A Conventional Corpse: A Claire Malloy Mystery

by Joan Hess

  “And they ground to the point that she was obliged to withdraw her senior thesis?”

  “Nothing went on her transcript.” He allowed the drapes to fall back. “She was tainted, though, and unable to get into any of the prestigious upper level seminars. She was in contention for editor of the school paper, but was passed over. Phi Beta Kappa did not invite her to the prom, so to speak.”

  “You are one twisted son of a bitch,” I said. “It’s no wonder she went after you like a Rottweiler. What’s more, you deserved it. If there weren’t a police officer on the patio, I’d invite you to take a stroll to view the cistern in the moonlight.”

  “I had no idea my idle remarks would do so much harm,” he protested. “The male ego is fragile. Women like you think we’re buffeted by testosterone, but inside—”

  “Save it, Walter.” I stood up, unwilling to allow him to look down at me. “Roxanne was playing hardball with you, and your response must have escalated to blind rage. Did you grit your teeth until you were able to ask her to join you in the garden to resolve the issue?”

  “I most certainly did not! I’d intended to take a walk after the morning panel, but then I came up with an idea for my next novel. I returned here and began to jot down notes while they were fresh in my mind. I did not set foot out of this room until I heard all the shrieking downstairs. There is something about shrieking that stirs an author’s soul.”

  “You didn’t knock on the door of the Hibiscus Room?”

  “If I had, Claire, I would hardly admit it. I am cognizant of the rales of evidence.”

  “But you will agree that someone inside the Azalea Inn was responsible for Roxanne’s death? If not you, then who?”

  He refilled his glass. “What about this other person found in the cistem?”

  “He didn’t do it,” I said flatly. “He thought Sherry Lynne’s cat was in there.”

  “Ah, thus accounting for ‘Ding, dong, bell, pussy’s in the well.’ I myself might have tossed one in had the opportunity arose, were I not highly allergic to them. Whenever one has even been in proximity, my eyes begin to water and my sinuses to lock up. My allergist seems to think some of my symptoms are psychosomatic. I will admit to being raked across the face by a neighbor’s cat when I was a small child, but I am not the sort to be manipulated by the unconscious impulses of my id. ‘Id’ is the first syllable in ‘idiot.’ I may be a pompous bastard, but I can assure you that I am not an idiot.” His eyes gleamed in a way I found most alarming, in that I could provide neither a tissue nor a heartfelt avowal of camaraderie. His voice broke as he added, “I hope, Claire, you will believe me when I say that I am not a murderer. Committing murder requires determination and spiritual fortitude. I am sadly lacking in both qualities.”

  I wasn’t sure if he expected me to throw my arms around him and assure him that either I believed he was capable of murder or had never for a moment suspected him of it. The one thing I didn’t want to do was breach the intangible gap between us and tacitly give him permission to stalk me in the same manner he’d stalked Roxanne ten years ago.

  Which is exactly what he’d done, and I doubted it had ever amused her. When she’d learned of the rumors circulating in Cambridge bars, she must have been incensed. When they’d come home to roost, or in this case, to foul the nest, she must have vowed revenge. It had taken her ten long years, but she’d come close to presenting Walter’s head on a platter to the Authors Guild only a few months ago.

  “Then you never went near the cistem?” I asked.

  “Until all this happened, I had no idea what a cistem might be. I’m still straggling to understand the concept of grits.”

  I left the room. What Walter Dahl thought was of minimal interest. Those who had paid over a hundred dollars to attend the convention were beginning to clog the hallway. Selling books was more important than solving mysteries, I thought as I went down the hallway. I could almost hear my accountant gurgling his agreement.

  My intentions were pure, but Allegra popped out of the Magnolla Room and caught my arm.

  “Do you have any idea how long we’ll be forced to stay here?” she asked. “I don’t know what to do about New York. My agent’s out of the country, and my publicist is most likely double-dating with Ken and Barbie. She swears she’s in her twenties, but I can never catch her at her desk before four o’clock. I don’t even know the last name of Roxanne’s current assistant; she went through them in the way the rest of us go through a box of chocolates. The nougats never lasted a day.”

