An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

furniture.

  “One thing that struck me,” Charlotte said, picking her words carefully, “was the remarkable contrast between your home and your sister’s.”

  “Yes. Well. Olivia’s a collector gone haywire. Hoarder.” Helene shrugged, as if to say, there it is.

  “And the fragrance was over the top,” added Charlotte. “It was like being in an incense shop.”

  “Oh, I know. She always did go too heavy with the potpourri and air fresheners. I couldn’t stand being in her house for long, I’d get asthma. So when we did meet up, it would usually be here or at a restaurant. It was a sore point with her, but if I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe. I haven’t been in that house for longer than five minutes since before Ronson died. In fact I sometimes have to air this place out after she’s been here, it just gets into everything!”

  Simon smiled at Helene wrinkling her nose. “I think I still have it up my nose, can’t stop smelling it.” He made a small shiver of horror. “I’ve come across hoarders before, but Olivia is a different sort. The front room is over-furnished and has all these curio cabinets and bookcases and whatnot, but you can still sit down in there. So she is somewhat aware of what she’s doing, and puts on a good front. But the rest of the place was packed to the ceiling! And we didn’t go in the basement or look in the closets, either.”

  “So it is even worse than I thought,” said Helene. “And now there is an injured missing person and Olivia is in the hospital. I hope the police have reached Donovan. He’s going to have a huge job on his hands if she doesn’t recover.”

  The sun was setting and the last of the afternoon light turned the white walls to gold. Simon set down his cup and stretched his arms and slowly tilted his head from side to side to stretch his neck.

  “I’m going to have to take leave of you ladies before I fall asleep in this chair. Been a long day.”

  “Oh Simon, of course, and I’m so sorry everything turned out like this, especially the moment you came back,” said Helene, as she tried to get up from the sofa.

  “I should be going, too,” said Charlotte, helping her up, “I need to stop by my accountant’s. But are you going to be alright? Would you want me to come back and stay over?”

  Helene shook her head. “No, no, I’m quite alright, really, just very tired. If you could help me tidy up that would be perfect, then I will spend the rest of the evening reading in bed. Jeanette, my cleaning lady, comes in the morning, and she’s bringing homemade pain au chocolat.” Helene’s eyes twinkled in anticipation.

  Thus reassured, Simon took the tea things into the kitchen and did the washing up while Charlotte put away the remaining milk, sugar, and lemons. Then she suddenly realized he wasn’t there. Helene came into the kitchen.

  “Where’s Simon?” Charlotte asked.

  “He’s gone home.”

  “Oh. He can be a bit abrupt.”

  “He’s not one to wax sentimental, certainly, but he’s a lovely soul. You’ll get used to him.”

  “Is that an English thing?”

  “It’s a Simon thing.”

   

  Three

  Friday, September 13th (a very long day)

   

  Pellegato Accounting was nestled between a florist and a bike shop on one of the streets across from the courthouse.  Charlotte had called Diane while waiting for Helene to get Olivia settled in at the hospital, explained what was going on, and was grateful that she was able to drop by after regular office hours. One bonus of the late hour was being able to get a parking space right in front of the office’s window, which was outfitted with Venetian blinds with red cords, and slats alternately tinted cream and pale green, giving it the appearance of a giant ledger book. Diane actually did everything on computers, but the local Chamber of Commerce encouraged downtown businesses to use traditional visual signifiers, such as the red-and-white striped pole at Phil’s Barber Shop, and the giant nutcracker-style wooden soldiers that stood guard at the Toy Emporium.

  The staff had already gone home and Diane herself unlocked the door, looking every inch not like a traditional accountant. She took Casual Fridays seriously, wearing pale purple jeans and a long deep purple sweater that set off her peaches and cream complexion and black short-cropped hair. Her high-top sneakers were purple, too. Only the horn-rim glasses suggested her profession, and they were the kind of assertive glasses that made Charlotte reach up to touch the reading glasses shoved into her hair like a head band just to make sure they were still there, and not, perhaps, left behind in the Jeep or at Helene’s. Diane gave Charlotte a hug, then held her at arm’s length and looked her over with genuine concern.

  “How are you doing? How’s Helene’s sister? How’s Helene?”

