Bearly Departed

by Meg Macy

  I told the dispatcher our location and hoped that Digger Sykes wouldn’t respond to the call. The police should be here within a few minutes, given the station was a few blocks down the street. Within five minutes, six-foot Bill Hillerman tramped up the stairs, sweating in his navy blue uniform. I was, too, given the stuffy corridor. Once Mrs. Irwin and I explained our reasons for suspecting Cullen might be in trouble, Officer Hillerman waved us both aside from the door. He rapped first, however, with his meaty fist.

  “Mr. Cullen? Mr. Cullen, I’m coming in!” His voice echoed around us. “Stand back, ladies. And keep that dog secure.”

  He heaved his bulk against the door several times. At last it gave way, the doorjamb splintering with a crack; the policeman motioned us to remain in the hallway. He slowly entered the apartment. Hillerman’s handheld radio crackled with voices, in between the buzz of static. When I heard him request an ambulance, I tied Rosie to the stairway’s iron railing and then entered the stifling hot front room.

  Mrs. Irwin followed. “Oh, my,” she said. “His air conditioning isn’t on.”

  Jack Cullen was lying on one side near the sofa, an arm outstretched, as if he’d rolled off the seat. “He’s breathing,” Hillerman reported, “but dehydrated. Do either of you know if he has a blood sugar problem or diabetes?”

  We both shook our heads. Hillerman listened to a garbled message on his radio and then replied with a code. He turned to us. “I won’t move him in case he broke a bone. The EMS team should be here any minute.”

  Hillerman turned to answer another message from the dispatcher. The cluttered apartment smelled of rotten bananas and sour milk. Musty, too, as if Cullen never opened a window. I did that and turned on a fan, since the tiny window air conditioning unit wouldn’t do much to clear the smells. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Jack Cullen certainly needed help. The garbage overflowed with foam containers, cardboard coffee cups, blackened fruit skins, and crumpled fast-food bags. Curious, I checked the refrigerator. Almost empty. The door held a small carton of milk and a single bottle of cheap beer.

  Mrs. Irwin had returned to her apartment. Since Hillerman remained beside Cullen’s side and hadn’t noticed me, I checked a few kitchen cupboards and found moldy bread and two empty peanut butter jars. Tiny restaurant tubs of jam or preserves, and packets of plastic utensils, which also held salt, pepper, and folded napkins, filled another cupboard. Jenny Woodley had been right about Jack Cullen taking things from the diner.

  “But he didn’t have to be such a crank,” I muttered, and tossed the bread. “He should have asked the church pastor for help. We keep a pantry for seniors.”

  I tied up the trash bag and headed outside. Mrs. Irwin stood in the corridor, looking startled, as if she wondered how she could twist the doorknob while holding a box of cereal and a loaf of bread. I dropped the bag and relieved her of the items.

  “I’ll take those. I’m sure Mr. Cullen will be grateful.”

  “No, he won’t, but that’s neither here nor there,” she said cheerfully.

  “I’m calling the church in the morning. They’ll send over groceries,” I said, “because their pantry has been restocked for the coming winter.”

  I also planned to call the local market and have them send both Mrs. Irwin and Jack Cullen plenty of perishables as well as canned, boxed, and bagged food. They both must have little money from pensions or Social Security. When the EMS crew arrived, we moved out of their way. They immediately clustered around the old man and set to work, checking his pulse and blood pressure, his pupils, and starting an IV drip. Hillerman joined us in the doorway.

  “You’re not taking me to the hospital,” Cullen said, his voice raspy. “I’m fine!”

  “Please hold still, sir. Calm down—”

  “How the hell can I calm down with that woman here?” The paramedics held him down, but Cullen fought them to sit up. “Get her out of my place!”

  Mrs. Irwin blanched, but I stepped around her into the corridor. “He means me, not you.”

  “Alex Silverman ruined me! He’s the reason I’m—Ahh!” Jack Cullen started moaning and lolling back in a prone position.

  “I’m leaving. It’s okay.”

