The Corpse Wore Stilettos

by MJ O'Neill

  I put my key in the first of several locks and took a minute to brace for what was about to ensue. To keep from panicking my mom and Grand about my predicament, I would pretend that everything was perfectly fine. Our small apartment already held too many people with too many problems. Catholic guilt settled in my stomach. Under no circumstances could I add to the problems.

  As I walked through the door of our tiny apartment, the first thing that hit me was the smell of brewing coffee. This was unusual because coffee was a casualty of our current financial situation. Coffee brewing meant company. Important company. After the night I’d had, company was the last thing I was in the mood for.

  Chapter 3

  I quickly scanned the room. Our house had no couch, but it sported a lovely antique Tiffany lamp and several other nonfunctional but expensive sentimental pieces that Grand couldn’t part with. Grand was playing cards with Claude at the table I’d picked up at the secondhand store, dirt cheap. It was missing a leg, but we’d stuck Grand’s antique side table under it.

  “There you are,” Grand said, putting down her cards and jumping up to meet me. Grandma Waters was a small woman, five four at best. She claimed she used to be taller and that she was shrinking. She had shoulder-length pure-white hair with an abundance of natural waves, a welcome trait she’d passed on to me. She always coordinated her outfit with matching shoes and purse, and lately she’d taken to wearing sun-visor-like hats without a top to them. Some were made of foam with pictures on them and others of canvas, but she almost always wore one now, even indoors. She said it made her look more like a true detective. Since Dad’s arrest, she’d turned into a geriatric Nancy Drew. Not a day went by that she wasn’t following up some lead or angle that might help get him out of prison. Today’s hat was lime green with pink flamingos. It matched her lime-green jogging suit and pink purse.

  “Did you really steal a corpse?” she asked eagerly in her gruff voice. She quit smoking when Grandpa got sick, but her voice never quite stopped sounding like she’d swallowed a bullfrog. Now she toked on a fake plastic cigarette whenever she became nervous or agitated about her memory.

  “How did you know about...” As I began to answer her, a tall, good-looking man with an easy gait strolled out of the kitchen, carrying a cup of coffee.

  Staring at him, I let Maybell off her harness. She immediately made a beeline for her bed in the back of the apartment. The man didn’t even flinch as she waddled past him.

  “You must be Katherine Waters,” the man said, blowing on his hot coffee and eyeing me over the edge of the cup.

  “Yes, and who are you?” I’d had enough surprises for a while. I was tired, I smelled like two-day-old corpse, and I wasn’t interested in meeting any more new mystery men.

  “Katherine, this is Fletcher Reid, from the Post,” my mom said, following him out of the kitchen.

  “Fletcher Reid,” I repeated, taking a moment before the significance of the name came to me. “Misinformed truth-butchering crime beat reporter Fletcher Reid?”

  Mom glared at me over my lack of verbal filter, the exhaustion of the previous day overwhelming me.

  Since Dad’s arrest, one outlandish article after another had appeared in the paper under the byline of Fletcher Reid. Most claimed Dad was as big as Gotti. As if Clarke Waters, a man entertained by actuarial tables, could seriously be a mobster.

  “That’s him. A lot easier on the eyes than you’d expect for a two-bit hack, huh?” Grand asked.

  “Mother!” my mom cried.

  Grandma Waters was a chameleon. To most, she came off as the picture of a cranky old person. Underneath the gruff exterior, though, was a sweet old lady and then probably another layer of cranky that I wasn’t convinced had anything to do with being old. Much to my mother’s dismay, Grand’s crankiness seemed to be on full display.

  Mr. Reid looked amused. “Yes, that would be me,” he replied. A big, easy smile came over his face. His blue eyes almost twinkled in the light of the Tiffany lamp.

  “Why did you let him in here?” I asked, raising my voice more than I should have.

  “I didn’t exactly,” Mom said.

  “Claude and I couldn’t get the chair through the door without help.”

