Maybe Murder

by Penny S Weibly

  Emelia sprang into action. She dialed 911 and reported a possible medical emergency, clearly and succinctly reporting the address and the circumstances. Next she dug into the inner pocket of her purse pulling out sets of labeled house keys: NM for Nancy; LW for Lynn; SJ—she found her keys to Susan’s house. Hands shaking, she unlocked the door. A loud warning beep-beep-beep of the alarm system startled her, but she ignored it and ran to Susan.

  Susan sat still and upright in Frank’s old, comfy blue chair. Her silvery-grey hair spread out against the chair’s back, and her reading glasses, off-kilter, balanced precariously on the bridge of her nose. A novel, a Nicholas Sparks’ romance—one of her friend’s guilty pleasures––lay sprawled on the carpet. A mug of tea rested next to a bowl that held the telltale purple stains of berry cobbler amid a puddle of melted vanilla ice cream. Susan loves, loved, her desserts, although she rarely allowed sweets in her house. She wore creamy white silk pajamas, and her feet were bare. Oddly, her cheeks were delicately flushed, a contrast to the porcelain white of her hands and feet. Her eyes, wide and unfathomable, stared out beyond anything Emelia could see.

  In minutes the EMTs arrived, rushing in with a stretcher and defibrillator. A stocky young man shouted questions at her. DNR? She could not recall what a DNR was… Dr. Munjabi appeared and gestured and shouted back at the EMTs. He was Susan’s neighbor and their mutual primary care physician. It was only when the burglar alarm stopped screaming that Emelia registered that it had gone off at all. Kalico appeared from nowhere at her side, gently leading her away from the commotion in the living room. She glanced back at Susan: Dr. Munjabi knelt beside her; the uniformed men stood still and silent.

  Kalico lowered Miss Winterjoy into a chair at the kitchen table. He took a pink cashmere sweater from a peg on the door and placed it around her shoulder, then busied himself by making coffee. As the automatic coffee maker began to drip, the older woman looked at him; her blue eyes dazed and glistening with unshed tears.

  “I prefer tea.”

  “This morning you’ll have coffee—black and strong.”

  Her posture straightened for a moment in protest, then she sat back. “I don’t remember calling you, Benjamin. I don’t know why I called you, but thank you for coming.”

  “No problem.” He set a mug of coffee in front of her. “Drink. You’ve had a shock.”

  She sipped the hot and bitter brew. “I think I called you because you saved Nancy.”

  Kalico poured a cup of coffee for himself and sat across from her. “I wish that I could help Susan. I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Winterjoy. Susan was a wonderful woman….”

  They sat in silence, aware of muffled voices and the still body in the next room. Shortly, Dr. Munjabi came in his face somber. “A sad business, Emelia. A sad business.”

  “What can you tell us, Aaryan?”

  “Susan died eight to ten hours ago, given the state of her body. I believe that she suffered a sudden and devastating myocardial infarction.”

  Emelia shook her head in disbelief. Heart attack? Susan? She exercised, watched her diet, meditated.

  “As her doctor, I pronounced death, so unless the family requests an autopsy, there’s no reason to transport her to the hospital.”

  “The family! The boys and Lizzie—they don’t know. I have to call.” Emelia fumbled with her phone, suddenly unable to read her contact list. Kalico lifted it from her hands and scrolled down to Jankowsky. There he read: Elizabeth, Frank Jr., Donald.

  “Would you like me to call them?” he asked.

  “No. It’s my duty.”

  Dr. Munjabi cleared his throat. “If an autopsy is not requested, you may call a funeral home to come and pick up the body. Do you happen to know if Susan made arrangements?”

  Miss Winterjoy looked at him blankly. Of course they had discussed arrangements. But that talk had been hypothetical. Susan wished to be buried beside her husband at the Cook-Walden Memorial Park. Emelia and Nancy had signed as witnesses to her will. Frank, Jr. held a power of attorney.

  “Doctor, do you think an autopsy is warranted?” Kalico asked.

  “No. Susan died of natural causes.”

