Organize Your Corpses (19 page)

“Huh.”

“I guess you don’t share my enthusiasm for it. I can certainly understand, considering what happened to you there. And I’ll take what I can get,” he said.

“So you knew I found Miss Henley’s body?”

“Hard not to know that. Every time I turn on the TV, I see your face or that blonde police detective.”

“That’s Pepper. She hates me,” I blurted.

“Hates you? The cop? Why?”

“Long story and very personal. She’d love to pin this murder on me.”

“What? How could anybody suspect you of such a horrible crime?”

“Let’s change the subject.”

We moved on to photography and why it obsessed him. About organizing and how much I loved it. About small dogs, which I think are necessary, and cats, which he preferred.

“Although, I am willing to be open-minded about the dogs,” he said when we could no longer justify hogging two chairs in the popular spot.

“That’s very generous of you,” I said with a smile.

He shrugged into his jacket. “Feel like a walk along the river? It gets dark so early now, I like to get outside when I can.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I have to get to the library. A bit of Henley research.”

“Sure. But I would like to see you again sometime. If that’s okay.”

Oh yes, it was.

 
“Dish,” Sally shrieked. “I want to hear every detail.”

“There are no details. It was just coffee with a very nice man.” I held the cell phone away from my ear.

“Don’t blow this opportunity. Remember your biological clock is ticking.”

“Bye now.”

“This guy’s a keeper, Charlotte. Give him a chance.”

“I’m on my way to the library to check out Crawford Henley. Talk to you later.”

Of all the items that were bugging me, Crawford Henley was at the top of the list. Frankly, it would have been great to find out that Crawford Henley was alive and angling for the Henley estate. He would have made an excellent suspect, even though he’d have to be well into his seventies. That would have taken the heat off Mr. Kanalakis and Mrs. Neufield, which would be good, and Inez Vanclief and whoever she was working with. Oh right, and me.

I spun the Miata into the library parking lot. A large dark and dusty van was taking up two of the last three spaces. I hate that. I briefly thought about leaving a note on the windshield. But I was in a hurry and scurried through the door seeking my favorite librarian, Ramona.

As usual the library was teeming with people. Most of them stared at me or gave each other elbows in the ribs and meaningful nods in my direction. I kept my nose in the air and aimed straight for the Woodbridge Room.

The Woodbridge Room is a wonderful full-scale replica, built in the style of the nineteenth century, glass doors on the dark oak cabinets. That’s where you go if you need to ferret out any aspect of the town history. I figured between the oral-history collection and the archives, I’d find out what I needed to about the mysterious cousin.

I spotted Ramona’s silver brush cut. Apparently, she’d been waiting for just such a question. “What a relief!” she said, her complicated silver earrings swaying with enthusiasm. “If I’d had to pull out one more city directory, I would have absolutely screamed. You want info on the Henleys? We’re up to our patooties in Henleys here. Mr. Henley endowed our local library collection. What do you want? Letters, photos, papers? I wouldn’t be surprised if we had their toenail clippings. Oh, it’s all right, Charlotte. I was just kidding. We should be able to hunt down this particular Henley. What’s his name again? Crawford?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“So what have you done so far? I won’t want to waste time repeating steps,” she said.

“Talked to people and searched Google. I found a few Crawford Henleys, but they’re not the one I need.”

She nodded. “Often nothing does the trick like old-fashioned paper. Hang on.” She plopped down the first boxes of clipping files. “These will keep you out of trouble while I head off to storage to double-check for some other stuff.”

“I don’t think I can even get through this today,” I said. But she was gone. Happy, happy.

I was happy, happy too. I love libraries. Not for the silence, because libraries are always humming with activity. I love them because they are all about organization. Getting the right stuff together, neatly, accessible, easy to find, easy to use. Yum.

The clippings were in acid-free boxes. I was very pleased about that. I worked my way through papers from the early fifties. Plenty about old Mr. Henley and his business dealings, plus formal parties, engagements, births, and deaths.

