Corpse Pose

by Diana Killian

  “Tell me what happened,” he ordered.

  “I was getting into bed when the dog started barking. I heard something brushing against the side of the house.” She swallowed. “I know it doesn’t sound like much.”

  “It sounds like plenty to me,” Oberlin said.

  For some reason, it was a relief to hear him say it. “Were you able to…tell anything?”

  “There are footprints outside your bedroom window and some broken branches in the bushes. I’d say someone was looking for an easy way in. The good news is he wasn’t too determined or he’d have broken a window and crawled inside.”

  “That is good news,” A.J. said.

  He grinned at her tone. “You have anywhere you can stay tonight? Maybe your mother’s place?”

  Let’s see. A slumber party at Elysia’s or the threat of being murdered in her bed?

  “I think I’ll be okay here tonight,” A.J. said.

  “Rise and shine!” Elysia crowed.

  A.J. cracked one eye open and moaned. Elysia bent over her bed with an expression of unholy glee.

  “Now, now,” Elysia remonstrated. “The kettle’s on the hob. You’ll feel better after your morning cuppa.”

  She’d known it was a mistake to give her mother a key to the farmhouse. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you’d like some help sorting through Di’s things.”

  A.J. blinked up at the ceiling, thinking this over. She didn’t mind the idea as much as she might have expected. In fact, it would be kind of a relief not to face the job ahead all on her own.

  “Did you say there was coffee?” she asked feebly.

  Two cups of coffee and a bowl of granola later, A.J. was feeling a little more like her old self. Having filled Elysia in on the events of the night before, she had to listen to a lecture on why she should be staying with her mother instead of on her own, followed by Elysia’s theories as to why Lily was trying to kill A.J.

  “Mother, she doesn’t have a motive. Even if she did kill me, the studio wouldn’t revert to her. It would go to you—or possibly Andy, if Mr. Meagher hasn’t finished the new will yet.”

  Elysia’s long dark hair was swept up into a teased ponytail that looked unreasonably saucy for a woman of her age. The ponytail bobbed earnestly as she said, “But perhaps she believes that I would have her manage the studio—or even sell it to her.”

  “I don’t think she’d be content managing it. I’d have been happy to have her manage Sacred Balance if she could have handled the thought of me owning it.” A.J. considered this. “Would you sell the studio to her?”

  “I’m not sure. She does seem very qualified. But I should take a very dim view of her murdering you.”

  “Gee, thanks. But I mean, if I happened to die a natural death.”

  “This is an extremely morbid conversation,” Elysia protested. “In any case, I don’t suppose Lily could afford to buy the studio. It’s worth a good deal more than half a mil.”

  “So she really doesn’t have a motive.”

  “Revenge,” Elysia said darkly.

  “Revenge against whom? Me for inheriting? Or against Aunt Di?”

  “Time will tell,” Elysia prophesied.

  Following breakfast, A.J. and Elysia retreated to Gus Eriksson’s study and began the tedious and depressing task of sorting through Diantha’s private papers.

  In addition to the normal bank statements, bills, property tax and mortgage-related correspondence, there were numerous articles by Diantha on fitness and yoga, and a manuscript for a yoga book that appeared to be at the copy-edit stage. A.J. began to understand why Diantha had cut back her teaching schedule.

  “There’s nothing here relating to the studio itself,” she observed to her mother. “Aunt Di must have kept that all at Sacred Balance.”

  “A lot of this is from Gus’s day,” Elysia said absently, shuffling through a stack of yellowed papers. “I don’t think she threw anything away that had Gus’s name on it.”

  That seemed too sentimental, too romantic to fit with A.J.’s picture of her aunt. She said, “Maybe she didn’t know what to throw away. It’s hard to know what you may need later.”

  “Very true.”

  A.J. glanced at her mother. No one had been less equipped to deal with the early death of a spouse than Elysia, but somehow she had coped. She had coped and stayed sober doing it. For the first time it occurred to A.J. that that had taken a certain amount of grit and determination.

