Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery

by Doug Lamoreux

  *

  The Delp mansion and estate looked altogether different in the cold light of day. You'd think it might look smaller when you could take it all in but the opposite was true; there was a lot of house and garden there and the late morning sunlight only made it look grander than ever. While I had nothing against wealth and power, I wasn't awed by it either. That said, it was impressive. The manicured lawn climbed a steep slope in three bush-framed tiers before it met the sprawling house. A horseshoe drive kissed the sweeping steps. Slowly pitched roofs adorned three red brick squares, the main and an east and west wing. Black shuttered windows all around, chimneys competing above. Four massive two-story white columns braced the roof up front and provided protection from the elements to a second story balcony above the porch and entrance.

  I made a slow pass by the front gate and saw no evidence of the police. Apparently they'd done their thing and gone. But they had certainly been. The porch was surrounded with yellow crime scene tape and a red-printed sign had been tacked on the door. I couldn't read it from that distance (I could barely see it), but was well aware of what it said. Entrance was verboten by order of Das Polizeichef. I'm paraphrasing but, what it sadly boiled down to was, my notion of pretending I'd been authorized to look around was shot in the butt and entering to snoop now would be illegal. On the other hand, with the officers and scientists done and dusted, it also meant that when I went ahead and did it I had a good chance of being undisturbed. I just needed to make certain there were no stray cops still in attendance. I located the nearest pay phone, patted my pockets until I found Delp's scribbled number (I'll win no awards for memory) and let it ring thirty times. A shiny newly-Academized probationary officer would have answered in half that and even a lazy blob like Wenders would have snatched it up by the thirtieth ring. The house was, at least temporarily, unoccupied. I hurried back, parked a block away and hoofed it to the grounds of stately Delp Manor.

  I didn't need to worry about closed-circuit television cameras. They were suddenly up and coming all over the place for security purposes but I'd seen no evidence of them at Delp's place. Just the same, the estate's driveway gate was secured and I saw no reason to present myself to passers-by while I tampered with it. Scaling the wall had worked before and I saw no reason for a change. Once over and in the yard, I hurried from tree to bush toward the house. I slipped under the yellow tape stretched between the two center columns on the porch, ignoring it's message, pulled several tools from a small kit in my pocket, picked the lock, and committed breaking and entering as spelled out by our esteemed Springfield lawmakers. Nuts to 'em.

  I looked the first floor of the main mansion over quickly to ensure I was alone. I paused briefly to examine the living room, the focus of my surveillance by way of the rock garden window the night before, seeing it now from the money side of the tracks. I took most of it in, the wall clock Mrs. Delp had been breathing by, the phone by which she'd assured her visitor the coast was clear, the remnants of print powder dusted from here to there and back again as evidence Chicago's finest had done their forensic best. I didn't bother ogling the furniture and nick-knacks. What did I care how the other half lived (especially when they were dead)? I headed upstairs.

  Katherine Delp's bedroom would have been described, once upon a time, as flirty and sophisticated. Everything had, until last night, been black and white in what was, I guess, a designer's conception of trendy. On the far side of the room, well outside of the area of the crime, stood a solid white dresser, apparently undisturbed and topped as all women's dressers are by a handful of personal effects, a music box – closed, a jewelry box – open and suggestively still laden with a number of shiny baubles, several bottles of perfume, a hand mirror, brush, and comb, and a Holy Bible – also open, to the 17th chapter of the book of Deuteronomy. (If that matters to you. It didn't to me.) Back on the grisly side of the room stood a black wood-framed headboard and bed complimented and book-ended by two like-framed floor-length mirrors. Above the bed, three black floating shelves created space for accessories. To the sides, white matching end tables, despite their obvious expense, looked like up-ended apple crates. Crowning all, adding sleekness, balance and (no doubt high on Mrs. Delp's list of needful things) youthful elegance, were two crystal chandeliers. They were grand, but the elegance of the night before was as dead as the room's mistress and now they might just as well have been cheap glass.

  Elegance wasn't all that had vanished with Katherine. The black and white coverlet, matching covers, pillows, and sheets were missing too. The bed had been stripped, its coverings spirited away by the boys in lab coats. Splashes of dried blood in shades of maroon and brown marred the headboard and wall. Fingerprint dust covered some part of everything as if the pixies had had an orgy; black, white and silver smudges on the bed frame, walls, end tables, lamps, clock radio, and telephone near the bed. So much so it looked to be part of the decor. Without thinking, I laid a hand on the mattress – and there came the sledge hammer again.

