“My gun.” There was no use denying it, so Lamar didn’t even try.
“One shot nicked her arm. They call that a defensive wound,” I said. “Another one punctured her lung. The third one was at close range. Right to her heart.”
I set the autopsy report aside and moved to the next photograph.
When she died, Vera Blaine was wearing a dark skirt, pantyhose, and loafers. Her white Oxford-cloth shirt was open at the throat and stained with dark patches. The shirt was untucked, and there was still a sweater tied stylishly (for the times, anyway) around her shoulders. Her clothing was speckled with blood.
Most of the newspaper articles I’d read through earlier had featured the same photo of Vera. The eighties was not a kind decade, fashionwise. In what was probably her high school graduation picture, Vera looked like a smiling cocker spaniel who’d used too much eye shadow and whose hair was so gelled, moussed, and blown dry, it puffed out around her like a cloud.
In the close-up photo of her battered body, Vera looked pale and her hair was a tangled mess. Her dark eyes were wide open, her lower lip was swollen, and there was a smear of blood across her left cheek. She had about a dozen of those brightly colored plastic jelly bracelets on her left arm.
“I had a bunch of those when I was a kid,” I said, looking at the bracelets. The memory made me feel, in spite of the years, as if there were a connection between me and Vera. I guess that’s why my eyes misted. I knew I needed a distraction and needed one fast. Now that Lamar had discovered that I was a competent PI, I didn’t need him to think I was a crybaby girl. I found what I was looking for when I caught a glimpse of a page marked DECEASED’S PERSONAL EFFECTS.
Clearing my throat, I read it over. “Purse with wallet containing sixteen dollars and forty-seven cents. Makeup, lipstick, one package Trojan condoms. Hmmmm.” I thought this over, then got back to reading. “Black duffel bag containing fishnet stockings, a lace T-shirt, denim jacket with sewn on beads and lace, a black miniskirt.” The condoms made sense to me, the rest of it? I thought it over for a while before the truth dawned, and I whistled below my breath. “That’s weird, isn’t it? According to the newspaper reports, Vera didn’t check into the motel until around seven that evening. Her body was found a little after two in the morning. You were quoted . . .” I dug through the pile of newspaper clippings until I found the one I was looking for. “Here,” I held it up for him to see. “You were quoted as saying that Vera hadn’t requested to take the next day as a vacation or personal day. Which tells me she wasn’t planning on staying at the Lake View overnight.”
While Lamar processed all this, I kept right on thinking out loud. “Which means she shouldn’t have needed a change of clothes. Unless . . .” I thought some more. About the condoms, and the fishnets stockings, and the rest of that outfit, one that would have turned even the sweetest-faced cocker spaniel into a hot-to-trot French poodle. “Vera was obviously meeting somebody. I mean, why hang out at a motel otherwise? But maybe
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lamar’s rumble would have shaken the windows if the old mausoleum had any. “She wasn’t that kind of girl.”
“Her wardrobe says otherwise.” I looked through the list again, then looked at Vera’s picture. “She came and went dressed for the office. In a shirt she wore that day that still had a little bit of your blood on it from when you cut yourself. That explains why she never changed out of the bloodstained shirt before she left Central State. She didn’t have to. By the time her date”—I gave this word the emphasis it deserved—“arrived, she knew she’d have her party clothes on, so she didn’t care about the stain. And getting ready to leave, she changed her clothes so that when she got back home, she looked just like she looked when she left for the office that day.”
I narrowed my eyes, imagining Vera transformed into a vampy punk. “At the very least, Little Miss Buttoned-down here must have been planning a party. And my guess was that it was with some sicko who liked his girls even younger than twenty-two. That would explain all those jelly bracelets.”
Not to Lamar, of course.
“Jelly bracelets were a teenaged thing and a kid thing. I told you, I had some back then, and I was maybe five. I don’t think those bracelets were a wardrobe staple for a young career woman, at least not one who normally dressed like she just stepped out of the Official Preppy Handbook.”
Lamar looked uncomfortable with the whole notion, and I guess I couldn’t blame him. It must have been freaky to have to face the fact that his little secretary
“Well, I doubt if the killer brought that stuff with him.” Done with the list of Vera’s personal items, I tucked it away and drummed my fingers against the aluminum arm of the lawn chair. I knew I didn’t have to ask Lamar. After all, I’d just read the newspaper articles. But I asked anyway, just to gauge his reaction. “That’s what they said, right? In the newspapers and in court, I mean. The cops’ theory was that you met Vera at the Lake View for a little extracurricular hanky-panky, things got out of hand, and bang!” I slapped my hand against the arm of the chair hard enough to make Lamar jump.
If he wasn’t already dead, he would have been as white as a ghost.
He ran his tongue over his lips. “That’s exactly what they said. But they never had any proof. They couldn’t have had any proof.”
“Because there was no proof to have.”
“Exactly.” He lifted his chin and pulled back his shoulders. “I told you before—”
“I know.” I waved away any chance that he might give me the I-am-innocent speech again. “I’m just trying to think like they were thinking, and they were thinking what I’m thinking. At least if they were thinking that there was more to Vera than met the eye. You never got the vibe from her at the office, huh? She never came on to you?”
