And he was right about Putterman. The old coot had paid for his final arrangements well in advance, but Flavia lied, having him cremated so she could pocket the difference. Kennet shuddered at whose house he was living in.
He twisted the water off and grabbed his towel. And Ma. . . . He could have given her a funeral, as he’d wanted to. But that wasn’t the real tragedy. She hadn’t died of heart failure, she’d suffocated. Or been suffocated. He didn’t need to guess who’d done it. Angrily, he threw the towel at the washing machine and stalked into his dungeon cell.
That coldhearted bitch murdered my mother. Probably held a pillow over her face until she stopped struggling. The night she died, Ma’s face was ashen, her lips blue. He seethed with rage at Ms. Costa. Supposed to be dedicated to caring for the aged, the infirm, the unstable. But she was nothing but a coldhearted killer, in it for the money. He pulled on his clothes fiercely, then ripped a brush through his wet curls, ignoring the pain.
There was no red folder for Helen Streider. But her disappearance was definitely suspicious. He strongly doubted any relatives had shown up to whisk her away. Putterman had doubted it, too. Dropping like flies around here. But what happened to Helen? Maybe she was hiding out with Ms. Firenza.
Fingering the skeleton key in his pocket, he climbed the stairs and let himself out the side door in the gathering twilight. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to Helen Streider and the others, but he vowed to find out.
Chapter 31
Flavia mechanically wiped down the kitchen surfaces, wondering what Kennet was doing in the front hall at lunchtime. She thought he’d gone downstairs to his room, but apparently he hadn’t. Where had he gone? This concerned her.
She draped the dishrag over the kitchen faucet, wiped her hands on her apron, and then untied it. She hung it on the hook beside the stove and headed upstairs to retire. The second floor was quiet.
When she unlocked and opened her door on the third floor, she paused, sensing something was amiss. She glanced around. Everything seemed to be in its place, but something wasn’t quite right. The hair on her neck prickled, and she moved into the apartment smoothing the goosebumps on her arms.
She checked the kitchen, the living room, her bath, and bedroom. Nothing out of place. But the suspicion lingered.
She checked the doors to the dry bar. Still locked. Something lay on the carpet. She stooped to pick it up between her thumb and forefinger.
A blade of grass.
Someone had been in her apartment, and that someone had been Kennet Singleton. She straightened and studied the strip of green. How had he gotten in here?
She threw the bolt at night, but she could do that only from inside. Besides, she needed nothing more secure when she was around the house. But now she wished she’d installed a double-sided deadbolt. A skeleton key could open the old door lock, and such a key wasn’t hard to come by.
Flavia stared at the dry bar. Still locked. Did he try the doors? She was sure he had. But did he get them open? Not likely. Yet if he’d trespassed into her apartment, he also could have opened the cabinet.
She entered the bedroom and lifted the lid of her jewelry box. The small brass key was still nestled among the rings and brooches. But the box itself was slightly askew. She always pushed it evenly against the back molding, which left just enough room for the lid to open without banging the mirror.
She pinched the key and used it to open the dry bar. Everything looked as she had left it, but she shifted the bottles and drew out the black cardboard box anyway. Everything was still there: the ledger book, the folders, the vial of succinylcholine. She plucked out the packet of cellophane, a gift from Hector the whipping boy. She caressed the envelope of insecticide and considered all that it could do for her.
Flavia put everything back and then passed through the bedroom to her private bath.
She brushed her teeth. Then she removed her makeup, washing the powder off the coffee-colored birthmark on her neck. She hated it because it looked like a stain. She studied her eyes in the mirror. So dark and yet so innocent.
Insecticide would not do for Kennet, although she fantasized about squashing him like a bug. She needed something germane to his profession. There were plenty of chemicals at the funeral home. But that was risky. Anyone could see her coming and going, especially Kennet. And such substances could be traced to their source.
Something natural . . .
She remembered the blade of grass and it made her think of another species of greenery, often planted about tombstones and found in Pennsylvania gardens. Lily of the Valley. Lovely, yet toxic.
I’ll have to check the cemetery. Soon.
Chapter 32
Grinold pulled into the annex driveway and shut off the Town Car. While he was up at the cabin he’d suffered second thoughts about what he’d done to Kennet. His distress mounting, he had returned early.
He still wanted Kennet dead, but he was concerned about the method he’d used. Poisoning the young man with methanol no longer seemed like a good idea. It was undependable—too many factors could change the outcome. If all had gone as planned, Kennet was dead or soon to be dead. Cecil was probably too late, but if not, he didn’t want the idiot lingering. One way or another, he needed to make sure the job got done.
He grabbed his navy blazer off the passenger seat and entered through the annex door. He stopped in his tracks when Kennet turned from the work table to greet him.
“Mr. Grinold.”
What was Kennet doing here? You should be dead already. At least bedridden.
“Ah, hello, Kennet.” He wasn’t sure what to say. “Hard at work already?”
“Not really. I just came to see if there were any customers waiting.”
