by Lois Winston
“Was that—?” asked Cloris, her body still shaking several minutes later.
“I think so.” But neither of us had hung around long enough to get up-close-and-personal with the corpse. Given the way the body was shoved face down in the case, all we saw was the back of a blonde head, no face. “Either Philomena or one of her entourage.”
I whipped out my phone and scrolled through the address book, searching for Detective Winifred Batswin’s direct line.
“Mrs. Pollack,” she said, answering on the second ring, “I hope you haven’t stumbled across any new dead bodies.”
Detective Batswin, along with her partner Detective Robbins (someone in the Morris County police department had a wicked sense of humor pairing up those two,) were the lead investigators last February when I discovered the murdered body of our former fashion editor in my cubicle. They were also involved in the aftermath of the Morning Makeovers fiasco when producer Sheri Rabbstein and her lover pulled a Thelma and Louise.
I’m hoping Batswin never finds out about the murders that occurred while I moonlighted this summer at the Westfield Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center. Since Westfield is in a different county, my fingers are crossed. Along with my toes, eyes, and all extremities. Batswin is already convinced I’m a twenty-first century Jessica Fletcher: Wherever I go, murder follows.
“I’m afraid so,” I said.
Batswin moaned. “Where are you?”
I gave her a quick rundown of the last few minutes, minus the cookie tossing.
“Stay put, and don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t worry,” said Cloris when I relayed Batswin’s orders. “I’m sure you’re not the first person to lose it over a dead body, and you won’t be the last.”
“We should alert Naomi,” I said.
“What about Gruenwald?”
“Probably not a good idea. Let the police deal with him.”
“You don’t think he did it, do you?”
“No, but I think the police will want to question him as a person of interest. More often than not, the spouse or significant other of the murder victim winds up being the killer.”
“Look at Sherlock Pollack spouting police-speak!”
I’ve learned quite a bit over the last few months from my reluctant involvement in murder investigations. Emphasis on reluctant.
Within minutes Trimedia segued from magazine publishing to crime scene investigation. Work came to an abrupt halt as the Morris County police herded every employee in the building, from the bean counters to the janitor, into various conference rooms on each floor, the better to keep an eye on us, I supposed, while they did their CSI thing.
“How long do we have to stay here?” asked Janice. “I’m beginning to understand what sardines go through.”
The conference rooms we were in normally held no more than a dozen people seated around a long table. Besides the lucky dozen who had secured chairs, I counted nearly fifty people lining the walls and squatting on the floor of our holding pen.
“Anyone know how many people work in the building?” asked Serena.
“Approximately two hundred,” said Naomi.
“And those two detectives are interviewing each one of us?” asked Tessa. We’ll be here for days.”
“Let’s hope they called in reinforcements,” I said.
Batswin and Robbins appropriated the American Woman conference room for their interviews. Having called in the grim discovery, I received the honor of first in line for a police brow beating, even though Cloris and I were questioned in the loading bay as soon as Batswin and Robbins arrived.
A uniformed officer escorted me to the conference room where I settled into a seat opposite the two detectives. Batswin, Robbins, and I had danced this dance before, back when they suspected me of killing Marlys Vandenburg. After I helped them catch the real killer, I’d earned a modicum of grudging respect from them. It didn’t hurt that I knew they’d illegally borrowed a stash of counterfeit bills from the police evidence locker during an unsuccessful sting operation, thus giving me my very own Get Out of Jail Free card.
“Mrs. Pollack,” said Batswin. She expelled a deep sigh and shook her head in a gesture that suggested she was disappointed in me, I suppose for contaminating her crime scene. Or maybe for complicating her day with another dead body.
Even sitting down, Batswin exuded a commanding presence. A big-boned woman, nearly six feet tall, she was dressed in her standard outfit: a no-nonsense conservatively cut gray suit with a tailored white shirt. She wore her silver streaked sable hair tied back in a low ponytail, her face devoid of make-up other than a swipe of lip gloss. The only hint of personality came from her earrings, always Native American. Today purple feathered dream catchers swayed from her lobes.
“I had no idea magazine publishing was such a deadly occupation,” she said.
“You may find this hard to believe, Detective, but before we moved into the middle of this Morris County corn field, we had a spotless record. Not a single murder in all our years in Manhattan.”
Detective Robbins spoke for the first time. “Yet now you’re racking up an impressive body count. What is it at this point? Seven? And all somehow connected to you, Mrs. Pollack.”
Nine. But who’s counting? The other two murders occurred in Union County. I fought back the urge to release my inner bitch and simply looked Robbins in the eye. A compact, beefy man of all muscle and no hair, he played Mutt to Batswin’s Jeff, coming in a head shorter than his partner. He, too, dressed in conservative suits but had a penchant for cartoon crime fighter ties. Today he sported one featuring the Gotham City duo. Holy irony, Batman.
“That’s not fair,” I said. “I don’t even know who the victim is. I didn’t see a face.”
“We haven’t made a positive ID yet,” said Batswin. “Any ideas?”
