Picture Perfect Corpse

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “I’ll take Mom a plate,” said Amanda. “You know she’s pouting because she isn’t the center of attention.”

  “I know,” I said with a sigh. “How do you put up with her?”

  “By ignoring her. Look at it this way, Kiki. She doesn’t have much of a life, does she? She’s run off most of her friends. She creates imaginary dramas with people to have a reason to be put out. She’s too insecure to simply ask for what she needs. Instead, she twists things and manipulates people. Although she wouldn’t call it that. It isn’t a conscious act. It’s just the way she’s learned to view the world and her place in it. This is all she knows. And she’s too old to change. Pretty pathetic isn’t it? By acting helpless, she exerts her power. My therapist calls it the tyranny of the weak.”

  I thought about that a minute. “I call it sick.”

  sixty-eight

  Clancy started rinsing off dishes. She’s one of those people who wash their dishes before stacking them in the dishwasher so that it can—wait for it—wash the dishes. This seems doubly redun-dant to me, but each to his own. Or her own, as it is in this case.

  “You wouldn’t believe how kind people have been. My bedroom looks like a florist’s shop,” said Sheila. “So many people have been so nice. That reminds me. How was Brenda Detweiler’s funeral service? I heard that you decided to attend.”

  I told her about Patty’s remarks at the service, and about what John Henry Schnabel was doing in terms of having an expert check Brenda’s wounds against the sort of damage a 9 mm Beretta would do. Robbie made a huffing sound and said, “The use of untrained people as coroners continues to be problematic. I’m sure the coroner who pronounced Brenda dead called in a medical examiner, but even if he did, it’s better to have an expert at the scene from the git-go.”

  “Why do states use elected officials as coroners? I mean, wouldn’t it be smarter to have a forensic pathologist or at least a physician doing the job?” Clancy asked.

  “Most counties don’t have the resources to hire a professional. Fortunately, they rarely need one. In rural areas, the coroner’s job largely consists of showing up at a farm house, staring down at a cold corpse, and saying, ‘Yep, he’s dead. Now it’s official.’”

  “Like in the Wizard of Oz!” I said.

  “Exactly. But once in a great while, there’s a problematic situation. Like this one. Then things get dicey.”

  “Any luck tracking down who supplied Brenda with drugs?” I asked Robbie.

  “It looks like she might have gotten her most recent supplies from Bill.”

  “How? Was he buying them on the street?”

  “He had a supplier. Until recently, a lot of prescription drugs have come from drug mills in Florida. They bill themselves as pain clinics—and some actually are legit—but many of them are simply storefronts, and they make their money by supplying pills to junkies. Here’s how it works: A drug dealer solicits mules, sort of quasi-employees. The mules make appointments with the clinics. The dealers coach the mules, teaching them exactly what to say about their symptoms. After the mule gets the script, he turns it over to the dealer. The dealer either pays the mule in money or drugs.”

  “Why Florida? What’s so appealing about the Sunshine State?” asked Clancy.

  “Until recently regulations were loose there,” said Robbie.

  Sheila stirred her coffee. “They gave me OxyContin in the hospital, but I told them I didn’t want a prescription for it. I don’t want a bottle of pills like that in my house. I want Anya to be able to invite friends over without having to worry that someone, sometime, might raid my medicine cabinet.”

  That reminded me about Nicci, so I shared what had happened.

  Sheila shook her head. “I hope things turn around for her. She’s a sweet child.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  “And for you and Detweiler,” she added.

  “There’s nothing I can do for him, it seems. John Henry Schnabel warned me to keep my nose out of the case lest I make things worse instead of better. I can’t do anything for Anya, except take her over to visit Detweiler’s niece Emily, which I plan to do tomorrow since she needs a break. But I do need your help with another problem.”

  I told Sheila about Cherise Landon’s visit to the store, her claim that she’d killed Nathan, and Dodie’s response. “Horace told me that Dodie’s cancer has spread to her brain. I’d like to give her closure.”

