Picture Perfect Corpse

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I was sitting on a low stool counting stickers when a pair of men’s shoes took up an unusually large section of the floor. Ned bent down and waved a paper punch to get my attention.

  “Hey, lady, what about a punch? A Hawaiian punch?” With his loud Hawaiian shirt and his blue jeans, Ned could have been a tourist coming back from the big island.

  I laughed. “Only if you’re buying. I spent my last dollar extracting a confession.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “It is. Help me up and I’ll tell you all the ugly details. Before we leave, I need to give Margit a shout so she knows to watch the sales floor.” After I was on my feet, I stuck my head in Margit’s door and explained I was taking a break. She wanted to finish sending in an order, but she’d join us momentarily.

  I gave Ned a quick tour of the store. He and I walked over to the front counter where Dodie was still sitting in her chair. She regarded Ned curiously. I introduced Ned to her and tried to start a conversation about scrapbooking, buying time until Margit would join us from the backroom. Dodie is usually keen to chat up her favorite hobby and livelihood. This afternoon, she rambled in nonsensical sentences, all the while plucking at her clothes. Finally I asked, “Is something bothering you? Do you have hives? Should I bring you something? Ned and I can stop by a pharmacy.”

  “No. I’m fine.” She kept pulling at her top, nonetheless, and after pinching it repeatedly, her hand moved to her thigh where she repeated the gesture, tugging at her loose-fitting pants.

  I was ready to ask Ned to examine her, being that sure she was in distress, when Margit appeared. In fact, I turned to him and said, “Dodie says she’s fine—”

  But he cut me off. “And she is. Let’s go.”

  seventy-one

  “She’s pre-actively dying,” Ned explained as we took our coffee over to a park bench outside Kaldi’s. “Dodie is plucking at herself, acting restless, and not eating, right? I bet the store doesn’t matter to her anymore, does it? She wants to tie up the loose ends in her life. She’s said she’s dying because she is.”

  His matter of fact delivery calmed me. “This is normal? How long does it last?”

  “Usually two weeks. Occasionally, a person will rebound, especially if there’s a special reason to delay, such as an upcoming holiday or a visitor. But in general, she has two weeks and then she’ll move into the actively dying stage.” He smiled kindly at me. “Think of it as detaching. Her soul knows it no longer belongs here. She doesn’t need that body anymore. She longs to shuffle off her mortal coil. The activities of this world don’t interest her.”

  Now that he explained the situation, I remembered that Dodie hadn’t asked me where Gracie was. Usually, Dodie visits with Gracie frequently during any workday. If I leave Gracie at home, Dodie always asks about the big dog. But not today.

  I told Ned about my visit with Cherise Landon. “I’ll share it with Dodie and Horace tonight when he picks her up to take her home.”

  “Don’t expect her to come back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she doesn’t need you or the store anymore. This is the end. She’ll want to spend it with her husband and daughter.”

  I took my fingers and pressed them against my eyes so I didn’t cry.

  “You need to let her go. Don’t try to keep her here. Don’t beg her to eat, or demand that she stay awake. Respect this as a natural process and let her ease her way from this world to the next.”

  I sniffled and nodded. “Okay.”

  Ned changed the subject. “How’s that jailbird boyfriend of yours?”

  I filled him in on all that had happened. Ned was a good listener who interrupted only for clarification. “Tell me more about Brenda’s body. You said it was wrapped in a blanket? What kind of blanket?”

  When I finished he smirked. “Shades of David Hendricks.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Before your time. It was a notorious murder that happened in Decatur, Illinois. Hendricks was accused of killing his entire family, but he got off. It was difficult for the authorities to pinpoint the time of death. See, the killer wrapped the kids and Hendricks’ wife in electric blankets, plugging them in before he left. Time of death is calculated by the drop in body temperature. The heat of the blanket heats the corpse and throws the timing off. Look the murder up. Two books have been written about it. The scenario is also similar in that no one could figure out how Hendricks might have gotten from Chicago to Decatur and back in time for his scheduled business meetings.”

