Tickled to Death

by Joan Hess

  “Georgiana came by last night and told me about your visit to Anders’s trailer. She said you were absolutely astounded when she walked out of the bedroom. Were you expecting someone else?”

  “No,” I said firmly, although we both knew precisely whom I’d expected (had I expected anyone, which in all honesty I hadn’t). “They promised to explain this weekend why they were in Dick’s house Monday afternoon. Captain Gannet’s moved up the schedule. They may be in his office at this very moment.”

  “You told him they were there?” she asked in a low and less friendly tone. “Was that necessary?”

  “Captain Gannet arrived at the Farberville PD last night before I did, and I told him quite a lot of things. Anders admitted he had an affair with one of the victims, and he and Georgiana were in the suspect’s house earlier this week. It seemed relevant to share this, even though it’s out of his jurisdiction.”

  “He’ll be disappointed. Georgiana had this incredibly dumb idea that she could erase Becca’s memories from Anders’s mind by sort of blurring them with her physical presence. She’s not been entirely rational since Barry left, and I couldn’t talk her out of it. They were in the master bedroom when they heard a car come up the driveway. Once they saw it was you rather than the postman, they grabbed their clothes and went flying out the back door.”

  “I hope they don’t tell that to Gannet.”

  She waited until a nurse passed by, then frowned at me as though I were more irrational than Georgiana. “Why not?”

  “Because if they saw anybody, it would have been Luanne. She heard the back door close, left immediately, and raced to the bookstore to persuade me to return with her. She’s the one who saw Anders’s truck as it was driven by the end of the driveway.”

  “But you told Anders you saw him.”

  “I lied. I didn’t lie to Gannet, though. If he catches me in another one, he’ll have me beheaded. A certain lieutenant on the Farberville force might offer to bring the ax and the basket.”

  “Oh…” Agatha Anne searched her mind for what I suspected was the harshest permissible word. “…dear.”

  “Liars seem to be as thick as ticks in a thicket at Turnstone Lake,” I continued, hoping she appreciated the alliteration. “For instance, someone lied to Becca about the wounded eagle. Do you remember the wording she used when she left the message on your machine? Did she say anything to imply the gender of the person who made the report, or what he or she was doing at the time?”

  “The message was very brief. She said that she’d had a call that an eagle had been shot on Little Pine Island, and she wanted to go there before it got too dark. She reminded me that we were invited for dessert and bridge later.”

  “I don’t suppose you kept the tape?” I asked without optimism. Her recitation had been perfunctory; not even the final invitation evoked emotion. I needed nuances.

  “I erased the message as soon as I’d finished listening to it. It’s a habit of mine.”

  The elevator doors opened and Luanne emerged, carrying a raincoat and umbrella. Despite her neatly pressed dress, she looked frumpish and very tired, and the smile she gave me was as perfunctory as Agatha Anne’s recounting of the message. She set down a sack from a fastfood restaurant, then went to the IC doors and looked through the glass panel.

  “There’s been no change,” Agatha Anne said. “I thought you were going to the cafeteria.”

  “I decided to go to my apartment and freshen up,” she said. “Dick needs to take a break. I brought coffee and sandwiches, but I don’t suppose he’ll want anything.”

  Agatha Anne stood up. “Maybe Sid can convince him when he gets back. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find a ladies’ room and do some freshening up myself.” She narrowly averted a collision with an aluminum cart as she went around a corner.

  “Do you have the key to the house at the lake?” I asked Luanne.

  “Why?”

  “There must be some reason why Jillian was so incensed that she did what she did. Maybe she kept a journal. Her bedroom in town is marginally less impersonal than a hotel room, but there were some books and papers in her bedroom at the lake. I want to search it before Gannet thinks to do it himself.”

  “What if he catches you?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll tell him Dick sent me to get her bathrobe and personal items. I can be back in less than three hours, and there’s no big hurry to open the store. No one ever buys books in the rain. It’s a tradition, if not some obscure blue law left over from the previous century. Please lend me the key, Luanne.”

