The Goodbye Body (18 page)

Mozart took over. I drummed my fingers on the table until the receptionist came on the line. After I’d given her the information, I turned off the phone and leaned back, attempting to sort out what he’d told me—and what he hadn’t. He certainly hadn’t been upset over Madison’s disappearance. He hadn’t demanded details or threatened to call the police or the FBI. Then again, he hadn’t denied that she’d done this sort of thing before. He was annoyed, but not alarmed.

I wasn’t sure what to make of his explanation concerning Dolly and Bibi. Dolly had lied to me and allowed me to make erroneous assumptions. Then again, evasive and psychotic were not interchangeable. Bibi Goforth had not died in Illinois, but she could have kept her maiden name when they were married. Bibi was a nickname; his last name could have been anything. Bernard Mordella came to mind. Ergo, Petrolli had been Bibi’s brother, and therefore Dolly’s brother-in-law. The one whose name she didn’t recognize. Oh,
that
brother-in-law.

But she had recognized the name, despite her disavowal. She’d tried to explain away the call to the Fritz Motel, but she’d been unable to come up with anything remotely convincing to explain her possession of the cell phone. And so she’d created interference to end the conversation. Peter would have traced the origin of the call by now, as well as received more information from the Brooklyn police. And learned that I’d called a number in New York City, then failed to tape it. Which meant he’d be in a full-blown swivet when he arrived in a couple of hours.

I definitely needed an excuse that would soothe the savage beast. Technological ignorance would not cut it. I’d spent entirely too much time adamantly maintaining that I didn’t have a concussion to offer it as an explanation. And if I did, Peter would insist on hustling me to the emergency room, where I would be exposed to every airborne virus known to the AMA. Sick people, I thought testily, should be quarantined at first sniffle.

The telephone rang. I froze, gaping at it as if it had reared back and bared its fangs. I allowed it to ring a second time before I answered it with a wary “Hello?”

“Hey, Mrs. Malloy, this is Aly. Is Caron there?”

“Yes, she is,” I said weakly.

“Are you okay? You sound funny.”

“I’m fine, Aly. It’ll take me a minute to find Caron and Inez.” I carried the receiver to the door of the den, where great leaps of literary lionizing had given way to pretzels and sodas. “It’s for you,” I said. “Aly.”

Caron shrugged. “Tell her I’m busy.”

I dropped the receiver in her lap. “Tell her yourself.”

“The only reason she’s calling,” Inez said in case I was too dim to grasp the political significance of the call, “is because she saw your picture in the newspaper this morning. That’s why she knew to call this number.”

“You saw the picture?” I said.

Inez nodded. “At the police station.”

“What do you want?” Caron said into the receiver. After a pause, she said, “Yeah, I suppose so, but only if you bring a pizza. And you’ll have to leave when Lieutenant Rosen arrives to interview me again. Inez and I are the key witnesses, you know. We spent half the day at the police department being questioned by detectives and looking at mug shots. Luckily, we were able to assist them in identifying the victim. You won’t read any of that in the newspaper, though. Our lives are in danger until they catch the murderer.”

“Tell her we’re in the witness protection program,” whispered Inez.

I retreated to my bedroom to lie down and read. Eventually the vicar engaged my attention, and I dozed off during his explanation of why he’d forgotten to tape the conversation he’d had with Lady Pompousass concerning the pain pills he’d inadvertently given to her beloved mutt, Mott.

An hour later I was awakened by the sound of squeals, giggles, and the sort of music that I had not yet learned to appreciate. I went to the window and looked down at the patio, where Caron and Inez were holding court. Aly, Emily, Carrie, and Ashley seemed properly impressed by the recitation that had no doubt escalated to a climactic crisis that involved gunfire from rooftops and a dozen thugs coming over the wall. I hoped Caron and Inez would not decide to print brochures and lead walking tours of the crime scene. Caron had shown promise of developing into an entrepreneur at the age of eight, when a child down the block had opened a lemonade stand one summer. Caron had opened her own the following day, but her lemonade was garnished with maraschino cherries and paper umbrellas—and at half the price. Net profits had been minimal, but the competition had been vanquished.

