Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

  Other than her homeless status, the article didn’t have much to say about Lacy, not even that she was crazy but relatively harmless, unless you got her mad. They concentrated on a possible motive. They’d blame her murder on another homeless person if they could.

  Maybe me.

  Who, besides me, had any link to both bodies? I knew Lacy. I didn’t know Mrs. Hemingway, although that might be hard to prove since she stole my first husband. I had replaced her at work. I’d been in her house. Slam-dunk.

  Having police on my tail was not the happiest of situations. Although I’d been charged with a crime because of that trumped up book, I’d never been a wanted woman on the loose. They’d have three places staked out, my own apartment, my sister’s home, and Abbott Computing Services.

  I needed a sounding board, a confidant, a coconspirator. I needed Sylvie, even if she did drive me crazy sometimes. But did she need me? I couldn’t go there, but I could call.

  As soon as she heard my voice she started in, not even saying, “Hi.”

  “I tried to reach you all day yesterday, even at the Abbott Computing place where you work.” she said. “Some woman told me you couldn’t be reached. What did she mean by that?”

  “Just what she said. I couldn’t be reached. I had to leave. The police were two steps behind me.”

  I could almost hear Sylvie shake her head in exasperation. All she said was, “Two steps, you say? So tell me.”

  “Your phone may be bugged.”

  “So tell me anyway. I’m sure, if the police are looking for you, they know it.”

  Good point. I told her. “They traced me through the employment agency to Abbott Computing Services. But I was out on an errand, so they didn’t get me.”

  “And exactly why did they want you?”

  “Maybe the fingerprints.”

  I could hear the wheels turning. “Fingerprints, huh?”

  “Possibly for other reasons.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Suddenly, she said, “We’ll have to chat later. Got to run. I’m doing lunch with Roger at my favorite place.” Then she hung up.

  She’s doing lunch? And with Roger, the ex husband she hated with a passion? What was going on?

  Chapter 19

  I stared at my telephone. Sylvie, doing lunch with Roger.

  No way! Sylvie was definitely not doing lunch with the man who’s face she’d snipped off every snapshot she had. Sylvie was sending me a message. She wanted to meet me, and meet me, where?

  “Okay, Clyde, what is Sylvie’s favorite restaurant?” I asked.

  Clyde, fish lover that he was, suggested Long John Silver’s. He was wrong. McDonalds? Burger King? Pink Peach. Sylvie loved their fruit salad. Their chili was passable. And Sylvie’s favorite was in the food mall at Eastport Plaza, naturally. Out of center city and two bus transfers away.

  I headed there immediately. I arrived in time to shop. Got a new pair of shoes to replace the black ones that had curled as they dried. Loaded up on fruit bars. Even bought some toothpaste while I watched the food mall entrance. I discarded my old shoes in their trash bin as I followed Sylvie to the counter.

  We stood in separate lines, did the, “May I sit with you?” routine at a table, and discussed the latest news like we were strangers.

  “I did a few errands on the way,” Sylvie said, then went on about a newspaper item, a listing of jewelry, ruby pendants with diamond chips and the like, all under a headline of “Today’s Newsmakers.” “I’d swear I saw that same list in my collectibles magazine,” she said, “but I don’t remember the article. I read it months ago.”

  “So why was the list in the paper?” I politely asked. Was this conversation going anywhere, or were we chatting like strangers?

  “It was an interview with, um, an international jewel expert? Or was it someone like a Scotland Yard detective? I don’t remember that either. I didn’t really read the article, just the list.”

  “I can’t imagine you not reading every word. So why didn’t you?”

  “It so happened you called and I had to leave, okay?”

  Obviously, the conversation would lead to something relevant. “Any gold rings?”

  “Well, sure. All the settings were gold or silver. Maybe a few platinum. Finally she brought up the subject we were so delicately skirting. “What aren’t you telling me? First the fingerprints.”

