Organize Your Corpses (28 page)

She gasped. “You mean Mom was just in the way?”

“I don’t have proof, but I am absolutely convinced the two deaths are related. And in fact, Randolph Henley died under mysterious circumstances not that long ago.”

“Mom was so upset about that. Olivia was devastated.”

“Did your mother comment about the fact that Olivia planned to leave a lot of money to the Stone Wall Farm Foundation?”

“She mentioned it. This was a new idea that Olivia got when the new director took over. We used to call her Miss Frosty.”

“I understand why. Did she think it was a good idea?”

“Well, no, not really. My mom raised the five of us as a single parent. Every one of us went to college. Mom kept working with underprivileged kids afterward. She said it was a shame money didn’t go to people who needed it.”

“Hmm.”

“Of course, Olivia was planning to leave a bundle to my mother too. So she didn’t have to worry about a thing in her old age. Now she won’t have an old age. What are you suggesting? That Miss Frosty was behind this? I can’t stand the woman, but that seems far-fetched.”

“I suppose it does. It’s possible though, or it could have been someone else who stood to inherit.”

“Like who?”

“I’m working on that. This must be so hard for you, but could you help again if I have questions?”

“You know what? I’m not sure what’s worse, your mom being killed by a random shooting or being murdered because of money. It’s all hard to believe. I still remember her cheerful voice when she called me on her way home that last day. I’ll never have that again. So you’re damn right I’ll help.”

 
If you are planning to dump someone, no matter how excellent your reason for the dumpage, you absolutely need to look your best. I already knew this from previous experience. By the time I got home I had planned what to wear when I looked Dominic in the eye and told him he was a lying, money-grubbing weasel.

I always keep an outfit in my closet ready to go if something important comes up. Right down to new Swiss hose, still in the package. My teal blue cotton velvet jacket looked serious enough, and the swingy bias-cut skirt screamed style, but I thought a peek of a lacy camisole at the neck-line might hint that I plan to continue to have a very eventful life that didn’t involve any creeps named Lo Bello. I decided my black strappy stilettos would make that point too. So what if it was freezing out. And what the hell, since he didn’t like dogs, I made a point of bringing along Truffle and Sweet Marie.

 
The yellow police tape was gone when I pulled up in front of Henley House. And for some reason the gate was closed. Dominic’s red Jeep Cherokee was parked at a confident angle at the curb. I avoided the fire hydrant and pulled up a half block away. I fumed in the car and waited for Jack. I’d mentally rehearsed the scene with Dominic and was ready to get it over with.

Fifteen long minutes dragged by. Where was Jack? I usually keep a project on hand if I find myself with time to kill, but it was too dark to read or make lists. I fished out my phone. I tried Jack. No answer. I called Sally and got her machine. I had no luck with Margaret either. I even gave Rose a buzz to see how she was doing, but her phone rang on and on. Finally, I left a message with Glenda Baillie asking what her mother had said in that last cheerful message.

I sat back and thought black thoughts about men in general.

“Turns out Jack’s just one more male I can’t count on,” I snapped at the dogs.

They yapped either in agreement or protest, who knows? Who cares? I was pretty steamed and didn’t really need emotional reinforcement from my pets. I stepped out of the car and started pacing. That’s when I spotted the bicycle lying on the ground near the side of the house. Oh right. Was Jack already inside the house? Why the hell hadn’t he waited for me? Had he planned to tell off Dominic himself? Punch him out? Really, what is it with men? Testosterone lunacy?

I stomped up the stairs to the verandah. I wished my red boots had been available to aid in the stomping. I planned to confront Dominic at the door, offer an assessment of his character, and tell him to stick his so-called information where the sun doesn’t shine. Then I planned to whirl and make a dramatic exit back to my car and out of his life forever. And as for Mr. Wait Until I Get There, I would deal with him later.

Of course, Dominic didn’t answer the door.

Goose bumps danced on my arms. The last time I’d knocked on that particular door, I’d gone in to find Miss Henley’s body. I had no desire to set foot in the dank, crowded interior of Henley House, even if Jack was there too. Dominic was just going to have to get his lying backside out on the verandah. After five minutes of banging, I concluded that he didn’t plan to do that.