  She didn’t look completely convinced as she took a key from her purse and handed it to me. Our eyes met, and then I left.

  The rain worsened as I drove the now familiar route. Lightning periodically shot downward, and the ensuing thunderclaps seemed to buffet my car. The dirt roads were reduced to long, narrow puddles; muddy water cascaded down the hillside and streamed across the road. Not a creature was stirring, and I wondered how the eagles and eaglets were faring. It would be a disaster for the Dunling Foundation if they relocated before the weekend. I could easily picture Livia perched on a branch, holding an umbrella to shelter the aerie.

  I encountered no other vehicles. Most of the residents were either at the hospital or at the sheriff’s office, and the weather was not conducive to any water sports—with the exception of jumping over puddles. As I paused at the top of the driveway to Dick’s house, I glanced at the parking lot in front of Dunling Lodge. The jeep was next to the porch. An unfamiliar car was parked near the beginning of one of the bird trails. Whoever was slogging through the swamp was apt to have quite an adventure.

  Rain pelted my face and slithered beneath my collar as I dashed to the front door. Once inside, I paused to catch my breath, then went into the kitchen and used several paper towels to dry myself as best I could. I returned to the living room and looked out the window, The lake was dotted with whitecaps, and there were no overly zealous fishermen in sight. The sky was low, the clouds dark. The hills across the lake were lost in the fierce rain.

  Abruptly there was a loud crack. A huge branch crashed onto the deck, its smaller branches obscuring the wicker furniture. Other trees swayed like demonic dancers as the wind beset them. I scanned the sky for a funnel. With the exception of lapsing into hysteria, I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I actually saw a tornado bouncing across the lake. I fervently vowed to read up on weather-related emergency tactics as soon as I had a chance. Surely somewhere in the store was a book titled Tornado Tips or How to Host a Hurricane.

  Lightning stabbed the hillside, and I’d counted to one-thousand-and-three when thunder rattled the house. Smaller branches skidded across the deck. A smattering of leaves plastered themselves against the window as if seeking asylum. A thud above me indicated something had fallen on the roof.

  I decided to conduct my search and leave before the storm grew any more enthusiastic. I went into Jillian’s bedroom and flipped the switch. Nothing happened. I tried the lights in the hall and guest room, then acknowledged gloomily that the power was out.

  I had no desire to linger until it was restored. Jillian’s room was dim, but not to the degree that I couldn’t see. I began with her dresser drawers. When they yielded nothing more interesting than underwear and dark sweaters, I scrupulously put a gown and a pair of socks on the bed before moving on to the bedside table. On the lower shelf were ornithology textbooks; for lighter reading, she’d chosen Daphne du Maurier and Emily Brontë. The drawer contained nasal spray, pencils, and a pair of reading glasses. All the papers concerned Dunling Foundation schedules. I tried the closet, and was finally rewarded with a packet of letters held together with a rubber band.

  Sitting on the bed, I slipped off the rubber band and was about to take a letter from an envelope when an unfamiliar female voice drawled, “Reading other people’s mail is a sign of poor breeding.”

  I froze. To my credit, I did not scream, although the idea did cross my mind. It did so
at approximately the speed of light.

  “You do adhere to the three Bs, don’t you?” she went on, her amusement evident. “I’ve already mentioned breeding. The other two, of course, are brains and beauty.”

  I turned to look at the woman in the doorway. Her expression was less mesmerizing and her gaze a good deal cooler than in the portrait, but her delicate features and golden hair were unmistakable. She wore shorts, a wrinkled dress shirt that was likely to have come from Dick’s closet, and a full-length silvery fur coat. It was not a common combination. “B is also for Becca, I suppose,” I managed to say despite the erratic pounding of my heart and constricted throat.

  She tilted her head and gave me a sweetly puzzled smile. “You seem to know who I am, but I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced. May I ask who you are and why you’re searching Jillian’s room? I suppose B could be for burglar, as improbable as it sounds. You don’t look like one, but in this day and age, one cannot be too careful.”

  My thoughts were chaotic, to describe them charitably. “You were killed in an explosion.”

