Corpse on the Cob

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

“But it wasn’t Greg who snapped on the distress signal, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Willie crossed one leg over the other and settled back in his chair comfortably. You would have thought we really were family catching up on old times.

  “So? Who was it?” I started running down in my head the list of people in my life who knew about Willie: Greg, Dev, Steele, Seth, and Zee. But Seth and Zee were on a cruise. “What did you do, leave your contact information with all my friends?”

  Willie laughed. “Actually, I only left it with Greg. But some of your friends do know how to get word to the criminal element all on their own.”

  I gave that some thought. “It had to be Dev, then.”

  “Ah, yes, the good Detective Devin Frye. But you don’t think he’d call me, do you? After all, he’s one of Newport Beach’s finest.” Willie said this with a smirk, accompanied by another wink, which confirmed my guess. “Dev put out the word to an acquaintance of his to tell an acquaintance of mine to tell me to give Greg a jingle. It’s almost faster than e-mail.”

  He took a big gulp of coffee. “And what’s this I hear, that you have a half brother who’s chief of police in this burg?”

  “Actually, it seems I have two half brothers, and both are police officers. Speaking of which, aren’t you worried someone will spot you and turn you in?”

  Willie’s real name was William Proctor. At one time, he’d been the founder and CEO of a huge online investment company called Investanet. At least he was—until he cleaned out the company and disappeared with every dime belonging to his investors. We’d met when I was investigating the death of one of the firm’s clients, a prominent businessman and lunch box collector.

  From the twinkle in his eye, Willie obviously found my question amusing. “I’ve pretty much fallen off the radar, little mama. With all those Wall Street clowns walking away from failed companies with billions, my theft is like a misdemeanor. Only thing is, I did it quietly, while they’re committing their crimes on prime-time news and getting away scot-free.” He shook his head. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

  I stared at him—the forerunner of today’s corporate criminals being disgusted by current headlines. Go figure. Willie may be my friend, but in no way do I condone what he did, and he knows that.

  “Also, a lot of people still believe William Proctor is dead. Even so, I intend to be careful while I’m here. My mission is quite simple, little mama. I’m to make sure your plump, perky ass is on a plane back to California on Monday, even if I have to stuff you in a crate and ship you air freight.”

  He put down his coffee cup and leaned forward. Pulling a gun out from under his shirt in the back, he put it on the table. His face took on a serious demeanor, like storm clouds blown in by a sudden gust of wind. “Fill me in and don’t spare the details.”

  For the next hour or so, I told Willie the entire story—from finding the envelope, to finding my mother in the maze with a body, to dinner with Clark Littlejohn, even the photos and my appointment the next morning to speak with the people from CPAC. Through the whole thing, Willie remained impassive, moving only to adjust his comfort level in the chair from time to time. Occasionally, he asked a question for clarification.

  At the end of my saga, Willie leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head and stared at the ceiling. I sat quietly, watching his Adam’s apple move up and down his thin neck like an air bubble caught in a plastic tube. Since I’d last seen him, Willie had trimmed up his beard. It was short and styled and seeded with gray strands. His hair had thinned more, and what he had left was cropped short. Designer wire frames had replaced his thick, black-rimmed glasses and didn’t hide the lines around his eyes, which had deepened like cracks in an aging sidewalk.

  When I first met Willie, he was grieving for his wife, a death for which he blamed himself. He also relished his criminal status, and while he was never impetuous, it was obvious he enjoyed playing outlaw. The man before me was still a fugitive, but with less flourish, like a bad boy who’d grown up and turned his childhood hobby into a full-time, responsible career. Although I didn’t know exactly what Willie was involved with these days, I did know that he’d taken much of his stolen funds and invested in many businesses. It was also my gut feeling that although Willie still walked on the wrong side of justice, many of his current endeavors were probably legitimate, even if funded by illegitimate means.

