3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

by Lois Winston

  A few frozen margaritas in this heat and I’d pass out. I stood up and headed for my bathroom without saying anything else. What was the use? Mama lived in her own world.

  I suppose I could refuse to attend the barbecue this evening, but if I copped out, I’d have to let Alex and Nick do likewise. That would only postpone the get-together to another evening.

  For some reason Mama had formed an alliance with Ira and conspired to force a family relationship. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why. Ira came across as wishy-washy dull. According to Alex and Nick, his kids were total spoiled brats. Under the circumstances, the chance of Ira’s wife and me becoming BFF’s was non-existent. Why would my mother, who was normally so anti-Pollack, want us to have anything to do with these people?

  Fifteen minutes later I headed out to Sunnyside, dressed in a clean pair of khakis and white scooped T-shirt, my wet hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  April greeted me as soon as I stepped into the lobby. “Girl, you are not going to believe what went down here this morning!”

  nineteen

  Before I had a chance to ask her, April continued. “A couple of cops marched into Shirley’s office around nine o’clock and marched out with her sandwiched between them.”

  I wondered if that was my doing. Detective Spader certainly didn’t seem too happy last night when he learned Shirley had withheld information concerning her relationship with one of his murder victims. As a matter of fact, pissed off hardly began to describe his reaction. The guy looked like he was about to pull a Vesuvius. “Did they arrest her?”

  “They didn’t cuff her, so I guess not.”

  “Then the detective handling the case probably just had her picked up for questioning.”

  “She sure didn’t look happy. Her face was the same shade as my shirt.” April threw back her shoulders, better to show off a magenta T-shirt with white lettering that read Jersey Girls Don’t Pump Gas.

  I wondered if she owned any T-shirts without Jersey slogans. I’d yet to see her wear one. Given the size of April’s chest and her obvious New Jersey pride, the state tourism council should pay her an advertising fee.

  “Why would they question her for so long?” asked April. “You think Shirley killed Lyndella and Mabel?”

  “No, I don’t. Maybe she’s helping the police piece together who did.”

  “I suppose.”

  The phone rang, and as April picked it up, I waved and headed off to find my first interview subject of the day.

  I found Murray at one of the potter’s wheels in the nearly empty arts and crafts room. At the other end of the room, three wheelchair-bound residents sat hunkered around a table. I recognized Lucille from the back of her buzz-cut head.

  An aide and a woman I didn’t recognize—most likely the art therapist—helped the other two residents, a man and another woman, string pony beads onto plastic lanyard. Although I couldn’t see her, Lucille seemed to have no trouble stringing the beads herself. The aide and the art therapist paid no attention to her. Maybe she really was almost ready to come home after only a week of therapy.

  Then again, maybe Lucille refused to play at stringing beads and sat with her arms crossed over her chest. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell. Since I had no desire to get sucked into any of her drama right now, I refrained from walking across the room to get a better take on the situation.

  Instead, I walked over to where Murray worked, bent over the wheel. “Be right with you,” he muttered.

  I watched as he took a wire clay cutter and deftly sliced a thrown bowl free of the wheel. A shiver coursed up my spine. Ever since The Godfather, I’ve squirmed at the sight of wire clay cutters. They reminded me too much of how Luca Brasi was garroted and dispatched to sleep with the fishes. In the wrong hands a wire clay cutter was a deadly weapon. However, neither Lyndella nor Mabel had died by garrote.

  Murray headed for the sink, leaving the bowl to dry a bit on the wheel before attempting to remove it. “Where you want to do this?” he asked, heading back after washing his hands.

  I suggested the library. He removed his canvas pottery apron, hung it on a wall hook, and followed me out of the room and down the hall. Once again, no one else occupied the library. We settled onto leather chairs opposite one another.

  I pulled his paperwork out of my tote, and after offering him a smile asked, “Murray, how come you’re making my job so difficult?”

  He raised his wiry unibrow. “How’m I doing that?”

  “By convincing all the other crafters not to fill out the information forms I requested. No one wrote much beyond his or her name.”

  He shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “I need some personal information for the article. What can you tell me about yourself that won’t concern you regarding possible identity theft?”

  “I like to throw pots.”

  “I know that, Murray. And you’re good at it. What else do you like to do?”

  “Skydive.”

  Was he pulling my leg? I checked his facial features for any winks or smirks. He looked dead serious.

  “Can’t do it anymore, though,” he added.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Too damned expensive. Maybe if I sell enough pots. How many’d that gallery take?”

  “Four.” I showed him the pictures of the two vases and two bowls Clara had chosen.

  He frowned. “Not gonna get a jump out of four pots.”

  “I’m sorry, but if they sell well, the gallery owner may want to carry some on an ongoing basis. You might get that jump in eventually.”

  He shrugged again. “If I’m still around.”

  “You planning on leaving?”

  “Who knows? I’m no young rooster, chickie.”