  “And now you think I’m a ghost?” Her laugh was lilting and almost contagious, and her eyes seemed to glitter with pleasure. “That is rich, truly rich. I’ve been accused of many things, but never of having haunted someone. Should I wiggle my fingers in the air and shout, ‘Boo!’?”

  I shook my head.

  “I know what let’s do,” she said. “Since the power is off, we can’t have coffee. Let’s have Bloody Marys, shall we? You’ll have a marvelous story to tell afterward about how you sipped drinks with a ghost while the wind howled and the storm raged. If I’d had advance notice of your visit, I would have found something diaphanous to wear. What a shame we don’t have a camera!”

  I left the letters on the bed and followed her into the kitchen. After she assembled the drinks, we went into the living room.

  “You still haven’t told me who you are,” she reminded me as we sat across from each other. She crossed elegantly sleek legs and snuggled her hands into the fur collar that framed her face.

  I didn’t know how to answer her. Categorizing myself as a friend of her husband’s current lover seemed crass, and my breeding had been doubted. “I’m a friend of Jillian’s,” I said at last.

  “And how is she doing?”

  I was beginning to get a grip on my thoughts, although they were still a bit chaotic. It was distinctly possible that any marvelous stories I related in the future would feature a cold-blooded killer rather than an ephemeral spirit. “Jillian’s doing just fine,” I said.

  “Is she?” Becca said. “I haven’t seen her in months, naturally.”

  “Months—or yesterday?”

  “Wasn’t I blown to smithereens three months ago, more or less? I’ve never known what exactly a smithereen is. Do you have any idea?” She gave me a mildly annoyed look. “I still don’t know your name.”

  “Claire Malloy,” I said.

  “Ah, yes.” She took a gold cigarette case out of her purse and delicately plucked a victim from it. “The famous snoop. You weren’t being truthful when you said you were a friend of Jillian’s, were you? You’re a friend of the woman Dick’s been dating these last couple of weeks. You came at her request to try to prove Dick didn’t murder poor little me. How are you doing with that?”

  “I think we can concede that he didn’t murder you. Therefore, all three witnesses lied about seeing you on the boat. One of them is no longer with us.”

  “Dick did the community a service when he killed Bubo Limpkin. I felt positively itchy every time I went into the marina office to pay for gasoline or purchase a soda. Bubo was an oily little weasel.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Your presence proves Dick didn’t murder you. Bubo couldn’t have been blackmailing him.” I flinched as lightning shot downward. Thunder resounded within a nanosecond. There was something almost comical about the situation: a dark and stormy day, a dimly lit room, an apparition clad in luxurious fur. Almost, but not quite. Otherwise, I certainly wouldn’t have been perspiring to the point I was licking salt out of the corners of my mouth.

  “Bubo could have been blackmailing Dick for some other reason,” she said as she blew out a stream of smoke. Nothing about her was the least bit damp. “My dear husband might be trafficking in Smurf gas, or even more dastardly, shooting eagles. I’d hate to incur the wrath of the Dunling Foundation. I played tennis with Agatha Anne and Georgiana, and I understand Wharton has ordered a flamethrower to incinerate the groundhog.”

  A gust of wind hurled a branch against the window. I bit back a yelp and tried to verbalize an idea as indistinct as the sky. “You did incur the wrath of the Dunling Foundation,” I said slowly. “You took their money, didn’t you? You took their money and went—where? Key West?”

  “For a month, then I kissed Barry good-bye and went to Paris.”

  “Leaving Agatha Anne and Georgiana to try to cover up your theft. It’s no wonder they panic whenever someone offers to help decipher the books. I would suggest your accounting system was very straightforward: you converted all the assets to cash and wrote yourself a big check. The Dunling Foundation will be ruined if it’s known that all those donations went to fund your trip to Paris.”

  “Birds have survived for one hundred and forty million years without the aid of the Dunling Foundation,” Becca said dryly. “Somehow or other, they managed to get by without brochures to illustrate their migratory paths and mating behaviors. At some point a caveman might have donned a T-shirt with an ecologically correct motto and taken his tribe on a bird walk, but in general, the birds have done just fine.”

