Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

  “Sorry, Clyde,” I said as I reached the cash register line. Clyde didn’t mind. He was a considerate cat, after all.

  I headed for Queen’s Circle and found an empty bench. I had to repack my belongings. I didn’t spread everything out for the world to see, but relocated items one at a time, the larger ones first. The sneakers. Should I change them for my wet shoes? No. I certainly didn’t want to pack a puddle. One sweater and a pair of sweat pants. Did I really need their bulk? Yes. Spring was, after all, a time of chill rains more often than sweltering, cloudless skies.

  Basics were underwear, socks, and a few plastic bags. Two work blouses, three skirts, including the new one, and a pair of PJs. Too many skirts. I’d have to lose one. My foil space-age afghan, deflated pillow, two scarves. A plastic bag that held the necessary stuff, like toothbrush, deodorant, and nail file. Another baggie held a sewing kit, a Scout mess kit, flashlight and jackknife. My notebook. And the keys. I pinned them just inside the backpack.

  Glancing around for nearby snoopers, I stuffed my basics inside the backpack.

  “Watch out, Clyde,” I said. “Cop approaching.”

  I took out a fruit bar, opened it, and tossed a crumbled piece on the ground. I needed birds to complete the old lady image. I tossed a few more crumbs into the air. “Don’t you dare chase my birds,” I warned Clyde, for indeed, a harbinger had spotted my crumbs. His call brought his family and friends.

  By the time the cop reached me, I was surrounded by birds and eating my fruit bar. Raspberry, my favorite. The nasty birds ate at least half of it by the time the policewoman was out of sight. But I couldn’t stay on a bench all day. The next cop might wonder what I was doing, or even, who I was.

  Emergency rations went in the backpack outside pocket. Money and identification were already stashed on my person, most of it hidden under my clothes in my security pouch.

  The cop was returning. Quickly I went through the envelope of non-basics. A smaller pad of paper, four forever stamps but no tape mailer, some paper clips, which could be amazingly useful, and a brochure from a spa. I returned them all to my bag.

  Then there were the complete non-essentials I’d found at the Hemingway house. One was the discarded envelope with an address to check out later. The other was the ticket to the event at Waterman’s Museum, the one Mrs. Hemingway had spent big bucks for. It was good for three days, beginning that very day.

  Yes, serendipity. I’d go, browse the displays, ask questions. Would I find any clues or even a reason why Mrs. Hemingway had such an expensive ticket? Or why both she and her boss had them? I liked to think positively, but I rather doubted it. So far, I’d come up with nothing to solve Francine’s murder. But the museum might provide that bit of information vital to solving the case. And, it was an ideal place to spend the afternoon. Not one police person would look for a fugitive inside a museum.

  My new outfit was exactly the thing to wear. An expensive ticket, after all, demanded more than conspicuous, flower-child slacks.

  A half hour later, Clyde and I emerged from the second nicest ladies room in all the tourist shops. I’d livened up the dark skirt and sweater with my favorite pink blouse and one of my scarves. I was a new, thoroughly puttogether woman, coiffed, lipsticked, and thanks to samples, perfumed. Clyde approved.

  At the museum door, a woman compared a number on the ticket to a list, then insisted I check my backpack. Neither was a good sign. However, both of my hands were then free to take the brimming coffee cup balanced on a dainty saucer. Fresh brewed, not instant. Columbian? No, but some special blend? I certainly wouldn’t expect less at a posh shindig.

  Vases of flowers brightened the mud-colored museum displays, but the salt mustiness of bay dredgings permeated the building. I wandered to an alcove dedicated to blue crabs, bypassing the line-up at the big attraction.

  “You aren’t Mrs. Hemingway, I know that,” a voice said behind me.

  Lord love a duck. Maybe if I ignored her, she’d go away.

  She poked me. “I mean you. Who are you?”

  No, she wouldn’t go away.

  Chapter 17

  Had the police followed me? Was I trapped in the museum? Slowly I turned. The woman confronting me was not a cop. She was in her late thirties, tall, slender, with copper hair yanked severely into a bun. Those numbers on my ticket had been as good as a name. No, I definitely wasn’t Mrs. Hemingway.

