Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “We’re helping Joan, first and foremost. As for Clarice, we’ve already located Alfred, for better or worse, but I think we’ll need to locate the others to find out more about Alfred—if we find them.”

  “Maybe we’ll get a clue in one of our fortune cookies.”

  When we arrived home, Wainwright became agitated. As soon as we parked in the garage and opened the van door, he dashed out. He stood at the door to our back yard barking like a he’d seen the devil.

  “What is it, boy?” Greg shifted his body from the driver’s seat into his wheelchair. I gathered our food and went around the back of the van, meeting Greg and Wainwright at the door. The dog was trying to tell us something, but neither Greg nor I were fluent in golden retriever, though Greg has a better working vocabulary than I do. We both tensed, knowing Wainwright didn’t get crazy for no reason. The animal wasn’t a drama queen. When he behaved this way, it was for two purposes: one, to warn us; and two, to protect us.

  Greg grabbed a hammer from a nearby workbench. “Stay here.” The order was shot in my direction, not Wainwright’s. Armed with the dog and the hammer, my husband opened the door leading to our back yard.

  As soon as the door was muzzle-wide, Wainwright pushed through, a golden ball of teeth and purpose. Behind him rolled Greg, pushing his wheelchair forward like a war steed into battle. I decided to count to ten, then bring up the rear armed with Mongolian beef, honey-walnut shrimp, and spring rolls.

  “Call him off,” I heard a masculine and vaguely familiar voice yell before I even reached five. No matter how familiar the voice, had it belonged to a friend, Wainwright wouldn’t still be voicing his ferocious displeasure.

  I hustled around the corner of the garage until our patio came into full view. The scene nearly caused me to drop the food. Wainwright had trapped the intruder, who’d been caught unawares on his back on our chaise longue, probably in the middle of a nap. The dog had leapt onto the chaise, successfully pinning him in place like a note under a pushpin. Wainwright’s muzzle was inches from the man’s face. The dog had stopped barking but remained vigilant, a low growl emanating from his gut. Greg, on the other hand, was nearly doubled with laughter, the hammer forgotten in his lap.

  “Call him off,” the intruder called again. “It’s not funny.” The tone was commanding yet dotted with flecks of fear. Apparently, Greg didn’t agree with him. He thought it damn funny and was too busy laughing to call off our dog.

  I deposited the food on our picnic table and grabbed Wainwright by the collar, tugging him off the chaise. “Down, boy.” With reluctance, the large animal hopped to the ground but maintained a keen eye on his prey.

  Greg stopped laughing long enough to snap his fingers and choke out, “Here, Wainwright.” The dog immediately left his post by the chaise and went to his master’s side. Greg gave him some pats to calm him down and let him know everything was fine.

  My hands were on both of my hips as I faced the trespasser—my half brother, Clark Littlejohn. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “You’ve always said I should visit!”

  “You couldn’t call first?”

  “I wanted to surprise you. I was sitting in my car out front, but it was too hot. So I decided to see if I could find some shade back here. I managed to get over the fence.” Clark shot me a small smile of pride. “No small feat for a guy my age, I can tell you that.”

  I twitched my nose and waited for more explanation. Clark continued, “Guess I fell asleep.” He started to stand, then changed his mind, looking with concern at Wainwright, who was sitting next to Greg’s wheelchair but still on alert.

  “Don’t worry,” Greg assured him. “Wainwright won’t bite unless you attack one of us or we give him a command.”

  Clark wasn’t so sure. “I’d rather not test that theory.”

  Smiling, I called to the dog. Wainwright trotted over to me and Clark, his long tail wagging happily with the attention. I introduced the two and encouraged Clark to pat Wainwright’s large, sturdy head. When Clark’s hand moved to scratch the dog behind an ear, Wainwright’s tail wagged faster. “See?” I said to Clark. “You’re now buds.” I held out my arms to my half brother. “Now stand up and give me a hug.”