  I wasn’t ready to be drawn into a debate about the usefulness of the foundation. “On the day of the so-called accident, you went to the office and wrote the check. How did you get into town?”

  “Anders offered me a lift.”

  “And took you to the airport?”

  “I do prefer to fly, but I was a teensy bit worried that the police might make inquiries at the Farberville airport, and even at the bus station. Anders was sweet enough to drive me to a town fifty miles away, where I put on a boring brown wig and sunglasses and climbed onto a bus. Buses smell dreadful, don’t they?”

  I went into the kitchen to replenish our drinks while I thought this over. “When Anders arrived at his trailer,” I said as I came back into the living room, “he was met by two very unhappy members of the foundation. They decided the only way to cover up your disappearance was to fake the explosion in the boat. Your body would be lost at sea, so to speak, and they would receive the insurance money to cover expenses until the next fund-raiser. Bubo would have readily accepted a bribe. I’m surprised Anders went along with it.”

  Her expression reminded me of the red-tailed hawk. “Anders had way too many shots of vodka one night and told me a fascinating story. It seems he got into some trouble twenty or so years ago while he was studying in New York and felt the need to disappear. He lacks one of those cute little green cards, and he worries that the immigration authorities are interested in his whereabouts.”

  “Does Agatha Anne know this?”

  “Of course she does, as does Georgiana. We were dear, dear friends, you know. I let it slip while we were having lunch. It turned out to be useful to all three of us to have something to dangle over his gorgeous blond head.”

  “What about Jillian? Was she part of the conspiracy?”

  “I don’t know, Claire. Bear in mind that I was not part of it. While they were blowing up the boat, I was on a bus ride to an adjoining state, and a day later on a flight to Key West. I rather expected them to file charges and unleash bloodhounds to hunt me down. I had no inkling I was dead until Barry called Sid at my request to find out what was happening. Barry reported that Sid sounded very depressed when he described my fatal accident. Sid is such a dear, isn’t he?”

  “So is Dick, You spotted him immediately as the most likely nominee for your husband, didn’t you? There was only o
ne small hindrance—his wife. By sheer coincidence, she died within a matter of months. Dick was overwhelmed, and it was fortunate that you were there to ease him out of his grief and eventually assume the role of the second Mrs. Cissel. Then you grew tired of that, and went away to become the second Mrs. Strix.”

  “Heavens no,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Barry was too enamored of his freedom to be trusted. Fidelity is so vital to an enduring relationship. Besides, I needed Barry only long enough to do some little banking chores and book a flight to Paris. Paris is truly divine in April.” She lit another cigarette and sighed dreamily. “I had a lovely, lovely time with Jean Paul, and then with Enrico, who’s an Italian count and an infamous scoundrel. He’s no longer allowed in the casinos at Monte.” She arched her eyebrows at me. “I mean Monte Carlo, naturally. Have you ever been there?”

  “And then the money ran out?” I suggested as I went to the window and looked out at the lake. The rain had slackened to a mist, but the whitecaps seemed to race across the water like tiny sailboats. The sky was no less gray. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped over the dripping foliage. “Why did you come back to Farberville? Weren’t you worried that someone would spot you and you’d end up in jail?”

  “Very much,” she said as she joined me, “but I was desperate for money and I kept thinking about the jewelry I’d left in the safe in Dick’s office. I’d intended to pick it up on my way out of town, but Dick’s car was in the driveway. I couldn’t risk a confrontation with him that would delay my departure. If Georgiana had opened the foundation checkbook and then conferred with the bank, she would waste no time calling the police.”

  It occurred to me that I might call the sheriff’s office, if the telephone lines weren’t down. I was about to concoct an excuse to go inside when Becca said, “There’s where poor Jan left her clothes the night she took her last swim. She was a wonderful woman, quiet and unassuming, but with a sly sense of humor that needed a little coaxing. I cried all day after her body was found. We’d planned to have lunch and go shopping.”