A Teeny Bit of Trouble

by Michael Lee West

“Nobody has said the word homicide, okay? The coroner just said her death looked suspicious.”

  “But he still let you take her body out of the morgue?” Red asked.

  “There is no morgue. He works out of a room in Sweeney Hospital. I showed up this afternoon with the funeral home people. The coroner was gone. Nobody was there. So the guys from Eikenberry put Barb in the hearse. I didn’t know anything was wrong until an hour ago. My cell phone rang. It was the coroner. He wanted me to return Barb’s body. He wanted an expert to examine her. I told him to stick a golf club up his rear end, that it was too late. Barb had already been embalmed.”

  Red slumped in his chair. “Sheesh.”

  “It’s not my fault that Sweeny doesn’t have a proper place to do autopsies,” Lester said. “If the coroner had wanted to keep Barb, then he should have locked that room. Or maybe he should have hired an assistant. But no, Dr. Bigshot was more worried about missing his connecting flight in Charlotte. Apparently he was at a travel agency when I showed up at the morgue. Then he went to dinner. He wasn’t worried about Barb. He was stuffing himself with steak and baked potatoes, or whatever people eat in Sweeney.”

  “Have the police been notified?” Coop asked.

  “About what? A bump on the head? The coroner’s mistake? The embalming?” Lester spread his arms. “I don’t know what they know. But I’m not a dumbass. I’ve talked to my personal attorney.”

  “And?”

  “He said, ‘The hay is in the barn.’ That’s Bonaventure-speak for it’s too late to call in a forensic pathologist. You should know this, Mr. O’Malley. After Barb’s body left the morgue, it was contaminated with all kinds of DNA. The funeral home driver. The embalmer. The lady who fixes dead people’s hair and makeup. If an expert came to the funeral home right this minute, it wouldn’t matter. The embalming procedure destroyed evidence. If the expert found something—a stray hair or fiber—the evidence would probably be dismissed by a judge.”

  “You seem to know a lot about forensics,” Red said.

  Lester gave him a chilling stare. “I’m just repeating what my attorney said.”

  “You need to let the state ME decide what he wants to do,” Coop said.

  “Mr. O’Malley, my wife was capable of anything. She was a bipolar drug addict.”

  “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t murdered,” Coop said.

  “She wasn’t. I’m tired of discussing this.” Lester glanced at his watch. “What’s keeping that child? Teeny, go fetch her. I need to get home. My friends will be bringing cakes and casseroles. I need to be there. I shouldn’t make people wait.”

  Red sat up straight. “Mr. Philpot, why did your wife wait a decade to question her daughter’s paternity?”

  “She was just being Barbish.” Lester twisted his wedding ring, gold with tiny diamond chips. “She didn’t do anything unless it benefited her in some way. She didn’t care who she hurt. The day she broke the news, I was sitting at the breakfast table, eating grits. And she said, ‘Lester, pass the salt. And Emerson isn’t your daughter.’”

  “That musta been a shock,” Red said.

  “A big one.”

  “Bet you wanted to throttle her.”

  Lester blinked. “What are you insinuating?”

  “Nothing,” Red said. “But I’m sure the police will want to know where you were the night Barb disappeared.”

  “I was in Bonaventure. Mama and Norris can vouch for me. They’ve been living with me ever since Barb moved out.” Lester smirked. “Anymore questions, Serpico?”

  “You sure don’t act like a man who’s just lost his wife,” Red said.

  “I may not seem grieved, but I am. I was a good husband and father. You can’t imagine the effort I put into Emerson. After she was born, Barb had post-partum depression. She tried to kill herself—twice. She was too unstable to care for an infant. I got up at the butt-crack of dawn to feed the baby and change her diapers. She was a difficult child. I endured her tantrums. The trash talk. The endless button pushing. What thanks did I get? Double ought zero. Zilch. Nothing.”

  Red flashed a sympathetic, good-cop stare. “If I were you, I’d be pissed.”

  “I was. And I still am.” Lester grabbed his fork and dug into the pie. Tiny crumbs drifted between his stretched-out knees.

  “Sounds like Barb made you do the grunt work,” Red said.

  Lester nodded vigorously. “She did.”