  When the cops confiscated someone’s house, it was supposed to be off-limits. The homeowners weren’t supposed to take things from it. Every time I came home, though, another object from our old life had reappeared. Once Grand figured out that no one actually watched the old house, she started making “shopping” runs. Sometimes Claude drove. Other times, they took an Uber. How they convinced a driver to wait for them at no charge, while they essentially broke into our house and pilfered some large object, was beyond me, but they managed.

  Today’s addition was a doozy—an antique pink Queen Anne armchair that almost looked like a throne. Selling these things would help cover rent, but I didn’t have the heart. They were Grand’s only link to her history. Plus, they weren’t even supposed to be here. The last thing we needed was an arrest for selling stolen property or, worse, tampering with evidence.

  “That was very nice of you to help, Mr. Reid, but I think you should be going,” I said. We were not giving an interview about my alleged corpse-napping to someone with a history of passing off trumped-up gossip as news.

  “Rule number thirteen,” Mom said calmly, glaring at me intently. For as long as I could remember, my mom had a rule for almost everything. Not normal kid rules like “Look both ways before crossing the street.” These were life rules, like “Don’t cross the street with someone you don’t trust.” They’d become so engrained, I often repeated them, either out loud or in my head. Given my indecisiveness, they were comfortable go-tos. They were also good for times like this when she wanted to communicate something subtly: Rule number thirteen—Perceptions are everything.

  “What’s rule number thirteen?” Reid asked, looking confused.

  “It’s a coded reminder for me to always ask how a guest takes his coffee,” I replied.

  Mom beamed a smile at him and handed me the sugar jar.

  “I understand you had some misfortune last night?” Reid pushed.

  “That would be one way to put it.”

  Fletcher Reid was so tall he was gangly. He looked like a grown-up surfer—thin with slight muscles, nice tan, floppy dishwater-blond hair, brilliant-blue eyes, and a smile that wouldn’t quit. His clothes were standard beat reporter: slacks, a casual button-down shirt, and what looked like well-worn comfortable shoes. Nothing pretentious, casual but polished, like a Land’s End model. I wasn’t sure if it was his actual persona or the reporter in him. He seemed to put everyone in the room at ease with his casual conversation and hundred-watt smile.

  “The tip I got said you were paid off to help boost the body.”

  “A 1992 study in the Canadian Journal of Communications proved that anonymous crime tips are of little value and that the offering of rewards may serve as a crime starter, with anonymous tipsters entrapping people to commit crimes so that the tipster can collect the reward,” I recited almost completely without taking a breath. I wasn’t at all put at ease by him and his boyish “Let’s go lock lips in the stairwell” smile.

  Fletcher Reid looked amused. “So you’re the victim of a planted tip to extort reward money?”

  “Look, Mr. Reid.” I attempted to change the subject.

  “Fletcher, please,” he interrupted before sipping his coffee slowly.

  “Mr. Reid,” I continued, putting down my bag, “I’m not at liberty to discuss the ongoing investigation, but perhaps you might ask yourself why, if I were in it for the money, I would have been stupid enough to let myself get caught. I’m now on probation, pending a hearing that could end with me losing my job.”

  “Probation?” Mom asked with only a slight inflection in her normal monotone, indicating her panic. The blurted mention of my probation starkly conflicted with her “nothing to see here” effort.

  “Oh boy. Homeless shelter
, here we come. Do you know what they do to old people on the streets?” Grand added.

  Before the arrest, she’d resided in an assisted living home not far from my parents, having been diagnosed with early stages of Alzheimer’s. Equally important, she was suffering from a broken heart after the loss of her husband of forty years several months before. The staff at the home and the passage of time had worked some magic on her. She’d met Claude Pederski, an adorable, bow-tie-wearing man who regularly brought her flowers and didn’t mind her bingo obsession. Of course, we couldn’t afford the home now, so she had moved in with us.

  “I’m sure your Harvard degree will have you in a new job soon enough,” Mom said, her tone breezy. “She was top of her class, Mr. Reid. Did you know that?”

  I glared at her. We had been through this countless times. My mother refused to understand that Art History majors weren’t rolling in job offers. The morgue was a good job. Plus, Mom didn’t like to talk about the real reason I was working at the morgue. Now wasn’t the time for another round of that fight, though.

