The Goodbye Body (11 page)

“Was the body in a freezer?”

“What did you first think, Ms. Malloy, when—”

“Is this the first time a body has—”

“Could we have a word with you, Ms. Malloy, about how you—”

“Lieutenant, do you have any suspects?”

Despite the increasingly frenzied jumble of questions and demands, the only noise I could truly hear was a howl of outrage from a Jacuzzi on the second floor.

I did not sleep well, but my expectations had been low and I hadn’t looked forward to strangling myself in the sheets if the nightmares became too vivid. Which they might have. I took an unusually long shower and assiduously avoided looking at my reflection as I brushed my teeth. Poor little man, I thought as I went downstairs, started a pot of coffee, and stuck a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. Not only had he been murdered, but he’d also been carted around like a mannequin. The crimes I’d encountered in the past had been motivated by passion and anger. This one was coldblooded, to put it mildly.

The toast popped up and the coffeepot stopped gurgling. I conscientiously switched off the alarm system and opened the front door, poised to slam it if any reporters had camped overnight or arrived under cover of the dawn’s early light. The lawn was a muddy mess, but the coast appeared to be clear. I darted out to the driveway, grabbed the newspaper, and retreated without being captured on film for all of Farberville to scrutinize.

Peter and I had agreed that I should stay away from the Book Depot until the media coyotes had moved along to their next hyperbolic crisis. Even a few days of no income would come back to haunt me at the end of the month. I was still paying utilities for my apartment, but I figured I could argue my case with Mr. Kalker, pointing out that the dwelling was uninhabitable due solely to his neglect. It was worth a try. And, of course, Caron and I would save a bundle when I renounced our carnivorous ways. It would be an interesting conversation.

I poured a cup of coffee, fetched butter and jam from the refrigerator, and settled down on a stool for a peaceful breakfast. And promptly choked on a mouthful of coffee as I stared at my photograph on the front page, with a headline that proclaimed
LOCAL BOOKSTORE OWNER FINDS CADAVER IN FREEZER.
The photograph was far from flattering. My eyes were rounded, as was my mouth, as if I’d been stung by a hornet. Peter was scowling with the fury of a Samurai warrior. His hair, which had been ruffled during our charming interlude in the hallway, stuck up in tufts. We could have been celebrities sneaking out of a sleazy motel room at some unholy hour in the morning, unaware that the paparazzi had gathered like maggots on a dead animal.

I moved on to the article. The reporter had done his best to imply there was something scandalous afoot, but was obliged by what ethical standards he’d picked up in Journalism 102 to acknowledge that it was ten o’clock in the evening and we were both, sadly enough, fully clothed and superficially sober. Details about our names, careers, and current addresses had been provided, along with a rehash of Peter’s homicide cases and my occasional contributions to some of them. With almost no information released about the crime itself, column inches, like dental cavities, had to be filled. Jorgeson had declined to comment, as had the medical examiner and the uniformed officers who’d struggled to constrain the media to the driveway and yard. I suspected there would be quite a few comments being made in the sanctity of the PD—and primarily of a derisive nature. Farberville’s chief of police had undoubtedly choked on more than a mouthful of coffee.

The story continued onto a second page. An ambitious underling in the newsroom had ferreted out a photograph of Dolly at a formal affair, surrounded by local luminaries. She was identified as the owner of the house “in which this vicious murder” had taken place. The only personal tidbits they’d uncovered were quotes lauding her charitable activities. They’d found nothing about her background prior to moving to Farberville, but it was early in the day. Without a chainsaw murder, a school bus crash, or the arrest of a college athlete, they certainly would pursue it. Farberville provides them with few sensational stories in the summer months, which often leaves them with nothing more newsworthy than a boating accident or a fender bender in a discount-store parking lot.

