Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

  “Jo, what are you talking about?”

  “This,” I said, with satisfaction smothering any guilt. I shoved the envelope in her face, pointing to the upper left corner. Sylvie waited, none too patiently, for me to explain the mail I’d forgotten to send. “Mr. Talbit’s address.”

  ~ ~

  Sylvie found a remote post office where I sent the envelope on its way before we headed for Mr. Talbit’s home. He lived in an upscale neighborhood, quite unlike Mrs. Hemingway’s. Curved driveway, weeping willows, pillars holding up the porch roof, landscaped yard, a touch of the deep south in Queensboro. We sat in the car watching his doorway. After fifteen minutes, Sylvie got antsy.

  “Let’s knock on the door to see if anyone’s home,” she said.

  She opened her door to get out, but I stopped her. She’d made up her mind so I didn’t try to dissuade her. “Do a survey,” I suggested.

  “Good idea. I’ll ask... What will I ask?”

  “Anything. Politics, noise control, opinion survey. But you need props.” I handed her my notebook. “Keep it close to your chest so they won’t see you only have lined paper.”

  “You do this a lot, don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer, just sat low in my seat, which knocked the silly red wig off my head. I left it on the seat. No reason for a disguise if I stayed low. I had no wish to be seen by Mr. Talbit, or anyone else.

  Sylvie knocked loudly, waited a while, then knocked again. She turned to me and shrugged, for nobody answered the door. But, instead of returning, Sylvie went around to the back of the house. Ten minutes later, the front door opened.

  My God, I thought. It was Sylvie, inside the house, beckoning me to join her.

  Chapter 21

  Why did I think about Hansel and Gretel, captured as they nibbled on the witch’s house? What was Sylvie doing inside Mr. Talbit’s home? I motioned for her to get out, return to the car. She shook her head. Only one thing to do.

  “We’ll be trapped like rats,” I muttered, and scurried over before a neighbor saw her. I pulled the door shut behind me. “Sylvie! I don’t do anything this crazy. What on earth were you thinking?”

  “The back window was open. All I had to do was pull the garbage can over to the window, remove the loose screen, and climb in. Is that how you do it?”

  “No! I had a key. I’d never go into a house where someone could return any moment.”

  “All’s fair in a murder investigation.”

  “Not true. You’ve been watching too much TV. Exactly what do you think you’ll prove?”

  “We find a desk,” Sylvie said. “Check it for hidden drawers.”

  Hidden drawers! I shuddered. “Nobody has hidden drawers. If you’re looking for correspondence, how about the mail right here.” I lifted envelopes form the small table in the entry hall where it was piled, unopened. Sylvie looked on, obviously unimpressed. “Mostly junk. Couple of bills. A catalog. It’s from...”

  I stopped, short. A faint voice came from somewhere above. A female voice, saying, “Are you home already?”

  Sylvie heard it too, because her eyes widened, her mouth gaped, and she froze in place. I doubled my fist and shook it in her face. She finally moved. She crouched and tiptoed for the kitchen. I had to push her, or I’d have stepped on her heels.

  The window was still open. “We’ve got to replace the screen,” I whispered. “Where is it?”

  “Outside.”

  “Go. Push it into place.”

  She didn’t hesitate. She was out like a streak of lightening, without the thunder. “What are you still doing inside?” she asked.

  “Put it back,” I whispered.

  The whole scene took hours, it seemed, moments, really. I grabbed the screen before it fell inside with a clatter, pushed it into place. Hurriedly, I lowered the window.

  “Not all the way.” Sylvie held her thumb and finger an inch apart. “Like this.”

  I stepped back and adjusted the window. I heard footsteps on the stairs. Then the voice, nearer, said, “I heard you come in. Don’t try to hide from me. Where are you?”

  Could I reach the door before she reached the kitchen?

  I wouldn’t chance it. The table. A table, more suited to an entryway, with a tablecloth reaching almost to the floor. I dropped down and crawled underneath. I was still trapped. All Sylvie’s fault. She’d got us in, then left me.

  The voice, even closer, said, “Am I hearing things?”