  I was not inclined to wallow in the analogy. “You know more than I do, Allegra. Didn’t Lieutenant Rosen say anything about when you would be permitted to leave?”

  “Not really,” she said, toying with the tip of the silk scarf around her neck. “He seems more upset about what happened to you today than he is about Roxanne’s death. She could have fallen, I suppose.”

  “And Ammie Threety?”

  “An unfortunate accident. She dozed off.”

  “The preliminary lab results suggested she had taken some sort of barbiturate.” I recalled something Allegra had said at the airport. “You traveled with a prescription for antibiotics. Did you also have an array of prescription sleeping pills?”

  Allegra stiffened. “I have a few precautionary medications in my purse, but I most certainly did not offer anything to Ammie. I barely spoke to her, and went upstairs shortly after supper. What’s more, if I had given her a tablet of any kind, I most certainly would have said so. I had absolutely no reason to harm her.”

  I contemplated this for a moment. “You conceivably could have had a reason, Allegra,” I said slowly. “What if you were worried that Ammie’s manuscript might turn out to be the next best-seller? Roxanne might have abandoned you as she did Laureen, Sherry Lynne, and Dilys.”

  “My second book will be out in time for Christmas, and it’s already been bought by Hollywood for several million dollars. Foreign rights have been auctioned. Paradigm House is planning a major publicity blitz. The network talk shows are scrambling to schedule me. Because of my success, Roxanne’s stature in the industry had never been higher. The only reason she would have abandoned me was if she was asked to be editor-in-chief, but she would never have let anyone forget who pulled my manuscript out of the slush pile.”

  “Will all this still happen without her?”

  “I’m sure of it. I have a warm relationship with the publisher, who’ll make sure I’m assigned to a senior editor. Laureen, Dilys, and Sherry Lynne are likely to experience more problems, though. None of them has been selling well. Laureen and Sherry Lynne will end up with entry-level editors with zero clout, and Dilys may spend the next ten years trying to get reversion rights to her backlist. Roxanne wasn’t doing them any great favors, but at least she knew who they are. This is not good for them.”

  “So Walter Dahl was the only one of you who might have benefitted from Roxanne’s . . . premature resignation?”

  Allegra pulled me into the Magnolia Room and closed the door. “Do you think he did it?” she whispered, her heavily-shadowed eyes intent on me. “He lured her out to the garden and shoved her in the well? His room is next door. What if he decides he’s jealous of my success? All he’d have to do is wait until everyone’s gone to bed, and then . . .”

  “Take his travel machete out of his suitcase and come after you?” I suggested. “A few days from now, Lily might open the refrigerator to take out a head of lettuce, and find that part of your anatomy gazing blankly from the depths of the vegetable bin?”

  She sank down on the edge of the bed. “But if he killed Roxanne, who knows what else he’s capable of? In his second or third book, his fictional psychologist is asked by the prosecuting attorney’s office to evaluate a man accused of stabbing his ninety-year-old mother to death and shipping her corpse to Peoria via UPS. The psychologist found all of it highly symbolic, but I wanted to throw up.”

  “Your book was gruesome, was it not?”

  “On
ly because the plot demanded it.”

  I smiled rather grimly. “The plot or the market?”

  “Actually, Roxanne. My original draft was much tamer, but she knew what was selling. I nearly became addicted to Pepto-Bismol while writing the second book to her specifications. I have three scarves I cannot wear to this day. The advance did much to ease my symptoms, though, and I’ve always wanted a mocha brown Jaguar, something along the lines of Lieutenant Rosen’s eyes.”

  “I’m sure the idea of leather upholstery helped settle your stomach,” I said, straggling to keep any hint of hostility from my voice. “I’d better go downstairs and do what I can to help you make the payments. There’s a deadbolt on the inside of your door. You should be safe when you go to bed.”

  She stopped in front of the mirror above the dresser and adjusted the scarf. “And I shall do my part, too. We won’t have to do anything beyond this evening, will we?”

  “Only what Lieutenant Rosen dictates.”