  There’s nothing natural about a fit woman of only seventy dying alone from a heart attack. Aloud she said, “Susan positively glowed with good health. Goodness, she rarely ever caught a cold. She never spent a day in the hospital—except to deliver her children.” Emelia shook her head.

  An EMT appeared at the kitchen door, and Dr. Munjabi looked pointedly at Kalico.

  “Miss Winterjoy? Emelia?” Kalico quietly directed her attention to the business at hand. “You need to call Frank Jr. to break the news about his mother and see if he wants an autopsy performed.”

  “Of course.”

  Somehow Susan’s children were informed; travel arrangement, made. An autopsy denied, Cook-Walden transported the body to the funeral home. Emelia called friends, listening repeatedly to shocked voices and sobs and questions. Finally, the house was quiet and still. Emelia rinsed the coffee cups and placed them in Susan’s dishwasher with the dessert bowl. She folded the pink sweater, still redolent with the scent of lavender, and placed it on the table. She paused in the living room, staring at Frank’s eyesore of a chair that clashed horribly with the peach, cream, and brown tones of Susan’s décor. But she had refused to reupholster it or replace it, saying that she could still feel Frank’s presence when she sat there.

  Kalico coughed behind her. “Let’s lock up.”

  “Yes.” But she did not move. What was she forgetting? “Delilah! We can’t leave Delilah here. Susan’s cat.” Emelia rushed through the house calling for the cat. A sob escaped her, and she pressed a fist to her lips.

  “Is this who you’re looking for?” Kalico emerged from the kitchen, a compact black cat cradled in his arms. He transferred her to Emelia, who buried her face in the warm fur. Then they left the silent and empty house.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kalico sprinted down the basketball court, stopped half way, and set up for a three pointer as Vic waved a hand in his face: he shot, the ball arched gracefully but missed the backboard altogether. Again. Vic retrieved the ball, dribbled in, swiveled right, and made an easy jump shot over his much taller friend. “Man,” he said, breathing hard. “You’re making this too easy.”

  “Sorry.” Kalico couldn’t focus. Ten days had passed since the death of Susan Jankowsky. He knelt to tie his shoelace.

  He had stayed with Miss Winterjoy as she called her friends to tell them about Susan’s passing. Gradually, a narrative formed. He listened as she repeated what most likely had occurred: Susan, a night owl with insomnia, had gone to bed, couldn’t sleep, and gotten up sometime after midnight. She made herself a cup of tea and warmed a bowl of berry cobbler, topping it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Then she’d settled in Frank’s chair with a novel and dessert. She’d either dozed off and died in her sleep or suffered a sudden fatal heart attack. She had looked peaceful. No, she had not suffered.

  “What’s up, Ben? A philandering poodle? A murderous mutt? An amorous Afghan hound?”

  “I only wish.” He laughed half-heartedly.

  Vic pulled his friend to his feet and propelled him forward. “C’mon. Breakfast tacos are the universal cure for what ails you. On me.”

  Twenty minutes later, seated at a picnic table beside a large silver food truck, the men dug into brisket tacos with white cheese and avocado. Red sauce dripped down Vic’s chin; he swiped at it with a napkin as he took another giant bite. “Heaven.” Swallowing, he turned his dark gaze onto Kalico. “Okay, Dick Tracy. Give. What’s up with you? Tell Uncle Victor everything.”

  Kalico found himself enumerating his financial difficulties, the problems attracting clients, and the disappointing response from the law offices he’d approached. He told Vic about the job offer to become an in-house investigator as well as the very real possibility that he needed to move in with his parents.

  “What happened
with that cold case you were so excited about? Did you solve it?”

  “Ended up with a lot of false leads.” He would not betray Miss Winterjoy’s trust or trivialize her concerns. He did not want to talk about Nancy’s near-fatal encounter with a bee or Susan’s passing. He yanked at his hair. “And to top it all, I’m a joke: the Calico Cat Detective!”