  “How did he?”

  “He had his own plane. He probably flew back and forth. But we’ll never know. He was retried and acquitted. The man is a genius, and if he did murder his family, he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. That’s how most killers get caught. Blabbing.”

  seventy-two

  Ned left before Horace arrived. Dodie had fallen fast asleep, her head lolling to one side as she sprawled in the chair. I helped Horace walk his half-asleep wife to their car. Although I wanted desperately to tell her what I’d learned, I remembered Ned’s advice. Perhaps it didn’t matter to Dodie anymore. Perhaps it would. But her life, such as it was, now moved to a rhythm that had nothing to do with this earthly world. I helped him get her comfortable in the passenger seat. He handed me the seat belt, and I laughed inwardly at the irony of that. As if we could pin her down! Keep her here!

  Not likely.

  I told him what I had learned about Nathan. “Too late smart and too soon old,” he said. “I cannot hate the girl for that. When we are young, it is all about us, isn’t it? We want what we want and we do not think any further than our desires.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I think she deeply regrets what happened.” I told him about the cutting.

  “A shame. Nathan would not want that. I am sorry for her. When my darling girl wakes up, I’ll tell her. If she still wants to know. She cares about less and less. Used to be, she hopped out of bed, rushing through her breakfast to get to the store. Now, she only rolls over.” He withdrew a white handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Meticulously, he rubbed the lenses of his glasses and gave a nod to the building. “I am thinking about this place, Kiki. This store.”

  Here it comes. He’s going to tell me he’s pulling the plug. I’ll be out of a job again!

  “It makes me happy to think it will go on,” he said. “It has meant so much to my darling.”

  Whoa. I didn’t see that coming. “That’s true. As long as it’s here, it’s a remembrance of Dodie’s passion for saving memories.”

  “I am hoping you will buy it.”

  “That would be nice, but I don’t have any money.”

  “I know. I am thinking you can make payments. Ones that we know you can afford, because we will base the amount on what the store produces. Does that interest you?”

  “Of course it does. But is that fair to you? Wouldn’t you rather get a lump sum?”

  He shrugged. “Does Dodie have need of money? Does Nathan? Neither do I.”

  Bending down to her quiet form, I gave Dodie a kiss on the cheek. She only grunted. Studying her, I said, “You have been such a gift to me. When I needed good counsel and a shoulder to lean on, you were there. Thanks to you, I grew up. And now it seems as if it’s time to say goodbye. But I don’t want to, so instead I’ll tell you goodnight, dear friend. Sleep well. I hope your journey is an easy one.”

  seventy-three

  Anya and I spent a quiet evening together. I talked to Detweiler on the phone. I told him about my visit with Cherise Landon and my conversation with Ned about David Hendricks. “I’ll pass that on to Schnabel.”

  “Are you coming to see me anytime soon? I really, really miss you and the squirt.”

  He was confident that Emily could be enticed to visit her grandparents’ farm. “Then expect us around one,” I
said. “Anya could use another mental health day.”

  “Better yet, come for lunch. You know how Mom loves to feed people.”

  The next morning spawned a cornflower sky wearing a crown of white clouds. I let Anya sleep as long as she wanted. While she did, I cleaned house. When I finished, she was still snoozing so I opened the browser on the computer and went to a wonderful site called tanglepatterns.com to look up a few new tangles to try. Just for kicks and grins, I also Googled “9 mm” to see what popped up. To my surprise, one click took me to Etsy, the online marketplace for handcrafted and unique items. There I found jewelry fashioned from spent casings. Bracelets. Necklaces. Pins.

  Cool stuff.

  The best vendors tell stories about their offerings. How they gather the materials. What inspired them. Their creative process. The vendor for “HotShots” where they turned bullet casings into jewelry and art explained that he lived near a shooting range. “The noise used to bother me. One day I went over to complain. I noticed all the casings on the floor of one of the gun lanes. ‘What do you do with those?’ I asked. The manager said that they swept them up and packed them, sending them off to be recycled. I offered to take them off his hands. I’d been into crafts my whole life, so I figured I could turn his scrap into something cool—and I think I did!”