  “You had a right to take a piece of ass on the side.”

  Lester lowered his fork. “How did you know about that?”

  Red waved off the question. “Maybe Kendall wanted more. Or you wanted more from Kendall. But she wouldn’t put out, would she? Not while you were married.”

  “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to say that I had a motive to hurt my wife. It’s a darn lie. It’s worse than a lie. It’s slander. Because I wasn’t having a real affair. Lester Philpot’s penis hasn’t been inside Miss McCormack.”

  “Has Lester’s penis been anywhere else?” Red asked.

  “Why, how dare you.”

  “Hey, you brought up your penis. I didn’t.”

  “You’re a crude little man.” Lester threw down his fork and it skittered across the coffee table.

  “Where was Kendall Saturday night?” Red asked.

  “In my house. Ask Mama. She didn’t want Kendall there.”

  Coop shook his head. “I called you a dozen times the night Barb went missing, but you didn’t answer. Not until Sunday morning.”

  “Mama turned off the ringers. She likes her beauty sleep. I didn’t know that Emerson had been abandoned on Sullivan’s Island. Or I would have driven up there and rescued her.”

  “So you knew that Barb was staying at Sullivan’s Island?” Red’s gaze was unflinching.

  “I’m not answering any more questions.” Lester folded his arms.

  “Just one more.” Red smiled. “Why did you send Emerson to a boarding school?”

  “To protect her.”

  “From what?” Red asked.

  “Barb.” Lester scrubbed his hand over his hair until it stood up like frayed wires. “She tried to kill Emerson.”

  nine

  Lester shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Few people know what a neglectful mother Barb was,” he said. “But Lester Philpot knows. Lester Philpot saved Emerson’s life.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Emerson almost drowned,” Lester said. “She was five. Barb was sitting at an umbrella table next to the pool. She was fitting a puzzle together. I don’t know why Emerson took off her water wings or why Barb didn’t hear the splash. And I don’t know what made me go outside. If I hadn’t, Emerson would be dead. I saw her little body on the bottom of the pool. I dove in. Pulled her out. Blew air into her lungs. Brought her back to life. Barb never stopped working on that damn puzzle. She had this way of blotting out the world.”

  Coop shut his eyes. But Red looked skeptical. I was caught somewhere between shock and gratitude. It was a horrible story, but at least he’d saved Emerson.

  Lester tugged his earlobe. “After that, I couldn’t trust Barb. And for good reason. She was taking a lot of Xanax. She didn’t keep track of Emerson. I got phone calls from people who lived blocks away from my house. They’d found Emerson wandering the streets. I hired a nanny, but Barb drove the poor woman away with nonstop demands. I pulled strings and got Chatham Academy to admit the child.”

  “What about when Emerson got older?” I asked. “Why didn’t you bring her home?”

  “Barb acted so sweet when it was just the two of us. She’d take her happy pills and put on a sexy outfit. It was just easier to leave Emerson at school. She was miserable with us. If things didn’t go exactly her way, she’d run off. She disappeared every single Thanksgiving, just when we got ready to leave for the restaurant. I can’t remember a Christmas morning without calling 911. But she always came back. That’s why I didn’t get upset at the drugstore. You can drop Emer
son in Times Square, give her a quarter, and she’ll survive.”

  An old ache broke loose in my chest, and I wanted to cry—not for myself but for Emerson. I drew in a teaspoon of air, and I could have sworn I smelled Lily of the Valley. It was Aunt Bluette’s signature scent, and an effective poison.

  Lester’s gaze shifted to the hallway, as if he’d detected my aunt’s perfume, too. “Barb and I weren’t a family in the traditional sense,” he said, looking back at Coop. “But we did our best. I was devastated when I found out that Emerson might not be my child. Barb told me that she’d never loved me. She said she’d always loved you. She swore that you loved her. You destroyed my family.”

  Coop’s shoe hit the floor, and the slow, rhythmic tapping began. “That’s not true. I didn’t know she was in South Carolina until yesterday.”

  The upstairs bathroom door squeaked, and Emerson stepped into the hall. She walked down the stairs, her blue checkered dress billowing. Her braids had been replaced by two slightly damp pigtails. Instead of the hedgehog, she clutched a white straw handbag.

