Organize Your Corpses (4 page)

Of course, if Jack were a girlfriend, by this point we both would have chucked our bras, and jumped into flannel pajamas and fluffy slippers. We would feel we could cry if we needed to. Even after all these years, I wasn’t on crying terms with Jack.

He said, “I can’t imagine you stuck in a creepy old building with Hellfire Henley.”

I shrugged and poked at my container to get the last chunk stuck in the corner.

Jack said, “I’m impressed. To go right into her lair, without backup. That took guts.”

I said modestly, “Sally offered and I turned her down. I don’t know what you two are going on about. She’s just an elderly lady with a problem.”

“I remember how you stood up to her in class to save Pepper’s butt. You earned the undying respect of everyone in the class at that point.”

“Pepper would have done the same for me, back then,” I said.

I did not add that she wouldn’t have needed to. I didn’t go to school with long sleeves on to hide my bruises. My mother might have made the tongues wag, but she never would have let one of the many men in her life beat me.

Jack said, “Yeah, but you were the only one with the nerve. Tell me you’re not going to do that job.”

“Let it go, Jack,” I said, scraping hard at the bottom of the ice-cream container with my spoon.

Jack patted my hand. Soothingly.

That caused me to blurt, “Miss Henley’s just a troubled old woman with a sadistic streak. I’m way more upset by nearly running into Pepper at Tang’s.”

Jack said, “But you said you didn’t speak to her.”

I blushed. “I dived into that alley by Tang’s to avoid her. How brave is that? She didn’t even see me. Stop laughing. It is so not funny.”

“One of these days, you’re going to run into her for real. Then what?”

Jack doesn’t know what really went wrong with Pepper. Maybe someday I’ll tell him.

We both jumped as the telephone trilled.

“Hey, let it ring,” Jack said. “Might be Hellfire.”

I laughed and reached for the phone. “Probably just Sally. I forgot to call her back. Or Margaret Tang. I’ve been trying to reach her.”

“Charlotte Adams, please.”

Crap. “Oh, yes, Miss Henley.”

“Told you so,” Jack mouthed.

I turned my back. “What can I do for you?” I said.

“You can meet me at the Henley House in ten minutes.”

I have been in business long enough to know that if you don’t put limits on what your clients can ask, you’re dead in the water. It’s best to set boundaries early and firmly.

“I’m afraid I’m tied up, Miss Henley.”

“That doesn’t matter. I must see you immediately.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I can be there tomorrow.”

“That won’t do.”

“What’s wrong? Can we discuss it by phone?”

“I gave you a check.”

“And I can give it back to you.” I bluffed.

“Fine. I’ll have to deal with it myself.”

“I’ll see you in the morning. How’s ten o’clock? Your place or the Henley House? Hello?” I frowned at the phone. “Well, how do you like that? She hung up. Now I have to call her back and settle on a time and place.”

Jack peered up from his ice cream and grinned. “Your point. Don’t ruin it by calling her back tonight. That’s what she wants.”

“You’re right. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” I fished out my agenda. “Let me just make a note to do it first. Hey, have you seen my lucky pen?”

Jack shook his head.

“I didn’t mean you,” I said, giving Truffle and Sweet Marie a look. “I meant the resident thieves.”

“Innocent until proven guilty. It’ll show up,” Jack said. “It doesn’t really matter what you use, does it? Try mine.”

It did to me, but I kept that to myself.

Jack was saying, “I’m glad you didn’t let her push you around. Hey, weren’t there three tubs of this stuff?”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t we split the third to celebrate your close call? And then we can move on to the Mars bars.”

“Someday, I hope to find a man who values me for myself and not my Mars bars,” I said. A face popped into my mind. Big sad eyes. I nipped that in the bud. I deserved better. So did his wife.

Truffle and Sweet Marie wagged their tails.

“You’re right, guys. I have you.”

 
What possessed me to flick on the local news before bed? I should know better. My routine is to tidy up my apartment, polish off any e-mails, and turn off the computer. Then I write out my next day’s to-do list, lay out my clothes, brush and floss, slather on green tea face cream, and curl up between my yummy silky sheets with a book. Not too exciting, I admit. Just relaxing, fragrant, soothing activities to ensure a good night’s sleep. But for whatever the reason, that night I flicked the remote and sat back.

