Die Smiling

by Linda Ladd

  The boy stopped kissing her, and they lay still a moment, still breathing hard. Downstairs, the younger boy’s cries filtered up the stairwell. “Oh, my God, he’s doing something to Bubby.”

  She grabbed her robe, and he pulled on his jeans and they ran downstairs and along the corridor to Bubby and Sissy’s bedroom. Bubby was standing beside his bed, crying, but he was alone. Sissy’s bed was empty.

  “Where’s Sissy?” she whispered.

  Bubby sniffled. “He took her like he always does. I never get to sleep with him, and Sissy always gets to.”

  The older one’s blood ran cold, and the boy cursed under his breath. They tiptoed down the hall to the master bedroom and threw open the door. Stepdaddy had Sissy spread-eagled on the bed, holding her legs down, one hand over her mouth, the other under her nightgown. They could hear her screaming muffled under his palm.

  “Stop!” the older one cried, running toward him and trying to pull him off her little sister. The boy helped her, jerking the man off the bed with all his strength. Stepdaddy reeled under the unexpected attack, so wiped out that he fell to the floor and couldn’t get up. He kept mumbling about how pretty his girls were before he grew still and lapsed into loud snores.

  Sissy threw herself into the older one’s arms, who held her tightly and tried to comfort her hysterical crying. “Has he done this before, Sissy?”

  The younger girl nodded with her face hidden in the older one’s nightgown, and the boy gave the man a hard kick in his side. Sissy sobbed out, “He says all daddies do this to daughters pretty as me.”

  “Oh, God, he’s an animal,” the boy muttered, furious.

  The older one felt sick in the pit of her stomach. “Sissy, why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I was scared. He said he’d bring Bubby instead, if I didn’t sleep in his bed.”

  The boy and the older one looked at each other, and she shivered with horror at what had been going on. Then Bubby ran into the room and clung to the boy, crying and saying his daddy had parked the car in the woods where nobody could see and done things to him, too. Anger rose in the older one, so hard and fast, she was afraid of herself. She said, “Let’s kill him. Right now. While he’s too drunk to fight back.”

  The other three kids stared at her.

  Then the boy said, “Are you serious? You really want to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too,” said Sissy.

  “Me, too,” said Bubby.

  “Let me think,” said the boy. They all moved away from the snoring man on the floor and went out in the hall where a small night-light barely illuminated their faces. The boy paced around nervously, his fingers entwined and squeezing each other, the way he always did when he was thinking up interesting quests.

  “Okay, but I’m not gonna do this by myself. You all have to help me. We’re in this together, right? I’m not gonna take a murder rap for any of you, if anybody ever finds out what we’ve done. You understand that? You have to do it yourselves, and then you can never tell anyone, or we’ll all get the electric chair.”

  All three nodded, and then all three began to cry. The older one grabbed the two younger ones against her and hugged them close while the boy continued to pace and think about what to do.

  “I guess we could smother him with a pillow. He’s too drunk to fight. That way there won’t be any wounds or blood, or nothin’ like that to clean up. And there won’t be any marks on the body, either. Nobody will suspect any of you. Why would they? And nobody will ever know what happened. They’ll probably just think he stopped breathing for some reason. You know, died in his sleep of indeterminate causes.”

  The boy sat them on the floor around him and told them exactly what they had to do and then exactly what they had to do and say the next morning. They would get up, and the older one would get the other two ready for school as if nothing had happened. She’d tell the police later that she thought her stepdaddy was just passed out again from drinking too much because that had happened every night since his wife died.

  They all nodded in agreement, and the boy went upstairs and got his video camera. Then, together, they went back into the bedroom, struggled the drunken man off the floor, onto the bed, and under the covers. He groaned and moved his head slightly but did not fight them, so the boy filmed from the foot of the bed as the other three all took hold of a pillow, put it over his face, and pushed down as hard as they could until he stopped breathing. The boy turned off the camera, herded them outside, shut the door, and told them all to remember what to do in the morning. Then he sneaked out of the house and went home. The older one took Sissy and Bubby up to her bed and held them until they fell asleep. None of them cried. None of them woke up the next morning until the alarm went off for school.