  A pulse ticked in my throat. I wanted to stop all the clocks in this house and pull her into my arms and say, “Don’t worry, honey. I will love you. I will be your aunt Bluette.”

  Emerson walked past me. Lester stood, the corners of his mouth slanting down. They glared at each other.

  “I want to talk to Mr. Philpot alone,” she said.

  I hated to leave, but Red and Coop guided me into the foyer. Coop shut the pocket doors and took my hand. The dogs ran onto the porch and scattered into the shadows. The evening air pooled around us in deep blue baskets.

  Red paced along the sidewalk, his stubby arms swinging. “I want to know more about this masked guy you saw, Teeny.”

  I gave him a quick description. “He had a key to her house,” I added. “What if he killed her?”

  “What was the motive?” Coop stubbed the tip of his shoe into the gravel. “When I talked to the Sweeney police today, they said a woman fitting Barb’s description had checked into the Motel 6 at two a.m.”

  “Was she alone?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What if a robber followed her to her room?” I asked. “On the drive down, she could have stopped on the interstate for gas or bite to eat. Maybe she flashed a wad of cash. Someone could have stalked her.”

  “Or she could’ve killed herself,” Coop said.

  “In Sweeney?”

  “We might never know the answers.” Coop pulled a roll of Tums from his pocket.

  Red threw a rock. “Philpot could have hired someone to whack her.”

  “Why?” Coop slid a Tums into his mouth.

  “Revenge. He was pissed at Barb. And he was banging another woman. Did you notice how he referred to himself—and his penis—in the third person? Guilty people often do that. It gives them distance from the crime. The dude is hiding something.”

  Like a mask? I walked to Lester’s Mercedes and opened the door. I honestly didn’t think he would hurt Barb, but he was tall and skinny. Just like the man I’d seen at her house.

  “Teeny, get back here.” Coop said.

  I ignored him and clicked open the glove compartment. Registration. Auto manual. Kleenex box. I checked under the seats. Nothing. Not even a gum wrapper. Lester sure was tidy. I hit the trunk release, then hurried around the car. Spare tire. Jack. Jumper cables. I shut the trunk lid and walked back to the men.

  “What were you looking for?” Coop asked.

  “A Bill Clinton mask.”

  His jaw tightened. “If you’d found one, it would be inadmissible in court.”

  “I just want answers. Because if Barb didn’t kill herself, her murderer is out there. It might have been the guy in the mask. I didn’t see his face, but I can identify his skinny body in a police lineup.”

  All the color left Coop’s face. “This is my fault. If I’d told you about Barb, you wouldn’t have gone to her house that night. You wouldn’t have seen anything.”

  The screen door creaked and Lester shuffled outside. I looked behind him, expecting to see Emerson trudge out with her backpack and hedgehog, but the porch was empty.

  “Well, I told her about Barb,” Lester said. “I didn’t go into detail, of course. I just explained that her mom had passed away. Emerson wants to see you, Teeny. Can you make it fast? I’ve got all those neighbors waiting to bring me food.”

  Oddly enough, I knew why he was in a rush. Even if he wasn’t mourning for his wife, he still had to honor Bonaventure’s traditions. The whole town was into death. The locals had turned bereavement into art. They cooked food that was soothing, easily transportable, and fed the multitudes. All day long they’d baked funeral casseroles, wrapping them in tinfoil, their names carefully Scotch-taped to the bottom of each plate. More than a little hubris was involved, because folks wanted to get credit for their offerings. Lester would need to keep track of who’d brought what, because each dish required a handwritten thank-you note.

  “Why don’t you go home and tend to your guests,” I said. “Emerson can stay here.”

  Lester stared at his watch, as if all of his options were spread out on the glowing dial. I knew what he was thinking. He could leave Emerson with me, a peach skank, or he could go home and say all the right things to his neighbors. “I guess it’s okay,” he said.

  Coop moved between me and Lester. “We’ll take good care of her,” he said.

  Lester pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Just bring her to the funeral home tomorrow afternoon. Come around four. That way, I can show her Barb’s body.”

  Coop winced. “Won’t that be traumatic for a child?”