  There’s that chickie again. I bit my tongue. No matter how condescending and sexist a term, I had an article to write, and handing Murray a lecture on gender bias would work against me. At least he didn’t call me Sweet Cheeks the way Ricardo had. “You look like you’ve got plenty of good years ahead of you, Murray. How old are you?”

  He answered with a blank stare.

  “Come on, Murray. I’m not going to steal your social security checks.”

  “How old you think I am?”

  “Seventy-two?”

  Another blank stare.

  “Am I close?”

  “In the ballpark, give or take.”

  “Am I giving or taking?”

  “Can’t say, chickie.”

  “How long have you lived at Sunnyside?”

  “Not long.”

  “Where did you live before moving here?”

  “Here and there. Moved around a lot.”

  And so it went. With Murray and the rest of the crafters. Well before the end of the afternoon I’d finished all the remaining interviews but had little to show for my time. I wondered how much creative leeway I could get away with in my article.

  April stopped me as I headed toward the exit. “Shirley never came back.”

  “Maybe she went home after leaving the police station.”

  “Without her car? It’s still parked in the employee lot. I checked a few minutes ago.”

  Interesting. Maybe Detective Spader hadn’t bought into my theory and had one of his own, one that had Shirley killing Lyndella. But what about Mabel? Shirley may have finally snapped and taken out her years of frustration and disappointment on Lyndella not measuring up to Shirley’s grandmother standards, but what would be Shirley’s motive in killing Mabel?

  I’d seen how Shirley reacted to Mabel’s death. Either she had nothing to do with it, or she should head to Hollywood because her performance was worthy of an Oscar.

  I still believed my theory to be the more plausible one, even though mine, too, had no explanation for Mabel’s murder. Howe
ver, with Shirley away from Sunnyside, I might be able to prove mine with a little help from April. “Do you know how many new employees Shirley has hired over the past several weeks?” I asked.

  “Sure. I process all the paperwork into the computer for her.” She tapped a few keys. “How far back we talking?”

  If someone hired a hit man to do away with Lyndella, how long would he hang around Sunnyside before striking? Long enough to establish himself and fit in without raising suspicion, I thought. He’d still be here, too. Otherwise, he would have leapt to the head of Detective Spader’s suspects list.

  “Since the beginning of June.” That would have given the killer a month to blend in and become one of the countless nearly invisible employees who kept Sunnyside running on a daily basis.

  “Only three, but that includes Reggie,” said April.

  Three? Sally had suggested at least a dozen. Three considerably narrowed the suspects pool.

  “Why you want to know?” asked April.

  “Humor me for a bit. I’ve got a theory about Lyndella’s killer.”

  “Girl, you think one of the new hires offed her?”

  “I think someone fairly new to Sunnyside may have been hired by someone else to come here to kill Lyndella. Tell me about the other two.”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “I don’t know. I could be breaking some sort of confidentiality rules.” Then she scowled at the computer screen. “It’s an interesting theory, but I don’t think it works.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I guess I can tell you this since the killer can’t possibly be either of them. Besides Reggie, you’ve got Maria Gomez. She’s fifty-three years old, about four-eleven and a hundred and thirty-five pounds, hired to work in housekeeping. No way she could have killed Lyndella. Besides, she barely speaks English.”

  I had to agree with her. Maria Gomez sounded like an unlikely suspect. “And the other new hire?”

  “Franklin Applewood. He works the early morning shift in the dining room and kitchen. Busses tables. Sweeps up. Washes dishes. That sort of thing.”

  “What disqualifies him?”

  “For one, he works from five-thirty in the morning to one-thirty in the afternoon. He’d stick out like a wide receiver at the opera if he wandered around the residents’ rooms late at night. We’ve got security cameras at all the residential entrances. No way he’d get from the cafeteria to here without showing up on tape. On top of that, the dude’s an ADA hire. Down Syndrome.”

  Mr. Applewood certainly didn’t sound like prime hit man material. That left one other group as potential suspects. “What about new residents?”

  “Older residents I’d believe,” said April. “They all hated Lyndella. You thinking some new resident came here specifically to kill her?”

  “I think it’s a theory that’s worth exploring.”

  April tapped a few more keys on the computer. “You got to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Same time period? The past month?”

  I nodded.

  “Got plenty to choose from in this group. Four new couples in the independent living apartments, five new residents in this section, and seven rehab patients, including your mother-in-law and her new roomie.”

  “I think the chances of a husband/wife hit squad are slim, so let’s rule out those new to the apartments. Same for the rehabs.” I checked my watch. I needed to get home for Ira’s barbecue. Too bad I couldn’t use ferreting out a killer as an excuse for not attending. “Can you print out the paperwork for the remaining five for me?”

  April hesitated. “I really shouldn’t. I could get in a heap of shit if Shirley finds out.”

  “I won’t tell her, and you won’t tell her.” I glanced around the lobby. April and I were alone. “And there’s no one else skulking around to see what you’re doing.”

  April drummed her nails on the desk as she weighed the possibility of getting caught, then came up with a way of easing her conscience. “You being staff and all, I suppose you’d be entitled to see this stuff, right?”