WINY hotshot Todd Tyrell flashed his super-white phony smile across the screen. I flinched, but then I always do when I see his face. My finger automatically moved toward the Off button, when I spotted the scene behind him. My finger stayed suspended as the camera panned to the crumpled blue Honda I’d seen that afternoon. Usually I tune out Todd Tyrell’s irritating voice. He hypes up every mundane event in the region.

Todd ran a manicured hand slightly over his gelled hair. “Police in Woodbridge have confirmed that the body found in a vehicle in uptown late this afternoon was the victim of a drive-by shooting.”

This time the camera panned to Pepper as she barked orders to uniformed officers around the car. The camera lingered on her a bit longer than was absolutely necessary for news value. She put up her hand to wave them away, but I couldn’t help but notice she turned to show her most flattering angle. I’d seen her practice that in front of the mirror often enough.

Ignore Pepper, I told myself. I thought the nonuniformed people must have been forensic technicians or crime-scene investigators. Thanks to television, I know way more than I want to about stuff like that.

Todd’s mouth hadn’t stopped moving. “Police have not revealed the name of the deceased, but WINY has learned unofficially that the victim, a fifty-nine-year-old female Caucasian, had been shot a short time before crashing her 1986 Honda into the parking gate near a busy grocery store. A dying woman was able to weave her car down a major street without being seen, without the police being called, and without a single soul coming to help. When respectable women are being murdered in this town, has Woodbridge become unsafe for its citizens? Stay tuned to WINY as details of this gripping story unfold.”

As a recent resident of New York City, I had a tendency to roll my eyes when Todd Tyrell went on his pet rants about personal security in the area. Leave it to Mr. Toothy to turn a tragedy like this into yet another opportunity for self-aggrandizement.

But while I tossed and turned that night, I did wonder what was going on in safe little Woodbridge.

3

Miss Henley didn’t answer her phone when I called right after breakfast to confirm the place for our meeting. It was just like her not to have an answering machine. The ball stayed in my court.

I’d been up since six with plenty to do. I whisked the dogs down the stairs and outside for their early-morning routine. While I had a quick shower and shampoo, they slithered back to bed.

I worked out the project plan on paper first, using my second-best pen. I polished up the contract based on my estimate, using the boilerplate form in my computer. I added the unique details and included a formula for extra fees if the job held any surprises. In this case, surprises wouldn’t surprise me. At nine I made a few calls and got my sorters and packers lined up, subject to the signing of the contract that morning. I arranged for a truck and got a great deal on short-term storage plus a quote for the insurance rider to cover my staff. At nine thirty, I pressed Print.

Things were moving along. I called Sally to set a time to drop in to see her, the kids, and the wall-to-wall toys. I didn’t mention I was heading out to see Hellfire Henley first.

She said, “Dallas and Madison are so excited about the toy project. Even baby Savannah. They’ve got it narrowed down to fifteen favorite items each.”

“Seven,” I said. “Absolute maximum.”

“What a kidder. By the way, bring your puppies. That will be great.”

Oh, sure it would. There are good reasons why Sally’s life is full of love and chaos. I tried Miss Henley a half hour later. No answer. No machine. I made several other attempts in between other tasks.

I doubled-checked Miss Henley’s home address and then reached for my car keys. I am always careful to place them in the attractive lacquered tray on the hall console near my door. The tray was empty. I whirled. Two small intelligent faces watched me with interest. I raised my voice. “Not again!”

A pair of streaks vanished from view.

“No damn wonder you two had to be rescued. You’re nothing but thieves.”

From under the sofa four wicked eyes gleamed. Two sets of pointy teeth grinned.

“How could you get up on that console to get . . . oh, right. Jack just has to move the furniture around every visit. And he thought I’d be up for another dog.”

This was an excellent game as far as the pooches were concerned. Perfect, if you had four feet and no prioritized to-do list.

After five minutes of checking behind the hamper, under the sofa, and in my newspaper basket, I said, “Okay, I give up. Find the keys and we’ll drive to the park.”

Well, who would have thought to check in my slippers? Next time, I’d start there.