  Thinking quickly, I said, “Poor Francine. Such an unfortunate affair.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Who was I? “J. M. Jacks,” I said, extending my hand. False names are confusing, but I was J. M. Jackson as a child. “ J. M. Jacks,” I repeated to myself. Yes, that had to be close enough to remember. “And you are?”

  “Nell Nordstrum,” she admitted reluctantly. “How did you get Mrs. Hemingway’s ticket?”

  Nell Nordstrum? I’d heard her name before, but where? The woman evidently had not been on a first name basis with Francine, which could help. Fibbing a whole lot, I said, “She gave it to me, on the very day she died. I, too, work at Abbott Computing Services. Unexpectedly, she found she wouldn’t be able to attend this function.” Shaking my head, I added, “And of course, then she was killed.”

  Ms. Nordstrum eyed me warily. “Did she ask you to look at anything specific?”

  I’d heard the voice too, but where? Not in that tone. Of course. She’d left a message on the Hemingway answering machine. What had she said? Something.

  “The ring,” I said with a nod. But how was a ring connected to marine displays of oyster tongs, duck blinds, and models of the inlets of Chesapeake Bay?

  “You do know about it then.” Her face softened in relief. “What did she say?”

  Lord love a duck. What was that message? What... Yes. “The ring will be on display.” Did that mean, at Waterman’s Museum? I hesitated, searching for some way to convince Nell Nordstrum that I knew what it was all about.

  “She didn’t call you? She planned to, but, oh, dear.” I swayed just a trifle and allowed my coffee cup to rattle, but I recovered quickly. I didn’t want to overact. “She must have been killed before she could telephone.”

  Nell patted my shoulder in sympathy. However, she still had questions instead of answers. “What did she say about the ring?”

  “Really, she only said a few words.” And what would she have told me, a complete stranger? “She was a private person, you know. But enthusiastic. She wouldn’t have mentioned the ring at all, except for that enthusiasm. She did rather catch herself, and, yes, mention something about telling me more later, after she’d spoken to you.”

  Was Nell buying my story? She seemed to be. She leaned toward me, anxiously biting her lower lip. Disappointment flavored her next comment. “Then you don’t know a thing.”

  “Nothing, really. Just, as I said, a few words.”

  “You are certainly correct about her enthusiasm.” Ms. Nordstrum hesitated. Would she tell me more?

  “Yes?” I asked, trying for polite interest.

  But her face closed, her voice sharpened. “You would like to see the ring?”

  “Please.”

  She led me past the crowd waiting to see the exhibit of note and gestured toward the clustered group. “The ring was found with our England exhibit. It was obviously not part of that shipment. We’ve placed it in a locked case.”

  As we climbed to the second floor, I asked, “How did Francine learn of the ring?”

  “She was a museum volunteer. I’m sure everyone around the museum heard about the ring.”

  Francine, a museum volunteer? Such a persona had not surfaced before. Perhaps she was the private person I’d depicted, keeping secrets from everyone. Did her office mates know?

  Ms. Nordstrum continued. “We believe there were other similar pieces hidden in the packing. A volunteer found the ring amid discarded foam.” Then, evidently aware she’d revealed more than she intended, she turned to me. “Mrs. Hemingway told you none of this?”
>
  It was a question I could answer only with a shrug.

  Shipped from England, she’d said. That sounded like an international conspiracy. Was Francine involved? Slowly, I asked, “Do you think it was smuggled?” She glanced at me quickly, but didn’t speak. “Do you suspect any of your staff?”

  Silently she turned to look at the stairs we had just climbed.

  “Did you suspect Francine?”

  Her chest heaved as she finally gasped for air. “It’s possible. Anything is possible.”

  “And the ring?”

  “Right here.”

  We’d been standing beside it. It was under glass in a long display case, among an assortment of scrimshaw and braided ornaments that sailors had made years before. On display, but hidden in plain view. It looked like a napkin ring, thick and nearly circular. But a napkin ring would never have such brilliance.

  “Gold.”

  “Yes.”

  Sylvie should look at this. She was the collector. “It’s valuable.”

  “Our preliminary...” She hesitated. I waited. “Our guesstimate indicates that it’s quite old. Yes, and valuable.”