  I grinned at her. “I don’t see why not.”

  She returned my grin, and hit several keys. A few seconds later the printer began spitting out sheets of paper. April had just finished stuffing all the pages into a large envelope when I saw Shirley striding down the corridor, coming from the direction of the back entrance.

  “Thanks, April! Gotta run.” I grabbed the envelope, turned, and bolted out the main door. I didn’t know if Shirley had seen me, but I had no intention of hanging around to find out.

  _____

  I arrived home to find Mama, the boys, and Zack all waiting for me.

  “Hurry and change, dear,” said Mama.

  I checked the clock on the microwave. “Isn’t it too early to leave?” We weren’t due at Ira’s until seven, and it was only a little after six. Then again, I realized I had no idea where Ira lived.

  “We have to drive all the way out to Lambertville,” said Zack.

  I stared at him. Dumbfounded, for a minute I couldn’t even speak. When I finally found my voice, I said, “We’re driving nearly to Pennsylvania on a Friday night?”

  I don’t suppose someone—namely Mama—could have clued me in to that minor fact at some point before this very minute. I turned to her. “You do realize my car has no air conditioning, we all can’t fit in Zack’s two-seater, and last I looked, the temperature outside still hovered around ninety-nine degrees in the shade?”

  Mama crossed the kitchen and grabbed hold of Zack’s arm. “I’ll ride with Zack. You really should get your car fixed, Anastasia. It’s much too hot to drive around without air conditioning.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” I muttered.

  “What was that, dear? Speak up.”

  “The cost of fixing the air conditioning would probably run more than the car is worth, Mama.”

  She let loose a dramatic sigh. “I do wish you’d kept your Camry. That was such a comfortable automobile.”

  “And I wish Karl had hit the jackpot in Vegas instead of blowing our life’s savings and leaving me up the wazoo in debt. Too bad neither of us is going to get her wish.”

  “Maybe we should call Ira and cancel,” suggested Zack.

  “Oh, no, we can’t do that!” said Mama.

  “Why not?” I asked. “I’m about to commit matricide. Surely that’s a legitimate excuse for getting out of attending a barbecue.”

  “Really, Anastasia!”

  I noticed the boys had ducked out of the kitchen. Of the five of us, only one of us wanted to show up at this shindig. I wondered if it had anything to do with her secretiveness over the last few days. “What aren’t you telling me, Mama?”

  “Nothing other than I brought you up to have better manners.”

  Zack extricated himself from Mama’s grasp and placed both his hands on my upper arms. “Go get changed,” he said. “I’ll drive everyone in your car.”

  “That will only make for more body heat in a confined space.”

  “If three of you have to suffer through the heat, we’ll all suffer.”

  The corners of Mama’s mouth turned down. “Is that really necessary, Zachary, dear?”

  He answered her without taking his eyes off me. “Yes, it is, Flora. Your daughter looks like she’s had a rough day. I don’t think she’s up to driving this evening. So either I drive everyone, or we don’t go.”

  My hero! If we’d been alone, I would have jumped his bones right there in the kitchen. To hell with my reservations and taking things slowly.

  Mama sighed in resignation. She smoothed out a few imaginary wrinkles in her—new sundress?!?

  My jaw dropped. “You went shopping this afternoon?”

 
“I was wondering when you’d notice.” She held out both sides of the bold yellow, green, and black floral print skirt and executed a pirouette. “Do you like it?”

  I’m reduced to scavenging the street for dropped pennies while my mother blows four hundred and fifty dollars on a sundress? What is wrong with this picture? “Mama, you and I need to have a chat this weekend.”

  She smiled. “How nice! We should go out for brunch. Just us girls. There’s that cute new place on Central Ave. They have a fabulous brunch menu. You’ll love it, dear.”

  I fisted my hands in my pockets to keep from strangling her. “I’ll be working tomorrow and Sunday morning.”

  “Dinner, then. But we’ll have to go somewhere else. The place on Central is only open for breakfast and lunch.”

  I turned to Zack. “Do you believe this?”

  He regarded Mama as he answered me. “Have the talk if it makes you feel better, but I doubt it will make any difference.”

  I didn’t bother changing out of my khakis and white scooped- neck T-shirt, and I kept my hair pulled back in the ponytail I’d fashioned after stepping out of the shower earlier in the day. I didn’t bother with makeup. What was the point? No matter how fresh I looked stepping into my car, I’d arrive sweltering, limp, and bedraggled. And the only person I cared to impress would be arriving equally sweltering, limp, and bedraggled.

  All I really wanted to do was draw myself a cool bath and read through the paperwork April had printed out for me. I felt so close to finding the identity of Lyndella’s killer that my nerve endings tingled in anticipation. Or maybe the tingling was from Zack running the tips of his fingers up and down my arms. Nothing would come of either right now.

  _____

  Nearly two hours later we arrived at Ira’s home—unfashionably late. Mama had called ahead to alert him while we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Rt. 202. At least we wouldn’t arrive to find the burgers burned to a crisp.