“I’ll have to check with Mary Grace,” he said, crossing the smooth expanse of concrete. He decided to keep going, get to his office where he could come up with a plan. But he had to know. “Feeling chipper today, young man?”
“I guess. Why?”
“No reason, really. You just have a strange look on your face. Is everything all right?”
Kennet stepped in front of him, between him and the door to the funeral home. “Actually, I’ve got something on my mind.”
“I have some crucial work to catch up on,” Grinold said, moving around him. “Perhaps later.”
Kennet side-stepped and wouldn’t let him pass. “And I’ve got something important to ask you. Whatever you need to do can wait a few minutes.”
Grinold stiffened. How dare you talk to me in that manner! He was about to say so when the young man spoke again.
“I’ve learned a few things while you were away.”
Grinold suddenly felt uneasy. Perhaps Kennet was on to him, realized what he’d done with the whiskey. Maybe he’d ended up in the emergency room, had his stomach pumped. Or had he discerned it with his “gift”?
“It’s always good to expand your education, Kennet. Now I really must go.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Grinold.” Kennet flattened his hand against Grinold’s chest.
Enraged, Grinold brushed the hand off him brusquely.
“Why did you trick me into cremating my own mother?”
Grinold’s heart dropped into his stomach. This was an unexpected turn. His face flushed with incrimination, hotter than the previous moment’s rage. “I . . . I . . .”
“Spit it out, chief. I want to know the truth.” Kennet crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him.
Grinold took a deep breath. He needed to put a positive spin on this, allay Kennet’s suspicions, get him to calm down—tell him anything—and then come up with another plan to get rid of him for good. What were the circumstances regarding Virginia Singleton’s cremation?
“I was going to do the work myself, Kennet.”
“Were you?” Kennet sounded unconvinced.
“Of course. Don’t you remember? I had the crematory preheated. But you showed up early.”
“So it’s my fault
?”
Grinold smiled warmly. “I’m saying no such thing. I’m simply trying to help you see that I had every intention of taking care of it myself.”
“And not even talk to me about it? I wanted to have a funeral for her!”
“I knew that was impossible, considering her insurance coverage. She simply had to be cremated, and I took the earliest opportunity to do it.”
“But you didn’t. You let me do the job.”
“I was very busy that day. And I’m just as busy today.”
“Did you ever see her insurance papers?”
Why was he concerned about her insurance? “No. Why?”
“Then how did you know how much coverage she had?”
“You know that, Kennet. Ms. Costa told me. The insurance benefit is paid to the care home, and she writes me a check for the services it will cover. In this case, only cremation.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean by that?” Was this psychic imbecile accusing him of malfeasance? Grinold said, “I copy all her checks. Would you like to see the one for your mother?” That gave him an idea. He could use the check business as an excuse to lure Kennet to his office. But then what would he do?
“She writes you a check, but you never actually see any insurance papers?”
“I don’t need to. Ms. Costa is a good businesswoman who knows how to handle her finances. She writes me a check, and I provide the services I’m able to.”
“I don’t think so,” Kennet repeated. “As I said, I learned a few things while you were gone.”
“What on earth are you getting at? I don’t have time for this.” Grinold shifted his blazer on his arm and turned toward the funeral home door.
“There’s a murderer around here.”
Grinold dropped his arms, and his jacket nearly fell to the floor. Idiot or not, this boy truly was psychic. Did Kennet know what was in the drink he gave him the other day? Or was he referring to Delores? Neither answer was good news for him.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Grinold’s heart raced at an unhealthy rate, but he tried to remain calm.
Kennet looked as if he would say more, but he closed his mouth and stared coldly.
“I’m sorry you had to find out about your mother. As I told you, I planned to do the job, but it didn’t turn out that way. Now I really must get to work.” Grinold hurried through the door. He paused for a moment in the hall to catch his breath and compose himself before moving toward his office.
The young man had learned somehow that he’d cremated his own mother. Was Kennet on to his plot to poison him with methanol? What would he do next? Notify the authorities? When? Grinold doubted Kennet would wait long. He might take action after the weekend, as soon as Monday. Perhaps sooner. That didn’t leave Grinold very long to plan and make his next move.
He threw his coat on one of the leather chairs before the desk.
But he must make that plan. A better plan than before. And he must make his move. And unless he had a customer to cremate, he needed to do something soon. Today.
He slumped into his chair and stared at the perfection of the bonsai tree on the credenza.
A plan, a perfect plan. Today. Can I do it?
That was immaterial. He had to. Today.
• • •
“I saved you a bowl of soup, Kennet.” Flavia led him by the arm to a chair at the kitchen table. He’d just returned from the funeral home to find her cleaning up after lunch. The television was blaring a soap opera in the parlor.
Kennet wished he had come in through the side door to the basement landing. Having entered through the kitchen door, he sensed that she’d been waiting for him. He gently broke free of her grip. “Thanks, Ms. Costa. Sorry I’m late. Customer in the cooler was a big one, and the cremation took longer than usual.”