  I asked other questions, but Ms. Nordstrum said no more. I wondered why. Or, why had she told me as much as she did? And why did she think other pieces were hidden in the packing? What did they have, DNA tests for gold? They found one ring, maybe that’s all there was. Why hadn’t the museum staff called the shipper and said, “Hey, anybody missing a ring?” I shrugged, although, by then, Nell Nordstrum was no longer watching me. She had disappeared down a corridor. I returned to the first floor to check out the new display, Our English Heritage.

  A docent faced a group of people, telling them of a small English museum, remodeling while parts of it roamed. She directed their attention to pieces of wood from ancient boats, battered tin pails, various knives and other strange instruments.

  “They are all from the fishing trade of bygone years,” she said. “Colonists brought these methods to the Americas in the 1600s. The people of the Chesapeake Bay began with a seafaring tradition, steeped in bounty from the bay. Even today, fish and especially our famous blue crabs are products important to the state and to our watermen,” she concluded. “Are there any questions?”

  “Yes, who killed Francine Hemingway?” I wanted to ask. Instead, some lady asked if they had any colonial recipes for the bounty of Chesapeake Bay.

  “They called them receipts,” a man informed her, and the two of them started in on that subject, which didn’t interest me at all. However, I was reluctant to go back into Queensboro where cops were on the prowl.

  I could spend another hour strolling the museum, perhaps return to the second floor. Look at that ring again. Nell Nordstrum had hinted at a conspiracy, with nearly everyone involved. I’d been so eager to prove my friend Francine gave me the museum ticket, I didn’t ask the hard questions. I’d learned no more than Nell wished to share. Perhaps I could ask more.

  But Ms. Nordstrum had returned to the main floor. She stood near the stairs, talking to a man. She gestured. The man turned. It was Mr. Talbit.

  Lord love a duck!

  If he saw me, he’d call the cops for sure.

  Chapter 18

  “The Clairmont Motel,” I told the cab driver, confidant that if Nell Nordstrum sent any cops, they’d look for J. M. Jacks. The wouldn’t find her or a bum on the street. I needed a real bed, a door to lock, a light to turn on.

  Wouldn’t work. Ms. Nordstrum didn’t know my name, but Mr. Talbit might have seen me. He’d send them after one Jo Durbin. And they’d find me.

  I tapped the cabbie’s shoulder. When he turned, I said, “Change that to the Queensboro Yacht Club.”

  “Your choice, lady.”

  So I’m paranoid, but under either name, my description, mentioned to the taxi driver, would send them on my trail.

  I paid off the cab driver and went inside the yacht club. I asked at the desk how to get to the Pink Peach, a restaurant I didn’t care for. The taxi was gone when I stepped outside. The Waterfront Hilton was only a block away.

  At the hotel, I sat in the lobby, reading a discarded New York Times and glancing expectantly at my watch from time to time. After one person inquired at the desk and was turned away, I knew it was useless to ask for a room, so I didn’t.

  Instead, I browsed the gift shop for half an hour, then lingered in the coffee shop over a piece of pie, which was my supper.

  Time to kill, so I did a bit of detective work. I found a telephone alcove and checked for the page Mr. Hemingway tore from the directory. Three ninety-seven and the reverse started with paper brokers and ended with personal care. Parking, party, passport, paving contractors, pawnbrokers. Two might interest a killer or a blackmailer: passport and pawnbrokers. What had Mr. Hemingway said over the telephone? Anything to help?

  Not that I remembered. I wandered the hotel, checking the little mini-lobbies on each floor by the elevator, needing to waste time. No newspapers, just an old magazine on the third floor. I read a couple of articles before I headed down and into the back of the hotel.

  The kitchen was still in action. My personal favorite, a ball room I’d discovered two weeks ago, was unused. It had the perfect cloak room, small, with a door that was never locked, a floor that was carpeted, and a handy partition to shield me from sight. No one could see me inflate my pillow and spread my aluminum foil blanket. So I wouldn’t pamper myself with a motel room. My bed for the night was as comfortable as a floor could be.

  My dreams, however, were anything but comfortable. I was on my knees, playing jacks, with a gold ball that wouldn’t bounce. I tossed it up, grabbed the jacks, and watched the ball shatter into hundreds of golden coins. From the next room, Sylvie yelled, “You can’t do anything right.”