  My cheeks burned. Bill Hillerman looked sympathetic as he guided Mrs. Irwin back to her own apartment. I retrieved Rosie, who sniffed the trash bag while I untied her leash from the iron railing. She’d sat quietly despite the EMS team rushing up the stairs but now whined in the back of her throat; the hubbub inside Cullen’s apartment bothered her. I ruffled her ears, reassuring her, until she calmed down. I didn’t blame her one bit. My instinct was to get as far away as possible.

  Despite Cullen’s bad attitude, he had to realize at some point that neighbors did care. Once we deposited the garbage in the alley Dumpster, I called in the order to Jackson’s Market, rattling off a list, and then pocketed my phone. Rosie led the way to the drinking fountain near the library. My sweet dog lapped water from my hand, which I wiped dry on my jeans.

  I realized now that Jack Cullen could never have dragged Will Taylor, either drowsy or unconscious, over to the stuffing machine. Our former neighbor was no doubt ornery, complaining, and petty in hanging on to the grudge against my dad. But a killer?

  Impossible.

  Chapter 27

  I retrieved my car and drove back to the shop. Rosie hung out of the window, sniffing hard, and almost jumped out when I opened the car door. I caught her in time. She’d hurt her leg the last time she managed to evade my hands.

  Seeing my uncle’s Thunderbird, I battled a wave of guilt. I could have spent a more productive day at Harriet’s sewing machine. Right now, Uncle Ross was no doubt cursing at the cutting press. Flora and Joan might be bent over their machines, listening to the zing of the needle. Maybe we should have made an exception with Lois. We desperately needed more staff to finish the Teddy Roosevelt bear order. But Dad was strong on honesty.

  Tomorrow I would ask Flora to help me review how to operate the sewing machine. I wasn’t sure any bear I sewed would be up to snuff, but I could try. Maddie had to find someone besides Hilda Schulte, and fast. We’d be in deep trouble if we couldn’t deliver on time.

  Ross and Deon had already moved the stuffing machine to a corner of the factory. I’d tried so hard to rid myself of the image of Will Taylor beneath it. A few of my dreams this past week had revisited the eerie darkness, the haunting sight of more than one teddy bear and fiber strewn across the floor, the shadow of a body lying still. We ought to set up a partition around the machine and keep it hidden. Future visitors during tours might ask too many questions.

  I walked over the lawn, watching Rosie sniff among the Shasta daisies. So Ben guessed right; Jack Cullen had tried to blackmail Pete and Alan. Jack had probably been overjoyed, knowing what was happening in secret behind our backs. The company’s sales rep, stealing teddy bears and helping two kids to hide drugs in the body cavities. Oh yeah. Jack would have milked that for as long as possible.

  The murderer must have been someone capable of overpowering Will—who was tall, fairly fit, and close to forty years old. As much as I’d wanted to point the finger at Jack Cullen for his mean and nasty attitude, I crossed the old coot off my list. Who was left? I thought that over, picking a flower from the clematis vine off the covered walkway’s post on the way back to the garden gate.

  Lois Nichols had a felony assault conviction. Was losing her health insurance a strong enough motive? Harry hadn’t seemed all that worried. He’d even urged her to quit and work at the Quick Mix factory. Was she physically capable of killing Will Taylor? I doubted it. And I had a feeling she’d have fallen back on a simpler method, like a knife or pistol.

  Teddy Hartman was next. He’d been scheming with Will Taylor, hoping for a merger in the future. But why resort to murder? And I had no idea yet if Hartman’s alibi was sound.

  Carolyn Taylor had been at the pub, drunk. What about Glen or Jenny Woodley? Glen had a temper, although I couldn’t see Jenny having
an affair—she wasn’t Will’s type. It might be possible; stranger things had happened. What if Glen’s jealousy led to him seeing Will’s car in the parking lot? Maybe he walked over to confront him. But would Will have allowed him inside the factory that late at night? Unless he’d left the door unlocked....

  Or was there something I’d missed?

  I breathed in the fresh air, grateful the sun was heading west. Watched Rosie chase a squirrel up a tree near the house, barking like crazy, her tail wagging. She tore off toward the fence lining the parking lot. Still barking. I followed her and then let out a deep sigh. My ex, Flynn Hanson, climbed out of a shiny brand-new blue Mercedes, its sticker still in the back window, and sporty enough to overshadow Uncle Ross’s Thunderbird.