My hand stopped over one clipping that announced Olivia Henley’s wedding to John Clinton Simonett. Olivia’s face shone out at me. The photographer must have enjoyed setting up that scene. She gazed over her shoulder at the camera, a seductive smile on her lovely face. The angle would have been designed to draw attention away from the Henley nose. It was hard for me to reconcile the straggly white hair I’d seen on Olivia recently with the elegant swirl that topped her head in the photo. Diamonds twinkled on her ears.

The bride was willowy and golden, the groom darkly handsome. All that money and all those good genes. Six bridesmaids flashed identical debutante smiles. One plain, solid young girl stared straight at the camera without smiling. From the expression on her face, she wanted to seriously discipline the whole lot of them. Give them a good clip on the ears perhaps. Miss Helen Henley, no question about it.

Two young men lounged in the front of the bridal party. One was glancing away, awkwardly. The other confronted the camera, challenging and mischievous. They had to be Randolph and Crawford. But which was which? I put my money on the taller, fairer version being Crawford, unafraid of the camera or the world.

I lost track of time, I was so deep in concentration, flipping through the remains of these Henley lives. I opened the next acid-free box. I heard a soft cough behind me.

“Sorry, Charlotte, did you miss the announcement? It’s time to pack up. This is our early closing night,” Ramona said.

“Early closing?” My mind was still back in the file.

She shrugged. “Budget cuts. Staff hours have been reduced.”

“But I was just getting warmed up.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow.”

I can’t wait that long, I thought.

At the moment she flicked off the lights in the Woodbridge Room, a light must have gone on over my head. “Ramona,” I said, “do you have a contact at the historical society?”

“Sure. There are quite a few people involved, but some of them are a bit dithery. I’d say your best bet is Mr. Simon Quarrington, Professor Quarrington to be more correct.”

“Do I have time to get his address?” I said, as the rest of the library lights started to go off.

“We’re supposed to get everyone out, but hold on one second and I’ll get it for you.”

“I appreciate it,” I said as I followed Ramona back to her desk.

“Well, I know you must be under a lot of strain after what’s happened. I sure would be, with all that media attention and everyone in Woodbridge watching your every move. I hope you find whatever you need.” Ramona flipped quickly through her Rolodex, scribbled an address on a piece of scrap paper, and handed it to me.

I glanced back longingly at the boxes of clippings. Ramona pointed firmly toward the front door.

She’d given me a new worry. Really, was
everyone
in Woodbridge watching my every move?

 
Where had the day gone? I still hadn’t been to Hannaford’s and I was running out of time. I dashed into the Delhi Deli and grabbed enough vegetarian pakuras and somosas to keep me alive. I added a few onion badjis and creamy dip to my basket. There was plenty for Jack too, just in case he showed up at dinnertime.

Truffle and Sweet Marie were waiting for me with their legs crossed. I called Rose from my cell as I walked them.

“That’s terrific, hon,” she said when I told her Sally would pick her up the next morning at ten thirty. I passed on Sally’s number too.

“Let her know if you’re not feeling up for it,” I said.

“I hate being such a burden to people,” Rose said. “Wish I’d learned to drive. Bet I’d be a lot freer now, instead of staring out the window, moping over that useless hunk of rusting steel.”

“Is it still running?”

“My neighbor takes it out every now and then for me. He had it out about two weeks ago, but of course, now he and his wife are gone to Florida.”

“I could start it up for you from time to time.”

“Thanks, hon. The keys are right here, anytime.”

“I’ll take you for a spin in it soon. Now about Stone Wall Farm. Sally’s happy to be part of the adventure. She loves to talk too. Relax and enjoy it. Let me know what happens with Olivia. Gotta run. I’m being pulled in all directions here.” An idea started to take root in my brain as soon as I hung up. I thought it just might work. But first, I would need to figure out how to contact Lilith.

 
“Jumpin’ Java? You told me you were just there today,” Jack said. “And I can make you coffee at home after we eat. Do you have any food?”