His shoulders shot back just a little more. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m being objective. Or at least I’m trying to be objective. So, being objective . . .” I stood and did a turn around the mausoleum, carefully
Lamar’s eyebrows rose, and I knew a question was going to follow.
“The jelly bracelets,” I said, fingering my own arm as if I had a mess of them on. “She’d changed her clothes, but she hadn’t had a chance to take off the bracelets yet.”
Seeing the logic, he nodded.
“Or,” I said, marching to the far side of the mausoleum, then turning to come back the other way, “or her date hadn’t shown up yet, although . . .” I hurried over to where I’d left the file and flipped through the crime scene photos again, just to confirm something to myself. “I think he’d already been and gone. See? Look at how the sheets are tossed around. The bed’s definitely been used, and not for sleeping.”
“Really!” Lamar’s lips thinned. “Isn’t it bad enough the press trashed poor Vera’s reputation? Do you have to, too?”
“I have to find out the truth, remember?” I looked him in the eye. “You’re the one who asked me to get involved.”
“Yes, of course. It’s just that—”
“And what difference does Vera’s reputation make at this point? The girl’s been dead for more than twenty years.”
“Yes, she has, but—”
“And you can’t deny that she was at that motel for a
Lamar winced at my choice of words, but he didn’t argue. I mean, how could he?
“You also have to admit that any way you look at it, the whole thing’s a little kinky. Whoever the guy was, he must have been into young chicks. In that trashy outfit, she would have looked like a teenager.”
“You’re wrong. I know you’re wrong.” Lamar ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “There’s something we’re missing,” he said. “Something we’re not seeing. Let me have a look at that picture again. The close-up of Vera.”
I found the picture he wanted and held it up for him to see.
“What?” I asked, when his eyes narrowed just a bit. “What do you—”
I found one of the newspaper articles. In it, Vera was wearing the locket.
“That’s a clue. It’s got to be,” Lamar insisted.
“Granny’s little gold locket doesn’t exactly mesh with the tramp image,” I told him. “She probably took it off when—”
“Read over the list of personal effects again.”
I did. There was no mention of the locket.
“What does it mean?” I asked him.
But before he had a chance to answer, we heard an unmistakable “Yoo hoo!” from right outside the door.
Ella stuck her head inside the mausoleum just as Lamar poofed away into nothingness. I was sure she was there to see me, but, Ella being Ella, she was easily distracted. And nothing distracts a cemetery geek more than an old moldy mausoleum.
“Well, isn’t this wonderful!” Grinning, she stepped inside and looked around. “Neoclassical, with a base plinth and paneled corner pilasters! It’s got a double-leaf cast-iron door, and of course, you noticed the pediment and dentiled entablature outside. It’s glorious. Hi, Pepper.”
I returned the greeting and whispered a silent prayer that I never grew up to be Ella. “What’s up?”
“Had to be here for the big announcement.”
It made me nervous when she said things like that. “Big announcement about—”
“Oh, you’ll find out. And when you do, just don’t forget, I’m always available to help in any way I can.” Her eyes twinkling, she grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the mausoleum, and it was a good thing she was in a hurry. She never noticed the file folder I tucked behind Jake’s cooler when we zipped by.
When we emerged again into the sunlit afternoon, Greer was standing nearby with her faithful cameraman. So were the members of Team One.
“Over here.” Greer waved the cameraman toward the section where my team was slaving away. “Let’s get a couple shots of them all dirty and sweaty, you know, to show what hard work it is. Ms. Martin . . .” She
Mae Tannager scooted into the newly cleared section right behind me. “We’ve got a challenge.” She’d obviously been instructed what to say. Mae delivered the line with as much pizzazz as a fluffy pink woman could. “Team Two, we, the members of Team One . . .” Like Vanna in front of the letter board, she motioned, and her teammates tromped into position. Mae cleared her throat and consulted the rumpled piece of notepaper she had clutched in one hand. “As you know, our job here at Monroe Street Cemetery is going to be done in just a few more weeks. But there’s a dedicated group of volunteers who are going to take over the revitalization work we’ve started. It wouldn’t be right to leave them without the resources to complete the restoration. We’ve got to help them out. And we’re going to do that by leaving them enough money to continue the work we’ve begun here. Team One . . .” Again, she motioned. Again, her teammates sparkled for the camera. “Team One announces a fundraising challenge. The team that raises the most money will be awarded extra points in the competition.”
Their smiles stayed firmly in place—one second, two, three—while the camera rolled. The minute it was turned off, though, Bianca, Lucinda, and Gretchen walked away. Mae still twinkled because, as far as I could see, there wasn’t a time when Mae didn’t twinkle. And Katherine Lamb?
She narrowed her eyes and shot me and my team a look.
“We’ve already decided we’re doing a tea,” she said. “So don’t even think about it. That’s the best fundraising idea, and it’s already taken.”