  “There’s a man who’s not the stereotypic small-town cop. It’s not hard to envision him as the lead in my next movie. I certainly wouldn’t object to doing rewrites on the script with him, preferably at my condo.”

  Peter was primed to be drawn and quartered. Leslie, Allegra, and I would collect our portions; his mother might want something to tuck into the family vault.

  “Let’s go, Allegra,” I said.

  We went downstairs and forced a path through the attendees in the parlor. Earlene was visibly agitated as she snatched proffered credit cards and jammed them through the machine.

  “Where’s Caron?” I asked as I sat down next to her.

  “How should I know? I poked my head inside this room to see if everything was ready, and Laureen Parks told me to sell books until Caron returned to take over. I have no idea about sales tax! There’s no cash box, so I’ve been stuffing checks and bills under a cushion, which is slipshod and not sanitary. It’s very warm in here, you know. I am doing my best, but I’m feeling dizzy. Kimmie offered to spell me so I could step outside, but she cheerfully admits to forgetting to pick up her daughter at kindergarten more often than not. I didn’t want to let you down, Claire, but—”

  I patted her knee. “You’ve done a great job, Earlene. Why don’t you go out on the porch until you’ve cooled off, then look around for Caron? Try Lily’s office.”

  “Remind everyone that the authors are signing in the sunroom.” Earlene lowered her head and charged through the bodies forcing their way into the room. I’d seen stampeding cattle with more decorum. In the movies, anyway. The cows in the bucolic environs surrounding Farberville might have been cut out of plywood and positioned in the pasture each morning before dawn and collected after dusk.

  Eventually, the crowd diminished, and many of those who came into the parlor were carrying wineglasses, which indicated Lily was adhering to the timetable. Caron did not appear, however, and I was increasingly annoyed with her. I’d made it clear that I needed her help. She may have been lacking in many of the character attributes necessary for participation in a scouting program, but she also knew enough about our financial situation to reafize we were only a stone’s throw away from consignment clothing stores.

  There was only a scattering of customers in the parlor when Inez came through the doorway. She seemed startled to see me, but many aspects of life had the same effect on her. I would not have wanted to be within a mile when her mother first broached the topic of birds and bees. Inez must have required sedation.

  “Where’s Caron, Ms. Malloy?” she asked. “She told me she had to sell books.”

  “I wish I knew where she was.”

  “But she called not more than an hour ago. She thought maybe you’d let her leave in time for us to meet everybody at Streetcar Pizza. I came by to see if I could help.”

  “She didn’t imply she would sneak off and meet you outside?”

  “Oh, no,” Inez said earnestly as she cleaned her glasses on her shirttail, resettled them on her nose and shot me a disapproving look. “We didn’t care about the movie all that much. She figured you’d let her leave by ten o’clock.”

  “And now I can’t let her do anything because I don’t know where she is. Will you please take over here while I look for her?”

  Accommodating creature that she was, Inez would have donated a pint of blood or a stray kidney if I’d requested it of her. Once she was settled on the sofa and prepared to handle various transactions, I went to the foyer and leaned against the wall, savoring the relative coolness. Book sales had been better than I anticipated; I would be able to keep what books remained and sell them at the Book Depot on the strength of the publicity, albeit negative, generated by the convention.

  It was a pity Farberville lacked a local tabloid, but there was always a chance some reporter might hear about the “Ding, dong, bell” message left on Roxanne’s laptop. I was not above an anonymous phone call.

  I pulled myself together and went to the sunroom. Authors and attendees were all busy eating off paper plates ladened with whatever Lily had provided; the color green predominated, but the scope was far from monochromatic and all seemed well-received. Wine bottles were back in full force. I scanned the room for Caron, although I doubted she had the nerve to flagrantly disregard my request for assistance in the makeshift bookroom.

  To my dismay, Peter came out of the kitchen and joined me before I could flee through the hallway, scramble down the embankment, and leap onto the caboose of a train headed for Anchorage. It was a pleasant fantasy, although the next freight train was more likely to be destined for Topeka.

  “I need your statement,” he said.