“I need to pick up something at the coffee shop. There’s never any parking in that area this time of night, so I was hoping you’d circle the block with the car. I don’t want to argue with you about it, so you don’t have to come. However, there might be some pakuras and samosas from the Delhi Deli in it if you do.”

Jack said, “Any onion badjis?”

“Possibly.”

“I’m in. I can show you the retail spot I’ve chosen for my bicycle shop while we’re out.”

Inside Jumpin’ Java, the scent of French roast was haunting, and the young hip crowd was making noise and demanding new variations on the dozens of variations already offered. I figured that stress on the baristas would work in my favor.

“Excuse me,” I said to the black-clad girl at the counter. “My friend dropped her résumé off here this afternoon and now she’s worried she put the wrong paper in it. Her name’s—”

“Applications are over there,” the whippet-thin barista said, brushing back her hair from her eyes with one hand and pointing with the other.

“Well, I . . . thanks.”

Huh. So much for privacy. I found Lilith’s envelope easily. I opened it and peered inside just long enough to memorize her address and cell phone number. I nodded and waved good-bye to the barista. I don’t think I registered on her retina. Too many picky caffeine experts to deal with.

Back in the Mazda, I wrote Lilith’s address and phone number in my address book before I could forget them.

“Coffee at home now?” Jack said.

“Chocolate would be even better. Right after we make a quick stop at this address.”

Jack glanced at the address I’d written, and five minutes later we pulled up in front of Lilith’s apartment building. No one answered even though I rang the bell for several minutes.

Jack raised his eyebrows as I returned.

“She’s serious about getting a job. I imagine she’s out searching now,” I said. “She really needs at least part-time work to stay in school. I think I can help. I left her a note.”

“You can’t bail out everyone, Charlotte,” Jack said.

“I like to help people.”

“I know you do, and it’s good for the people who get helped. Not sure how great it is for you. Okay, turn here and slow down. You can see the space I’ve picked for the shop.”

“Hmm,” I said, staring into a large, gloomy empty unit. “It’s a bit off the beaten track, isn’t it?”

“Not too trendy here, for sure. But cycle shops are destinations. If you want to drop five thousand on a high-end Italian number, you’re willing to go a half mile out of your way to see what’s available. It’s a large space and it’s a good price. So I’ve signed the lease. And . . .” He stopped and turned to peer out the rear window of the Miata.

“What?”

“It’s okay. I thought someone was following us, that’s all.”

I whirled around. “Oh crap. Did you get a good look at him?”

“No clue, but it’s all right. He turned down that street.”

 
When we got home, Jack busied himself with some esoteric business involving inventory of high-end pedals. Truffle and Sweet Marie busied themselves by sleeping. I tried calling Sally, but her line was busy. Professor Quarrington’s answering machine picked up on the first ring. A mellifluous voice asked me to leave a message. I didn’t.

Lilith didn’t answer when I gave her a buzz. What to do? The house was still in good order from the night before, if you didn’t count the empty fridge. I refused to turn on the television, in case I spotted my own guilty face again. I flipped through my favorite magazines but couldn’t concentrate. Even the calls from pretend clients trying to get the dope on Miss Henley had tapered off. I could have called my mother, but I’m not crazy.

It seemed like it had been a long, long day, but some of my to-do list remained undone, so I decided to tackle that, just to keep busy. I called my laundry-room client.

“I have a design done up for the perfect laundry room in your mudroom,” I chirped when she answered. “And some nice options for shelving and storage. When would you like me to drop by?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay. Well, I could be there in—”

“No. I mean it doesn’t matter because I can’t do it.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“It’s been changed for me. My husband won’t agree to it.” I was sure I heard a catch in her voice.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll pay you for your consultation of course.”

I bit my tongue before I could say, “Oh don’t worry. There’s no charge for that.” Not charging is the best and fastest way to fail.

“I’ll drop off the sketches and the catalogs. I’ve suggested some fixtures,” I said. “You never know.”

“He’s out tonight. I suppose you could drop them by. What harm could it do?”