I was rereading the article when the doorbell rang. I was hardly in the mood to have a camera stuck in my face. I did want to talk to Peter, however, to find out if he’d identified the body. It was possible Madison had finally decided to drag herself back, wagging her shapely tail behind her. Dolly might have taken a cab from the airport. The victim might have slipped out of the morgue and come looking for his watch. Or cows might be flying in formation across the sky, mooing happily as they migrated north to the cornfields of Nebraska. Nothing would have surprised me.

I went to the door and opened it a few inches. There was definitely someone there, but he or she was hidden behind a vast flower arrangement that had missed no hues in the spectrum, or species in a botanical garden.

“Claire Malloy?” mumbled a male voice. “Delivery.”

“Come in,” I said. I wasn’t completely convinced this was not a pernicious ploy perpetrated by a reporter, and I was more than ready to snatch a snapdragon from the arrangement and retaliate.

A septuagenarian with dark, deeply creased skin, a dusting of gray hair, and a well-trimmed beard and mustache peered at me from behind a spray of lilies. “Can I put this down, lady? It must weigh a ton, and my back ain’t what it used to be. I shined shoes at the student union for forty years, always bent over with my polish and rags. It wasn’t nearly as bad as this job. My kids keep telling me to quit and stay home, but I ain’t about to spend my years watching those damn fool talk shows. Afore too long, I’d be talking to my dog. Let me tell you, he’s one stupid dog. I tell him to fetch, he just lies there farting and twitching his legs. When he starts answering me, that’s when I’ll quit.”

I took the flowers, which were indeed very heavy, and set them on the dining room table. “Would you like a cup of coffee before you leave?”

“That’d be real nice. You are Claire Malloy, aren’t you? I’m supposed to have you sign for this on account of how expensive it is.”

I took the proffered pad and scribbled my name. “Cream, sugar?”

He followed me into the kitchen and sat down. “Black’s fine. In all my years at the student union, I never forgot a face. You look familiar, but I can’t rightly place you.” He glanced down at my sandals and sniffed. “Don’t reckon I polished the likes of those. Maybe you were a student. A lot of the self-proclaimed liberals used to stop by the stand and say good morning. Made ‘em feel good, I suppose, letting us underprivileged minority folks know they cared.”

I set a cup in front of him, then said, “I didn’t go to school here. My husband taught English, but I never had a reason to go to the student union.”

He was still studying me. “I guess you’d know if you did. You look familiar, though, and I’m going to worry about it all night.”

I folded the newspaper to the front page and slid it across the island. “Because of this?”

“Oh, that. I glanced at it before I went to work. Is this really you? If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you stuck a fork in an outlet. Did you really find a dead man in the freezer?” He cackled. “He’d have to be dead, wouldn’t he? Freezers are mighty cold.”

“Yes, they are,” I said, nodding.

“The cops think you did it? Is that why this Lieutenant Rosen was questioning you so late? Looks like you and him had quite a tussle.”

“We did not have a tussle, and I am not a suspect.” Abruptly, I wondered if I was. Surely not. Peter had heard the whole sordid chain of events. His superiors, on the other hand, were less impressed by my indisputable investigative prowess, and quite possibly would enjoy nothing more than to see me implicated. I’d spend my last nickel on lawyers, lose the store, and be forced to move somewhere where the redolence of notoriety would not cling to me like stale cigarette smoke. Mr. Kalker would immediately rent out my apartment to drug dealers and pornographers who could pay exorbitant rent. Caron and I would not sleep comfortably in my hatchback. Both of us might end up shoveling manure at the pig farm.

“Hey, lady,” the delivery man said, patting my hand, “don’t go getting all upset. I was just making a joke. It says right here that this isn’t even your house. Where’s the woman who lives here? Shouldn’t she be the one to explain about the body in the freezer?”

“She asked me to house-sit so she could visit her sister.” I took a swallow of coffee. “The police are trying to track her down.”

He stared at me. “Visit her sister? Is that all she said? If I was going to visit my sister, all I’d have to do is go to the cemetery. Maybe she’s pulling a fast one on you, honey, trying to make you look guilty on account of something she did. Didn’t she leave a phone number in case you need to get hold of her? What do you know about her, anyway?”