  The shoppers at the surrounding tables had changed while we ate, but I glanced around to be sure no one was listening. If I wanted her help, it was time to tell all. “I was in the house and saw the body,” I said as softly as I could. “Believe me, I left immediately. Unfortunately, I’d cleaned the house by then and probably left a few fingerprints of my own.”

  Sylvie controlled her shock quite well. “And they’re on file.”

  “There was a witness who saw me enter. A neighbor.”

  She gulped, but remained calm. “I don’t suppose you have an alibi.”

  I shrugged. “Not really. And I was alone the entire evening Lacy was murdered.”

  “What?” Sylvie lost her cool. She struggled to regain it, and in a grim voice said, “Who is Lacy?”

  I checked the nearby tables. No one was staring. Leaning forward, I said, “The street person killed Sunday night. The one who was probably wearing my old coat.”

  Straightening up, Sylvie spoke without moving her lips. “Let’s take it out of here.”

  “We’d better.” I slurped the last drop of my vanilla shake.

  “The car,” she said, leading me into the mall.

  “Maybe they bugged it too.”

  “First we stop at the restroom.”

  In the restroom she opened a huge Penney’s sack and handed me a red wig, a green scarf, and a very small purse. “Put your back-pack in the sack,” she ordered. “You are now Mary.”

  “Why not J. M.?”

  “I think not.”

  I rolled my eyes as I put on the wig. Sylvie combed it and tied the scarf artfully around my neck. I stuffed my back-pack in the sack and the little purse as well. “How about Esmeralda instead of Mary?”

  For an answer, she said, “Mary, we’ll meet in front of Penney’s in twenty minutes.”

  “Ten.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  I went straight to Penney’s. They didn’t have any samples, so I had to buy a lipstick to match red hair. I waited. She was late. She stretched it to fifteen minutes. In the car, I found out why.

  “Mary,” she said, “I’ve just bought the cutest little DVD player. I love music wherever I go, don’t you? Open it up, will you? I’ve got a DVD, too.”

  What my conniving sister had was background noise so we could talk. “Aren’t we clever?” I muttered. But once the noise was installed, I said, “There is something more to tell you. I was at the Waterman’s Museum yesterday.”

  “The museum? Why?”

  “Great place to avoid police who are looking for a bag lady, don’t you think? It was quite an event, all the best people were there to see a traveling English exhibit.”

  “I read about that. Ancient fishing artifacts. Wasn’t it by invitation only?”

  “Um-hum. I had Francine’s ticket.”

  Sylvie, in a dead flat voice, said, “You don’t say.”

  “Hey, she wasn’t using it.”

  “How can you do things like that?”

  “Like what?” I could have said, but I didn’t. “Interestingly enough, the museum suspects Francine was involved in theft, or perhaps smuggling.”

  “What?” she shouted, so loudly anyone could have heard her over ten DVDs.

  “The thing is, they don’t know if there was a robbery, or any smuggling for that matter.” The car swerved, but Sylvie quickly regained the upper hand. “After they unpacked the exhibit, they found a gold ring in the discarded packing. For some reason they think it was stolen. Understand?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t either. I mean, wouldn’t it be easier to think
somebody lost the ring?”

  She glanced my way, quickly, so she wouldn’t run off the road. “How did you learn all of this?”

  “They knew my ticket was Mrs. Hemingway’s.”

  “So now they know Jo Durbin was using a dead woman’s ticket. They also know your fingerprints were in her house, and your coat was on another woman’s body.”

  “Actually, J. M. Jacks used the ticket.”

  “Fantastic. And just how long will it take to discover the identity of one Josephine Marlene Jackson Barnette Durbin, also known as Jo Durbin?”

  “That is not the point. The point is, I’ve come up with another clue to the death of Francine Hemingway.”

  “Which is?”

  “A connection between the museum and Abbott Computing Services. I saw Mr. Talbit there.”