  Eleven

  Unfortunately for me, Walter Costin’s stripper girlfriend, Pam Letassy, or Smokin’ Hot Wildcat, if you preferred stage names, turned out to be too young and too stupid to be much use to me. Said she didn’t hear or see anything or think about anything or anybody but Walter, who was the love of her barely legal, young life. I tended to believe her, judging from the doe-eyed, zombie devotion she paid to his every word and deed. She was also quaking in her spike heels at the mere thought of her preacher daddy finding out she’d been having a sexual tryst in a funeral parlor, not to mention that she had a smokin’ hot wildcat of a job dancing in a strip club, both of which would indeed be a big shockeroo for any red-blooded Midwestern clergyman.

  Even more unfortunately, Shaggy was the next interviewee on my agenda, so I called the morgue to let him know I was on my way over to talk to him. Buck informed me that Shaggy still wasn’t back to work, which revved up all kinds of terrible thought processes inside my head. It made him look guilty, that’s what it did, and did I ever not like that.

  I had to pay him a call to discount his involvement, and I didn’t care for that idea, either. Not that I truly thought Shaggy could ever hurt a fly; it just couldn’t happen. He was a self-designated hippie peacenik, if there ever was one. Paying Shaggy a get-well visit wasn’t exactly out of line, so I stopped at the nearest Quickstop, picked up a liter bottle of cold Mountain Dew and a package of strawberry Zingers, two of his favorite, if less than wholesome, foods.

  Shaggy Becker lived in small white ranch house in the outskirts of Osage Beach, one I’d visited on any number of occasions, usually to watch a Bruce Willis flick or a Mizzou basketball game. He lived at the very end of a street that was pretty rural, actually, and tree-lined with big shady, spreading elms. It appeared deserted as I drove down its length, everybody still at work, I guess. His old mustard yellow Volkswagen bus sat in the driveway, the rear window plastered with surfboard decals. He’d never been on a surfboard in his life from what I’d been able to gather, but that didn’t stop him from pretending he was dating Gabrielle Reece. His bass boat was sitting at the side of the house covered with a dark blue tarp.

  I got out and looked around, all quiet on the western front. I waited for my sixth sense to quiver up a few danger signals as it had at the Royal, but nothing came to make me tense up and get an itchy trigger finger. I turned and looked to my right when I heard a slight bumping noise, but it was the wind knocking around a hanging bird feeder on the front porch of a house down the street. An old man was sitting near it in a rocking chair with his back to me, but he didn’t move or look in my direction so I didn’t pull my weapon.

  Climbing the front steps to the uncovered stoop, I stepped around a big pot of geraniums that appeared to be gasping for breath but not having much luck. Shaggy didn’t exactly have a green thumb, by the looks of his yard and the plethora of dead potted plants sitting around. I hesitated when I saw that Shaggy’s ancient front door, the one I’d helped him paint bright red about six months ago, stood ajar. You know, it just usually doesn’t bode well when you find somebody’s door ajar. I had learned that many times in many hard ways. I opened my jacket, put my hand on the grip of the Glock, and hoped Shaggy was
still in possession of all his mouthparts. I stood to one side and tapped a knuckle on the beat-up screen door. Shaggy’s voice called out from inside, familiar and unterrified, and I felt distinctly relieved, even though he’d called out for me to go the hell away.

  “It’s me, Shag. Claire. I brought you some goodies.”

  I pushed the door open and found him lying facedown on his overstuffed brown sofa, the kind that you sank down to your elbows in. His giant sixty-inch television was the dominating feature in the room and was blaring with all the blams and thunderous sound effects of Die Hard with a Vengeance. There was another couch, this one pull-out and blue velour, two ancient, unmatched recliners, and a coffee table made out of a piece of glass balanced on one of those big wood spools for holding electrical wire. A couple of PlayStations sat atop it, some empty Wendy’s sacks, and an opened and nearly empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. I was pleased, though, to see that he looked as sick as the proverbial Irish setter, then felt guilty that I could even suspect such a good friend of breaking and entering somebody’s coffin. What is the world coming to?