  What was it Patty said? There was a shooting range near the Detweiler farm.

  Maybe the killer wasn’t a cop who practiced with Chad Detweiler at the range used by the St. Louis County police. Maybe the killer wasn’t a cop at all. What if it was someone who knew that Chad and Louis liked to visit the range together for a little father-son bonding time?

  Anya padded into the living room. “I thought we were going to see Emily today.”

  “Are you planning to go in your PJs?”

  She stuck her tongue out at me, and we both laughed. “Hustle up. We were invited for lunch.”

  I was backing my old BMW out of the driveway when my phone rang. I pulled off to the side of the road to answer it. Anya and Gracie stared at me impatiently.

  “Thank you,” said Horace. “You kept your word, and I told her what you discovered. It seems to have put her at peace.”

  Although I was sad, I also felt relieved. I was glad to perform this final service for my old friend. “You’re very, very welcome,” I said as I ended the call. We headed down the side street leading to the main thoroughfare of Webster Groves.

  My cell phone rang again. I checked the number. It was Tuttle, Watson and Pettigrew, that stupid accounting firm. I pulled over. Anya rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Moo-oom.”

  I thought about letting it go but I figured I’d better respond. If I took Horace up on his offer to buy Time in a Bottle, I would need a good accountant. This group knew the store and its track record. Besides, Horace and Dodie seemed to think highly of these people.

  “Hello, this is Kiki Lowenstein. May I help you?”

  “I’m Arlen Tuttle, CPA. Are you the wife of George Lowenstein?”

  “Yes, I am. Or was. He’s deceased.” What a weird way to start a conversation. But then, some men—especially older ones—always prefer doing business with a man. I vowed to set Arlen Tuttle straight.

  “Is this about buying the business from the Goldfaders? Because if it is, I’m the person you need to talk to. We’ll need to negotiate fair terms. I will need to prove the value of all the assets, review any outstanding liabilities, check any UCC filings, and determine a fair value for goodwill. ”

  I’d learned all these terms from Jennifer Moore, who was not only a terrific friend but a wonderful businesswoman. I didn’t entirely know what they meant, but she and I had often discussed what it took to buy a business. She’d had a lot of practice at that. When we spoke, I was only daydreaming about owning my own store, but now it might become a reality. I only hoped that I could afford to buy Time in a Bottle!

  There was a pause.

  “Well,” said the accountant, “that’s not why I’m calling you. Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “No,” I said rather crossly. “I’ve been busy.”

  Anya snorted, a sort of controlled chuckle. Under her breath, she mumbled, “I’ll say.”

  My caller cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you about Dimont Development.”

  Rats! Here I’d been avoiding these calls, thinking that they came from the accounting firm that Horace had hired, and I’d been wrong. The messages I’d avoided were from another accountant, one I’d also probably wanted to avoid. The last thing I wanted to hear was that my late husband, George Lowenstein, owed more money. Money I didn’t have. More debts might sink my chances at buying Time in a Bottle. I felt my shoulders droop with disappointment.

  “To whom am I speaking? I didn’t catch the name.” I tried to sound tough, business-like. Anya screwed up her face to frown at me and Gracie whimpered from the back seat.

  “Arlen Tuttle,” he repeated.

  “You don’t know me,” said Mr. Tuttle quietly. “But George was my friend—he once did something for me. Something that meant a lot. I’m trying to return the favor.” After a slight pause, he continued. “If I were you, I’d hire an attorney to check into Dimont Development’s finances.”

  “Unfortunately Mr. Tuttle, I’ve already looked into Dimont’s finances, and I know they owe money, but I don’t have any money to pay.”

  “No, no, that’s not it,” his voice dropped to a whisper. “You didn’t hear this from me, but they found a bank account.”