I shrugged. “From the blonde hair and clothing, possibly Philomena Campanello or one of her entourage.” But if Philomena’s the victim, wouldn’t the police have recognized her? “Is it Philomena?” I asked.
“We’re not sure,” said Batswin. “The body sustained quite a bit of trauma. We’ll probably need dental records for a conclusive ID.”
I assumed that meant someone had beaten the crap out of her, although neither elaborated. “You should see if our CEO can make a positive identification,” I said. I looked at Batswin, then Robbins. Neither seemed to understand. “I guess you’re not up on the latest celebrity gossip.”
They both raised their eyebrows. “What gossip?” asked Batswin.
“Alfred Gruenwald and Philomena Campanello. She’s his mistress.”
“Isn’t he old enough to be her grandfather?” asked Robbins.
“I suppose that didn’t matter to either of them,” I said.
Batswin muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “That’s sick.”
“What else can you tell us?” asked Robbins. “How long have you known Philomena Campanello?”
“We’ve never formally met.”
“But you work together.”
“On different magazines on separate floors of the building. I don’t even know how often, if ever, she actually shows (or was it now showed?) up at Trimedia.”
“So she’s more like a figurehead?” asked Robbins.
I shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. Her name and photos fill the pages of the magazine but most likely others do the bulk of the work. I saw her for the first time this weekend during a consumer show at the Javits Center.”
I proceeded to tell Batswin and Robbins what I could about the show, including the telephone call and conversation I’d overheard. I certainly had no motive to kill Philomena or one of her minions. Offering as much as I knew might help the detectives in their investigation, thus allowing all of us to get back to work as soon as possible. We had production deadlines to meet.
~*~
After being questioned, I was allowed to return to my cubicle. Since I was too stresse
d to do anything important, I decided to tackle some of the reader mail, something Daphne normally handled for me. These days most readers contact me through email, but I do still receive a dozen or so snail mailed letters each month.
Reader mail generally falls into four categories. There are the readers who saved a picture but misplaced the directions, often for an issue from several years ago. Luckily, all back issues are archived. We either email or print out and snail mail the missing pages to them.
Then there are the readers who proudly send me photos of their original designs, hoping I’ll feature them in a future issue. I never do. Most have only made minor changes to an original design from a competing magazine or even an old issue of American Woman. Rather than explain copyright infringement to them, I send a standard thank-you-for-thinking-of-us form rejection letter.
Some readers take extreme pleasure in telling me I screwed up. Although I have been known to make the occasional mistake, enough people pour over every word of each issue that errors are quite rare. If a reader does find a mistake, a correction is printed in the next issue, and the reader receives a nice thank-you note. Often their motives are more avaricious than altruistic. Some write back demanding a free subscription for their efforts.
I had dispatched half a dozen replies when I came across a snail mail letter from the last category of reader mail, the would-be blackmailer:
Dear Anastasia Pollack,
Yesterday I decided to decorate a pair of sneakers according to the directions in your June issue. I wasn’t going to be using them for a wedding, though. I’ve been happily married to the same man for forty-two wonderful years.
The cap on my fabric glue was stuck on the bottle, and when I tried to pry it off with my teeth, a large chunk of what my dentist said was my #13 premolar came with it.
This is a direct result of your crafts project, and I expect to be compensated for the expense. I’ve enclosed a copy of my dental bill.
If I don’t receive a check from you in a timely manner, I’ll be forced to turn this matter over to my attorney, who I am sure will suggest I also sue you for pain and suffering and that my husband sue you for deprivation of spousal affection. Obviously, because of the pain, I couldn’t give him any affection from the time the tooth broke until after my dental appointment.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Henry (Josephine) Holmes
The glue manufacturer probably received a similar letter. Josephine Holmes, like so many before her, thought she could make money from her own stupidity. I placed the letter and dental bill back in the envelope and walked it upstairs. Josephine would be hearing from one of our sharks. Trimedia didn’t take attempted shakedowns lightly.
~*~
At the end of the day, Cloris and I headed for the parking lot together. “I should’ve stayed in bed all day. At least I could’ve caught up on some sleep,” said Cloris.
“You and me both. All I did was answer reader mail. I didn’t check off a single item on my to-do list today.”
“Not even Find a Dead Body?”
“That was on tomorrow’s list.”
“Then you’re ahead of schedule.”
“We shouldn’t be joking. Poor Philomena. Or whomever. No one deserves what happened to her.”
“What did happen?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. Batswin and Robbins remained tight-lipped, other than they hadn’t yet made a positive ID. Could be Philomena. Or not. Information only flows one way with those two, and it’s not from them to me.”
“At this point they probably don’t even know where she was killed.”
“Where is irrelevant,” I said. “With the body dumped in our models case, either she was killed at the Javits Center and dumped into the case after we packed up, which seems highly unlikely, or she was killed somewhere else, then brought here sometime last night after the cases were delivered. Either way, the killer is somehow connected to Trimedia.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time we discovered a killer in our midst,” said Cloris.
I sighed. “You had to say that? People are looking at me like I’m some homicidal version of Typhoid Mary.”