The doorbell warbled. When no one on the patio so much as twitched, I went downstairs and opened the door. The van from the television station was parked by the front walk, and a camera was aimed at the perky reporter as she backed off the porch and pointed dramatically at the garage door. “As you can see,” she gushed to her unseen audience, “the investigation is continuing on Dogwood Lane, where the victim was found crammed in the freezer only yesterday.” She gestured at me. “Mrs. Claire Malloy, owner of a bookstore here in Farberville, told reporters that she’d gone to the freezer to take out steaks for dinner. Mrs. Malloy, have the police identified the victim yet?”

“You’ll have to ask them,” I said.

“Can you tell us exactly what you thought when you saw the victim? Were you surprised?”

I stared at her. “Of course I was surprised.”

“Did you realize immediately that he was dead?”

“I didn’t check his vitals, if that’s what you mean. That’s all I have to say. This is private property. Please leave immediately.”

The reporter pouted for a brief second, then turned back to the camera. “This is Silkie Solomon for KFAR, on the scene of the brutal murder that took place yesterday, only a few blocks away from the football stadium. We’ll have an update at ten, when we hope to have more details for you. Now, back to Edward in the studio with a report on the bass fishing tournament this weekend.” She handed her microphone to an underling and took a compact out of her pocket to examine her face. “Damn,” she muttered, “I look like that friggin’ reindeer in the song. Pack it up, guys. I need to pee.” I closed the door, berating myself for answering her insipid questions but deeply grateful Caron or Inez had not heard the doorbell. I dithered for a moment, then found the receiver in the den and called Peter’s number at the PD. Jorgeson answered. “Lieutenant Rosen’s office.” I identified myself and told him about the KFAR episode. “Is there any hope you can send someone here to thwart the media? Every time I glance at a window, I expect to see an inquisitive face or a camera. It’s only a matter of time before they discover the gate’s not padlocked. I feel like we’re in a goldfish bowl. Or maybe I’m going stir-crazy, Jorgeson.” “You’ve only been there since noon, Ms. Malloy.” “I’m aware of that,” I said, “but I’m about to start chewing my toenails. If you can send an officer to keep an eye on the girls and their friends, I can at least go to the grocery store. We’re running low on olives and gorgonzola. Thirty minutes, Jorgeson, that’s all I’m asking.” “The lieutenant won’t like it.” I crossed my fingers. “So go ask him. I’ll wait.” “Can’t do it. He and the chief are in a meeting at city hall. The county prosecutor’s pissed because he can’t hold a press conference. The mayor’s been getting hysterical calls from women who’re afraid to open their freezers. The hospital administrator is accusing us of not providing adequate security outside the morgue. And by the way, Ms. Malloy, don’t expect a Christmas card from the chief this year.” “Then it’s up to you, Jorgeson,” I said meekly. “You can’t get in the Book Depot, you know.” I struggled not to sound exasperated. “The grocery store is my sole destination. A glimpse of sanity, the chance to mingle with those whose worst crimes consist of buying premium ice cream instead of sugar-free sherbet. 1 may even discuss the weather while I wait in line to check out. Thirty minutes, that’s all.”

Jorgeson considered this for a minute. “Okay, Ms. Malloy, it’s not like you’re under arrest. I’ll have a uniformed officer pick up a padlock for the gate, and then stay there in case the media show up. What you choose to do is your business. All I can say is that this meeting may go on all afternoon—or it may be over in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said. “One of these days, I’ll buy you a goldfish bowl and a couple of fish.”

“Don’t go doing that, Ms. Malloy. My wife has so many cats that I can’t keep track of them.”

