A Conventional Corpse: A Claire Malloy Mystery

by Joan Hess

  Lily twirled on him like a homicidal ballerina (did I mention the cleaver?). “No smoking in the garden!”

  “A pipe is a pipe is a pipe,” he replied with a condescending smile. “Considering what I’ve been obliged to ogle in my room, I’m doing nothing more than taking part in an age-old tradition of post-coital respite.”

  Laureen managed to immobilize Sherry Lynne, who seemed perilously close to choking up a hair ball. “The lid to the cistern has been moved. You stay right here while I take a peek.”

  We all stared at the round wooden lid, which had been pulled aside far enough to permit access by what I presumed were unauthorized bodies.

  “Why don’t I do the peeking?” I suggested.

  Sherry Lynne darted around me and looked into the cistern. “Wimple? Are you in there? Just hang on, dear; I’ll . . .” Her voice faltered. “Oh, my heavens. It’s dark, but it looks like . . . oh, my heavens.”

  “What?” I gurgled.

  “A body.”

  “A body?” Laureen echoed pensively. “How intriguing. Dilys, your theory about the slave may have been on the mark. I doubt anyone has scrutinized the cistern since the introduction of indoor plumbing.”

  Sherry Lynne stood up. “It isn’t from the Civil War era.”

  I shouldered her out of the way and took a look. Twenty feet below was something—or someone, but with what appeared to be a halo of blond hair and an outstretched arm of unnatural paleness. “Lily,” I said as calmly as I could, “call 911 for an ambulance, and alert them to the reality of the problem. It’s impossible to tell if the victim is alive. We’ll need the police as well.”

  Lily gave me a look that implied it was all my fault, which I was quite sure she thought it was, then stomped toward the sun room.

  I waved everyone else away. “There’s nothing we can do, so let’s all just sit down and wait.”

  “Who could it be?” asked Walter. “A conference attendee who developed self-destructive urges during the panel? One has already driven into a ditch. Will another be knocking back a glass of hemlock at the luncheon? By this evening, shall we expect to find bodies littering the garden like so many snapdragons that have”—he snapped his fingers in case we missed the point—”finally snapped? Should Lily opt for that decor, the poor guest would be kept awake all night.”

  “You are not amusing, Mr. Dahl,” I said. “My best guess is that it’s Roxanne.”

  “What’s more, Mr. Dahl, you’re a royal pain in the ass,” added Laureen. “Claire, perhaps you’d better sit down, too. There’s nothing any of us can do until the paramedics arrive.”

  Sherry Lynne let out a groan. “Could poor Wimple be down there, too? I’d hate to think he might have been . . .”

  “Crashed?” Dilys said helpfully. “Splayed beneath a corpse? Seeping blood from the impact?” She took a cigarette from Laureen’s purse and lit it as we all stared at her. “Wimple was hefty, but if someone of even moderate body weight were to fall on him—well, it wouldn’t be pretty. Cap-splat, so to speak.” She took a ladylike puff. “Oh, look there on the wall. Is that a tufted titmouse?”

  I blocked Sherry Lynne’s attempt to dive into the cistern. Once I’d settled her on a bench, I took a deep breath. “Roxanne Small is missing, and the body in the cistern has blond hair. Do none of you care that it might be she?”

  “Of course we do,” Laureen murmured, “and I should think we’re all aware of that. Such a nasty shock. The poor creature was a wonderful editor who had a major impact on all of our careers. If she’s dead, and I’m assuming that she is, then four of us have been orphaned at Paradigm House, to one degree or another. I, for one, was hoping to discuss the lack of promotion for my upcoming book. With no editorial support, it might as well go directly from the printer to the remainder table—or the shredder.”

  “And my backlist will remain in the warehouse until the pages turn yellow and crumble into dust,” said Dilys, wiping the comer of her eye with a lace-trimmed hankie. “I was so hoping Wilmont might attend Oxford, but now it’s out of the question. No punting on the Thames for him, I fear. All he can hope for is rowing on some muddy little creek.”

  Allegra stood up. “I’d better call my agent.”