  After a short while, Willie leaned towards me, his hands on his thighs. “Little mama, the murder aside, what are you going to do if your mother refuses to see you? That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

  That possibility had occurred to me when Clark called earlier. What would I do? I had come all this way to see her, possibly even confront her for all the pain she’d caused. What if my trip was for nothing? Could I return to playing the part of the dead, forgotten child?

  “I guess I’d have to go home with my questions unanswered.”

  Getting out of my chair, I paced the room while I churned things over in my mind. My steps were short and static, as they started and stopped with my brain activity.

  “Given the murder, she might want to see me, but just not at this time. In that case, Clark—that’s my chief of police half brother—has my information. The ball will be in her court at that point.”

  “Can you live with that?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Willie, but I may have to. I’ve lived with it this long.”

  “And what about the murder?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you have it in that squirrelly little head of yours to get involved?”

  I stopped pacing long enough to shrug. “I don’t think she did it, and I think the police will determine that as well.” I took a few more steps and stopped again. “She’s old, Willie, and certainly not strong enough to have stabbed the guy in that manner. The victim was skewered with a broken pole, for gawd’s sake.” The thought of it made my spine feel like curling ribbon run across scissors. “But I also don’t think she just happened to have stumbled on the body. She was supposed to be working the food booths at the fair. What was she doing in the maze to begin with? I definitely think she knows something about the killing, maybe even who did it.”

  Willie chuckled. It sounded like dice being shaken in a Yahtzee cup. “So, you are planning on getting involved.”

  “She’s my mother, Willie. Bad mother or not, she’s still my mother.”

  “Let your brothers deal with it, Odelia.”

  “That’s exactly what Greg said.”

  He chuckled again. “Greg’s a very wise man. Wise enough to know you won’t do that.” Getting up, Willie stretched. “That’s why they sent me. Greg can’t follow you around except in a limited capacity, and Dev … well, let’s just say Dev won’t cross certain lines of professionalism. Me, I have no such scruples.”

  “So they sent you to do their dirty work?”

  Willie came over to where I stood and faced me, placing a hand on each of my shoulders. “Little mama, this isn’t dirty work. Running around after you while you play Sherlock Holmes—to me, this is a day at Disneyland riding all the best attractions.”

  “But I thought your job was to get me on a plane home on Monday.”

  “It is, so whatever you end up doing, do it quick. Greg told me your plane leaves about four thirty in the afternoon.”

  When I started to say something, Willie stopped me by placing an index finger against my lips.

  “Don’t make me measure you for that crate.”

  I stepped back and fixed him with my best challenging look. “I wear a size 20 dress, Willie. Do the math.”

  Clark was waiting for me when I finished my interview with the two detectives from CPAC. One had been African-American, the other white. Both looked like they had been booked from central casting for a second-rate TV cop show. For starters, they went over the same questions the officers had asked when I was first interviewed at the farm. They followed that up with new ones, like w
as I really Grace Littlejohn’s daughter? Why had I chosen this weekend, after all the time that had passed, to come to Massachusetts? Was I connected to Frankie McKenna, the victim, in any way? Was this a plan to set up my mother in an act of revenge? Did I know any of the other witnesses?

  As for the photos, I decided to keep them to myself. Last night, Willie had advised me not to give them up, saying I had no legal obligation to hand them over. I must admit, I’d wondered that myself. Seeing they were on my BlackBerry, had the police taken the device, they would have had access to my work e-mails—e-mails that contained confidential client information. In the end, I placed a call to Steele. I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t reach him right off. It was Saturday night, and he was probably on a date. I left both a voice mail and an e-mail saying I needed to talk to him before eight thirty the next morning, Eastern time. He returned the call about twenty minutes later.

  “What’s up, Grey? You in jail?” I could hear the sounds of light music and voices in the background.

  “No, I’m not in jail. Geez.”

  “Pity. Safest place for you, considering.”