  Apparently surprised to see me, Shaggy pushed himself up to sitting and gazed squinty eyed at me. Barefoot and bedraggled, he had on his usual gray T-shirt and baggy, faded-out biker shorts, and his reddish dreadlocks were mussed, to put it mildly. He took both hands and pushed his hair behind his ears, revealing twenty or so ear piercings. A Dude, he definitely was. “What’re you doin’ here, Claire? Something wrong downtown?”

  I moved across the living room and placed the paper bag full of my exquisite culinary gifts on the coffee table in front of him. “Nope. Just came to see for myself if you were playing hooky.”

  “God, Claire, I’m sick as a dead dog.”

  If you ask me, that’s pretty damn sick.

  “Can’t keep anything down at all. Some kinda bug, I guess, so better not get too close. What you got in the sack?”

  “Mountain Dew and Zingers. Guess I should of gotten you Rolaids instead.”

  “The Mountain Dew’s okay, but I’ll save the Zingers for later. How’re things comin’ on that case with the dead beauty queen, anyways? Buck told me about it, but I haven’t been able to help much. I went in once but didn’t last long before I puked.”

  “We’re still working it.” I hesitated. I did not want to question him. He was too savvy about my motives for asking him questions, but then again, on the same side of that coin, he knew how investigations worked and that I was merely doing my job. Why would he be offended? As usual, I was dead wrong. “Hey, Shag, now that you mention it, believe it or not, your name came up in that very investigation. I guess I’m gonna have to ask you a coupla questions. You feel up to it at all?”

  “Huh? Me? What’d you mean my name came up?”

  “Well, first off, where were you last night?”

  I grinned as if it was just so silly a question to have to ask, but my humor fell flat. Shaggy stared somberly at me, then looked down at the bottle as he twisted off the Mountain Dew’s cap. Without speaking, he took a swig. I waited, definitely on edge now, and wondering against my will if he was trying to formulate the best way to answer without implicating himself. Man alive, I didn’t like thinking the worst, not with a good friend like the Shagman. But my gut was telling me otherwise, that he was gearing up to tell me a bunch of lies. If that was true, I wanted to know why.

  Finally, Shaggy turned his gaze on me. “What’s really goin’ down here, Claire? You and Bud makin’ me your primary suspect? Is that it? Thanks a helluva lot.”

  I wasn’t expecting him to go on so high the defensive this early on. I hadn’t accused him of anything. Yet. I guess his reaction was understandable, though. I wouldn’t like somebody coming into my house and insinuating I was a sicko scissors murderer.

  “Hey, Shaggy, c’mon now, don’t get all pissy with me. Like I said before, your name came up, so I’m here to find out what you know, no big deal.”

  “Maybe not to you. Sorry, but this doesn’t feel cool to me, like you’re accusing me of murder. If it’s really no big deal, why didn’t you call me up and ask me over the phone?”

  Good question. Why didn’t I? “I wanted to make sure you’re all right. You never miss work. We’re all sort of in shock about it.” I put on another big cheesy smile that no doubt looked pretty lame. His expression told me I was right on about that.

  “Yeah, or you’re checkin’ to make sure I really am sick, is that more like it? You think I don’t know how you and Bud work your cases? I’ve seen how you think a million times, and right now, you’re thinkin’ I killed that woman.” He stopped suddenly, shook his head. “Man, this sucks. What’d you think? I get off strangling ladies and slicing off their lips?”

  “How’d you know the lips were severed, Shag?”

  He gave me a look that made me want to cringe and apologize. I didn’t do either.

  “Because Buckeye filled me in and let me view the body when I went in that day, that’s how. Ask him if you don’t believe me. You gonna tell me how my name came up, or will that compromise your investigation?”

  Oooh, sarcasm, alive and well. “The night security man at Lohman’s says you were over there last night playing on his PlayStation. I take it you’re telling me that’s not true?”

  “That’s bullshit is what I’m telling you. I was right here on this couch last night, sick as a dog like I just said, all night long. What kinda crap is this, Claire? I don’t even know anybody at any funeral homes. Who said I was there anyways, I have a right to know, don’t I?”

  “A guy by the name of Walter Costin. Ring any bells?”