I hung up and resisted the urge to try a few tango steps on the carpet. I wasn’t exactly out the door yet, but the officer would be along shortly. Caron and Inez could incorporate him into Act Two as their bodyguard. Everybody would have a fine time, including me. I decided my excursion merited a touch of lipstick, and I was headed for the stairs when the phone rang. Desperately hoping Peter had not returned to the PD before I could make good my escape, I retraced my steps to the den.

“Claire Malloy is not available for comment,” I said into the receiver. “Please hang up and call someone who is.”

“This is Christopher Santini, Sara Louise’s father. I need to speak with her immediately.”

He sounded quite as irritable as Madison’s father. Reminding myself that I was not a neglectful nanny who’d allowed the girls to cross the street without holding hands, I said, “She’s not here right now. Would you care to leave a message?”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She borrowed Dolly’s car a couple of hours ago and left.”

“Dolly Goforth’s car.”

I sat down on the ottoman. “That’s right. Shall I assume you’ve spoken to Madison’s father?”

“Yes, I have. I had my assistant do an Internet search, and he found a very bizarre story from your local newspaper. What the hell is going on down there—and is Sara Louise involved in some way? Her name wasn’t mentioned, but Richard said she and Madison are staying at this particular address. He also said you gave him some garbled story about Madison disappearing. Naturally, I’m concerned.”

I may not have elaborated on the story, but I certainly had not garbled it. Rather than point this out, I gave him a general idea of what had taken place during the week (omitting personality conflicts and catty exchanges). Apparently I did so with so much precision that he remained silent for a long while.

“Have the police identified the body?” he finally asked.

“A man from Brooklyn named Mordella. He had a record and served some time in prison, but has been a model citizen since then. Is the name familiar? Was he a friend of Bibi’s?”

“I do not socialize with petty criminals, Mrs. Malloy, and I have no idea if he was a friend of Bibi’s. It seems obvious that Dolly is the one to offer an explanation. Have the police located her?”

“No, but they’re working on it.” It occurred to me that I’d answered that particular question a mere zillion times in the past few days.

“Have they traced her calls to you?”

“Yes, they have, Mr. Santini. Now let me ask you something. The police have determined that Bibi neither owned a factory nor died in Illinois. Where were he and Dolly living when he had the heart attack?”

“Upstate somewhere. I don’t recall the name of the place.”

“Upstate what?”

“New York, but he didn’t own any factory. He was just an old family friend who enjoyed having kids visit him in the summer. He and his first wife had a son, but the boy died in a car accident and his wife passed away a few years later. We were all surprised when he married this second wife, but it wasn’t our place to dictate to him.”

“Because he remarried so quickly?” I asked.

Santini hesitated. “She seemed too energetic for him. Had we known about her mental illness, we would have intervened. However, Bibi excused her extravagances and appeared quite enamored of her. I know for a fact that he went into debt to pay for her psychiatric care and medications. Her past may not be as savory as she’s led you to believe. Someone told me she’d been married several times previously, and not to upstanding citizens. I was also told that she was involved with an agency that arranged fraudulent marriages with women from Eastern Europe. I can’t swear to any of this, of course. My wife and her friends love to gossip; they were convinced Dolly married Bibi for his steady salary and gullible nature.”

I remembered Dolly’s glowing face when she spoke about Bibi. She’d clearly lied about some things, but I doubted that she was a skillful enough actress to fool me. “I think she was enamored of him,” I said mildly. “The police are having a problem tracking down information about her and Bibi. Since he was an old family friend, you must know his proper name.”

“He died a year ago, Mrs. Malloy. Whatever is going on down there has nothing to do with him.” His voice grew icy. “Tell Sara Louise to call me the minute she comes back.”

“She said you were in Hong Kong.”

“I am in Hong Kong. She has my cell phone number.”

I hung up. Despite both fathers’ claims to be concerned about their daughters, they seemed more interested in the status of the investigation. The only information they’d shared concerned Dolly’s purportedly shady past. I wasn’t ready to buy it without more evidence, in that I would have to acknowledge that I was as gullible as Bibi. Humility and self-reproach are not high on my list of personal virtues.