  “Do that,” Laureen said sweetly, “and be prepared to kiss the best-seller list goodbye. Without editorial—”

  Caron came dashing into the garden. “We’ve only got five minutes to get to the student union. I can take four of you, and this weird woman named Earlene says she can take the overflow. Come on, everybody, it’s time for chicken salad.” All she lacked were pom-poms and crew socks.

  Dilys stubbed out her cigarette on a flagstone, then brushed it into the woodchips. “Sherry Lynne, are you quite convinced there is no ranaway slave in the cistern?”

  Laureen made sure Lily had not reappeared, then flicked her cigarette into the rose bed. “The basement is more likely, dear. We must take a look later this afternoon. What fun to play archaeologists! Do you know anything about carbon dating? Can we purchase a kit?”

  “A kit?” Walter said. “Let’s do hope it has litmus paper and test tubes. That way we can hope for a passing grade in chemistry.”

  Caron sank down on the path. “What’s going on, Mother? Someone’s in the cistern—or in the basement? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No,” I said flatly, “it doesn’t.”

  “Is it a ranaway slave like they said? The body’s been there over a hundred and fifty years? We’re talking major decomposition.”

  I tried to pull myself together. “I doubt it. Listen, everyone, there are a hundred attendees waiting for you at the student union. Unless anybody has information to volunteer, why don’t you let Caron and Earlene drive you there? I’m sure the police will have questions for you later, but it’ll take some time for them to deal with the scene and arrive at an idea of what might have happened. Until then, please don’t mention this.”

  “It’s so very intriguing,” Dilys said as she stood up. “I’ve never been in the proximity of a real murder. I must purchase a notebook and pens of different colors.”

  “Murder?” gasped Caron.

  Walter nodded at her. “So very indicative of the moral decay of familial structure and acceptable societal norms.”

  “Chill,” Allegra said. “One more word of four syllables and I issue a bounty—dead or alive. In your case, no one will vote for the latter.”

  He stuck his pipe in his pocket. “You have no call to make that remark, you slutty flash-in-the-pan. Without Roxanne Small’s rather hysterical promotional support, your poorly written, nondescript clone of a best-seller would have sunk like the lump of excretory—”

  “You priggish son of a bitch!” Allegra said as she went for his throat, her eyes burning with rage.

  Laureen and I caught her. Once we’d pulled her away to a safe distance, I said to Laureen, “Are you capable of moderating the luncheon panel?”

  “Of course,” she said, “and as the senior member of this farcical troupe, I shall lead the way. Do not think, though, that we will remain here for days on end, waiting for the constables to trudge about their duties. My manuscript is due a week from Thursday. I am leaving tomorrow. I have made arrangements for a limo to pick me up at the airport.”

  “I’m supposed to be in New York tomorrow,” said Allegra. “The Today show and a satellite with Larry King.”

  Dilys smiled unpleasantly. “And aren’t you the lucky one? I don’t suppose Roxanne will be hosting any of those ghastly in-house parties from the cistern, will she? Then again, I’m sure the wine and cheese have already been arranged.”

  Walter smiled even more unpleasantly. “An array of New York state Chardonnay and Velveeta? Sardines on saltines? Pate de faux gras?”

  Caron might have qualified as a piece of garden statuary. “Mother . . . ?” she whispered.

  I realized the red-brick walls were filling with enmity, and suffocation was imminent. “Caron and Earlene are going to take
you to the student union for the luncheon, then back to Old Main for the afternoon panel. Cooperate or kiss your honorariums goodbye. I’ll wait here for the police.”

  To my amazement, all of them except Sherry Lynne trooped toward the back door of the inn. She wiped her eyes, sniffled, and said, “Is Wimple in the well?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “If he is . . . ?“

  “Caron will go back to the student union and inform you,” I said glibly, not at all sure what the police would dictate. “You just go on. As soon as I have a chance, I’ll put a bowl of cat food on the steps and check out the neighborhood.”

  “Why would that message have been on Roxanne’s laptop?”

  “It wasn’t there when I was in her room.”

  Sherry Lynne gave me a pitying look. “Did you touch the keyboard? Most laptops switch into sleep mode after a few minutes of being ignored.”