I gave Truffle and Sweet Marie a stern finger wagging. “But there’d better not be a next time.”

 
I turned on the car radio and caught the tail end of the news. “Woodbridge Police have released the name of yesterday’s shooting victim. Fifty-nine-year-old Wynona Banks was gunned down while at the wheel of her car, which later crashed into a barrier at the end of Hudson Street. Mrs. Banks was pronounced dead on arrival at Woodbridge General Hospital. No further details are available.”

I shivered. I’d never heard of Wynona Banks, but I felt a wave of pity. What a terrible way to end your life. I flicked off the radio.

Ten minutes later, I pulled up in front of Miss Henley’s small, neat federal-style house on the historic fringe of uptown Woodbridge. I left Truffle and Sweet Marie in the car with the window down an inch. Any more and they could wiggle out and head for Vegas.

“Just a quick visit, you guys,” I said. “Then we hit the park. Not that you deserve it, but there’s no rain today.”

I buzzed and waited, knowing how she liked to keep people waiting. Ten minutes later, I concluded that no amount of buzzing and knocking would get an answer.

Fine. Time to try the Henley House. I headed straight for the car, where the dogs had managed to knock over my briefcase and drag out the contents. Luckily, I’d had the quote and contract for Miss Henley with me. Your fault, toots, their expressions said. You were gone soooo long.

I reassembled my briefcase, lectured the dogs sternly, and gunned the Miata.

 
Miss Henley’s Town Car was parked at a dashing angle near the far end of the long driveway outside the number one moldering ruin in Woodbridge.

I took the dogs with me. I didn’t feel like putting my briefcase back together yet again. This would be quick. We marched toward the massive front door. Oddly enough, I was feeling well disposed toward Miss Henley. Thanks to her, I’d learned to stand up to people I was afraid of. I could stare down the most deranged client, the vilest colleague, the slimiest ex-fiancé. This was truly a gift that kept on giving.

The heavy front door stood open. Truffle and Sweet Marie bounded up the stairs.

“Miss Henley,” I called when I reached the door. I waited, shivering a bit in the nippiness. Winter was already in the air. The dogs shivered too. This would be our first winter together. Maybe they were going to need little coats.

“Miss Henley,” I called louder this time. The dogs added their voices to mine, not that this was helpful. “Sorry I’m late. I thought you were at your home.

“Shh, you guys,” I said to the dogs. “This is hard enough.”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

At least the dogs had stopped barking. I stepped inside and shouted. “Miss Henley! It’s Charlotte.”

As I waited, Truffle and Sweet Marie dashed past me and tore through the path in the mile-high newspapers lining the hallway, knocking over a garden rake propped next to one of the stacks and sending a baseball bat rolling.

Oh crap. That was all I needed. What if Miss Henley flattened them with a broom?

“Truffle! Sweet Marie! Come back.”

I narrowly avoided stepping on the rake and probably knocking myself out. I pushed the baseball bat off to the side.

In the kitchen I found no sign of Miss Henley or the dogs. Not good. Somewhere in the distance Truffle and Sweet Marie set up a wild racket. The barking sounded like it was coming from the dining room. I ran, stumbling over bits of debris, old toy cars, empty cornflakes boxes, and a clothesline. I narrowly missed crashing into two oak beams leaning at crazy angles. I’d already made a note to get those put away safely as soon as the team showed up. I kept an eye out for more beams as I careened through the junk.

The stiletto boots were not made for running. I tripped and snagged my best hose on a pile of rusty springs scattered on the floor. Finally I rounded a corner and spotted Truffle and Sweet Marie. They were yipping at a pile of newspapers that had toppled over and blocked the path. They must have cornered a mouse. Or worse, that cat.

“Come away and leave whatever it is.”

Okay, so obedience is not their best thing.

“Miss Henley will tear strips off us for making this mess even worse, you turkeys.”

I reached forward to scoop them up and stopped, stunned. I climbed over the fallen stack of paper. I pushed the dogs away and fell to my knees. Sticking out from under the toppled pile was a pair of shoes, black patent, with small gold buckles. Classy, expensive. Roberto Capucci’s unless I was mistaken.