  As if on cue, a stray golden retriever, its coat caked with dirt and burrs, limped up to Kalico, sat down and placed a giant paw on his knee. Groaning, Kalico gazed down into gentle brown eyes. “Why me? Huh? Go away! Get! Go find your owner.” He gestured at the empty lot. “Go over to Vic: he’s got beef.” The dog cocked its head and tentatively wagged its tail, but did not move from Kalico’s side.

  Vic fought back a grin, then turned serious. “Ben, you’ve always been the man with a plan. You set goals and march straight for them. It seems to me you need to recommit to a goal. Stick with the agency. Take the investigator job. Enter the Austin Police Academy. Just commit and go for it.”

  Kalico nodded. Vic was right. He needed to choose a direction and commit.

  “And, for Pete’s sake, ask the girl out!”

  “How’d you know…?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Kalico reached across the table and took a slice of brisket from Vic’s plate and gave it to the Golden, who licked his fingers appreciatively. He disentangled his long legs from under the table. “I’ve got to take care of my furry friend here. And Vic, thanks. See you next Saturday?”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  Fortunately, the dog was chipped, its owners were home, and a joyful reunion was realized in just over three hours. Three unpaid hours, Kalico noted ruefully, as he entered his office.

  He leaned back in his chair, tracing the diagonal crack in the ceiling with his eyes. Patterns in the popcorn texture formed and reformed as he swiveled left and right, left and right. A question mark. A maze. Edvard Munch’s, The Scream. Women dancing in a circle. If he could read them, perhaps they’d tell him what he should do. Close his agency? Join the police academy? Become an in-house investigator? His gaze shifted to the white board. Miss Winterjoy and Nancy, the ladies of the book circle, and Lynn gazed back at him. He stood up and began to take down the pictures and the bits of string that connected them.

  He held Susan Jankowsky’s picture. She was laughing into the camera as she struck a model’s pose—hand on hip, head tilted, chin up, eyes bright. A question tugged and teased at the outer corner of his mind, then evaporated.

  The photograph had been set up on an easel in front of her closed casket beside pictures of Susan as a bride, Susan as new mother, Susan as a writer and editor, glasses on the tip of her nose. Fragments from her funeral flooded his memory. Kalico had arrived late. The chapel was full, so he stood at the back. Clay pots of daffodils and crocuses, iris and sweet alyssum lined the stage behind the podium. Blushing peonies were mounded on the casket. Two middle-aged men and a woman sat in the front pew—the Jankowsky children. The book circle ladies and Lynn sat directly behind them, dressed in springtime colors—rose, lilac, butter-yellow, pale green, and peach. A shock of color in a sea of gray and black. Kalico learned later that Susan herself had chosen the music, Bible passages, and flowers, directing that her friends wear colors to celebrate her life, not mourn her death. All in attendance were to be given a flower to plant in her memory.

  Susan had also orchestrated the speakers. Lynn, somber and lovely in pale peach, read a poem, something about a ‘woman, lovely in her bones.’ Frank Jankowsky used to recite it to his wife. When she finished, the book circle ladies rose and stood in front of the podium.

  Miss Winterjoy cleared her throat and began: “Our dear friend was concerned that we would be long-winded, so she composed a few lines about how she wants us to remember her.” She paused, checked to make sure her friends were ready, then stepped forward: “Remember me as one who laughed more than I cried.” Nancy moved up: “Remember me as one who loved and strove to keep hate out of her heart.” Margie, her voice unsteady, next read: “Remember me as a woman blessed with family and dear, dear friends.” Jane, her voice a watery whisper, concluded: “Remember me as one who found beauty in everyone and everything.”

  Miss Winterjoy turned to lead the ladies back to their pew, but Jane froze. Ignoring Margie’s gentle hand on her arm, she exclaimed, “And Susan did. She did find beauty in everyone—even in me. She was my first friend in Texas and my best friend. She should never have died. Never!” She turned and rushed over to the coffin, babbling and crying. Margie and Nancy pulled her away, leading her back to her seat.