  The pain – the same pain I'd experienced that morning – came again out of nowhere and shot through the back of my head. At the same time came the heat flash I'd experienced earlier and, as if that weren't enough, a low-toned hum came with it, vibrating through my ears. I realized instantly I'd been wrong. It wasn't a hammer. King Kong had smacked me from behind with a tuning fork. (Yes, it sounds stupid. It felt stupid, with pain.) Like before, the blurred vision followed and this time I did cry out. Then my vision cleared and, sisters and brothers, everything was altered; the blankets, the pillows, all back as they had been the night before but covered in bright red running blood. The splotches were still on the wall, but in dripping crimson instead of the dried maroon. And Katherine was there, naked and sprawled across the bed with her gorgeous head bashed in. I don't have to tell you that scared the hell out of me. I blinked and spun on my heels, taking in the changes in the room and trying to see if anyone else was taking them in with me. The sound and pain made it tough but a quick assessment showed there was no one there but Katherine and I, and she offered no threat. I closed my eyes and, suddenly nauseous, gulped for air. With my peepers pinched shut, the pain in my head, the ringing in my ears began to subside. A moment more and they disappeared altogether. When I opened my eyes, the body, the bedding, and the fresh blood were gone. All was as it had been when I'd entered the room.

  Something was grossly wrong inside my skull. I was afraid, terrified that I was cracking up. I wanted to be out of there. I couldn't control much else but I could make that happen. With one quick last look around, I did.

  Chapter Five

  I'd learned squat at the scene of the crime and had come away with nothing more than a strong feeling that I was losing my mind. I was a drinker and over the years had had my share of hangovers. Who outside of the Amish hadn't? But, as far as I knew, I'd never had a blackout or an alcohol induced hallucination. If these experiences were hallucinations, that is. If they weren't, what were they? I didn't believe in ghosts, didn't know what precognition was, and had never been accused of having sense let alone extra senses. So why was a dead woman bugging me? The question alone sounded batty, but really, why? That was just the first question. There were plenty of others even without the spooky malarkey. Like… Someone had gone to the trouble to kill my client's wife. Why? Who gained? Gained what? Why had whoever it was dropped twenty cents for the call and tossed me to the cops as a great place to start their investigation? Who gained there? I'd bounced Wenders with a wink on his first try at me but I was fooling myself if I thought that would be the end of it. He'd be back all right and, if I didn't have real answers then, he'd climb up my keister with a microscope. I needed those answers fast. But, outside of the knowledge that some sheik named Nicholas Nikitin had swung his scimitar in Katherine's bedroom on the night of the murder, I didn't have any more than the cops did. And, as she was alive and swimming in after-glow when Nikitin left, I had nothing at all. The pictures I'd taken, which at the moment felt like wasted
film, were the only place I had to start. But if they wound up being of any value as evidence in a murder case, I was committing a felony by not turning them over. I had to find out if they told me anything. The only way I could do that, and not let it out that they existed, was to show them to the one group of people that might want to keep them as tight a secret as I did.

  I parked, stepped from the car with my photo envelope, and approached the monstrous edifice that was Delp's Temple of Majesty Church. I gave myself a once over, as if that might help, but I belonged in a church like a seal belongs running the 100 meter hurdles. The tops of my shoes were my shiniest spot and they were just okay. Doubting they had a floor mat absorbent enough to wipe my soul on, they'd have to take the rest of me as it came – plenty scuffed up. Finding the front doors locked, I began a search around the outside of the building and, finally, spotted Gina Bridges through an office window. Even with the glare on the glass trying to horn in, she was yummy.

  As my last incident of window peeping hadn't turned out so well, I cut this one short and rapped to get her attention. I have to say she looked as good startled as she did serene. She pointed behind me, indicating the doors I'd just left, and headed out of the office. I backtracked and met her out front. She let me in, then led me in, to a cavernous foyer that made the offices of Blake Investigations look like a clothes closet. It would have been foreboding had it not been so brightly painted. The church secretary, on the other hand, looked tired rather than bright. Still tired never looked so good.

  “Mr. Blake.” She stopped and went back, correcting herself without my help. “Blake.” She seemed surprised to see me there and not all that pleased. Who could blame her? She also seemed lost for what to say next. Her luscious mouth hung uselessly open a moment before she finally managed, “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, Miss Bridges, I came to see Reverend Delp.”

  Her surprise shifted immediately to defensiveness. “He isn't here.”

  “Do you know where I could find him?”

  She scowled, her eyes silently asking whether or not I understood English. “I'm sure you can understand,” she said, “The Reverend is indisposed. You've heard about his wife, I imagine?”

  “Certainly I've heard. That's what I need to talk with him about.”

  “With the exception of the police, he isn't seeing anyone this morning. I can't disturb him. If there's any way at all that I can help?”

  “I do understand,” I assured her. “You may or may not be able to help me. But, if you can, I warn you the subject matter is confidential and, more than that, extremely unpleasant.”

  “Yes, of course. Everything this morning is unpleasant.” She tried to smile but came up short. “Please, come in.” She led me to her office. Like her, the room was attractive (framed photos on every wall) without frilly adornments. Still I felt cut off from the real world. Her first question, after offering a chair, deepened the feeling. “Can you tell me, please, what went wrong?”

  “Wrong? If you mean what went wrong with our surveillance, the answer is nothing. The way I understood the job, a watch was to be kept on Mrs. Delp, without her being aware. I was to ensure she was safe at home and, when she went to sleep, I was done. Is that correct?”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “Then everything was hunky-dory on my end. Mrs. Delp turned out the lights at 2:40 am and went to bed, safe and sound. Then I left.”

  “There was no trouble during the evening?”