  “He’s the boss.” She sighed. “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so. What I’m saying is Francine was a museum volunteer, which I’d never expect of a party girl. Both she and Mr. Talbit contributed big bucks for tickets, and,” I paused for emphasis, “Mr. Talbit was talking to Nell Nordstrum. She’s the one who gave me all my information. Must be an administrative type. Rings bells for me.”

  “If you say so.” Sylvie was definitely underwhelmed.

  “All part of the mix. It’s something to consider, anyway.” I had more I could tell her, like Ed Hemingway’s blackmail call, but Sylvie was already on overload. So I just said, “Let’s talk about it later. You know, sleep on it. That always helps.”

  “I don’t think I’ll pass this on to my mystery game group.” Then, proving she was actively sleuthing, Sylvie asked, “Where were you the night Mrs. Hemingway was killed?”

  “On the street.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Lacy.”

  Sylvie was definitely on overload. “The dead?”

  “Even alive, she wouldn’t have helped. She was nuts. All the homeless are, and me as well, as you’ve pointed out numerous times.”

  “There were other street people?” she asked with a glimmer of hope.

  “Do you think any one of them could convince a jury of anything?”

  “Jo—”

  “Mary, remember? Hey, how about Clyde?”

  “You thought of someone?” The car jerked suddenly, but she continued. “I mean people! Not your cat.”

  “Most discerning cat. But then, I didn’t have him until the following day. He could have been around, though.”

  “How can you be so flippant?”

  How could I be so flippant? I thought I was remarkably self-possessed, considering I had no living witness to my whereabouts for Francine’s murder, or, for that matter, for Lacy’s murder.

  I shrugged, not that Sylvie noticed. She ignored me, big time.

  Chapter 20

  Sylvie drove smoothly, without white knuckles. She only glanced at the rear view mirror nonchalantly, not as if she expected a tailing patrol car complete with flashing lights and siren. Suddenly she slammed her foot on the brake. “Hey,” I shouted, and pushed myself away from the dashboard as she jerked the gear into reverse.

  “Let’s get a donut,” she said, her voice shaky as she jolted backward toward the Krispie Kreme shop we’d just passed, swerved into the tiny parking lot, and stopped.

  She’d had me fooled. Sylvie definitely needed a break. So did I. “Donut, sure. My treat.” That was only fair. She was completely undone, and all because of me.

  Inside I ordered two sugared and two glazed donuts. “Coffee?”

  “No. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Make those donuts to go,” I added.

  I didn’t ask questions, just hopped into the car with my bag of donuts. She drove another mile, stopped at a park, then charged out of the car like she knew where she was going. She didn’t. She passed a table, two grills, and several benches placed to take advantage of shade trees.

  “Here,” she said finally, after circling the park and choosing the second bench we’d passed.

  I was in for the icy treatment. Sylvie’s ruffled feathers needed soothing, and I tried. “Don’t you just love this time of year?” I asked. “Trees starting to bud, robins looking for nesting material.”

  “And people pretending to be bag ladies tossing not one, but two winter coats in favor of a jacket that doesn’t fit.”

  “You’re mad because I got a new coat? And here I thought it was because I’m being hunted as a killer. What is your problem? You think I actually did kill her?”

  “At least I’d understand your behavior!”

  Yes, she definitely was in one of her moods. At times like this, I tried to keep my temper, hard as that was. “Look, there’s a bunny.”

  Staring me down, she said, “I suppose he’s got a new coat too. At least his fits.”

  “Sylvie, this coat was an act of preservation. If I’d kept the grey one, the police would have spotted me for sure.”

  With a sigh, Sylvie gave up. “You must have enough material for five books by now. It does get depressing, having you for a sister.”

  I shrugged.

  “Or is bag lady your new career choice?”

  I ignored her.

  “Obviously, we react to adversity in different ways,” she said. “I lose a husband, I go on to something else. You lose a husband and you go crazy.”

  “My marital status has nothing to do with it. I’m a writer. I need to be published.”