  I froze, not moving even when I saw her feet pass inches away. Fuzzy slippers. Had to be his wife. Would she follow me if I ran for it? Or, I’d wait. She’d surely go looking for him in another room. But I heard running water. I heard the beeps as she programmed the microwave.

  She got her coffee, or whatever, out of the microwave. Opened the fridge. Closed it again. Then plunked the cup on the table, right over my head.

  Lord love a duck. She’d settled in. A chair scraped back and I pulled myself away. Mrs. Talbit sat down heavily. She crossed her legs, swinging one foot haphazardly.

  After a few more electronic beeps, she began to talk. Phone call. I was a captive audience. Was hers the recorded voice I’d heard after Mr. Hemingway made his blackmail call? Maybe, maybe not. I couldn’t tell.

  “I don’t know how I stand it,” Mrs. Talbit said. “He canceled the Mexico cruise. And the New York shopping trip. ‘Conspicuous consumption,’ he said. ‘Cheap,’ I say.”

  She had a tale of woe and many words to relate it. I wondered if her complaints were recent, or long standing. She called another friend, then another, and repeated and repeated. My knees froze into a permanent squat.

  By the fourth call, Mrs. Talbit had worked herself into a frenzied state. She recrossed her legs, swinging the other foot into ever widening arcs. I tried to predict the angle, but it made me cross-eyed. I had to turn away.

  “He said absolutely no more trips!” she said, and her foot slammed my ear. I yelped and bolted to my feet. The table upset, but I didn’t look back. I ran.

  Mrs. Talbit screamed as I slammed the door behind me. “Run!” I yelled at Sylvie, still crouched beneath the window. She went straight for her car. I went the long way, breaking out from the back yards at the end of the block. Sylvie and her car cruised to a stop and I leaped inside.

  “Let’s go,” I said, making the obvious request.

  Several blocks and as many evasive maneuvers later, Sylvie pulled up to the curb.

  “She’ll have the police after us,” I said.

  “Did she see you?”

  “Just my back.” But it would still mean another costume change. In the meantime, it was back to the red wig. “Why on earth did you have to go inside that place?”

  Sylvie looked at me owlishly, but didn’t say a word. Guilty, I guess. She started the car slowly, and finally spoke. “All that effort, and we didn’t learn anything except that Mrs. Talbit is a terminal complainer.”

  “We got this.” I pulled Mr. Talbit’s catalog from my pocket.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she said. “A mail-order catalog! You steal something and it’s a piece of junk mail?”

  What could I say? “Hey, it was in my hand when I ran.” Still, I paged through. “Maybe it’s not junk mail. It’s a museum catalog. Think about it. Something missing from a museum and he has this catalog. Now, the question is, does Mr. Talbit intend to order these antiques, or price them to sell his?”

  Sylvie hit the brake. I’d get whiplash if she kept up that sudden braking. “Good thinking,” she said and slid over to look. The prices were steep, even though most items were, as they said, “Registered reproductions,” or “Limited, numbered copies,” which obviously were more valuable than knock-off copies. Next to the order blank was a telephone number to call for prices of rare, one-of-a-kind items.

  “And another number to call to sell your surplus antiquities,” I read.

  “Wow! We can call those numbers. We’ll check on the status of Mr. Talbit’s, what, order or offer to sell?”r />
  “Sylvie, this catalog just came. He didn’t even see it. If he’s using any catalog, it’s probably another one stashed in his desk. This telephone number won’t tell us zip.”

  “So okay, no telephone calls... yet.”

  “Speaking of telephone numbers, I didn’t get Mr. Talbit’s phone number.”

  “We don’t need it now.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her about Mr. Hemingway’s blackmail call, then slammed my jaws shut. After our close escape, I didn’t need to introduce another problem. Sylvie would end up with an anxiety attack. Or, she’d work it around so everything was my fault. I changed the subject. “Drop me off in town. We’d better keep apart. If Mrs. Talbit saw me, you might be suspect as well.”

  “But I am,” she muttered. “I ought to be there, to tell them it wasn’t your fault.”