  A smart-ass remark was on the tip of my tongue, but I shelved it to get to the problem at hand. “Sorry to disturb you, Steele, but I need some advice before I meet with the state police tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “No problem. I got dragged to some boring black-tie party on a yacht. Anything you’re doing is a hundred times more exciting, believe me.”

  “Steele, a friend is with me. I’m going to put you on speaker.”

  I gave Steele a rundown on the photo situation and asked whether or not I had to turn them and/or the BlackBerry over to the police.

  “You have no obligation to turn those photos over to anyone,” Steele advised me. “And I certainly do not want that BlackBerry in the hands of the police. It’s the firm’s property.”

  “See,” Willie said, “just as I told you.”

  “Who is that?” asked Steele.

  “Name’s William Carter—I’m Greg’s cousin.”

  There was a moment of silence on Steele’s end. “I don’t remember Greg having a cousin named William Carter.”

  “Come on, Steele, how would you know Greg’s cousins?”

  “I met them at your wedding, Grey. As I recall, he only has two male cousins, and neither of them are named William.”

  Willie and I looked at each other. “He’s good,” Willie said.

  “Oh … my … god! I know who you are. You’re Grey’s felon-in-waiting, William Proc—.”

  “William Carter, Mr. Steele,” Willie said, cutting him off. “Greg’s cousin from the other side of the family. I’m afraid I couldn’t make the wedding.”

  “Jesus, Grey, next time, you sail on the S.S. Comatose, and I’ll hang out with Greg’s … cousin.”

  As Clark had predicted, the questioning lasted a couple of hours. I was beat and cranky when I left, and eager to step out into the sunshine. Had I been a criminal, I would have cracked after fifteen minutes.

  While I was asleep, Greg had left a voice mail saying he hadn’t found anything special in the photos but was still working on it. He said he was taking them into his office, where he had newer and more sophisticated computer equipment.

  Willie, meanwhile, was staying clear of the police station for obvious reasons. Even though he’d crowed that he was old news and even considered dead by most, he was taking no chances. He said he was going to go digging around the Tyler farm and talk to some folks, as well as stay in touch with Greg about the photos. He’d brought a laptop with him and offered to press it into service so we could view the photos along with Greg. After I was done with the CPAC crew, I was to call him on the disposable cell phone he’d purchased for the trip so we could meet up. I was about to call Willie when I saw Clark.

  “How’d it go in there, Odelia?”

  Clark was leaning against one of the thick, round porch columns when I came out of the station house. Standing next to him, in a less relaxed pose, was the other Officer Littlejohn.

  “Oh, by the way, this here is our little brother, Grady.” Clark cocked a thumb in Grady’s direction. “Grady, this is Odelia Grey Stevens, Mom’s other kid, the one sandwiched between us and, obviously, not deceased.”

  Time-wise, I may have been sandwiched between Clark and Grady in the gene pool, but looking at Grady, it appeared that Mom had restocked it with fresh DNA. While Clark and I looked somewhat alike in both build and face, and both of us definitely looked like our mother, Grady looked like neither of us. He was much more fair in both his complexion and hair, and his build was tall and slim—the type who could eat at the Blue Lobster all he wanted without worrying about gaining weight. He was a good-looking man, too, leaning towards Brad Pitt but not quite making it, like a third-runner-up in a lookalike contest.

  I held out my right hand, but Grady regarded it with as much interest as if I were handing him a turd. I had received a much warmer welcome from his girlfriend, Cathy Morgan, and that had been cool, at best. Grady mumbled something before turning to stare off in the direction of the street beyond the driveway. He was obviously not thrilled to have a new big sister. Maybe it had something to do with the age gap. Clark and I were much closer in age, but sixteen years divided me and Grady. Not being the shy, retiring type, I studied him as much as his brother had scrutinized me the day before, stopping just short of checking his shirt tag for size. I couldn’t quite tell if he was shy or rude, or maybe it was arrogance that kept him from acknowledging my presence while Clark and I spoke about the questioning. But, I reminded myself, his reserve could also be the outcome of concern for our mother.