  Lester shoved the handkerchief into his back pocket. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. O’Malley, but you’re not part of the decision-making process. Just bring her to Eikenberry’s. After the visitation, I’ll take her home and get a DNA sample. Even if it requires Valium and a small army. When we know the truth, we can get on with our lives.”

  I felt a tug inside my chest. He kept referring to Emerson as her. If only I’d put that passion flower into his pie.

  He took out his wallet, peeled off a wad of twenty-dollar bills, and forced them into my hands. “She’ll need an appropriate outfit. Take her to the mall. Buy what she needs.”

  I pushed the money back. “Emerson is grieving. I’m not dragging her through a mall. Surely she’s got a dress at your house.”

  “Nothing that fits.” Lester shrugged. “Her clothes are at Chatham Academy.”

  I put my hands on my hips and gave him a “don’t you dare mess with me” look. “Send Kendall to the mall. Tell her to buy a dark dress, size ten. And dress shoes. Nothing colorful or cutesy.”

  His nostrils flared. “Yes, Your Grace. Anything else?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He got into his Mercedes and drove off.

  “You got any hard liquor, homegirl?” Red asked.

  “Not a drop. I better check on Emerson.” I ran into the house. She sat on the sofa, her head bowed. Her tummy pouched out, as if her inner marshmallow were rising to the surface. She glanced up, her eyes flat and dry. “Mrs. Philpot died. She’s really dead.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I pressed my hand to my midriff and took a step closer.

  “My guinea pig died at Chatham Academy. Squeaky went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Mrs. Philpot’s just like Squeaky. She’s really, really gone.”

  I folded my hands and waited for her to continue.

  “I’m parentless. Just like an amoeba. They don’t have moms and dads. Amoebas are their own parents.”

  I almost blurted that I was parentless, too, but this wasn’t about me. Aunt Bluette had known when to talk and when to be silent. Some things couldn’t be fixed with words. Many a time, I’d sat in the parlor the way Emerson was doing and my aunt would shut the doors and go about her business. When I got ready to talk, I’d go find my aunt.

  Emerson rubbed her eyes. “Where’s Mr. Philpot?”


  “He went home.”

  Her face brightened. “Without me?”

  “You’re staying here tonight.”

  “Just tonight?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t bring myself to mention the viewing.

  “I’m a tired, little amoeba. And I’m going to bed.” She slid off the sofa and walked past me. When she reached the foyer, she broke into a run and stomped up the stairs. I sat there a minute, breathing in her soap-and-herbal-shampoo smell. Then I walked back outside. Red and Coop stood in the yard, their hands jammed in their pockets, watching the house as if it were on fire.

  “How’s Emerson?” Coop asked.

  “Sad.” I walked over to him. “She’s gone to bed.”

  “I need bourbon.” Red rubbed his eyes. “Lots and lots of bourbon.”

  ten

  Thirty minutes later, Red and I pushed a cart through the Aisle Liquor Store. The name was a pun—I’ll Lick Her. It had opened three years ago after church ladies and old-timers had finally lost the battle to keep Bonaventure County dry and pious.

  I bent over a wooden rack to study merlot bottles, and a warm hand caught my elbow. I spun around and looked up into Mary Queen Lancaster’s wrinkled face. She’d been one of Aunt Bluette’s friends, a square, solid woman, with sharp blue eyes that took in everything. If you wanted to hear the latest gossip, ask Mary Queen. She owned a landscape company on Savannah Highway, but when she wasn’t delivering mulch, she read tea leaves. The sign in front of her house read, A DIRTY BUSINESS.

  She patted her grizzled hair, and I saw a cast on her wrist. “Carpal tunnel syndrome,” she said, smiling at Red. “Is he one of your new boyfriends?”

  I shook my head. “A friend.”

  “That’s not the impression I got from Emerson Philpot. I gave her a ride to your farm yesterday.”

  “Teeny’s just a pal,” Red told her.

  “Does that mean you’re available? ’Cause I like younger men. But I don’t like young women who make fools of themselves.” Mary Queen shot me a glance. “I don’t mean to meddle, but since Bluette ain’t here to set you straight, I will.”

  “About what?” I folded my arms, bracing myself for a lecture.