  She was on a major guilt trip. “Hey, we keep apart and we’ll both be okay.”

  “We could...” Sylvie shook her head. “Jo, you’re right. I’ll drop you off. Need anything first?”

  I plopped the red wig atop my drab crown. “Remember, I’m Mary.”

  “And the police are watching.”

  “Yeah.”

  Every so politely, she asked, “Where shall I drop you?” She knew, as well as I did, that under any name, I was wanted, not only by the police who watched Sylvie’s door, but also by the cops who would respond to Mrs. Talbit’s call.

  Chapter 22

  I cruised the sidewalk, ignoring any thought of police. My disguise was perfect. The cops were looking for an old lady with brown hair. They wouldn’t find her. They didn’t want a red head, no matter what her age. Clyde, however, was on the lookout. His tail twitched and he growled deep in his throat.

  “Quiet,” I snapped.

  But I knew as well as Clyde that, although Mrs. Talbit hadn’t seen my red wig, she had seen my clothes. They had to go—yet again.

  I walked into city center. Clyde was on alert for any police person. Lacy’s killing hadn’t slowed the walkers in Queensboro, but they certainly knew about it. I eavesdropped shamelessly. “...one of those homeless people,” I heard, delivered with a nervous titter. Yes, they knew.

  As I waited for the traffic light, two other women, deep in conversation, stopped near me. “Francine and that, you know, thing, had nothing to do with each other.”

  “That thing” had to be Lacy. Did they know Francine?

  “So why are the police treating it as one case? My cousin’s husband said...”

  The light changed. As they walked away, I wanted to ask, “What did he say?”

  A man shouted, “Hey, good looking.” He wasn’t addressing me, but I looked his way. When I looked back, the two women had crossed the street.

  Eavesdropping could be informative. Or not. The next words I heard were, “I tell you, it’s got to be blue, not pink.” The male chauvinist was walking beside a very pregnant lady. Oh, well. The killing wasn’t on every mind.

  I had to get off the street. I couldn’t stay in the open too long, or the cops would find me. Clyde was relieved when we entered Fu Lee’s Karate, and truth be told, so was I.

  The two killings were one case? Ridiculous. I wouldn’t listen to gossip, especially coming from some unknown woman’s anonymous cousin’s husband. Instead, I changed into my gi. White wasn’t my best color.

  A forty-five minute workout did wonders for my jitters, and my morale. And so did a change of clothing. In the back of my rented locker were pale blue slacks and a sweater set. Giving up my warm jacket for the tan raincoat was a downer. I’d freeze if I had to stay outside. They’d find my body.

  “Forget bodies,” I muttered.

  I’d never tried to spend the night at the movies. I chose the musical at the five-screen theater. The place was narrow without a spot to hide. I took a trip to the lady’s room where an attendant stood. Even the refreshment stand was off limits with glaring lights and worker bees all over. Then, when the movie ended, two husky teen boys walked down the aisle on either side of the seats, shooing the folks ahead of them. They ushered everyone out a side door, and into the parking lot.

  What next? Bar hop? The motel?

  Call a cab. Except, it was too late in a town the size of Queensboro. So I walked. I reached the motel after one. If I’d found a taxi, I wouldn’t have stopped at a motel. I’d have gone home, paid a huge cab fare, and started writing the damn book. Francine was murdered and I didn’t care who killed her. I didn’t do it. Sylvie could track down the killer by herself.

  ~ ~

  In the morning, I had to admit that Queensboro wasn’t through with me, especially after I answered my cell phone.

  “Jo Durbin, you are a guaranteed prize winner,” the man said. “The Jewel of the Chesapeake Sweepstakes prize center has selected your name as one of our top five winners. By merely presenting yourself, you will be eligible to win one of five precious gems, or the monetary value, which ranges from ten thousand to fifty thousand dollars. How does that sound?”

  “Like a fake capture-the-goon scheme,” I could have answered, but I didn’t. I punched the “off” button.

  No, I couldn’t leave Queensboro. Besides leaving Sylvie alone to face any cops, it wouldn’t work anyway. Until someone captured the real killer, the cops would follow me. They had my fingerprints, my description—and my name. I used the phone in my motel room to call Mel.