10
Thinking about the fundraiser kept me up half the night, wondering how I was going to pull it off. My mind racing, I obsessed my way through the most logical choices:We could sell parts from jacked cars.
Or incredibly ugly clothing.
We could send Crazy Jake out to photograph weddings.
Or rent out Delmar and Reggie by the hour. They had enough groupies waiting for them every day outside the gates of Monroe Street. I had no doubt we could make a few bucks.
The solution to my problem hit as most solutions do, right around three in the morning. That gave me the rest
Believe me, even though I was thinking fundraising, I hadn’t forgotten about either Lamar or Vera Blaine. I even had a plan. The next morning, dragging from lack of sleep but looking as good as ever thanks to a little under-eye concealer, a gold-colored organic cotton tunic that brought out the fiery highlights in my hair, and a pair of khakis, I arrived at Monroe Street with a bus schedule in hand.
After all, I couldn’t show up in my Mustang when I went to look for a used car.
I convened an early-morning meeting with my teammates inside the mausoleum, the better to keep Greer from sneaking up on us, or our fans outside the fence from catching wind of our plans. Waiting for everyone to get settled, I glanced around.
Big points for Absalom. He’d agreed to enter the mausoleum, even if he was plastered against the door. Of course, he’d brought reinforcements. He had a new, small voodoo doll clutched in one hand. It was dressed in leather, and its hair was the color of popcorn—buttery, light, and fluffy.
As soon as he sat down, Delmar opened his sketchbook and got to work drawing one of the architectural details inside the mausoleum. For all I knew, it was that dental thing Ella had talked about the day before. Reggie was leaning against the wall. Sammi looked bored and a little sticky in a white vinyl top, white vinyl shorts, and a sparkling headband designed (I’m sure) to look like a halo. It was a little too out there for me, but Crazy Jake liked it. He took a picture.
I tried for a smile and hoped to hell it looked enthusiastic. This was a tough crowd; they couldn’t be easily fooled.
“We’re going to do an art show,” I said.
When my brilliant suggestion was met with stony silence, I looked around at my teammates again. “Come on, I thought you’d all be a little more enthusiastic.”
“We would, if we cared.” This from Sammi, who pulled an emery board from a purse made out of a Cheerio’s box and got to work on her nails.
“We don’t know nothin’ about art,” Reggie said. “Unless you’re talking porn.” He wiggled his eyebrows. I pretended not to notice.
“What, we’re supposed to hang with some snooty art crowd?” Delmar was not happy even thinking about this. “You expect us to sip wine and walk around some stupid, stuffy art gallery and—”
“Now, now.” From his place near the door, Absalom quieted the protests. “Let’s hear the lady out,” he said. “She’s probably as crazy as a loon, but you never know.”
I thanked him with a smile. “My mom used to chair fundraisers all the time,” I told them. “You know, for my dance school when we planned a trip to New York to see the Rockettes, or for one of the medical associations my dad belonged to, or . . .” I waved away the rest of the explanation. I could already see that my teammates weren’t interested. Even with Absalom’s support, I knew I’d be in trouble if I didn’t get right down to business.
“I remember when she did a couple art gallery fundraisers. They brought in a lot of people and a lot of money. And you heard what Mae said yesterday, the rules state that the team that brings in the most money is going to get extra points in the competition. But Delmar, you’re right. The people who came to those art shows, well, they were a boring crowd. Which is why we’re not going to feature some artist nobody’s ever heard of whose paintings nobody likes anyway. Our art show is
I waited for the shouts of triumph. The ones that would proclaim my brilliance.
When all I got was blank looks, I acted like it didn’t matter and went right on.
“Absalom,
you make your voodoo dolls from pieces and parts of old cars, right?”
He looked at the doll in his hands. “Not always old cars. Sometimes, when we chop one that’s really fine—you know a Hummer or a Lexus—I like to do something a little special. This one’s got bits of the leather upholstery from a BMW 335i, see.” He held up the doll. “The hair’s made out of stuffing inside the front seat of an Audi Q7,” he said. “And the body—”
I stopped him with a look. It was probably best if we didn’t know any more details. “Sammi, you have your original clothing designs you could show off, and Delmar, you’ve got your drawings.”
“I have pictures.” As if to prove it, Jake took one.
“And me?” His arms crossed over his chest, Reggie’s chin shot out. I knew a challenge when I saw one, and I was prepared for it.
“I was going to ask you to be our curator,” I said, pulling out one of the art history degree words my parents had paid a bundle for me to learn and I’d never used. “You’re going to be in charge of designing the displays and figuring out how to put it all together.”
Utter silence.
Until Absalom breathed, “No shit!”
And with his official approval noted, the rest of the crew went right along.
“Can we sell our stuff?” Sammi asked. “I mean, if it’s on display and somebody asks—”
“I don’t see why not. And you can keep all that
It apparently was. When they went out to begin the work of assessing the damage, then lifting and resetting the headstones that had been toppled over the years, my teammates were actually discussing the show and what they’d each do to prepare for it.
Did their unusual cooperation and good spirits make me complacent? Absolutely!
Dead Man Talking Page 12