  “Hell, no.” Angry, Shaggy tipped up the soda again and drank a few gulps, and then I saw the name register in his eyes. He lowered the bottle and stared at me. “He’s that guy that picks up for one of the mortuaries. Now I remember, but I sure as hell don’t hang out with him. Why don’t ya cut me some slack here?”

  He lay down on his back and draped a forearm over his eyes. I took a seat on the black corduroy recliner and felt like a dirty, rotten, less than friendly cur. I believed him, of course. No way Shaggy could ever in his lifetime commit this kind of crime, but why would Costin finger him if they barely knew each other?

  “Have any idea why Costin put you at the scene if you weren’t there?”

  “Maybe he just wanted to take the heat off himself, ever think of that? All I know is that I wasn’t there. What the hell difference does it make, anyhow?”

  “Because somebody broke into Hilde Swensen’s casket last night and sewed her mouth back together and nobody knows who.”

  Shaggy bolted upright, looked at me for a minute, then to my shock, he burst into tears. Speechless, I stared at him while he wept into his palms for a minute or two, but he got himself under control pretty fast. He rubbed the tears off his face with the back of his hand and looked genuinely offended. “So you think I might’ve done it ’cause this guy said I was there? That what this’s boilin’ down to, huh?”

  “No, of course not. I’d like to know why he wants to implicate you in this when you barely know him.”

  “Hell if I know. To save his butt and get you off his back, maybe? Or he could’ve been afraid he’d lose his job. All I can tell you is that I wasn’t over there last night, period. And I’m sure as hell not into messing with dead girls’s caskets. Jeez Louise, this is such major bullshit. Hell, I can’t believe this.” Shaggy leaned back and interlaced his fingers on top of his dreadlocks. Still upset, he stared at me in unfriendly fashion. “Thought we were friends, Claire, and look at you, comin’ at me with this sick shit.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Shaggy, you know I’ve gotta check out every lead I get. Your name was mentioned by a primary suspect. I had to get your take on what he said. That’s all there is to it. Why are you getting so bent outta shape?”

  “Where’s Bud? Downtown gettin’ a search warrant signed out on me and my pad?

  I smiled, and this one was for real. “Nah. You’d let me look ar
ound if I wanted to, wouldn’t you?”

  I watched the flush that ran up Shaggy’s neck and darkened his face. He looked ready to grab me by the throat and have a good time squeezing the life out of me. “Snoop around in my stuff all you want, Claire. Sorry I don’t feel like giving you the grand tour. I thought we were pals, but I guess not, huh?”

  This was not going well, uh-uh, getting ugly, yes, indeedy. “Anybody here with you last night that could verify your story, Shaggy? Anybody call, come by?”

  “My story?” He narrowed his eyes and set his lips in a thin, tight line. “Nope. No corroborating witnesses to give you for my story. Guess nobody wants to be around the stomach flu. I’m gonna bawl my eyes out, if you catch it.”

  Childish jab, yes, but very Shaggyesque. Especially when he’s hot under the collar, anyway. Like now. I quit with the friendly, shucks-I-really-don’t-like-doing-this routine. He was taking this seriously, so I got a bit annoyed myself. “Now, look, I had to do this and you know it. Sorry if I offended you, but I’ve got to follow leads wherever they take me.”

  “Yep, I see that. Thanks for your consideration.”

  Shaggy was royally pissed off, all right. “Okay, I get it. Just tell me what you know about this guy, Costin, and I’ll get out of here and leave you alone.”

  “I hardly know him is what I know. I remember he’s a real friendly kinda guy and always wants to talk when he comes in the morgue. He’s new at it, and maybe we sat down in the break room once and had a coke, or something, after we got the body loaded. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Do you remember anything he talked about?”

  “He talked about liking to play PlayStation. I think I said I did, too, and we compared notes on how far we’d gotten on some of the games, maybe, stuff like that. Truth is, I don’t really remember. It wasn’t important enough, just regular stuff.”

  “You remember if he told you anything about himself?”

  “God, Claire, I feel like I’m gonna hurl, gimme a break here.” He lay down again and put a towel over his face. After a few seconds, he spoke again, “He said he goes to school at Missouri State in Springfield, some kind of history, ancient history, I think, or maybe it was archaeology. I dunno.”