  “This is your unnamed friend who no longer has a plaid coat,” I said.

  “Haven’t seen you around,” he answered. “I’ve been hoping you’d left the street for something better.”

  “What’s the scuttlebutt at work?”

  “Um.” He didn’t continue.

  “Just wondering,” I said. “Any of the guys in trouble?”

  He ignored my question. “Said coat has been around.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Gave me quite a scare, let me tell you. Still bad. Lacy, you know.”

  “I’m thinking it could have been any of us, even me.”

  “Woman, you are in deep doo-doo. What do you need?”

  “Information?”

  “Can’t do. I’m telling you, the best thing is...well, you know the rest.”

  “I’m thinking about it.” Turn myself in to the cops is what he meant, and that would never happen.

  Background information was always helpful. I scanned old newspapers on film at the library. I tried a searchable database. I questioned the research librarian. Nothing. Well into the afternoon, I got another call on my cell phone. I let it ring six times before I answered it. It was Sylvie.

  “Jo, that is, Mary, I think it’s all over from what happened yesterday. I mean, the cops had all day yesterday, and it’s Thursday already, and I have something going on this evening. It could involve you as well. How about it?”

  “It’s not over. I got a weird call, and—it’s just not over.”

  “You must have enough for that book by now.”

  “Bye,” I said. Thursday, she’d said which jogged my memory. Ears gave me a ticket to a dinner, and that was tonight. The slacks and sweater I’d changed into at Fu Lee’s Karate were perfect for an Easter dinner. Could have been green instead of blue, to contrast with my new red wig, but one couldn’t have everything. And it was all fodder for the book.

  The freebie dinner was in a church basement filled with long metal tables covered with white plastic. Portable lights were set up in corners, illuminating large inflated bunnies and a great many potted tulips. Each table had its nest of Easter grass with plastic eggs. Plastic!

  Non-edible. Bah and humbug. Why not chocolate-covered peanut butter eggs? However, the aroma from the steaming cauldrons was inviting. The row of do-good ladies stood behind them, serving mashed potatoes, green beans, turkey, ham—and small brochures featuring Bible verses on one side and a list of homeless shelters on the other.

  I stuffed a brochure in my pocket, filled my plate and covered it all with cranberry sauce. Both the ham an
d turkey were moist and quite acceptable. Not, of course, filet mignon or lobster, but good food. I could include a list of great spots for the homeless, with this one the star. I dug in, stuffing my face in silence just like those around me, except for the three men at the end of my table. In that cavernous basement of scraping chairs and clanking silverware, theirs were the only human sounds. I had to listen, not on purpose as I had on the street, but because their voices were too loud to ignore.

  “You gotta be careful where you sleep.”

  “Watcha mean?”

  They had to be transients. I’d never seen them before.

  “They see you on the street, they kill you.”

  “Nah.”

  “Yeah. Some ole lady got killed couple days ago. Just minding her own business.”

  They meant Lacy.

  “Yeah, that dame what was killed, been here years some guy said.”

  Another asked, “What? She get on somebody’s nerves?”

  The third chimed in. “Nah. They let her alone. She was loony.”

  They didn’t know anything I didn’t know. I slathered my roll with three pats of butter.

  “She saw that other murder, you know.”

  “Nah. She didn’t. No way.”

  “Did so. I heard her. She said she’d get a lot of money because she knew all about it.”

  “All about what?” one asked. I wondered the same thing.

  “She wouldn’t say. She started yelling, crazy-like.”

  They were gossiping, passing around rumors. Making like big know-it-alls. They didn’t know beans.

  But, had Lacy? What had she said? She saw someone put an object the size of a loaf of bread into a recycle bid. Was that before or after she’d eaten Francine’s dog? No, she didn’t know anything. What she saw, if she saw anything, was a recycler in action. It was impossible to believe a single word Lacy said.

  I started to get up just as someone bumped into my chair. I looked up, directly into the face of the Hemingway’s jogging neighbor. She glanced at me without a hint of recognition.