Wall-To-Wall Dead

by Jennie Bentley

  I caught his eye from where I was dancing with Zach, another of Derek’s friends from high school, the one who lived in New Hampshire. He winked at me. Derek, not Zach. And after the dance was over, he came and found me, as I knew he would.

  “Well?” I said when the music had slowed down and we were rocking back and forth on the dance floor. Everyone was dancing by now, including the kids, and there wasn’t really room to do much but rock.

  “Well, what?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Dr. Lawrence,” Derek said. And added, “The medical examiner.”

  Of course. I’d met her once, over a gurney with a dead body. But I hadn’t expected to see her again in this setting.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t remember her.”

  “I imagine she probably looked a lot different the last time you saw her,” Derek said.

  “She did. But still.”

  Back then she’d been dressed in slacks and a heavy wool sweater, because it was cold in the morgue. And I’d had my mind on other things, like the dead body on the gurney and my friend, who was there to identify it if she could. Now Dr. Lawrence’s hair was fluffed and she was wearing makeup and a nice dress and jewelry and heels.

  “What is she doing here?”

  “She’s the aunt of the bride,” Derek said. “Carla’s mother was Susan Lawrence before she married Carla’s father.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, why?”

  I grinned. “John Nickerson told me that when he was thirteen, he had a crush on a girl named Susie Lawrence. Do you think it’s the same one?”

  “Probably,” Derek said. “They’re from Waterfield. The girls grew up there.”

  “What’s Dr. Lawrence’s first name?”

  “Sandra,” Derek said.

  “She never married?”

  He shook his head. “I guess it might be tough for a pathologist to get a date. Especially a female one.”

  “Men being more squeamish than women?”

  “When it comes to that,” Derek said and swung me around. “She’s a nice lady.”

  “She seemed nice when I talked to her. Although the dead body was a bit of a distraction.”

  “I can imagine. She remembered you. Asked how you were.”

  “That’s nice of her.” I snuggled into his arms, and we danced in silence for a while. “I wonder what’s up with Mariano. Gregory.”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” Derek said.

  I did, too. “Illegal alien, you think?”

  “That’d be my guess. He’s probably using his boyfriend’s Social Security number to work.”

  “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  Derek nodded. “Highly. Social Security fraud of some sort, I’m sure. I don’t know what the penalties for something like that would be, but I doubt they’d be good.”

  Probably not. Being in the country illegally is a crime, although tons of people do it. Back about six months ago, I’d done a little bit of research on immigration, and I had learned that most of the illegal immigrants to the United States—other than the ones crossing the border from Mexico—come through the airports on tourist visas, and when the visa runs out, they just don’t go home. New York City is full of young English and Irish men and women who came over that way. I’d known lots of them during my twenties. Baristas, waiters and waitresses, bartenders and shopgirls. It’s much easier to disappear in a city like New York, so there were fewer of them up here in the snowy wastes of Maine, although Irina had been an illegal alien, living and working under the radar, until she’d gotten married this summer.

  If Mariano was an illegal alien, he’d be deported if he was caught. If he was using someone else’s Social Security number—even with that person’s knowledge and approval—he probably faced jail time. And Gregg—because it was probably his identity Mariano was using—would face some sort of criminal charges, too, most likely.

  “Should we talk to him?”

  Derek looked down at me. “Why?”

  “To tell him his secret is safe with us. That we won’t report him.”

  “We won’t?”

  “Of course not. It’s none of our business, is it?”

  “He’s breaking the law,” Derek said.

  “Irina was breaking the law, too. You didn’t report her.”

  “I didn’t know she was illegal,” Derek said. “And she wasn’t using anyone else’s Social Security number.”

  “Not that you know about. But that’s water under the bridge anyway. She’s married now. But it’s not like Mariano and Gregg can get married, is it?”

  “They could if they moved to Massachusetts,” Derek said. “It’s just an hour away.”