  When Flynn retrieved an oblong florist box from the car, I almost choked. No way. Who would he be giving a dozen roses to, and why? Flynn strolled toward me, grinning like a fool. Rosie sniffed his legs and then headed back to the lawn, clearly disinterested. I folded my arms across my chest.

  “What are you doing here?” he drawled.

  “This is where I live, or have you forgotten?”

  “I meant shouldn’t you be inside the shop? Working?”

  “What do you want, Flynn?”

  “I’m here to thank your mom. Judith helped me find my new house, and I got it at a fantastic price. I brought her flowers. Is she at home?”

  “Nope. Off shopping.”

  “Better get these in water for her, then.”

  He held out the box. I snatched it from him and marched up the porch steps, refusing to peek inside the box until I reached the kitchen sink. The pale pink roses nestled in tissue would delight Mom, for certain. Flynn had followed me. He pulled off his sunglasses and stashed them in the pocket of his blue and white Hawaiian silk shirt. Silent, I searched the drawer for the pruning snips. Rosie’s claws clicked on the tile behind me; she jumped to the window seat and then barked when Onyx gave her a nasty swat to the nose. I wondered what Dad would think about this gift of a dozen roses from an ex-son-in-law.

  He watched while I fetched a glass vase. “So. How come you’re not dating?”

  “Why do you care? And how’s the bimbo with linguini sauce on her chin? Saw that photo on Facebook.”

  I checked for thorns, although Mary at the flower shop always snapped them before boxing up roses for customers. The roses were lovely, pale and closed up, meaning they’d last a long time. Flynn had often brought me flowers—tulips, iris, gladiolus, mixed bouquets. He did have a good eye for color. But he’d never given me a dozen roses.

  “You mean Darlene?” Flynn shrugged. “She’s still deciding which white beach she likes better. Sarasota, De Soto, Naples, or Siesta Key.”

  “Tough choice.”

  I didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in my tone. After adding a splash of bleach and the packet of flower food to the vase’s water, I trimmed the stems at an angle and then placed each rose artfully until I was satisfied with the arrangement.

  “You sound jealous, Sasha. I invited you plenty of times down to the Gulf. Lots of room on the beaches in Florida.”

  “I’m not into sharing, as you ought to know.”

  Ignoring my insinuation, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and juggled the iPhone’s boxy case. Flynn punched up a photo. His easy grin hadn’t changed, and he nudged his shaggy blond locks from his eyes. He smelled the same, with the musky aftershave I once loved. Now it only brought back painful memories.

  “Wanna see my new office furniture at the Legal Eagles office?”

  He held his phone out. Shrugging, I noted his prideful post on Facebook, showing him sitting at a massive desk with a burled-oak finish, inlaid with leather and edged in gold. Behind him, a tall bookcase was filled with huge legal tomes.

  “See my chair? Black leather, higher back than normal. Sweet.”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait. There’s more.” Flynn scrolled through his timeline. “These are the chairs where my clients will sit. Premium burgundy Cordova leather.”

  “With brass studs.” I liked the chairs. Who wouldn’t? But over-the-top excess, along with his superior attitude, turned my stomach. “Isn’t it a bit much?”

  “No way! And the leather matches the red in the Persian rug. Wait, here’s another. Mike and Mark already put my name on the sign out front. See? Hanson, Branson, and Blake.”

  “Top billing, huh.” I took his phone in hand, admiring the professional carving job. “Who did the work?”

  “Jay Kirby.”

  The same artist Maddie contacted to carve our new teddy bear mailbox. “Good choice. So your partnership deal with the Legal Eagles must have been in the works for a while.”

  “A few months, maybe. As for top billing, I’ve got more experience than the two of them combined,” Flynn said. “Made a killing in Florida. But I’m tired of medical malpractice, though. I could retire, you know, but decided to keep a finger in the pie. I’ll go in a week or two a month. I started doing estate planning down in Sarasota, too.”

  His words washed over me while I stared at his phone. He’d posted over twenty photos on his timeline. Some people loved selfies. Why did that bother me? A niggle of something fluttered just out of my mind’s eye. But what? I bit my lower lip, trying to concentrate while Flynn droned on. Blurry. Blond curls. I suddenly shoved the device back at him.