  She flipped through another stack of papers, spotting an envelope that appeared to have been mixed in with scripts for something called Organic Living.

  Organic Living. Why did that ring a bell? She thought back to her trip the day before to Sacred Balance. Lily had been talking to Chloe about A.J. having pulled some spots. It appeared that Diantha had a weekly segment on a local radio show.

  She pulled the single type-written sheet from the envelope.

  Type-written? Who used a typewriter these days? She began to read.

  “Hey, listen to this.”

  Elysia looked up absently. “Mmm?”

  A.J. read, “‘Why don’t you read this on your radio show? I dare you two.’ He’s spelled ‘to’ wrong. ‘People like you put your principals’—he’s spelled ‘principle’ wrong—”

  “Pumpkin…” objected Elysia.

  “‘…before people. You don’t care who’s’—”

  “He’s spelled ‘whose’ wrong,” Elysia guessed.

  “Yep. ‘…life you ruin. My family has been earning our living off the land for generations and you are not even a American citizen. You are so concerned with trees and squirrels—’Speaking of squirrels, who is this guy?” A.J. glanced at the signature at the bottom of the note. “John Baumann. Do you know who that is?”

  “There’s a Baumann Dairy Farm,” Elysia said vaguely. “I don’t recall Di ever mentioning the fellow.”

  “‘You do not care who you hurt or the lives you destroy. I will do what I need to, to protect my family.’” A.J. studied the badly typed note. “This is a threat. I wonder if Detective Oberlin knows anything about John Baumann.”

  “Call him, pumpkin. I’m sure he’s longing to hear from you.”

  A.J. ignored her mother’s rather sly smile. She picked up the phone on the large paper-strewn desk and dialed the police station. After a brief wait, she was informed that Oberlin was unavailable.

  She left a message that she had something to show him, and hung up.

  “Nicely done.” Elysia approved, as A.J. sat back in the desk chair. “I think the bit about having something to show him will prove highly effective.”

  A.J. mentally replayed the message she had left, and blushed.

  “Oberlin knows perfectly well I don’t mean that.”

  “Men live in hope,” Elysia said airily. “Much like dogs.”

  The next few hours were spent in relatively harmonious productivity. They discovered nothing else that shed any light on Diantha’s death—certainly nothing that could be considered a clue—but they made a fair amount of progress sorting and discarding Diantha’s papers.

  At one thirty Elysia mentioned that she had some shopping to do and would be on her way.

  A.J. was surprised to realize she was a tiny bit sorry her mother was leaving. She supposed it was because she was so unused to being on her own that she welcomed any company at all. And Elysia had been surprisingly helpful all morning.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” she asked.

  “If you like,” Elysia said casually. “I don’t want to get in your hair.”

  “My hair?”

  “Your way, pumpkin. I know you want to work through this on your own.” She gestured vaguely to the stacks of files and papers.

  “Well…”

  But, never one to hang about, Elysia was already on her way out the door, the brisk click of her heels fading down the hallway.

  Slightly bewildered, A.J. went to the kitchen to find something to
eat. Deciding that granola for breakfast took care of all her healthy-eating points for the day, she settled on a glass of milk and two cherry Pop-Tarts, returning with her dish to Diantha’s desk. She continued separating papers and files into small piles until at last she found a box of audiotapes.

  The tapes were marked “Organic Living” and were labeled with dates. She picked up the one marked with the date of the week before Diantha’s death and popped it in the stereo system in the entertainment center on the other side of the room.

  “Welcome to Organic Living,” Diantha said in that low, cultured voice that A.J. remembered so well. Her throat closed and she had to struggle for composure.

  Diantha continued to speak, not sounding at all as though she were reading—sounding so close, so immediate. A.J. moved over to the blue velvet-covered sofa and put her head back, listening. She was only half aware when Monster climbed up on the sofa—avoiding her eyes—and curled up beside her.