  “Can’t you just give the body back?” Grand asked.

  “I didn’t take the body. It’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “Like with her father, you see, Mr. Reid,” Mom said. “Our family has been the unfortunate victims of a series of misunderstandings. I’m sure Katherine will get it all straightened out soon.” She beamed at him as if she were having her photo taken for Housewife Monthly.

  Apparently amused at the glimpse of family drama, Reid changed the subject. “Anything you’d like to share about your father’s investigation, since I’m here?”

  At that, both my mom and I cringed. The invitation to talk about Dad’s investigation launched Grand into attack mode.

  “Now look here, you surf shop reject. My son is being framed,” she yelled from the far side of the room. “If you really want to do some decent investigative reporting, you’d follow up on one of the many leads I’ve generously sent your two-bit hack paper,” she said.

  “I’d love to hear whatever you have to say,” he said as he took out a small notebook.

  A glint appeared in Grand’s eyes. “Claude, get the scrapbook.” Grand smelled opportunity.

  “I apologize, Mr. Reid. I’m not sure you realize what you’ve just done,” Mom said, effortlessly intervening in what was shaping up to be another headline-grabbing story in tomorrow morning’s paper. That was the exact opposite of what my mom had planned when she let Fletcher Reid in the house.

  “Look, look right here. Fletcher, is it?” my grandmother began, smiling up at him. Putting on her doting-grandmother act, she took his hand and led him to the table where Claude sat with the book.

  The scrapbook that Grand and Claude had put together was truly a monumental achievement. They’d included every article, picture, and useless fact that had been written about my dad’s case. Grand had also managed to link the crime to numerous other people and points of interest, from the real mob to a conspiracy involving NASA and extraterrestrials. For weeks, she’d been trying to get Dad’s lawyer, the prosecutor, the newspaper—really anyone—to listen to her, all to no avail.

  Now that she had Fletcher Reid in her sights, I figured I was safely off the hook on the missing-body issue. Grand smelled opportunity, and Mom would be busy mediating. As he was being sucked further into Grand’s world, I slipped around them and escaped into the bedroom. I needed a shower, some coffee, and a long nap. I turned on the shower and waited for the hot water to come.

  In our old house, I would have been slipping into the whirlpool tub. It was the one luxury that I truly, unequivocally missed. Well, that and the stylist I could no longer afford—Stan the hair man. For a couple of weeks following the arrest, he’d given me pity ’dos. Once it looked as if our circumstances might become more permanent, he’d suggested I find an alternative. Since I was unable to decide on a new, more affordable stylist, my hair became more unmanageable every day. Usually I wore it up, but ponytails gave me a headache.

  I showered quickly and scanned my wardrobe for something appropriate, pondering what exactly one should wear to hunt down a body. After several minutes of indecision, I put something on, stuffed my thick, curly locks into a pony, and selected a nice pair of Chloé wedges. In the event that I had to do any more running, they were a lovely choice. Yet I cringed as I caught a glimpse of my chipped nail polish on toes in desperate need of a pedi that I couldn’t afford.

  There would be time enough to mope about my circumstances later. If I had any chance of holding on to my job, I needed to figure out who at the morgue had it in for me, where that body was, and why McPhee had lied. He had been there to see DC, so that was my starting point. As Master Tahkaswami, my former spiritual advisor, said, overcoming adversity required action.

  Which meant that rather than taking the nap I so desperately craved, I instead had to find DC and the elusive Burns McPhee. I grabbed my backpack and threw in a few supplies—granola bar, which would be breakfast and lunch today, mace because it was a habit, and Grand’s Private Investigation for Dummies book, in case finding Burns McPhee or the missing body ended up being harder than anticipated.

  Mentally focusing on my new plan and visualizing my success, I marched out of the only bathroom in the apartment and crashed squarely into the chest of Fletcher Reid. In my wallowing, I’d totally forgotten him. He knocked against the wall, and I hurtled straight to the floor.

  He reached down and plucked me to my feet and gave me a once-over.