  “I didn’t push anything,” I admitted. “I’m not exactly high-tech.”

  “Why would Roxanne leave that message if she was preparing to throw herself into the cistern? Did she think she was taking the lead role in the drama? Was she taunting me?”

  I sat down on the nearest bench. “I don’t know, Sherry Lynne. You knew her better than I did. Is that something she would do?”

  “She would have skinned her grandmother to push one of her acquisitions onto the best-seller list.”

  I was staring at her as paramedics and uniformed police officers came into the garden. She went inside, leaving me to face Jorgeson and Peter Rosen, both steely and barking orders at the unwitting minions.

  “Some conference,” Jorgeson said as he nervously hovered as though I might swat him with a hydrangea. Super-Cop managed not to notice me. “You ever think it might not be a good thing to bring together a bunch of professional killers?”

  “The body’s in there,” I responded, pointing at the cistern.

  The paramedics had brought a ladder. Despite a measurable lack of enthusiasm, two of them descended, confirmed the presence of a body, and requested a litter to be lowered.

  Lieutenant Rosen peered down at them. “Are you sure the victim is deceased?”

  “One of them,” called up the paramedic. “The other’s unconscious but still breathing.”

  “A cat?” I blurted out.

  Peter glanced at me, then bent down. “The other is a cat?”

  The paramedic’s voice echoed in an unearthly manner. “The woman’s long gone from what looks like major head trauma, but we might be able to help this second victim. Let’s pull him out and get him to the emergency room. No hurry on the other one.”

  I had an insane vision of Wimple being wheeled away on a gurney, to be resuscitated in the ambulance and later to have surgery while Sherry Lynne watched nervously from the gallery, twisting her hands as tubes and clamps were placed in strategic arteries. Organ transplants might be an option, which would lead to, if nothing else, a tremendously dramatic made-for-TV movie along the lines of The Six Million Dollar Cat in the Hat.

  However, the paramedic had seemed to think it was a guy, as opposed to an obese feline. The uniformed officers lowered a Utter, and, when given a signal, hauled it up to the edge of the cistern.

  “Arnie,” I said with a sigh.

  “You know the victim?” Peter said coldly.

  “So do you!” I snapped. “You’ve had him in custody so many times that one of the cells ought to have a plaque over the door: ‘Arnie Riggles, who aspires to be a felon but lacks the wherewithal.’”

  “Mrs. Malloy,” he began, “this is not the time—”

  The two paramedics came scrambling out of the cistern. “We need to deal with him,” one of them said. “The other is strictly the business of the homicide department. Guess that’d be you, Lieutenant Rosen. Have a nice day.”

  Arnie was whiter than a slice of generic bread, but breathing, and, as far as I could see, free of copious bloodstains. The paramedics transferred him to a gurney and headed for the backsteps of the Azalea Inn.

  The uniformed officers stood around the cistern, clearly unwilling to engage in spelunking in the name of law and order. “You think we should call the medical examiner, Lieutenant?” one of them asked.

  “I doubt he’ll want to take a closer look at the scene. Take photos, then bring up the body.”

  “But how are we supposed to—”

  “A tarp. Do your best not to rearrange her more than necessary.”

  Jorgeson gazed at me. “You know who this is, Ms. Malloy?”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  Peter muttered something rather crude under his breath, then said, “Why shouldn’t she, Jorgeson? When did we last find a body with which Ms. Malloy was not keenly acquainted? Were this a Civil War site, I would anticipate that Ms. Malloy could identify all the bodies strewn across the battlefield by name, rank, and serial number.”

  “This is hardly Antietam,” I said stiffly. “The woman in the cistern is likely to be Roxanne Small, an editor from New York. She dropped by at the last minute to surprise her authors.”

  “Dropped?” Peter said.

  I clenched my fists. “A figure of speech, Lieutenant. She did a degree at Farber College, and four of her authors are at the conference.”

  “And where might they be?”

  “At the student union. It was too late to cancel the luncheon.”

  Peter’s deliciously brown eyes widened. “You packed off the potential witnesses to a luncheon? This is a crime scene, after all. We usually prefer to have the opportunity to interview everyone who might know something.”