I turned the handle and the huge oak door creaked open.

I pushed it all the way and shouted into the foyer.

“Are you there, Dominic? It’s Charlotte. I have something really important to show you.” Meaning, I’d like you to get a good look at the contemptuous expression on my face. Then you can watch my backside as I walk away.

Rain dripped through the holes in the verandah roof and settled on my nose as I waited. I tapped my toes. I stamped my heels. I gave the door a little kick. Not such a good idea with strappy stilettos.

I shouted, “I don’t know where you guys are, but I want to see you. Now!”

Theories competed in my head. They were duking it out in the back of the house? They were both afraid to talk to me? Dominic had given Jack some reasonable explanation and they were making friends? None of it made sense. Plus the rain had finished off my hairdo. I would have pulled the damp straggling remnants into a ponytail—always be ready with a ponytail holder or a scrunchie in your purse, another motto I love—but I’d been so rattled I’d forgotten my purse in the car. That’s so unlike me, I don’t even have a motto to deal with it.

Never mind. Time to get it over with.

I pushed the oak door open a bit more. I stuck my head in and bellowed, “Come out here and have the guts to look me in the face when I tell you what I think about you and your sneaky, deceitful game you miserable, lying, underhanded, money-grubbing lowlife. And as for you, Jack, we’ll talk later.”

It was the best I could come up with under my personal circumstances, which were mainly cold, wet, mad as hell, and with very bad hair.

Nothing.

Cowards.

I leaned further into the foyer and repeated my words, louder and meaner. Still nothing. My throat was getting sore from hollering, but I decided to give it one more try. I just wanted to yell it to his face. I pushed the door a bit farther but it wouldn’t budge. Keeping my wet feet firmly outside, I stretched myself just far enough to peer around it.

Why was Dominic lying on the floor? It took a second before the answer hit me.

Pull yourself together, I told myself. That can’t happen twice. This isn’t the movies. I stepped in, looking more confident than I felt. I knelt down and touched the hand. It was still warm. Dominic lay there, legs splayed, arms outstretched, eyes wide and unblinking. It didn’t take a detective to tell he’d been shot.

I gasped and struggled to my feet. I backed toward the door, still gasping and staring at the horrible sight. I twisted my foot and fell backward over the threshold. The fall knocked the breath out of me.

I tried to get to my feet but collapsed with the stab of pain in my ankle. I struggled to my knees, nothing wrong with them, and crawled forward, over the threshold. I stared once again at Dominic Lo Bello’s body and his handsome lying face, staring glassily at the ceiling.

I hesitated before touching him. The memory of Miss Henley’s cold stiff body was still fresh in my mind. He
was
warm. Could he be alive with a head wound like that? Call 911, of course. But my cell phone was in my handbag back in the car. I had to get to the car fast. As I got to my feet and limped forward, I spotted something odd, just beyond Dominic’s hand. Without thinking, I reached down and snatched it up. How did the heel from my red boot get there? That didn’t make sense. I stuck the heel in my pocket and whirled at a small rustle behind me, soft and sibilant. A rat perhaps? And just where was Dominic’s killer?

18

I hobbled in a panic toward the car, half expecting to hear the crunch of gravel behind me. I glanced back and tumbled again. This time I shredded my new Swiss hose in the contact with the driveway. By the time I reached the Miata, my hands were shaking. My knees were shaking too. They were also bleeding, but that was the least of my problems. Luckily, I had the keys with me. On the third try, I got the door open and crumpled into the car. I locked the door behind me and reached for my purse to get the phone. Truffle and Sweet Marie leapt up seeking kisses.

“Settle down,” I shrieked. “Where’s my purse?”

They cocked their little pointed heads and grinned. They love the “where’s the whatever” game.

“Oh crap, not now. Tell me you didn’t.”

The contents of my perfectly organized purse lay scattered on the passenger-side floor of the Miata. Although not all of them, by the look of it. Some must surely be under the seat. When did they learn to open a zipper? Sweet Marie upped the ante by picking up my large, soft makeup brush in her teeth and giving it a little shake.