  The ceremony concluded with Susan’s eleven-year-old grandson singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

  Kalico placed Susan’s picture in a manila folder labeled “Winterjoy Case.” He finished clearing the white board. He placed Lynn’s photograph at the corner of his desk organizer. He checked that copies of his reports were labeled correctly and placed in the right desktop folder. Miss Winterjoy had sent him a check and acknowledged his final report—without so much as an inserted comma or a complaint about his use of the passive voice. Surely, that was a sign of her grief, not of his improved prose.

  Three hours later, having reviewed for the hundredth time invoices from the last six months against the accounts payable, he was no closer to a decision. He picked up a red and a blue marker, drew columns on the board, and listed pros and cons, hoping to make a logical decision about his professional future. Two paths offered financial predictability. He added stars under Police Academy and Investigator. Returning to his desk he gazed at Lynn’s picture. He picked up his phone, then set it down again.

  ***

  Kalico pushed his chair back from the kitchen’s light teal Formica table. Little had changed in this room since he’d been a boy. The white cabinets had received a new coat of paint and the countertops were now comprised of a shiny granite, but his mother’s white ceramic ducks still waddled across the windowsill, the 1960’s big-faced wall clock still measured the minutes, and snapshots, children’s drawings, old report cards, a faded blue ribbon, and a Big Ben magnet still defaced the refrigerator. The quiet, however, was new. He found himself missing the rapid-fire chatter of his three sisters, the laughter, the political debates, and the nightly reports on what had occurred during the day.

  “Another piece of chicken, dear?” his mother asked.

  “No, thanks. I’m stuffed. Great barbeque, Dad.”

  “Just felt like firing up the grill.” His father pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He was a handsome man in his mid-sixties with red-hair that had receded and faded a bit and deep laugh lines around his eyes.

  “Where’s Katie tonight? I thought she relished Saturday night dinners to get away from dorm food.”

  Katherine Kalico smiled broadly. “You’ll never guess!”

  “A date? Okay, what’s his name? I can do a criminal background check.”

  “Ease off, Big Brother. No, she does not have a date. She’s having dinner this evening with…” she paused for effect, “Melissa!”

  “M’s? That’s terrific.” He pushed his hand through his hair, staring silently at the kitchen clock.

  “C’mon, Ben. Give.” His dad pushed his plate away and turned his full attention onto his son.

  Kalico cleared his throat and filled his folks in on the status of his business. “Right now, I feel like its flat lined. Even the pet retrievals have dried up—except for weekly calls from Mrs. Buonanotte, and she pays in pasta.” He smiled ruefully. “Great pasta,” he added.

  His parents exchanged a look but remained silent.

  Kalico continued, laying out the financials and the other job possibilities. He took a deep breath. “I want to give my agency another year to begin breaking even or, better yet, to make a profit. I have enough in my operations budget to cover expenses for at least that amount of time, but not enough to pay myself a living wage.” He looked down at his hands.

  �
��Son, your mother and I are in a position to help you financially. We could give you a business loan….”

  “No. No, thanks. I don’t want you guys to take anything out of your retirement fund. What I wanted to ask is this: Would it be okay if I moved back home for a time?”

  His parents enthusiastically agreed, his mother commenting on how difficult it was to cook for only two.

  “I want to pay rent…”

  “Let’s defer that for a few months.” His dad rose and beckoned Kalico to follow him down the stairway that led to the one time playroom, den, sewing room, exercise room, and––the last time he’d seen it—junk room. His mother placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Would this space do for a bachelor’s pad?”

  The space had been transformed. A deep blue love seat was centered in the room facing a small television. A lighter blue area rug covered the wood floor. A double bed with a nightstand stood against the far wall. Kalico’s high school desk and chair were placed in from of a small window. A newly installed door opened onto a side lawn.

  “What do you think, Benjy? See, you’ll have your own entrance. There’s no sink or bathroom, so you will have to use the one at the top of the stairs. It would be almost like having your own place. And, of course, the refrigerator is open, and you can have meals with us whenever you’re home—if you choose. It’s so hard to cook for just the two of us. And I promise to give you your privacy….”