  Diantha’s familiar voice filled the silent room as she argued that cow’s milk was an inefficient food source and that dairy products were a health hazard.

  No wonder she hadn’t won any points with John Baumann.

  “Dairy products contain no fiber or complex carbohydrates and are laden with saturated fat and cholesterol. Furthermore, milk can be contaminated with cow’s blood and pus and sometimes has trace amounts of pesticides, hormones, and antibiotics.”

  A.J., who had just reached for her glass, choked on a mouthful of milk.

  Diantha’s educated voice ran smoothly on. “Dairy products can be linked to a number of health problems including allergies, constipation, obesity, heart disease, and cancer. Even the late Dr. Benjamin Spock spoke out against feeding cow’s milk to children. He believed it could be associated with anemia, allergies, and insulin-dependent diabetes; a diet heavy with dairy products could set our children up for a future of obesity and heart disease, America’s number one cause of death.”

  A.J.’s stomach roiled.

  “And in adults dairy products may actually cause osteoporosis, not prevent it. Their high protein content actually leaches calcium from the body. Even some of our esteemed universities have done studies on this. For instance, a groundbreaking Harvard study of more than seventy-five thousand nurses suggests that drinking milk can actually cause osteoporosis. Others have found that milk causes phlegm to accumulate in the body, making people stuffed and congested. Milk also contributes to an unhealthy environment. I suggest you visit milksucks.com for further information.”

  “But I like milk,” A.J. protested aloud. “How can I eat Cocoa Puffs without milk?”

  Diantha closed by inviting the listeners to next week’s show, “Death by Dairy,” targeting local milk producers and exposing their farms to the public.

  But that was the show that had never taken place because by then Diantha was dead. Silenced by someone like John Baumann? Someone who viewed Diantha as a threat to a way of life?

  “Not convinced?” Diantha inquired coolly. “Listen in next week. I guarantee you’ll never willingly drink milk from cows—contented or otherwise—again.”

  Diantha’s voice faded in silence. Only the hiss of the unrecorded tape remained. A.J. put her toaster pastry down and carried her half-finished glass of milk into the kitchen.

  She dumped the milk down the sink drain.

  Fifteen

  A.J. was making soup—it was good weather for soup—and feeling virtuous.

  She’d spent another informative hour listening to her aunt’s radio shows, then in an impulsive burst of health-consciousness, made a quick trip into Stillbrook to purchase “real” groceries.

  She had been paying for her portobello mushrooms and canned tomatoes when the sallow-faced woman at the counter said without preliminaries, “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “I don’t know,” A.J. admitted. She didn’t want to admit to being a suspect herself. She wondered if local opinion favored any particular villain.

  “I didn’t like your aunt,” the woman continued, staring at A.J. gimlet-eyed. “I thought she had a bad habit of butting into things that weren’t her business.”

  A.J. said shortly, “I appreciate your honesty.”

  “No, you don’t.” The woman gave a sharp laugh. “I didn’t like your aunt, but she was a good woman. She didn’t deserve to die like that. I hope they catch whoever did it and put him away for life.”

  What could A.J. say to that? She nodded curtly.

  “I guess you’re going to want me to stock all these weird things your aunt liked. Soy patties and tofu.”

  “I don’t know,” A.J. admitted. “I haven’t made any plans yet.”

  The woman looked shocked. A.J. couldn’t understand why, and was still puzzling over it as she sprinkled minced garlic and onion into the oil heating in the skillet on the old-fashioned range.

  Were people expecting her to stay and run Sacred Balance? Did they want her to stay? She added the chopped mushrooms to the garlic and onions, and reconsidered. True, Sacred Balance employed only three instructors, but it was a thriving enterprise—in a rapidly growing township—and apparently an important social center. Once the Organic Living food lines and Organic Living clothing lines were up and running—if they ever were now—they would provide additional employment and revenue for the town and its citizens.