Concentrate. You can boil the makeup brush later. What if Dominic can still be saved? All that matters is 911.

So where was the phone? I grabbed the spilled items from the floor and stuffed them back into the purse. Wait. Maybe the phone hadn’t spilled out of the purse in the first place. I dumped everything back out onto the seat. Sweet Marie climbed in my lap. Truffle licked my ear.

Okay. I contorted myself to look under the seat. I felt around, practically dislocating my shoulder. No phone, although I did encounter my new Yves Saint Laurent compact, open and upside down. So much for that pricey little luxury.

Two pairs of beady black eyes gazed on with interest. Who would win this game? Not much chance for me at the moment.

I had failed to follow yet another motto: keep your phone handy because when you really need it, you need it right away. My mottos were dropping fast. My beautiful organized life had fallen apart. But at least I still had a life. I’d wanted Dominic sorry, apologetic, groveling, repentant, realizing what he’d done, understanding he was a miserable liar. Not dead.

But what if he was still alive?

I started the car, squeaked as pain raced through my ankle, and put the pedal to the metal. As the Miata shot down the hill, an ambulance peeled around the corner of North Elm Street and raced past, siren shrieking. A pair of squad cars careened after it, lights flashing. I pulled over, waved, and blew my horn hoping to attract their attention. They didn’t even slow down. I watched through my rearview mirror as the three vehicles rocketed up the driveway of the Henley House. If by some miracle Dominic was still alive, they’d take care of him.

I screeched to a stop in front of Rose’s yellow door. In the distance I could hear the wail of more sirens. Had the passing cops seen my bright little Miata? I backed up and eased the car along the narrow driveway by Rose’s house. I kept going and turned into the backyard. I stuck a dog under each arm and limped back to the front of the house. I clattered up the stairs. The yellow door stood open.

“Rose!” I called.

I felt a wave of nausea. Was this what my future held? Every door I reached swinging open and then . . .

Sirens drew closer, a new batch of police cars shot up the hill, just as the ambulance sped down. I stepped inside and called again. “Rose.”

I heard a moan from the living room. Rose sat slumped in her orange recliner. Her oxygen tank lay on the floor, out of reach. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were as blue as her hair, and her vibrant fuchsia jogging suit contrasted with her pale, grey face.

“Rose!” I shook her. Her breathing was raspy. And no wonder. The little cat paraded on the back of the chair, near her head, purring and spewing allergens. Truffle and Sweet Marie went into action, yipping like coyotes. The cat raced across the room and up the curtains.

Rose’s eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. That was probably a good thing. She would have hated to see her curtain rod collapse under the cat’s weight and the orange draperies in a heap on the floor.

I reconnected her oxygen as best I could, muttering soothing words. I fumbled for the phone and dialed 911.

“North Elm Street,” I shouted. “Send an ambulance.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That shooting’s already been called in.”

“No,” I said firmly, “it’s not a shooting. I am calling from number Seven North Elm. An elderly woman is in respiratory distress. My, um, neighbor. She seems to have lost consciousness. Her oxygen is disconnected. Tell them to hurry.”

“Sure thing. Oh, hang on, is that you again, Charlotte?” the dispatcher said. “Pretty sure I know your voice.”

“No,” I said, “it isn’t. I told you I’m the neighbor.”

I hung up. The dogs had the cat cornered on the kitchen counter. The cat hissed and spit. The dogs leapt and snapped. I raced to the living room and grabbed the fallen drapes. I flung them over the cat and wrestled the cat and drape combo into the bathroom well away from Rose and the dogs. The panicked creature spat at me. I got a nice scratch on my arm too, before I closed the door. But not before I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My flirty little skirt and velvet jacket were beyond help. My hair hung in strings. There was a streak of blood across my cheek. Mine? Or Dominic’s? My stomach flip-flopped. I looked down. My knees were bleeding.

I didn’t really care how I looked considering what had happened to Dominic and Rose, but one glance at me and the paramedics would call the cops.