  Sheila sighed. “I’ve known Dodie and Horace for years. We didn’t socialize, but I’ve always thought well of her. She’s certainly been good to you. What a shame.”

  “What do you know about the Landons?”

  “Shep is a jerk. One of those men who always thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room. Cherise is his darling. Margie Landon is nice enough, but rather plain. Cherise got the best of her parents’ features and then some. I think Margie is rather in awe of her daughter, and she’s lived through her child. Shep is a legacy, so I often saw the Landons at CALA events. He was quick to whip out the latest photo of Cherise. Margie would brag about how popular the girl was. I believe she was the May Day Queen as a senior.”

  CALA was famous for its May Day ceremonies. To be named Queen was an honor bestowed on one girl by her classmates. I thought about what I’d learned about Cherise and decided I really didn’t know much more than when I started.

  Instead of coming to the store with me, Anya decided to spend the rest of the day with her grandmother. “Why don’t you text-message Emily and ask her if you can visit tomorrow?” That would give me a chance to see Detweiler again, and perhaps offer Anya something to look forward to.

  Gracie looked so comfortable on the dog bed that Sheila had bought for her that I didn’t have the heart to make the big dog move. So I told everyone goodbye and headed for the store by myself, leaving Clancy to talk with Sheila and Amanda.

  On the way, my thoughts circled back to Cherise Landon. I couldn’t figure out a way to learn more about Nathan’s death. I’d tried the school. I’d tried my limited contacts. I’d tried the police records. What was needed here was a burst of creativity. An out-of-the-box solution.

  Margit had, of course, opened the store precisely on time and gone through our daily procedures according to the laminated sheet. Dodie sat in a folding chair behind the register. “Her balance isn’t good. I thought she might fall off a stool,” explained Margit in a whisper.

  I greeted my boss with a hug. She held me extra tight, as if I were her anchor to this world. “Let me get you a Coke, okay?” I offered because I didn’t want to break down and cry. The sight of her, so thin and fragile, sickened me. Where was she going? What would her journey be like? I hoped it would be an easy trip.

  After I handed Dodie her Coke, I checked with Margit about what our priorities were. I noticed the self-contained German lady sniffled a bit. Her eyes were red. I guessed she’d been crying, but I didn’t remark on it.

  “I have been reviewing our numbers. More and more we are doing well with Zentangle®. Why don’t you teach a beginning class?”

  I explained that a Zentangle® teacher should be certified. Margit pulled up their website and pointed. “So if we could get you into that session in Rhode Island, would you like to go? I recall Dodie offering to pay your way.”

  “Wow, would I ever!”

  With a skip in my step, I went back to my worktable. I decided to work on a few new tangles, the patterns that make up the method’s vocabulary. Getting the certification was definitely a move in the right direction. With pen in hand, I started copying tangles by other people, working to expand my own knowledge. As the founders of the art form, Rick Roberts and Maria Thomas, said on their website, this repetitive, deliberate stroking produces a type of meditative calm. What they didn’t say was that it expanded a person’s creativity—but it did!

  I was tangling when it came to me in a flash: I co
uldn’t ask Rebekkah to befriend Cherise Landon on Facebook. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t contact her myself!

  I hopped up and ran to the computer. With a few keystrokes, I landed on Cherise Landon’s Facebook page and poked around. Like most young people, Cherise hadn’t enabled any of the privacy settings that would keep her personal life personal.

  Cherise Landon’s life was an open book.

  Using the timeline feature, I scrolled through her postings for the past year. Most were banal, and self-absorbed. She had indeed graduated from Princeton. Her parents had obviously, and rightly, been pleased. Her posts grew increasingly bleak as she hunted for a job. Eventually, she announced to her friends that she was taking a temporary post as an intern in her father’s law firm. One album on her Facebook page showed her and a work colleague at a sidewalk eatery in Clayton. Her friend was in a sundress and Cherise wore a long-sleeved blouse as she raised a glass of wine to toast the photographer. Scrolling quickly through the pictures, I tried to find the name of the establishment. I passed pictures of huge urns of flowers, a photo of a salad, a crooked shot of a smiling waiter, and finally, a small picture that included the front door. Aha! I recognized the restaurant as Chou-Chou, a place I once went with George.