  “Fine. Why don’t you and your storm troopers go up there and drag them out of the room? Then you can stay and lecture the attendees on the finer points of homicide investigation. Better still, lay out the salient facts and see if anyone can solve the crime before the chocolate mousse is served. Imagine the money your department will save if someone can prove the butler actually did do it.”

  Peter looked at Jorgeson. “Is Ms. Malloy under the influence of illegal substances?”

  “Not that I know,” he said. “It’s just . . . well, it’s just not any of my business. Ms. Malloy, why don’t you and me go inside so you can tell me what you know about the deceased? Was she staying here?”

  I took his arm. “What a charmingly rational suggestion, Sergeant Jorgeson. Lieutenant Rosen can wait here with the tufted titmice until the body is brought up, then join us in the parlor for herb tea and rice cakes.”

  Ignoring ominous growls, Jorgeson hustled me inside. “Ms. Malloy,” he began plaintively, “I don’t want to be involved in this. You and the lieutenant have a lot to work out—or not. I’d as soon get a private security job at the mall as get in the middle of it. He’s not my best friend, but we have a long history of working together, sitting surveillance for nights on end, rewriting reports until dawn, chasing down obscure leads, and pounding our heads on our desks. You and me—well, we’ve had some moments, too. I’m not going to offer any opinions or advice, and I wish you’d leave me out of it.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Okay, I swear I won’t ask you any more questions about the lieutenant’s personal life, including the hypothetical proximity of the lovely Leslie and her pedigreed—”

  “Ms. Malloy!”

  “Jorgeson,” I said brightly, “let’s sit in the parlor and I’ll tell you what little I know. Afterwards, I can direct you to Roxanne’s room upstairs. Be sure to push some button on her laptop computer; I don’t understand the technology, but it apparently flickers to life and sends messages.”

  Lily came out of the kitchen, the cleaver still in her hand. “Ms. Malloy, I have dealt with smokers, perfume, hairspray, cheap wine, insults, and at least one cat inside the Azalea Inn. Now it seems I will have to fumigate for murder as well. I am a very high-strung individual, Ms. Malloy. I once attacked a classmate in kindergarten for breaking my crayons. I stuffed half a Burnt Sienna up his snotty little nose. He was taken
to the emergency room.”

  I stepped in front of Jorgeson before he could respond with or without deadly force. “I can order one hundred and twenty Whoppers and send everyone to the park, Lily. Is that what you want? Does your pesto lose its zesto in the freezer overnight?”

  “Are you some kind of incubus deployed by the Junior League?” she said, the cleaver wobbling.

  “Go back to the kitchen, Lily,” I said. “I’m sure Sergeant Jorgeson and Lieutenant Rosen will want to have a word with you later this afternoon.”

  Jorgeson let out a breath as she retreated into the kitchen. “She’s kinda . . . spooky.”

  I propelled him to the parlor and onto the sofa. “Lily has her pet peeves, as do we all. I myself have always found Russian wolfhounds to be overwrought, anorexic—”

  “Ms. Malloy,” Jorgeson said with some irritability, “why don’t you tell me what you know about this lady in the cistern?”

  “Not much, actually. She was, or had been, the editor of the four women authors. Walter Dahl is published by a small press, but he seemed very bitter toward her. She made it clear she did not think highly of him.”

  “But the women liked her?”

  I thought for a moment. “You’d better ask them. There was some veiled hostility, but nothing I can explain. It’s a complicated business, and my singular role is to order and sell books. I don’t know anything about warehouses, backlists, promotional budgets, book tours, and so forth. I have the impression that Allegra Cruzetti was being well treated, and the others felt they were not.”

  “Someone would commit murder over a book?”

  “I just don’t know, Jorgeson. Everybody seemed to have gotten along last night. They may not have painted each others’ toenails and cried over old movies, but it seemed to be genial. Roxanne was at Old Main this morning after you told me about Ammie, but she disappeared. She told Earlene she was going to make a condolence call on Ammie’s parents. No one seems to have seen her since then.”