“There’s another possibility. If the murder occurred at the Javits Center, the killer may have used our models case simply because it was the most convenient place to dump a body.”
“A Dumpster or the Hudson River would have been more convenient. The case was packed. He had to unload at least half the contents first in order to stuff her into it. That takes time.”
“Right. I didn’t think of that. He’d risk someone seeing him.”
“Exactly. Which is why it’s highly unlikely the murder occurred at the Javits Center. Think about all the workmen busy breaking down one show to get ready for the next. That place is a beehive of activity in-between exhibitions. Batswin inferred the woman was beaten beyond recognition. Even with all the noise of forklifts moving up and down the aisles, hammering and banging, someone would have heard her screaming. Someone would have seen the killer dragging off a dead body.”
“Besides,” said Cloris. “I’m sure the Javits Center has security cameras monitoring every nook and cranny. Even if no one saw the killer, he’d show up on the security tapes.”
I stopped abruptly. “Security cameras!”
“What about them?”
I grabbed Cloris’s hand and race-walked us toward the loading dock. The area had been cordoned off while the crime scene investigators continued processing the scene. News vans circled the perimeter. Camera crews and reporters had set up shop, hoping for something to broadcast in time for the six o’clock news.
Trimedia had installed security cameras at each entrance to the building after Marlys Vandenburg’s murder. “If the killer brought the body here,” I said, “he was recorded.”
We inched our way as close as possible on the opposite side of the crime scene tape. I shaded my eyes against the late afternoon sun that was beginning to dip behind the building and craned my neck. “What happened to the cameras?” Empty brackets stood several feet above either side of the overhead loading bay door. Brackets that used to hold security cameras.
“I think we’re dealing with one very smart killer,” said Cloris. “How did he remove the cameras without being captured by them?”
“By rappelling down from the roof?”
“That would indicate a very methodical killer prepared for all contingencies.”
“True but beating someone to a pulp is more a crime of passion, and those occur on the spur of the moment rather than by detailed planning.”
Cloris gaped at me. “And you know this how?”
“Excellent question, Mrs. McWerther.”
We both spun around to find Detective Batswin standing behind us. I swear that woman is part cat the way she creeps up without warning. “Well, Mrs. Pollack?”
“I’ve been reading up on murder lately.”
“And why is that? Planning one?”
I have to admit, the thought had crossed my mind over the last several months, but Dead Louse of a Spouse was already dead. Unless he showed up on my doorstep as a zombie, I’d have no need to kill him. And although a certain mother-in-law has provoked me countless times, I’d never consider acting on my fantasies.
I offered Batswin a smile. “Because as you recently pointed out to me, Detective, I keep getting plunked down in the middle of murders. Knowledge is power.”
“And a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I’m sure I don’t have to warn you to keep your nose out of this investigation.”
“Of course not, Detective. My nose, along with the rest of me, is heading home right now.”
Cloris and I walked back toward our cars. I settled in behind the wheel of my mud brown Hyundai rattletrap and turned the key. Click. I tried again. Click. Nothing but click.
SIX
I exited the car and lifted up the hood. Don’t ask me why. At Casa Pollack anything to do with cars fell under Karl’s realm of responsibilities, a perk of b
eing married to an auto parts salesman. Now I wished I’d paid more attention when he waxed poetic over spark plugs and distributor caps.
Cloris pulled up behind me. “Trouble?”
“The engine won’t turn over.”
She parked her car and walked over to where I stood making faces and cursing at my engine. At least I knew which piece of equipment was the engine. That was the extent of my car knowledge. This was New Jersey. We don’t even pump our own gas in this state.
Like a good friend, Cloris made faces and cursed along with me. Then she said, “You probably need to call a tow truck.”
“You have any idea what a tow truck from Morris County to Westfield will cost?”
We went back to making faces. I reprimanded the Hyundai, hoping to shame the car into starting. At one point I resorted to physical force and kicked the front bumper. The car still didn’t start, but I’d succeeded in inflicting a grapefruit-sized dent in the chrome.
A black Lincoln pulled up behind my car. The driver side window lowered. Alfred Gruenwald’s chauffeur stuck his head out and asked, “You ladies need help?”
“Love some!” I said.
He parked his car and joined us, poking his head under the hood. “Try turning it over when I tell you.”
I climbed in behind the wheel and waited.
“Now,” he said.
I turned the key. Click. Whatever was wrong hadn’t magically healed through his fiddling. Nor had my dirty looks, cursing, and kicking had any effect on the situation.
Gruenwald’s driver approached my door. “It’s definitely electrical. Could be the battery. Could be the alternator. Could be the whole electrical system.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“More like terminal if it’s system-wide. Batteries aren’t that expensive. Alternators are a different story. They’ll set you back a few hundred dollars.”
On top of the cost of the tow truck. How I wish I still owned my dependable Camry! Unfortunately, that car became one of the first casualties of my plummet from middleclass comfort. Once I’d learned the extent of the debt Karl stuck me with, I could no longer afford the car payments.