  “See you later, and thanks from Mom.”

  “What? Hey, where are you going?”

  I raced upstairs to my bedroom’s wide window nook. I loved sitting here in the evenings whenever I needed to relax. I’d brought my laptop up to bed last night but was too tired to catch up on e-mail. I sank on the seat, ignoring Flynn—he’d followed me into the bedroom without invitation—and waited for Facebook to load. Then I started searching. That same blurry photo popped up, along with the few I’d already seen. But nothing else.

  Odd. Especially since my ex wasn’t the only person who loved putting everything out on display for the world to admire. Flynn plunked down on the cushion beside me with an easy grin, but I shoved him off. He fell on the hardwood floor with a thunk.

  “What gives?”

  “I didn’t invite you up here.”

  “So? Is this your private nunnery?”

  I didn’t answer, since I was already halfway down the stairs. Grabbing my purse and keys, I retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and headed to the door. Rosie raised her head from the window seat but then stretched her legs out and arched her back. Flynn clattered down the steps, clearly puzzled, but I didn’t wait for him. I raced outside, through the back garden, and across the street.

  I should have asked Maddie for her opinion, but that would have taken time. The whole thing might be silly. I’d rather shoot this theory down myself before sharing the details.

  Debbie Davison waited on customers inside the Holly Jolly Christmas shop. I halted inside the doorway, wondering if Carolyn was working in back, and then wandered around the decorated Christmas trees. A shelf held jars of honey with adorable round sticker labels, showing a bear dressed in a yellow and black sweater with white wings. I’d seen that similar design in Maddie’s office. Had she made these labels for Debbie? My sister never mentioned it.

  Did it matter? Maddie was talented, so why not do a little freelance work for extra pocket change? Given how cute the design was, I hoped Maddie charged Debbie a decent fee. One customer dawdled, unable to decide between ornaments, so I perused the entire shop. After fifteen minutes, Carolyn hadn’t shown her face at all. I wondered why she hadn’t closed her business until after Will’s funeral. People would understand if she wasn’t up to working.

  Since Debbie was busy, I peeked around the almost closed door to the back room. It was empty except for boxes, some opened, some strapped shut, and the usual miscellaneous items to tag or send back, stored on shelves. A messy desk was piled with orders and files. Had Detective Mason taken Carolyn in for questioning?

  “I’ll be r
ight with you,” Debbie called out.

  Feeling guilty, I moved away from the back room. The customer seemed to get the message and narrowed down her choices. I tapped a finger on one of the glass display counters while Debbie wrapped the woman’s purchases in tissue and placed them in a green and red bag. Once all the customers departed, Debbie turned to me with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Hey, Sasha. Gosh, I wish things were slower. By the way, I gave Maddie a whole box of my honey jars this morning.”

  “Great. Uh, is Carolyn around?”

  “She popped home a while ago. I’d given her a box of honey, too, but she didn’t have room to store it in back. She’s getting more Christmas items in for the holiday season,” Debbie added, and then pointed to a low shelf. “But she put your bears with my jars of honey.”

  “Okay, thanks. Have you heard when Will’s visitation and funeral will be?”

  Debbie shrugged a shoulder. “Funny you should ask, because a whole bunch of people called about that. Carolyn said the autopsy results aren’t back from the lab. They screwed up, so they’re redoing the toxicology part, to see if he took any drugs. She’s really mad.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. Carolyn said she could tell Will had a few drinks that day. Probably a joint or two by the time she closed for the day. She told us he tried pressuring her into smoking pot with him. Claimed it would calm her down. He always got on her about nagging.”

  “Really?” Not that I was surprised, of course.

  “Oh, you know it,” Debbie said with a laugh. “Carolyn bugged him on the phone, at home, and while he was off on his trips. She had good reason!”

  “Because of his affair with Vivian Grant?”

  “So now you know. There’s rumors he was sneaking around with another woman or two since that broke up.”

  “You must mean Jenny Woodley.”

  “You heard that, too?” She leaned over the counter. “What do you know?”