  That was a pretty good point. But…“Maybe they don’t want to move to Massachusetts. Gregg’s got a job here. Or maybe there’s another reason they can’t get married. Maybe they just don’t want to. It’s none of our business.”

  “Then let’s not worry about it,” Derek said. “At least not tonight.” He swung me around again. I subsided as the room spun.

  Checkout was eleven the next morning, and we waited almost that long to get ourselves together to head back to Waterfield. It had been a long night, the bed was comfortable, and that’s all I’m going to say about it.

  “So about that strip club…” I told Derek when we were ready to go, with our suitcases packed and my dress and his suit in garment bags.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I hoped you’d forget about that.”

  Fat chance. “C’mon. It’s a Sunday morning. They’re not going to be open. Can’t you just tell me the name of it so I can drive by on my way home?”

  “Why do you need to? Like you said yesterday, it’s none of our business how other people make their money. Not Mariano or Jamie.”

  Boy, it’s annoying to have your own words thrown back in your face!

  “I just want to see the place,” I argued. “Just in case there’s a picture of her out front. To know if it’s her.”

  “But why?”

  I told him what I’d told myself last night: that something was going on at the condo complex, and that the more information we had about all the residents, the better our chances were of figuring out what it was.

  Derek sighed. “Fine. There won’t be anyone there anyway. C’mon.” He picked up his bag and my suitcase and headed for the door. I followed with the suit and the dress.

  In the hotel garage, he got into the truck and I got into the Beetle, and then I followed him out of the lovely historical neighborhoods by the harbor into a more industrial part of town, full of used car lots and wire-topped chain-link fences, until he slowed down in front of a long, low, cinder-block building painted virulently purple. It had a sign on the roof saying GIRLS—GIRLS—GIRLS, sort of the same way Guido’s Pizzeria said HOT—HOT—HOT. At night, this sign probably flashed in neon colors, too.

  There are plenty of titty bars and X-rated theaters in New York City. I’d walked past them almost every day of my life, tucked into storefronts on Eight and Ninth Avenues in Hell’s Kitchen, with their blacked-out windows and their photo lineups of the big-busted attractions to be found inside.

  This was my first experience with a strip club in the wholesome heartland, and it looked different, yet eerily similar. A big warehouse-looking building—it might have been a warehouse at some point, given the industrial makeup of the rest of the neighborhood—with no windows and only one door. The door was solid, so it must be pitch-black inside with the lights off. The equivalent of New York’s blacked-out windows. There was a tasteful and discreet sign above the door indicating that this was the Pompeii Gentleman’s Club, which was ironic, considering that the people who frequent strip clubs—present company excepted, since my boyfriend had been here two nights ago—often bear no discernable resemblance to gentlemen.

  Unlike the burlesque theaters of New York, there were no photographs of scantily clad women hanging next to the only door. When Derek
got out of the truck, slamming his door behind him, and came to crouch at my window, I greeted him with a pout. “There’s nothing here.”

  “I told you so,” he said.

  The big parking lot was empty. I guess the customers drew the line at watching women take their clothes off before noon on a Sunday. Or maybe the owners had a conscience and drew the line there.

  Derek straightened. “Let’s go home.”

  I nodded, and watched him jog to the truck and get in before I put the Beetle back in gear and pulled away from the curb.

  I trailed him all the way out of Portland, only to lose him once we hit I-295 North. By the time I exited the interstate and got on the Portland Highway, which would take me through Brunswick and past Barnham College into Waterfield, the truck was nowhere to be seen.

  Instead of scrambling to try to catch up, I took my time. It was a lovely fall day, with bright blue skies and blushing trees on both sides of the car. I turned the radio up and was singing along with Taylor Swift when I passed the old red brick buildings of Barnham College. A few minutes later, I saw the wall surrounding Wellhaven in the distance, and the roofs of the McMansions peeking above.