  Clark Littlejohn was older than me by about six years. He was my mother’s firstborn—a kid she had prior to meeting and marrying my father, a son she conveniently neglected to tell me about. I’m not even sure she ever told my father about him. She sure as hell didn’t tell either of us about Grady Littlejohn, the son she had after she disappeared when I was sixteen years old. When my father died, I discovered an old envelope with a clue to my mother’s whereabouts. When I followed up on the information, I’d discovered the existence of my two half brothers and had been reunited with my mother. Like most things involving my family, the reunion had been less of a Hallmark card and more akin to a Halloween haunted house.

  After Clark and Greg shook hands, we went into the house. Wainwright headed for his water dish, but not until after he’d given Muffin and Seamus the scoop on the stranger.

  Unlike me, Greg had remembered to bring in the Chinese food. He plopped it down on the kitchen table. “You’re just in time for dinner, Clark.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve caught you two with take-out.” He turned to me. “Do you ever cook?”

  I had something other than food on my mind. “How’s Mom?” I didn’t have to ask about Grady; he was dead. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Mom’s fine,” Clark assured me. “Saw her last week.” Our mother was now living in a retirement home of her choosing in New Hampshire. “Would you believe she even has a boyfriend? Some old guy named Earle who’s pushing ninety.”

  Greg snorted with laughter while he pulled three dinner plates out of the cupboard. “You two going to end up with more half siblings?”

  Clark winked at him. “Never know. Earle’s pretty spry with that walker of his. And considering he’s one of the few gents on the premises who can chew his own food, he’s quite the catch.”

  I pulled utensils out of a drawer. “Speaking of good-looking old guys, you’re looking pretty good yourself, bro. You’ve dropped your spare tire.”

  Clark patted his belly, which was now reduced to a small, soft bulge that extended over the waistband of his jeans like a half-inflated balloon. “I stopped eating at the Blue Lobster. Hardly ever eat fried food anymore.” He sniffed at the bag on the table. “Not that I couldn’t be tempted.”

  I studied Clark. He was of average height and still thick and solid, even without his previous gut. His hair was also thinner than when I’d last seen him about a year and a half ago. Neither handsome nor plain, he had our mother’s eyes and mouth and wasn’t half bad-looking for a man of his age. If there was one difference in Clark since we’d last seen each other, it was his overall vibe. He seemed much more relaxed, as if a large concrete block had been lifted from his shoulders. It could be that not having Mom to worry about day in and day out had given him relief.

  I started to pull a couple of beers from the fridge, then stopped, remembering that Clark, like my mother, was a recovering alcoholic. Clark noticed my hesitation.

  “Don’t worry about me, sis. You and Greg help yourself. I don’t mind.”

  “How about some iced tea or lemonade, then?” I peered into the fridge again. “We also have Coke, both diet and regular.” I looked up at Clark. “Or coffee. I could make a pot of coffee.”

  “Diet Coke is perfect.”

  He held out his hand, and I passed him one. “Glasses are up in that cupboard to your left.”

  “I prefer the can.”

  “He sounds like Dev, doesn’t he, sweetheart?”

  I chuckled. My big brother did remind me of Dev Frye in a lot of ways. “Remember Dev Frye?” I asked Clark. “The Newport Beach cop who called you when I was in Massachusetts?”

  Clark nodded. He popped the top on his soda and drank it down, only coming up for air once. Just like
Dev. I handed him another.

  “How long you staying, Clark?” Greg pulled take-out containers from the bag. “We could invite Dev over for dinner one night. Get you two law-and-order boys together.”

  “Not sure.”

  Greg and I both turned to look at Clark at the same time. Maybe the relaxed look was a façade. I asked with concern, “Things okay with you?”

  Clark pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. “Sure, it’s just that I quit my job. I’m not a cop anymore.”

  Greg rolled in closer to the table. “A cop or the chief of police?”

  “Neither.”

  I was confused, and it was going to take more than Mongolian beef to put me back on track. “But I thought you went back to being chief after you took that leave. Didn’t the town want you back?”

  “It wasn’t the town,” Clark explained. “They were happy to get me back, in spite of everything. But my heart just wasn’t in it, so I decided to retire from police work.”

  Greg grabbed his beer bottle and held it out toward Clark. “Then let’s toast to you being a man of leisure.”