  “Helene is calming down, mostly. Olivia’s still unconscious. There’s bleeding in the brain, so the prognosis isn’t good, especially given her age.”

  “Coffee? Tea?” Charlotte said thanks but shook her head no, and Diane continued. “That’s such a shock, somebody hurting an old woman like that, and just a few blocks away, and connected to someone you know.”

  They moved from the waiting room to Diane’s office, where they sat down in the pair of armchairs in front of the desk. Charlotte rubbed her eyes, then forehead and the back of her neck. The strain of the day was catching up with her.

  “You look exhausted. Is there anything I can get you? An aspirin? A smoke? Bourbon?” asked Diane.

  Charlotte smiled. “That’s a great selection, Diane, but I’d better not. I don’t know that it’s exhaustion so much as a combination of shock and weirdness. Maybe even a little bit of fear, especially for Helene. I mean, we have no idea what actually happened there, who did this or why. It’s mystifying.”

  “I would imagine the first question would be, who benefits?” said Diane. “I mean, that is, if Olivia dies. Do you think?”

  “Her son, I would imagine. But he evidently hasn’t been around much, and I don’t think his own mother would use a bat on him.”

  “Not unless he came in in the middle of the night and she thought he was a burglar.”

  “She was still dressed in street clothes, and there were books scattered on the floor.”

  “Sounds like a murder mystery. Complete with bloody baseball bat. That is, if she dies. Close enough. Or sounds likely.” Diane had picked up on Charlotte’s fear of the unknown, and her eyes were wide and bright behind her glasses. “So the police haven’t a clue?”

  “They might, but if they do, they’re not telling us. I hate not knowing, you know? Makes me want to do something, anything!”

  “Maybe something will come to light tomorrow, or you’ll remember a detail that will help the police.”

  Charlotte smiled ruefully. “Yeah, right, like I’d make a good Miss Marple. I’m so observant I didn’t even see my own disaster coming.” She looked down at the office carpet, tracing the pattern with her toe. “Between coming to terms with what’s happened in my own life and now this, my head is in a whirl. Maybe it’s crass of me to be thinking about this when someone’s life is hanging by a thread, but I’m also afraid that now there probably won’t be an editing job. I was really looking forward to it, too.”

  “Yeah, it’s crass, but we can do crass just between the two of us,” said Diane. “Your situation is serious enough to make it understandable.”

  She handed Charlotte a folder that was lying on the desk, and went into accountant mode.

  “The first thing I wanted to say, is that you’ve been a long-time client and I consider you a friend, so I’m waiving my fee until you make enough to pay taxes again.”

  Charlotte started to protest, but Diane was having none of it. “Shut it. Don’t argue with me. It’s just between us. Here’s the budget, the numbers you need to work with. But those are just the numbers. Obviously there are different ways of going about reaching these numbers, and some will be more challenging than others. As we discussed before, the first thing is to sell your house as soon as possible, w
hich will get rid of that mortgage payment, and the insurance and utilities, and of course those ridiculous property taxes. As you can see,” she pointed at a couple of different columns, “if you eliminate your housing-related expenses, you’ll have a much better chance of making ends meet with a reduced income. That will put you back in charge of your life.”

  Charlotte felt her glasses slide down her nose and her heart sink when she compared the numbers. “You’re not kidding. Seeing it laid out like this really brings it home. I guess it is time to get hold of a real estate agent and have a moving sale.”

  “Do you have an agent in mind?”

  “No, actually. I used Bernie Bysell last time. He was so annoying. But I think he’s retired now.”

  Diane laughed. “Why, didn’t you like being called 'sweetheart,' and 'little darling?'

  “No!” Charlotte laughed.

  “Actually,” said Diane, “Bysell Realty is still going strong, and there’s a Women’s Business Forum member working there, Lola McKennie, who everyone says is a very hard worker, very dedicated to getting houses sold quickly. She’s done the whole single mom thing, too, and I suspect she would be appreciative of your situation right now.”

  “Thanks for the recommendation. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

  Diane hesitated and looked at the clock. “Would it be okay, Charlotte, if I give her a call right now? The Women’s Forum really encourages us to make at least three personal-contact