  “I thought you’d be long gone,” I said, putting some distance between us.

  “Your grandmother held me hostage, taking me through each of her theories on your dad’s case.” He didn’t look annoyed as I had expected, more like amused.

  “She means well. She only wants to help, and that’s her way. Plus, I think all the pictures and stories help her remember what’s going on. It was very difficult for her when we first moved. With her condition, she doesn’t always remember where she is or why we’re here.”

  I didn’t know why I was going on about it like that. Maybe I was trying to invoke sympathy or keep him from returning to the questions about the missing body.

  He grinned. “It’s okay, really. Underneath that shark attitude, she’s very sweet. And it gives me more time to get to know you better,” he said, flashing a Cheshire cat grin.

  “Did you know that while all other leading causes of death have decreased precipitously, Alzheimer’s deaths have actually increased forty-six percent since 2006?”

  He looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should answer the question.

  “In other words, she’s very fragile. So stay away from her. Stay away from all of us, Mr. Reid,” I said in an attempt to end the conversation.

  He leaned back against the wall as if getting comfortable for a long chat. “So what are you going to do about your probation?”

  “Why don’t you tell me who told you and the police I was in on the body snatch?”

  His practiced smile returned. “We’re like priests,” he said, a big smile coming to his face.”

  “You don’t have sex, and you look terrible in black?” I smirked.

  “Funny, but no. We can’t give away our sources.”

  Not many people knew that I had been working at the morgue last night. Only my coworkers and a few of the hospital administrators could have accessed the online schedule. On my first day, I’d brought them all baked goods. Sure, they weren’t from Michelle’s, known for their insanely expensive but incredibly delicious pastries, but they were still good. I didn’t know what someone could have against me.

  “Was it Burns McPhee?” I asked. Maybe the journalist could give me some answers.

  “McPhee? How is he involved?”

  I jerked my head up to look at him. His face was scrunched, and he wore a scowl. For the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t look happy.

  “Why does everyone have that reaction when I mention his name?”<
br />
  “He has that effect on people. I’m sorry. I have to be going.” With his long legs, he cleared our small hallway and was across the room in only a few strides. I had to run to keep up with him, thanking the deities for my wedges and desperately wondering how Reid knew McPhee.

  “Wait, Mr. Reid,” I said when I finally caught up.

  “It’s Fletcher. I do hope we meet again, Kat.” On his way out, he stopped and warmly shook Grand’s hand, giving her a wink.

  “Woo-hoo, you better be careful, Claude. He’s got eyes for me,” she said, blushing as Fletcher left.

  “Where are you off to, honey?” my mom asked as I cruised out of the bedroom toward the door.

  “To make sure I keep my job,” I answered.

  My mom looked slightly relieved. While she hated the morgue, she hated the thought of a homeless shelter even more. “Katherine, I hate to ask, but Grand is going to need more medicine.”

  She said it all very casually, with that almost-always-present cheerful smile. She knew perfectly well that the request wasn’t casual, because as she said it, she handed me a chocolate bar.

  Rule number four, I thought as I opened the wrapper, chocolate makes everything go down easier. In this case, I was steadying for a trip to the drag club.

  Apparently, the chocolate was to soothe more than one blow.

  “Also, Katherine, don’t forget about the benefit tonight.”

  Chapter 4

  I pulled into the parking lot behind a nondescript building not far from our apartment. The sign on the pole had a simple purple crown on it and hot-pink lights that flashed the name “Queen Mothers” so brightly they could be seen during the day. Underneath the flashing lights hung another sign thanking patrons for voting them Best Drag Club of 2017.

  The issue wasn’t Grand’s medicine but rather how to pay for it. Since Dad’s arrest, I’d learned that health care in this country could be likened to legalized gambling—roll the dice and hope you don’t get something that isn’t covered by an insurance bean counter’s exclusion list. Grand was on Medicare, but since my dad’s ordeal, we couldn’t afford her supplemental policy, which meant we didn’t have the prescription coverage she needed to get her meds. Medicare didn’t believe someone with our assets needed assistance. Never mind that the feds currently controlled all those assets.