  “If that’s what you call it.”

  My jaw tightened, but I wouldn’t rise to the bait. As calmly as possible I answered. “If I’d gone crazy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “My sister, the notorious White Widow.”

  Stiffly, I stood, folded my remaining donut in the napkin and walked away. I sat on the next bench watching the rabbit. He didn’t worry about unreasonable sisters. She knew perfectly well that White Widow thing had been disproved, in a court of law even.

  “Here, bunny,” I whispered, offering him a tiny morsel.

  He wasn’t interested. “Is Clyde too close? Cats do kill bunnies.” I began eating my remaining donut.

  At Sylvie’s “Harrumph,” I looked up. She stood over me with a determinedly bland expression. “So, okay. I’ll drop the subject. Can we talk murder?”

  One thing about Sylvie, she always made the first move to give up a fight. And I always accepted her offer, even though she only bottled it up. Two wrong words and she’d burst. I had to be careful. With a nod of truce, I said, “Let’s talk reactions in the office. Mr. Talbit seemed unduly concerned when Francine’s body was found.”

  “Oh.”

  “He was weird. He must have realized how he appeared, because he tried to explain it all away afterward.”

  Her voice was distant, close to the edge of anger. “You don’t say.”

  “He wanted anything personal from her desk, especially a key. Do you suppose he hid something and gave Francine the key? Then she shows up dead, and the key is missing.”

  Sylvie couldn’t stay detached with a mystery to solve. “No! She hid the loot, and he needs the key to get whatever it was she stashed. She, and she alone, knew where it was. He wants it, and she’s dead and he can’t find it. Yes! That’s it.”

  Perhaps anger was better. Why couldn’t she take murder seriously? She would play detective until I landed in jail. “Personally, I think the boss would be in charge of hiding any loot.”

  “But he’s not the dead one. It’s got to be the dead one.”

  “This is not one of your mystery games. Go with logic, real-life logic.”

  “So what is the key for?”

  I chewed the last of my donut, savoring each crumb. Sylvie could help, if she’d get her mind off games and understood the urgency. “If he’s the killer, she wouldn’t have the loot. She’d have some incriminating evidence, maybe.”

  “Okay, he’s the killer, but why did he kill this Lacy person?”

  “You’re getting off the subject. F
orget Lacy. Perhaps that was a copy-cat killing. There’s no connection. It was a coincidence,” I said, throwing out a bunch of suggestions before I owned up. “I don’t know.”

  “Think about a connection,” Sylvie said. “How about this? Lacy was Francine’s mother and there was this conspiracy.”

  “Please!”

  “And someone from their past did them both in. Right?” Then, changing her tack completely, she added, “Or, did you say Lacy saw something suspicious?”

  “Lacy saw something suspicious if a piece of paper blew down the street.”

  “Okay. Say Lacy thought she saw something, and the killer, who didn’t know she’d be completely ignored, killed her to cover up his crime?”

  “That could be possible. She was a big-time whiner. Yelling at complete strangers. Unfortunately, we’ll never know, not unless the killer tells us what was in his mind, and you know how likely that is.”

  “Happens all the time on TV.”

  I gave her the TV response. “Duh.”

  But Sylvie was on to her next idea. “Let’s investigate Mr. Talbit. We’ll case his house. Where does he live?”

  I shrugged, but she had already pulled out her cell phone and started pushing buttons. I shook my napkin and folded it. All from a habit I’d recently cultivated even though I would never keep a used paper napkin. I disposed of our trash.

  When I returned, Sylvie said, “He’s unlisted. Now what do we do?”

  I didn’t want to stop Sylvie’s detecting urges. “The library might have one of those reverse telephone books, but we’d need his number, so that won’t work. We could call the office.” As if that would help. “Hey! I never mailed the envelope. That’s our answer.”

  “What envelope?”

  “I should have mailed it yesterday.” I dug into the bag until I managed to open the side pocket of my back-pack.