  I slowed down as I neared the entrance. There was a car there, waiting to exit, and just in case the driver decided to make a break for it, I thought I’d better proceed with caution. Accidents happen, and I didn’t want this one to happen to me.

  As I got closer, I saw that the gate into the development gaped open. That’s when I flicked on my turn signal, and earned myself a dirty look from the guy in the convertible as he roared past me and onto the highway in a cloud of exhaust. A grating sound split the air as the heavy iron gates began to close. I pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and the Beetle shot through the narrowing opening two seconds before the gate shut behind me with a shuddering clang. Drawing a deep breath, I settled my nerves, and maneuvered the Beetle onto the well-manicured streets of Wellhaven.

  —11—

  I don’t know what I was hoping to find. I’m not sure I thought I’d find anything. But I’d been kept from going in here after Candy’s boyfriend two nights ago, and when I’d seen my chance to snoop, I’d taken it. And besides, I’d never been inside Wellhaven before, so I was really just taking the opportunity to look around.

  It was a pretty place, in that planned-development, everything-in-its-place, nonorganic Stepford sort of way. The houses were big and distinctive, on postage-stamp-sized lots; no cookie-cutter subdivision, this. Every McMansion looked a little different from the others: Some had the appearance of English manor houses, some were Tudor mansions, and some would have looked at home in Normandy or Tuscany, with their French château or Italian villa styles. And while I had sometimes thought that the houses my cousins, the Stenhams, built looked a little chintzy, like a good strong storm could knock them down, these looked solid.

  In spite of all being different, they had the same look to them, though. A little pretentious and self-satisfied. And everything was manicured to within an inch of its life. There wasn’t a blade of grass or a dry leaf out of place. The edges of the lawns must have been laid out with a ruler, and there was lovely landscaping with evergreen bushes in front of every home. The colorful big-wheel tricycle sitting in the middle of a lawn on the second street I drove down looked like an obscenity.

  Upon consideration, my bright green Beetle probably looked out of place, too. Judging from the cars I could see parked in the wide concrete driveways, the residents of Wellhaven drove luxury cars in tasteful colors like black, white, and silver. Here and there, there was a stab at a little more individuality with a fire engine red convertible or bright yellow Hummer.

  I’d driven a couple of blocks when I saw a navy blue BMW convertible parked in a driveway. It wasn’t the first of its kind I’d seen, not by a long shot. There’d been plenty of navy blue BMWs in Wellhaven. This one had the standard Maine license plate, the one with the chickadee and pinecone, and the word “Vacationland” across the bottom in italics with the word “MAINE” in chunky capital letters across the top. Between the two was the letter-number combo BFL-496.

  I’d spent ten minutes trailing that license plate the other night, from Guido’s all the way here. I remembered it. BFL—big fat liar.

  I slowed my own car and crawled past the house, peering intently out the window.

  It was a pseudo-Italian villa: pinkish-tan stucco with terra-cotta roof tiles and curved, wrought-iron balconies on the second floor. The BMW wasn’t alone in the driveway; next to it sat a sleek Lexus SUV, jet-black. A woman with long dark hair was herding two little girls and a small excited dog into it.

  I slowed my car almost to a standstill as I looked intently at her.

  She looked like she might be a few years older than me. Thirty-three, maybe thirty-four. A good ten years older than Candy, and a little heavier in the hips and thighs. She looked as Italian as her husband, assuming that’s who he was. Dark hair, olive skin, strong nose. She was dressed in slacks and blouse, clearly designer originals and expensive. Something Melissa would wear. Classic, elegant, and costly.

  The girls were both brunettes as well. Long-haired, long-legged little girls, one in a green dress and one in blue. The dog wore pink: some sort of little sweater that picked up flashes of sunlight. Sequins maybe. Or silver thread.