It was oddly comforting to talk to someone who was interested, but at the same time disinterested. He probably wouldn’t have cared if I’d broken down and confessed to the evil deed. Then again, he might have deemed me unworthy of the flowers and hauled them off to the cemetery. “I thought I knew her pretty well,” I said, “but now I’m not sure. I happened to look through her papers—”

“On account of how they fell in your lap?”

He and Peter would make a fine team, I thought irritably. I should have run him off, but the house was peaceful and he was an astute listener. And, for the most part, nonjudgmen-tal. “Your name is … ?”

“Call me Cal. So you snooped through her papers? Find anything?”

“Not really.” Sighing, I refilled his cup and mine, then sat down across from him. “There wasn’t one thing that related to her life before she moved to Farberville several months ago. It’s as if she was swooped up in a tornado and deposited here with nothing more than a very respectable bank balance.” I tried to remember what I’d noticed on her bank statements. “And a very respectable deposit every month, for that matter.”

“Where’s the money come from?” he asked, leaning forward.

“I don’t know. I think it’s transferred, most likely from a trust. Her husband was rich.”

He looked around the kitchen. “No question about that. You sure you don’t know how to get in touch with her so she can explain about the body? She doesn’t sound like much of a friend if she just waltzed off and left you to deal with the police. I’ll bet she hasn’t even bothered to call you since she left. Some friend she is!”

Now I felt the need to defend Dolly, even though his assessment had a degree of validity. “If she had any idea about this mess, I’m sure she would fly home immediately. All she did was go to visit her sister in Dallas.”

“You know for certain she went to Dallas?”

“Of course she did,” I said. “My daughter took her to the airport.”

“And watched her get on the plane?”

“No, but I’m sure the police will confirm it. And she did call from Dallas the next night.”

Cal nodded slowly, like a bobble-headed judge with a flask in his hip pocket. “Then she must be in Dallas, because she called and told you that she was in Dallas. You interested in investing in a mighty fine parcel of swampland out by the sewage plant? Even my dog knows enough to stick up his nose when he smells something rancid. You sure she even has a sister? She ever mention a name?”

It occurred to me that I’d not seen a single photograph in the house, not even of her beloved Bibi. No casual snapshots from a vacation, or more formal shots of the two of them attired to tango. “I don’t know if she has a sister,” I admitted grumpily, “but if she wanted to spend a couple of weeks relaxing at a resort or having discreet cosmetic surgery, all she had to do was say so. Why would she bother to lie about it?”

“Why was there a body in her freezer?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you, the police, and the media. If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to do. Thanks so much for delivering the flowers.”

He trailed me to the front door, then paused. “Anytime you want to talk to ol’
Cal, just give me a call.” He put a slip of paper in my hand. “Here’s my home number. I don’t get out much at night on account of my eyesight not being what it used to be. If a dog answers, hang up and try later.”

I thanked him again. He drove away in a muddy white minivan with a large, stylized rose painted on its side. I returned to the dining room, moved Madison’s offering to a sideboard, and then hunted for a card among the roses, lilies, carnations, daisies, birds-of-paradise, gladioli, dahlias, snapdragons, and sprigs of greenery. After an unpleasant encounter with a thorn, I gave up. Whoever had shelled out big bucks for the flowers would have to identify himself if he wanted credit. They might be from Peter, I thought as I stood at the sliding glass door and watched birds hopping about in the grass in search of the elusive early worm. I considered calling him, then decided to wait until later in the day, when he might have information about the identity of the body or even Dolly’s whereabouts. In Dallas, I told myself firmly. Visiting her sister. Having a problem with the telephone company, as we all did on occasion.

I was rinsing the coffee cups in the kitchen sink when the doorbell rang. If flowers were to be delivered at this rate, the house would soon resemble a funeral chapel—or a little shop of horrors. Inez would have an asthma attack. Caron would achieve a personal best in sarcasm. Sara Louise would be politely appalled at the gaucheness.