  “Here’s one: I am looking for Caron. Is she in the kitchen, by any chance?”

  “Not unless she’s in the freezer.”

  “That’s not as ludicrous as it sounds. She’s disappeared. She made a phone call from Lily’s office earlier, but no one has seen her since then. I’m beginning to get worried.”

  Peter’s demeanor softened. “She’s not in Lily’s office. I was in there, making some calls. Could she be upstairs?”

  “I don’t know why she would be, but I guess I’d better make sure.”

  “You’re awfully pale, Claire. Let’s go out to the front porch for a minute, and then I’ll go upstairs with you.”

  Straggling to keep my imagination from running amok, I followed him to the porch. Jorgeson was seated on a wicker settee, smoking a thin cigar and idly watching the college students heading toward Thurber Street for live music and beer.

  “Have you seen Caron?” I asked him.

  “I saw her earlier, when she and some woman unloaded a bunch of boxes and brought them inside on a cart. She’s still in there, far as I know. If she’s not, she had to have climbed out a window. The officer out back has orders not to let anyone go into the garden. He’s a rookie, but I used words of one syllable and he seemed to understand.”

  I looked up at Peter, who had the maddening habit of being taller than I. “Then she has to be inside. Why would she pull a stunt like this? She knew I needed her help—and she was getting paid. That, if nothing else, would have captured her attention.”

  Peter told Jorgeson to go the sunroom and get something to eat, then gestured at me to sit down on the settee. I was relieved when he sat down on a chair. Settees can be overly cozy.

  “Is there anything you’re not telling me?” he said bluntly.

  I opted to stall. “Is there anything you’re not telling mel”

  “You’re a civilian and I’m a detective. I’m not supposed to share all my information, especially with someone involved in the investigation.”

  I opened my mouth to claim I was most definitely not involved, then conceded his point. “I suppose you want to know what I’ve been doing since I left the hospital,” I said, feigning meekness. I ran through my descent into the cistern, discussion with Laureen and Dilys, foray to Old Main, bubble bath, and subsequent conversations. I did not mention that I’d s
crutinized the graduate assistantship files, since I didn’t want to cause grief for the secretary, and may have edited my conversation with Arnie in my backyard as well. Other than those two lapses, I was forthcoming.

  “Walter Dahl is the only one with much of a motive,” I concluded. “Allegra believes her career will continue to thrive, but thinks Roxanne’s death will cause more headaches for the others. I don’t know enough about that end of the book business to have an opinion.”

  “You know more than I do. All I know is that these authors should all be locked away in padded cells, and the keys fed to crocodiles on a sandbank. I ask about their whereabouts, and I get long-winded theories about ghosts and antiquated relatives in the attic. There’s no attic. Another is convinced that everything that’s happened is due to ill-disguised animosity going back to toilet training. The next attempts to convince me to rely on animal instincts. The next tries to convince me that child molestation is a factor, even though there’s not a child within blocks of this case. And then there’s Lily.”

  “She does have an attitude,” I said sympathetically. “She’s only recently relinquished the cleaver.”

  Peter gripped his hair. “Not one of these people can remain focused for five seconds. They speculate rather than respond. Every question I pose becomes a potential plot—and what fun they have with it! There were moments when I was glad I wasn’t carrying a weapon.”

  “I can’t get a straight answer out of any of them, either,” I said. “Can I get a couple out of you?”

  “Such as?”

  “Were there any fingerprints on Roxanne’s laptop?”

  “Her fingerprints were all over the case, but the keyboard had been wiped clean.”

  “And the ladder?”

  “Nothing useful.” Peter turned on the full intensity of his soulful eyes. “When this is over, will you talk to me?”

  I stood up. “No, Lieutenant Rosen, I shall be thinking how best to end this relationship with grace and style. Should we throw an empty champagne bottle off one of the railroad bridges, or burn whatever diary entries have been made? I saved the mock-murder weekend brochure from the Mimosa Inn; we could watch as I feed it down the disposal. I think we need candles. The wicks flicker, sputter, and eventually go out once and for all.”