  I sighed. “I know already. The one in the Cayman Islands. Bill and his friend Roxanne Baker opened it. The police looked into that, and into the buy-sell agreement Bill had with George. Believe me, I’ve tried to get money back out of Dimont. There isn’t any. According to Bill, George squandered it all.”

  “Not exactly,” said Mr. Tuttle. “That’s what Bill wanted it to look like. He set George up. Falsified the paperwork. The buy-sell agreement between Bill and George was incorrectly executed. Most importantly, there was another bank account.”

  “And you know this how?” I wouldn’t let myself feel hopeful. I’d been let down too many times.

  “I overheard two other accountants discussing it. That’s why you can’t tell anyone that this information came from me. Apparently, Bill Ballard was siphoning off funds from Dimont without George’s knowledge. He had been for a long time. Now that Bill’s dead…” he paused. “Things have come to light from the audit of the books.”

  “It is very kind of you to let me know about this, Mr. Tuttle. But I am so busy right now, I just don’t have time to spare to chase down bank accounts.”

  “Mrs. Lowenstein, I don’t think you quite understand.” In a quiet, even voice, Mr. Tuttle continued. “There’s money owed to you. A lot of money.”

  Anya saw the grin on my face. “Good news?”

  “I think so. You’ve been talking about remodeling your bedroom. It’s possible I might have a little extra money. What would you like to do?”

  “I was thinking about painting my room in a peacock blue with green, the color of a new leaf. Can I?”

  We were discussing the pros and cons of painting her old dresser when I realized I’d missed the turn to the Detweiler farm. I’ve driven there a half dozen times, but the markings on the country lanes can be tricky. Fortunately, this detour would take us past the shooting range. A glance at my phone told me we were actually a half an hour early for lunch.

  “Do you mind if we stop for a minute? I want to ask a question about collecting bullet shells. I saw some cool jewelry on Etsy.”

  Anya texted Emily and discovered that she hadn’t left for her grandparents’ house yet.

  “Sure.”

  At the GM Range, Anya, Gracie, and I tumbled out of the car, which I’d parked between two monster trucks. All in all, probably six vehicles sat on the worn-down grass, and my car look
ed the best of the bunch. The range wasn’t much to brag about. A converted shed with rusty siding that might once have been green served as the “office,” where you could pay to shoot and buy ammunition. To keep costs down, Colby Nesbit had tacked a porch onto the front of the shed. The struts were painted a cherry red, and a tar-paper roof covered a rickety card table where a young man checked in would-be shooters. To his right, a metal coin box served as cash register.

  Behind the shed, you could see the lanes. Six were open-air, and a simple frame building bore a sign announcing six indoor lanes. Two shooters were loading as we walked up. Twenty-five yards away black silhouettes with red targets flapped in the light breeze.

  “Hi,” I said cheerfully to the young man taking money. He looked to be all of Anya’s age, awfully young to be working, unless he was family. Taking one gander at my adorable daughter, the boy pinked up.

  “Hey.” He smiled shyly at Anya and completely ignored me.

  I tapped on the table. “Could you answer a question for me? I’m into crafts. I was wondering, what happens with the leftover casings?”

  “We sweep ’em up,” said the boy. “Colby sells ’em to reloaders.”

  seventy-four

  Now that my question was answered, Anya and I took time to pick a bouquet of wildflowers for Thelma’s table, as we worked our way back to the car with Gracie in tow. I looked up to see an old man come out from the office and shuffle toward us. His scuffed shoes were covered with dust. The Dickies worksuit he was wearing had seen better days, and the stains and small tears on it proved the coverall had earned a rest. A faded John Deere cap, once a bright green, was jammed down on his head. He moved with purpose as if he wanted to talk to us.

  Once the man drew near, he raised his head. Our eyes locked. A dull weakness started in my legs as Milton Kloss angled toward us. I spotted the revolver in the holster under his arm. He was still twenty feet away.

  Surely he didn’t plan to shoot me where I stood. There would be too many witnesses!