  Clark continued to press me about every detail of my interview with CPAC until I was about to run screaming from the porch. Between his intensity and the negative vibes coming from Grady, I was glad I had kept my mouth shut about the photographs. If they knew I had such things, no doubt they’d be all over me and not in the interest of helping CPAC.

  While I was being interrogated by Clark with Grady as his back-up, Joan Cummings came out of the police station and walked past us. Clark stopped talking as soon as he saw her. Grady looked away.

  “Hey, Joan,” Clark said, giving her a small, stiff smile. “Heading to lunch?”

  The clerk took in the three of us with an eagle eye. “Yes, Chief, hope you don’t mind.”

  “Who’s covering the desk?”

  “Bobby. He’ll also be covering for me tomorrow and Tuesday while I’m off.” Her words were delivered in the same dull tone she’d used on me both yesterday and earlier today when I’d arrived. The woman seemed to have only one speed and one frequency.

  “Good. Enjoy your lunch.”

  As soon as Joan left, Clark went back to questioning me about my CPAC interview.

  I was confused. Clark was behaving a lot differently towards me today than he had yesterday. Not quite hostile, but not nearly as chummy. Had something happened? Or was it Grady’s presence that altered his attitude? Together, they seemed as solid as a brick wall—a wall with barbed wire strung across the top. And unlike yesterday, today in Clark’s presence my antennae were buzzing with caution, telling me to watch my words and body language.

  Listening to my trusty senses, I plastered on my yes-I’m-a-dummy fake smile. “I’m sure the detectives will let you know anything they find out as soon as they can.”

  Grady rolled his eyes before he looked away. Clark openly studied me. From the concentration in his eyes, I wished he’d follow his brother’s lead and just ignore me. It was one of those times I really wouldn’t have minded it.

  “By the way, Clark, any progress with Mom this morning? Is she talking about what happened?”

  “All she’s saying now is that she stumbled upon McKenna in the maze and tried to help him.”

  “Do you believe her?” I noted that this question caused Grady to look in my direction.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “More importantly,” I pressed, �
��does CPAC believe her?”

  He ignored my question. “About anything else, Mom’s staying tighter than her girdle.”

  “May I see her today?”

  Grady spun around. “Why don’t you just go home? No one wants you here, especially our mother.”

  Whoa!

  Clark snapped at his brother. “Stop it, Grady.”

  Grady sullenly turned a back to us both.

  Clark studied the back of Grady’s head before returning his attention to me. “Hard to say about Mom. We’ll see how she’s doing and let you know.” He looked at Grady again, then back at me. “But don’t get your hopes up.”

  They would let me know, huh? Looking first at Clark, then Grady, I seriously doubted that. Yesterday, Clark seemed perfectly fine with letting me see my mother. Today, he was throwing down strips of nails in the roadway. Something told me that unless I got into the hospital under my own steam, I’d be heading home without seeing Grace Littlejohn. And while I wanted to be sensitive to what she’d just gone through, I also didn’t want to go home without some satisfaction. Last night, when Willie had asked me if I could go home without seeing her, I’d said I might have to and learn to live with it. Well, this morning I wasn’t so sure.

  My bullshit detectors continued to work overtime as I stood on the porch of the Holmsbury-Saxton police station talking to my half brothers. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark—or, in this case, western Massachusetts. I’d bet my plane ticket home on it.

  “I hear this place called the Blue Lobster is pretty good.” Willie glanced over at me. “Want to try it?”

  We were in Willie’s SUV. We’d just left the B & B and were heading out to get some lunch and to discuss our morning activities. I’d just gotten off the phone with Greg. Considering the three-hour time difference, he’d gone into his office very early this morning to get a jump on the photos. He’d downloaded several already, enlarged them to show detail, and e-mailed them back to my personal account. After I returned from the police station, Willie and I spent almost two hours viewing them on the laptop, but with no luck. My eyes felt scratchy from all the strain.