  Clark clinked his soda can against Greg’s beer bottle. “Thanks, but I’m not exactly that either.” He took a swig from his can. “That’s why I’m out here. I had a job interview in Phoenix. When it was over, I thought, hell, I don’t have any reason to hurry back home, and you guys were just a short drive away.”

  “It’s a seven-hour drive,” I pointed out.

  “Details, sis.” Clark gave me a wide grin. I grinned back, enjoying the way sis sounded to my ears. “And you two keep inviting me to visit, so here I am.” He paused. “I hope my timing isn’t inconvenient.”

  “No,” Greg assured him, beating me to the punch. “You can stay here as long as you like. We’re thrilled to have you.”

  To add my vote, I moved behind Clark, wrapped my arms around his neck, and planted a big kiss on the top of his half-bald dome. I gave his neck another firm squeeze before releasing him and said the first words that came to mind. “Let’s eat.”

  Greg shoveled a fat shrimp into his mouth just as he asked Clark, “So, if you get this job, will you be moving to Phoenix?”

  Clark shook his head. “Not unless I want to. It’s a security consultant position. Might entail a lot of travel, but I don’t need to be at the corporate office.” He bit a spring roll in half. “I’d like to stay close to Mom as long as she’s alive. Then I’ll probably sell the house and find someplace warm to live. Maybe Florida, maybe here, maybe Arizona. Who knows. I just know it’ll be someplace where it doesn’t snow.”

  The three of us feasted while Clark filled us in on the local gossip from Massachusetts. When we were done and our plates were pushed aside, Clark stretched. “That offer of coffee still good, sis?”

  “Sure is.” I got up, stacked our dirty plates, and carried them to the sink. “Decaf or regular?”

  “Probably decaf,” he yawned. “Although after that drive, the heat, and this great meal, I doubt the caffeine would keep me awake tonight.”

  “Make mine iced, sweetheart,” Greg chimed in.

  Iced coffee sounded great to me, too. I gave Clark a questioning glance.

  He shook his head. “Nope, hot and black for me.”

  I got a pot of decaf coffee going while I rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. We’d eaten everything but the take-out containers, so there were no leftovers to worry about. Clark went out to his car and brought in his bag, and Greg showed him to our guest room.

  We adjourned to the patio to enjoy the coffee. The ocean breeze had cooled things down considerably. Wainwright was snoozing on the patio, Seamus next to him. Muffin, our little social butterfly, was curled up in Clark’s lap.

  “So,” Clark said, stroking the little gray bundle of fur, “find any bodies lately?”

  The hand petting Muffin stopped, frozen in mid-scratch. Clark eyed the two of us, his eyes narrowed into a piercing squint, digging for the truth hidden in the folds of our silence. It was his cop face. I remembered it well from our first meeting.

  “I meant that as a little joke.” Clark’s current tone was anything but joking.

  Greg and I buried our noses in our iced coffees, not looking at each other or at Clark.

  “Real mature, you guys.” Clark set Muffin on the ground and leaned forward. “Now tell me what’s going on, or do I have to call that detective to find out?”

  I put down my glass and frowned at my brother. “Oh, like tattling’s any more mature.”

  “Besides,” Greg added, “Dev already knows. He’s in charge of the investigation.”

  “I see. So you two aren’t running around pretending to be Nick and Nora Charles?” Clark took a long drink of coffee. “That’s a relief.”

  Again, Greg and I looked anywhere but at Clark. I don’t know about Greg, but I felt like a kid caught cheating in school. Once again, Clark picked up on our lame avoidance ploy. After studying the two of us, he slapped his hand on the table. Wainwright raised his head in alert. Clark’s eyes widened, and he held his breath. Finding no real threat, the dog lowered its head again to the ground. Clark resumed breathing.

  “Man.” Clark shook his head. “It’s going to be a long night if I’m always worried about that animal.”

  “Seriously, Clark,” Greg told him with a proud smile. “He’s a cream puff unless you try to hurt one of us, or even one of the cats. And now that he sees you’re accepted, he’ll consider you one of his pack. If someone barged into this house right now, he’d protect you, too.”

  “That dog saved my life a few years ago,” I added with equal pride. “Took a bullet for me.”