  A.J. stirred in the tomatoes, lentils, and vegetable stock. This sudden burst of domesticity felt a little like playing house, but nonetheless she was pleased with herself. She needed a change in her life, and these were little steps toward a new future. She had even gone through a slapdash version of her yoga routine from the day before. Her back was feeling surprisingly better, and she had decided to put off seeing a chiropractor until she returned to Manhattan. She was going to eat better, and she was going to try to be more physically active.

  Stirring the soup, which was now releasing a mouth-watering aroma into the air, she felt surprisingly optimistic. The phone rang, she picked up, and it was Oberlin.

  “I got a message here you have something you want me to see?”

  Elysia’s naughty comment flashed into her brain, and for a moment A.J. couldn’t think of a sensible reply.

  “Oh…”

  Maybe Detective Oberlin had more imagination than she suspected, because there was a funny pause, and then he said uncomfortably, “That is…” He cleared his throat. “You found something in your aunt’s papers, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct,” A.J. said with relief. She quickly explained about the letter from John Baumann.

  Oberlin had her read the letter over the phone.

  “What do you think?” A.J. demanded as soon as she finished.

  He said neutrally, “Interesting.”

  “Interesting? He threatened her.”

  “Yes.”

  “He threatened her, and a week later, before the ‘Death by Dairy’ show could air, she was dead.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?”

  Oberlin said, “I’m going to talk to him. I don’t know at this point that we have enough to arrest him. His threat isn’t specific, and he dared your aunt to read the letter on her show. I don’t think he would do that if he considered the letter to be a death threat.” He added, “Unless he’s really dumb.”

  “Maybe he is really dumb.”

  “Okay,” Oberlin said in the voice of one who didn’t have the energy for this. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stop by this evening and pick up the letter. We’ll get it analyzed. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with John Baumann.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hesitated. “I’ll…see you tonight.”

  “See you then,” A.J. said, and hung up.

  She picked up the receiver, listened briefly, and then dialed her mother’s number.

  “Hello, pumpkin,” Elysia greeted her languidly.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “A mother always sens
es when her child needs her.”

  “Caller ID,” guessed A.J.

  “That helps,” Elysia agreed.

  “I was wondering,” A.J. said casually, turning down the heat on her soup, “if you’d want to go with me to visit the Baumann Dairy.”

  Elysia gave a little squeal of pleasure. “What a brilliant idea! But what will our cover be?”

  “Our cover?”

  “We can’t simply barge in there asking if Baumann committed murder most foul. We need a cover story.”

  “We can say that we found the letter and we…I don’t know. Wanted to understand what Baumann meant.”

  “We can’t tell the truth.” Elysia sounded shocked. “That would spoil everything. You give it some thought, pumpkin, while I come and fetch you.”

  She hung up before A.J. could formulate a reply.

  About fifteen minutes later Elysia’s blue and white Land Rover tore into the front yard at Deer Hollow and skidded to a stop. Apparently Elysia thought they were already in some kind of police pursuit.

  A.J. locked the front door, crossed the barren yard, and climbed into the Land Rover. Elysia caught her eye.

  “What?” she asked innocently.

  “You know, most mothers would try to dissuade their children from poking around in a murder case.”

  Elysia laughed a jolly little laugh and put the clutch in. “I learned long ago there was no point trying to dissuade you once you made up your mind, pumpkin. Besides, I think you’ll be a great deal of help to me in my investigations.”

  “Your investigations?”

  “After all, I am the qualified sleuth of the family.”

  “You were on a TV show, Mother. You weren’t really a policewoman.”

  Elysia gave a little disapproving sniff and concentrated on her driving—which was probably just as well.

  The Baumann Dairy was a small farm tucked away on the other side of the valley. To A.J.’s eye it looked like the farms in every children’s book: big red barn, cows and sheep in the green, green pastures; pigs and dogs and children and ducks running freely about the shady front yard.