  There was a movement on the periphery of my vision, and when I turned in that direction, I saw that Mr. Guido had come out of the house. He was standing on the front steps staring straight at me, and his expression wasn’t what I’d call welcoming. I had no idea whether he could see me or not—the Beetle has tinted windows, so probably not—but the Beetle itself is distinctive. If he’d noticed me behind him the other day, he might put two and two together. I put my foot on the gas pedal and rolled off down the street. Not too fast—I didn’t want to make it look like I was running away—but at a good clip nonetheless.

  I kept an eye on him in the rearview mirror. If he made a move toward his car, I’d step on the gas and hopefully be out of Wellhaven by the time he got himself together to follow me.

  He didn’t. He just stood on the steps and watched me drive away. When I got to the end of the street and turned, he did, too. The last thing I saw was him walking toward his family.

  “What happened to you?” Derek said fifteen minutes later when I pulled up in front of Aunt Inga’s house. “You were right behind me when we left Portland.”

  “I lost you on the highway. You drive faster than me. And then I took a detour.” I opened the backseat, preparatory to hauling my suitcase out. Derek leaned in instead.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I just drove around Wellhaven for a few minutes,” I said innocently.

  Derek straightened, suitcase in hand, and looked at me. “Wellhaven?”

  “The gate was open when I drove by.”

  “And you thought you’d just have a look around.” His voice was resigned.

  I shrugged.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  He just looked at me until I grimaced. And nodded.

  “Did something happen?”

  “Of course not. What could happen?”

  Derek didn’t answer, and I added, “He has a wife and a couple of kids. Girls. Eight and ten maybe. And a small, fluffy dog. At least I assume they’re his.”

  “So he probably isn’t Candy’s boyfriend at all, then,” Derek said. “Not if he has a family at home.”

  Maybe not. Not that having a family stops some people from cheating. Mr. Guido could just be one of those people. For all I knew, he and his wife might have an “open” relationship.

  “Do you think I should tell Wayne about that conversation I overheard? And how it sounded like Candy and this guy knew something about something?”

  “Yes,” Derek said, opening the gate to Aunt Inga’s yard and holding it for me, “I think you should. Later. Whenever you have a chance to talk to him without going out of your way.” He closed the ga
te behind me. “Right now I think you should go inside and greet your guard cat, before he busts through the window to get to you.”

  I looked up, and saw Mischa’s triangular face peering out at me from the parlor window.

  Aunt Inga’s house is a Second Empire Victorian from the 1870s. It has a square tower in the front, and a porch on one side. When I first saw it a year ago, the yard was overgrown, the mansard roof was missing tiles, and the wood was rotted. Now that Derek (and, to a lesser degree, I) have been over it, it’s a gorgeous confectionary item in periwinkle, mustard yellow, and brick red. I love Aunt Inga’s house. One of these days I might even get used to calling it mine.

  Anyway, to the left of the hall inside, there’s a small front parlor. I use it for an office. It has sliding pocket doors and a big window overlooking the porch, so when Derek’s working on something out there and I’m working on the laptop inside, I can talk to him. Mischa was now draped along the windowsill watching us come up the stairs, eyes unblinking. The tip of his tail twitched.

  “You go first,” Derek said when I’d unlocked the massive, carved wood door. “He’ll attack me if I’m in front of you.”

  “I thought he’d stopped doing that.”

  After Derek saved my life back in July, Mischa had become nicer to him. Before that, Mischa’s worldview had been of me as the queen, himself as rightful consort, and Derek as an interloper who must be chased off every time he showed his face. But after I almost died and Derek saved me, Mischa seemed to realize that Derek wasn’t so bad. It had helped that Derek took care of Mischa, too, while I was recuperating, with both my hands bandaged. These days, I thought the two of them got along pretty well.

  “Mostly,” Derek said. “But if I’m blocking his path to you, I wouldn’t give much for my chances of survival.”

  “He’s nine pounds!”

  “It’s what’s inside that counts,” Derek said, “and inside, he’s a mighty warrior.”