  “Ahh,” I said. “That would depend upon your definition of trouble. But, and I mean no offense, I really shouldn't be discussing this with you. It's a private matter for Mr. Delp.”

  “Reverend Delp,” she said, correcting me in no uncertain terms. “I'm Reverend Delp's private secretary. I am a part of everything said or done for, to, or concerning the Reverend and the Temple of Majesty Ministries. I am, I assure you, the chief guardian of his privacy. I'm the one that hired you.”

  “All right,” I said with a shrug. “You've convinced me.” It was no skin off my nose. “So, you were aware then that Mrs. Delp was seeing someone?”

  She didn't scream, run in circles, or puke, but if I had to guess I'd say the sudden widening of her eyes was genuine surprise. “What do you mean `seeing someone'?” she asked. That ruined it.

  I smiled, because though she was starting to annoy me she was still well worth smiling at, and told her, “You can't have it both ways, Miss Bridges. I can try to phrase things like a gentleman and you can get the hints. Or I can just tell you where the bear craps in the woods and you can deal with the cold facts. But you can't insist I tell you everything and be obtuse at the same time. It's a waste of time trying to wake up someone that's pretending to be asleep. I'm asking if you were aware that Mrs. Delp was having an affair?”

  “But you must be mistaken. Katherine Delp was…”

  “Pulling the wool over your eyes, apparently,” I said. I'm a crumby politician. It's nothing to me if folks construct opinions out of baloney and air but I see no point in arguing facts. I opened the envelope, extracted several of my favorite photos of Katherine and her lover, and held them out to the woman who'd hired me (or, at least, hired my secretary).

  She hesitated before taking them. The tiny crow's feet at the corners of her green eyes, visible no doubt because she was exhausted, burgeoned into claws as she squinted to make sense of what she was seeing. I heard an intake of air and her mouth became an O as recognition dawned. Katherine Delp had apparently succeeded in keeping her secret because, sisters and brothers, Gina Bridges was experiencing genuine shock. I'd have bet the old homestead on it. She squeaked an, “Oh, my heavens,” or something along those lines, but didn't go beyond the first picture. She just stared at it in horror as if I'd handed her a road-kill skunk. She closed her eyes, turned and wandered, still clutching the photographs, to the wall of windows beyond her desk. I don't know when she opened her peepers for sure but she must have because she stopped before she hit the glass. A silence fell over us like a pall and I let it lay there. Finally, with a dry throat, she croaked, “This was taken last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How…” Still staring out at the luxurious landscape, she took a moment to generate some spit then tried it again. “How could you?”

  “How could I?” I felt for her, I really did, but I had to stifle a laugh. “Miss Bridges, I apologize for what might be a shocking revelation…” If she noticed I'd just questioned her veracity, she didn't show it. “But,” I continued, “I think you're bright enough to appreciate I was put in a rather uncomfortable position myself. Now, you need to either focus on the here and now or you need to tell me where I can find Reverend Delp because I have a couple of questions that require answers.”

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and said, “Of course,” still staring outside.

  “Are those pictures of Mrs. Delp?”

  “They were taken at her house weren't they?”

  “Yes. But I never met her.”

  “You're right,” she said turning back to me. “I'm sorry.” She took a breath and forced an answer. “Yes, that's Katherine.”

  “And her friend? Do you know him?”

  “His name is Nicholas Nikitin.”

  “How do you know Nicholas Nikitin?”

  “We just called him Nick.”

  “How do you know Nick?”

  “He's a member of our local congregation.” She stopped herself. “He was a member, I mean. He worked part time as our bookkeeper. He left the church four or five months ago. No one was really sure why.” She shook the pictures in her hand without looking at them. “I guess now I know.”

  I stepped forward and gently relieved her of the burdensome images. No sense giving her the opportunity to rid the world of pornography at my expense. I slid the photographs back into the envelope and asked, “You didn't know about the affair?”

  “Of course not. I never could have… Nobody knew.”

 
“You can't really know that, can you?” I asked. “Maybe if I could speak to Reverend Delp?”

  “No! You couldn't. Not with this. Not now.”

  “You don't think he knows?”

  “Of course he doesn't know!”

  “He'll have to be told. The police will have to be told.”

  “They don't know about this? About Nick? About these pictures?”

  “No one knows any of it, yet.”

  “Blake, please let me to tell him.” She approached as she spoke, took my arm in both of her hands, and I'm here to tell you it was like getting an electrical shock. She let go almost immediately, hesitating just long enough that I had to wonder whether or not I'd imagined it. Then she went on as if she hadn't cardioverted me. “The Reverend, I mean. Please let me tell him. It would be better.”

  “All right,” I said. I was still inexplicably shaken. I cleared my throat and found my balance. “But it will have to be soon. I'll have to let the police know about this soon. And I will need to speak to the reverend myself.”

  “Of course. I'll arrange that as soon as he's able.”

  “Thank you. Now… I need to switch subjects, if you don't mind. You told my secretary that the reverend had been threatened. That he'd been getting threatening letters. Could I see those letters?”

  She thought about it. “Of course. I haven't any idea where they are but I'll speak with Reverend Delp and get them for you as soon as I can.”