  I stared at the spot. Glanced at the clock at the bottom of the computer screen. Eleven o’clock. Almost lunchtime. Maybe I’d been going about this all wrong. Cherise had walked into the store because she wanted to confess. She wasn’t trying to hide what happened to Nathan. She wanted to get it off her chest.

  I could help with that.

  sixty-nine

  Parking is always a challenge in Clayton. I circled several blocks, got turned around, tried for a parking garage, discovered it was full, and finally zipped into a space as a man was pulling out. By eleven-thirty I was seated at an outdoor table on the Chou-Chou patio. My budget couldn’t absorb the cost of a lunch at such a pricey eatery, so I nursed a glass of iced tea, figuring I’d make it up to the waiter by leaving him a big tip.

  The day was warm for May, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. By June only the heartiest of the outdoor patrons would want to sit outside. Although pregnancy had turned my thermostat to pre-heat, as long as I could sip the tea, I could stand the sun beating down on me.

  By the time one o’clock rolled around, I’d gotten up to tinkle four times. The waiter kept asking me, “Are you ready to order?”

  I kept saying, “I’m waiting for a friend.” Of course, we weren’t friends—and the waiter was quickly turning into a sworn enemy—but that was beside the point.

  I’d requested my bill when Cherise and two other girls walked in. All of the young men at the bar turned to admire the trio. One was a pretty blonde who wore a sleeveless wrap dress in shades of orange that showed off a wonderful tan. The other a dishwater blonde whose cap-sleeved, A-line dress in a pink pastel cotton was totally businesslike but also appropriate for summery weather. Several sets of silver bracelets jangled as Cherise tugged at the long sleeves of her light-blue cardigan paired with a gray skirt. She’d pulled her long auburn hair into a loose bun that was very flattering.

  After they sat down and ordered glasses of wine, I tucked a ten dollar bill under my glass and approached their table. The blonde in orange was telling a funny story, but she stopped and frowned at my intrusion.

  “Cherise? My name’s Kiki. You came into the store where I work to talk with Dodie Goldfader. I was wondering if I could have a moment in private.”

  The girls took in my gray dress and my growing bump of a belly and said nothing.

  Cherise nervously fingered her wine glass and took a long drink, nearly draining it. “Okay, sure, but I can’t talk for long. We’re having lunch. Lisa? Order the Cobb salad for me. No dressing, okay?”

  We walked inside the restaurant, trying to get our bearings the way you do when you leave the light and move into darkness. A booth in the back was open, but dirty. It would work for our purposes. I led the way. We sat down, and I made sure her back was to the door. I figured if her friends came looking for her, she’d have a reason to bolt.

  Cherise twirled and twirled her glass of wine. A slight stain of dark burgundy was all that remained in the bowl-shaped bottom.

  I figured it best to jump right in. “Dodie Goldfader has cancer. It’s gone to her brain. She’s dying. We think she only has a few months.”

  “Oh!” Cherise jerked her head up to look at me. When she satisfied herself that I was telling the truth, she mumbled, “That’s too bad,” and held up one finger to order another glass of wine.

  “She wants closure. About Nathan. I told her I’d try to get answers for her.” I took a deep breath. “I’m not here to judge you or anything like that. It’s just that … well … why did you say what you did? About his death being your fault?”

  Her body language changed. Cherise began to scoot out of the booth. I grabbed at her forearm. “Wait! She’s dying! Can’t you help her! You must want to!”

  Cherise’s eyes traveled to where I gripped her wrist. “Let go of me.”

  I pulled my hand away but as I did, I saw the marks. Her bracelets barely covered them. They were fine, white, and crisscrossing her wrist.