  “Really?” Clark swung his head in Wainwright’s direction. On cue, the faithful old dog raised his head and thumped his tail. Clark turned back to me. “Then again, I’d bet if you weren’t prowling around where you shouldn’t have been, bullets wouldn’t have been flying.”

  I put down my iced coffee and flashed Clark a face of annoyance. “Did you come here to chastise us or to visit? I mean, it’s not like you didn’t already know I had a certain—”

  Clark held up a hand, interrupting me. “I’m sorry, Odelia. You’re right.” An awkward silence filled the air, but only for a minute before Clark asked, “So, you going to tell me about this latest adventure?”

  I wasn’t convinced of his sincerity. “You really want to know, or are you going to make fun of us?”

  Greg put a hand on my arm. “I don’t think Clark was entirely making fun of us, sweetheart. More like he’s concerned.”

  “Greg’s right, Odelia. I am concerned. And I do want to know what’s happening. Remember, I used to be a cop, and a damn fine one, if I do say so myself.”

  I looked at Greg, who gave me a nod of encouragement and said, “Tell him. Maybe he has some ideas we haven’t thought about.”

  Greg had a point. Without help from Clarice, it would be tough going to find out more about Alfred Nunez. Maybe Clark’s fresh eyes would help. For the next hour I told Clark the entire story, from finding Shirley dead to our striking out with Roslyn Stevens and Scott Johnson. In between, Greg added forgotten tidbits and pulled out the photo. When we were done, Clark leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, making me wonder if we had bored him into a coma.

  “Clark?” I asked tenuously. After his long drive, maybe he’d just dozed off.

  “I’m thinking,” he replied without opening an eye.

  I picked up our empty glasses and cup and took them into the kitchen to let him think in peace. When I returned, Clark’s eyes were still shut. I shot a questioning look Greg’s way, but he only shrugged in return. I had half a mind to hang a Do Not Disturb sign on my brother and go to bed. And I wasn’t too far from making that move when Clark cleared his throat and opened his eyes.

  “When’s the funeral?” he asked, turning my way.

  I sat back down at the redwood table. “I have no idea. Joan hasn’t said anything.”

&nbs
p; Clark shook his head slowly. “Not the Nunez funeral, the one for the he/she—what’s her name?”

  “Shirley Pearson?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I glanced at Greg. He met my eyes with a half-cocked eyebrow, both of us sensing that Clark was onto something. “I don’t know,” I told him. “Why?”

  “This Clarice woman may not know yet that Nunez is dead, but she does know that Pearson is dead. If they were such good friends as she claims, she’ll probably be at the funeral.” Clark got up from his bench and stretched, reaching his arms toward the patio cover in a goal-calling gesture. He grunted like an old bull as he moved. “In fact, you might find several other interesting folks at the funeral.” He twisted his torso and I heard several crackles and pops.

  “You need some ibuprofen?” I asked with concern.

  “Got it covered, sis, but thanks. That drive was a bitch on this old body.”

  Instead of sitting down, Clark squatted next to Wainwright and scratched him behind his ears. The dog went into a state of bliss. So much for being afraid of our watchdog.

  “Funerals,” Clark told us, standing up straight with a groan or two, “tend to bring out all the nut jobs, along with the usual mourners. Wouldn’t surprise me if you saw a few others from that photo at the service.”

  Greg nodded his head in agreement. “That’s a great idea, Clark.” He turned to me. “You think you can find out anything about the funeral, Odelia?”

  I held up an index finger. “I have an idea. Sit tight, I’ll be right back.”

  Heading into our home office and my waiting computer, I did a search for Rambling Rose and located its website. It was sweet and girly, mostly done in pinks and greens, the text portions printed on an antique lace background bordered by a trellis festooned with blooming roses. On the home page, someone had posted a photo of Shirley Pearson and a short notice of her death. Along with it was another notice assuring clients that Rambling Rose would be fulfilling its existing commitments. Was Amber Straight going to take over the booked weddings? Or maybe Clarice would. She did say she was a silent partner. I read all the information again and checked each page link, but I didn’t see anything about a memorial or funeral service. I didn’t know where Shirley lived, but the office for Rambling Rose was in Corona del Mar.