I was the designated dialer.

I took out the gum wrapper on which I’d written the number, and reluctantly pushed the appropriate buttons. To my dismay, someone answered.

“Velocchio and Associates,” said a female with a British accent. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to speak to Richard Hayes,” I said, wondering if she nibbled on crumpets between calls.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Claire Malloy.”

“And in reference to … ?”

“His daughter, Madison.”

My response produced a long moment of silence. I was on the verge of asking her if I should arrange for paramedics to utilize the Heimlich maneuver to dislodge a crumpet crumb when she said, “Mr. Hayes is in a meeting with Mr. Velocchio. Would you care to leave a number so he can call you back?”

“Heavens no, I wouldn’t dream of infringing on his time. I’ll try again in a few days.”

“Please allow me to put you on hold while I see if he’s out of his meeting. I’m sure he’ll be eager to speak with you. He’s very fond of Madison, as we all are.”

At least I was treated to Mozart instead of tips about pruning bushes under windows. I propped my feet on a second chair and tried to envision Madison’s stroll across the patio and out the gate. Nick had not described her as upset or particularly grim. She’d ignored him and Sebastian, but that was unsurprising since they were mere peons. It seemed likely that she’d either made a call or had prearranged a time to meet someone in the alley for a brief conversation. At which time she’d either changed her mind and left, or had been forced to do so. If the latter were true, she had not screamed or cried out for help.

Mozart stopped in mid-crescendo. “Mrs. Malloy? This is Richard Hayes. You wish to speak to me about Madison?”

He spoke briskly and with irritation, as though I’d stumbled into the midst of a top-secret meeting of global powers. I was tempted to reply in the same tone, but instead said, “Yes, I do. It’s complicated, but the bottom line is that she’s disappeared.”

“I am very much aware of that, Mrs. Malloy. When I returned from a business trip to Spain, the household staff informed me that they hadn’t seen her for several days. She’d mentioned inviting some of her college friends to stay at our place on the Vineyard, but the caretaker went by and no one’s been there.” He paused for a moment. “Do you have knowledge of her whereabouts?”

“No, and that’s the problem,” I said. “She and her cousin Sara Louise—”

“Dammit, I knew she’d be involved in this! Madison’s moderately intelligent, but Sara Louise is manipulative and too clever for her own good. She’ll do well in the corporate world, where the most important attributes are greed and ambition.”

“That may be, Mr. Hayes. In any case, Madison and Sara Louise showed up here on Tuesday—”

“Showed up where?”

“Farberville, in Arkansas. They—”

“Never heard of it, and I can’t believe they have, either. Are you claiming they simply showed up in some backwoods podunk?”

“I am not claiming anything,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’m telling you what happened. If you think this is a crank call, feel free to hang up and peddle Chippendale chairs and Grecian urns to blue-haired matrons.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Malloy,” he said smoothly. “I’m concerned about Madison. Do you have a daughter?”

“I do, and I know exactly where she is and what she’s doing.” I did not add that she’d yet to run off with a golf pro’s son. “Shall I continue?”

“Please do.”

He sounded grumpy, but I excused him on the grounds that the need to apologize had no doubt given him indigestion. Miss Treacle would suffer in the near future. “Madison and Sara Louise said they’d come on a whim to visit Dolly, since she’d given them an open invitation.”

“Dolly? Who’s that?”

“Dolly +Goforth, the widow of Bibi Goforth, who presumably was a relative of yours. The girls referred to him as Uncle Bibi.”

“Oh, Bibi, sure. He was an old family friend, not related. So they came to visit Dolly. That’s very interesting. Just how do you fit into this, Mrs. Malloy?”

“Dolly asked me to house-sit while she went to see her sister. If the girls had come two days earlier, they would have caught her.”

“Indeed they would have. I gather you’re allowing them to stay there until Dolly returns, but now Madison has disappeared. When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. She’s called twice, but refused to tell me where she is. I’m afraid she may be in some sort of trouble.”

Now he was speaking slowly, as if calculating the weight of each word. “Have you notified the police, Mrs. Malloy?”

“Yes, but they don’t seem to have any ideas where to find her. Despite your previous assumption, Farberville has more than a trailer park and a cafe.”

“I’m sure it does,” he murmured. “What does Sara Louise have to say about this?”

We would have been on the phone well past midnight (EDT) if I’d told him the entire story. I settled for a vague reply. “She said she was unaware that Madison had met anyone who—”

“A man, you mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s what she said. She also admitted that Madison has done this sort of thing before.” I began to feel as if I were teetering atop a very slippery slope—with boulders at the bottom. “There’s not really anything you can do right now, Mr. Hayes. I just thought you ought to be aware of the situation. There is something I want to ask you about Dolly and Bibi.”

“And that would be … ?”

“Dolly told me that she and Bibi had lived near Chicago, and that he’d owned a factory before his death a year ago. The police can’t find any records or documentation that they lived anywhere in Illinois. Did I misunderstand Dolly?”

“Give me a minute to decide how best to explain this.” Apparently he’d given himself more than a minute. After an interminable silence, he finally said, “Dolly intentionally misled you, I’m sorry to say. She’s been under a psychiatrist’s care for years for bipolar episodes. Bibi was an accountant, not an industry mogul. They lived in a modest house. He did his best to curb her extravagant spending, but he wasn’t always successful. When he died, she came into an appreciable sum from his life insurance policy. As for—please wait just a moment, Mrs. Malloy.” He covered the mouthpiece of the receiver and spoke to someone who must have entered his office. After a few muffled sentences were exchanged, he said to me, “Something has come up that requires my immediate attention. I’m going to transfer you to the receptionist so you can give her your address and telephone number. Thank you for calling, Mrs. Malloy. I would appreciate it if you keep me informed of any new developments.”