“That’s all right. Sit down here and I’ll get you some soup. Potato leek. You want the crackers and peanut butter?”
“Sure, but I can get them.” However, by the time he finished speaking, she’d already produced the Peter Pan and a box of low sodium saltines. He sat down instead.
She carefully pulled a Corelle bowl of soup from the microwave and set it before him on the table. She wiped her hands on the dish towel tucked in her dress belt.
The soup steamed slightly. Flakes of parsley and tiny globules of butter dotted the surface. He picked up the soup spoon and scooped a first bite from the bowl. He lifted it to his face and blew on it. It smelled good.
Her hands were clasped at her waist, the bluish veins standing out in relief. Her mouth was clamped shut as if she were struggling to keep herself from speaking; her jaw muscles writhed beneath her olive skin. Behind her dark lashes she eyed him intently. Too intently, and it made him suddenly suspicious of what else might be in the soup besides potatoes and leeks.
An image of skull and crossbones flashed over the steaming bowl. Don’t do it. He returned the spoon to the bowl. “I’m sure it’s delicious, but you know what, Ms. Costa? I’m really not hungry.” He slid the bowl away.
“It’s a long time until dinner,” she said, stepping forward. “Young man like you needs to keep his strength up.” She sounded concerned, but her eyes were hooded and had grown much darker. If she looked at the soup the way she was looking at him, it would probably freeze.
“I had a snack at work,” he lied and pushed his chair away from the table.
The icy look sparked into blazing fury, but her voice remained steady. “I’ll put this in a plastic dish in case you change your mind this afternoon.”
“Okay, Ms. Costa. Thanks,” he added and slunk back the hall and down the cellar steps.
• • •
Kennet used the ancient toilet beside the washing machine and then retreated to his dark and dingy room. His stomach growled with hunger, but he couldn’t eat anything, lest Flavia see him.
After discovering the drug vial and cellophane packet of insecticide in her apartment, he felt justified in refusing the soup. Yet he hated the paranoia that had crept in like an army of cockroaches to infest his mind.
Did she suspect he knew what she was up to? Probably, considering the rage in her eyes when he pushed the bowl away. If she thought he knew, he’d better be very careful, watch his every move. And hers.
He wanted to flee, to stuff his backpack and just take off. But where would he go? Besides, he had his mother, Putterman, and the rest of the murdered residents to avenge. Others were still in danger: Gladys Wilson, Sylvia Kryszewski, the new people. He needed to gather evidence quickly, proof he could take to the police. That meant he had to get back into Flavia’s apartment and collect some papers. The skull and crossbones image flashed in his mind again.
He gathered his own things, dividing his clothes and personal items into two piles—things to take with him and things to leave behind. Would she let him get away? Not if she could help it, he was sure. But he must be ready to pick up and go when he spotted the chance.
On his way up the cellar steps the phone rang in the kitchen. He was about to let himself out the landing door when Alex called to him. He took the hall to the kitchen. Alex shoved the phone at him and then stood there looking mean, arms crossed over his beefy chest. He reeked of musky sweat.
“Hello?”
“Kennet? Loretta Pratt. Are you still interested in the garage apartment?”
Kennet turned his back on Alex. “Yes, ma’am. Very interested.”
“Thought so. I’ve got someone else asking about the place.” She sounded concerned. “Can’t say why, but I’d rather you lived here than anyone else.”
“That’s very nice of you to say, Mrs. Pratt.”
“Loretta.”
“Loretta.”
Here’s your chance! That beautiful apartment is waiting for you, and she wants you to have it. Half his stuff was ready for packing, and leaving now would probably save his life.
AVENGE US!
Kennet’s entire b
ody was swept with a chill that raised a legion of goosebumps. If he skipped out now, he’d be unable to get back in to borrow the paperwork he needed to convict Flavia. And he might not have the opportunity to do so before he moved. He needed to bide what little time he had left and wait for the perfect opportunity to sneak back in to her apartment, into the liquor cabinet and the deadly black box.
“Are you still there, Kennet?”
“Yes. Just thinking.”
“Can I draw up the lease with your name on it?”
He groaned inwardly. He should snap up her offer, get the hell out of Costa’s Killer Care Home while he still could, forget about playing Kid Justice. What if he were implicated in the whole matter, having cremated bodies, thus destroying evidence of foul play? He doubted it, but it nagged him. More importantly, avenging his mother was the only way he could repay her for caring for him, providing for him, protecting him, and for the loss of her eye. And she wasn’t the only one he owed. There was Putterman.
Besides avenging his mother, Putterman, and the other murdered residents, more lives were at stake. He imagined Gladys Wilson holding up her pudgy hands to ward off the slicing blade of a butcher knife in Ms. Costa’s hand.
“Sorry, Loretta. I really want the”—he was about to say apartment, but he didn’t want to tip off Alex, who was now stepping on the backs of his shoes. “I really want the opportunity, but I need another week.”
Loretta sighed and then said, “I can’t guarantee it’ll still be available. Give me a call soon as you know.”
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