  Except it wasn’t Sylvie. I woke up, and the voice continued, uncomfortably near. “Look at that,” I heard. “You certainly didn’t empty the wastebaskets. What’s the matter with you?”

  Someone was getting royally dressed down. The subservient one sputtered a variety of, “Yes, Ma’ams,” “Ahs,” and, “I wills.” The boss type raged about missing toilet tissue and dirty mirrors, so the problem was in the restroom. I’d have been dead meat if I’d holed up there. I tried a restroom once. A tile floor is not optimum housing.

  Someone’s catastrophe was my opportunity for a payback task. I stretched my weary bones, did a few knee bends, and waited until the strident voice left before I pushed into the restroom. The weeping girl was small, with a name tag nearly as big as she was. The name was “Keisha.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said in my most compassionate voice. “What is the matter?”

  She hiccupped and sniffled, but managed to stammer, “Nothing.”

  “I know what it is,” I said. “You’re new and can’t move fast enough for the boss.”

  She wailed louder. “I’m not new. I’m kitchen help. This isn’t my job.”

  Soothingly, I said, “But somebody’s out sick or quit.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Happens all the time. They must have confidence in your ability to assume new duties. You only need a bit of help.” Which was one thing I hadn’t had on my first job working my way through college. “Watch me and I’ll demonstrate what you must do.”

  A red-eyed snivel was her only reply.

  I grabbed her “closed” sign. “First you push your cart inside, second, place your sign in the open doorway. For the actual cleaning, start at the top. Give the ceiling and corners a quick glance for cobwebs. Then hit the mirrors.” I spritzed them, rubbed vigorously, and continued. “Don’t leave any streaks. Next, look at the walls and doors. They probably won’t need attention, but make sure.”

  “Walls too?” she wailed.

  Why do supervisors assume so much? “Once around at each level will do it.” I sloshed hot water into the sinks and added a liberal dose of Ajax. “Sinks before toilets, and pull your cart along as you go to empty all trash.”


  Little Keisha wanted to help, so I tossed her a rag as I attacked the four toilets.

  “Do each stall, check that the inner walls are clean, but for now, ignore the floor.” I hummed as I scrubbed. “Swish the brush around each bowl, then flush. But check that it’s clean.” This job should merit several nights’ free lodging.

  “Now we give the trash containers a second look to be sure they are empty and replenish all tissue and towels.”

  Pushing Keisha and the cart ahead of me, I told her, “Last step is the floor. Start at the far end and work your way to the door with a damp mop. That way, you won’t leave any footprints. Toss your mop into the bucket and wring it out at the next rest room before you start.”

  “Wow! You’re fast.” Keisha was all smiles, probably because she now had one less bathroom to clean. “But they never told me I had to do all that!”

  “Do all that and do it quickly and you’ll be a supervisor within a year. Of course, you’ll need more than fifteen or twenty minutes at first, to get into the flow of it. But work to reduce your time.”

  “I can really be a supervisor?”

  “That’s my opinion. But, of course, I’m not your boss. You might say I’m your fairy godmother.” I’d always wanted to say that. Unfortunately, I couldn’t click my heels and disappear in a cloud of smoke.

  For all practical purposes, I did disappear. I paid my way and breakfasted at the posh Wellington Room. I still wore my new outfit, but in that setting, with a haughty demeanor, I could have worn just about anything. I picked out delectable tidbits, then followed the waiter to my table and took the newspaper he handed me.

  The headline was: “Second Murder in Queensboro.”

  It was Lacy. How did she rate front page coverage? I read the item thoroughly. Her real name was Lucille Hershey. Although a similar M. O. was used, there was no known connection between her and the Hemingway case. She was killed sometime Sunday night as she slept.

  Clever. By denying a connection, they had linked Lacy to Francine’s murder, with the possibility of a serial killer stalking Queensboro. Lacy had become a media darling, for all the good that did her. The newspaper didn’t explain the M. O., but I suspected it was the plastic bag that covered her crushed skull, and the plastic bag, that according to the rumor Mel heard, had killed Francine. But what possible connection was there between Francine, dead inside her own home, and Lacy, dead on the street?