  “You’re cutting yourself, aren’t you?”

  “What business is it of yours?” she sank back into the booth and glared at me.

  “My daughter’s friend does that. We took her to the hospital last night.”

  “So?”

  “So, I know you hurt inside. I know that hurting on the outside is easier. That when you cut, there’s a release.”

  She looked away. The waiter hurried over with her second glass of wine. “You want anything, ma’am?” he asked me. I shook my head no.

  Cherise took a big swallow of her wine. “Yeah, that’s how it works. Sort of.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Off and on since eleventh grade.”

  “It must be hard … to have all those feelings inside.”

  She shrugged. “It got worse after Nathan … died.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it? No one can overhear us. I’m a good listener.” I shut up.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Has to be. Otherwise it wouldn’t bug you so much.” I channeled Piers Morgan. “So he had a big crush on you. He was probably the smallest guy in your class. A nerd but nice. Probably got teased a lot. You were used to guys having crushes on you. You had a boyfriend. For some reason, you invited Nathan to come along that night.”

  Her mouth quivered. “My boyfriend Spenser thought it would be funny. A joke. Like Nathan was a mascot or something.”

  “You picked up a case of beer. Jeff Horton had a hot car, and he loved showing it off. He drove all of you to the gravel pit that was supposed to be haunted. The moon was full. One of the boys suggested jumping off the cliff. He’d done it before, but during daylight. You were all a little drunk. It sounded like fun.”

  Her glass was empty. She wore the dazed look of a dreamer. “See, Spense and Jeff were on the swim team. Spense is the state record holder in the IM, individual medley. Jeff was a diver and did the last leg of the relay. Nathan didn’t want to jump. The boys laughed and told him not to be such a wimp. Jeff got a flashlight out of his car and told me to hold it so they could climb up. They jumped twice. Tiffany and I thought it was cool, seeing them against that big orange moon. Nathan was getting tired. Spense and Jeff were in great shape, but then, they were on the swim team, so sure. Spense was getting jealous because each time that Nathan went off the cliff, I told him Nathan jumped the farthest out. That wasn’t true. I mean, I knew that would honk Spense off. He always thought he was such a big man.”

  The waiter brought her one more glass. I worried about how much she’d had to drink, but I reasoned her friends would look after her. Just like I was trying to look after Dodie.
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  “Spense said let’s go again. Nathan said he didn’t want to. Jeff said come on. And I said, please, Nathan, please do it for me.”

  In the dim light of the restaurant, I watched twin half-moons of silver tears form in Cherise’s eyes. “If I hadn’t encouraged him, he would never had jumped. He was too tired. He knew it. I knew it, but I liked having that power over him, you know? So it really was my fault. I killed Nathan Goldfader.”

  seventy

  Back at Time in a Bottle, I called Horace from the office. I told him he needed to come in and see me when he picked up Dodie. “I have an answer for you two. I know what happened that night.”

  “All right, but how is my darling girl?”

  “She’s fine. I haven’t shared what I’ve learned with her. Margit tells me she’s greeted a few customers and taken several naps.”

  “More and more, she will withdraw from us. They have told us this would be her path. Well, this is good that you have an answer for her. Maybe she can go in peace.”

  The sadness in his voice hurt to hear.

  Margit overheard my call. She set down her pen and shook her head. “Alles hat ein ende nur die wurst hat zwei.”

  “Translation, please.”

  “Everything has an end. Only the sausage has two,” she said with a sigh. “So this sad story, it is over, ja? She will know why her son did what he wouldn’t do. For the love of a girl.”

  “A girl who can’t forgive herself. I hope she gets help. I’m not sure she can go on unless she does.”

  I went about my work with a heavy heart. Customers had called in orders, and it was my job to pull merchandise because I knew it best. The tangle I’d been working on stared up at me. Picking it up carefully, I decided to tuck the tile away, into my notebook of tangles, and create another design for our scrappers to use. This one would forever remind me of that crying girl, and I wouldn’t be able to teach it.