A Conventional Corpse Read online

  “Shut your mouth!” the waitress snapped. “Not one of you peckerwoods would recognize a paycheck if it bit you on the ankle. Unless you want to deal with me, sit still and let this lady be about her business.”

  “Thanks,” I said to her, then went out to my car and continued down the road. Hester’s House of Curls was less than imposing, but easy to spot due to a sign with a bleached depiction of a woman with violet hair. I turned onto what soon became a dirt road, passed a pond so covered with muck that even an atheist could have walked across it and scored a miracle, and saw a mailbox with the name Threety spelled out with plastic letters.

  A dozen or so cars and tracks were parked in the yard of the farmhouse. Children were shrieking in the adjoining pasture, unmindful of the proximity of tragedy. Feeling as though I should have brought flowers or a covered dish, I went up to the porch and was about to knock when the door opened.

  “Come right on in,” said an apron-clad woman with wispy brown hair and stained teeth. “Ammie’s folks are receiving visitors in the parlor. Will you be staying for lunch?”

  “No, but thank you.” I came into the entry hall. I presumed that the parlor would be overflowing with sympathizers, but the only two occupants were a very worn, gray-complected couple on the sofa. Neither looked up as I came into the room.

  “I’m Claire Malloy,” I said as I sat down on a chair across from them. “We’re all so sorry about your loss.”

  The woman blinked at me. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us now that Ammie’s gone. One of our sons joined the Navy and was killed in some sort of training mishap in California. The other died of cancer just last year. Ammie was all we had left. We never thought we’d outlive our children. They were all supposed to be at our funerals out in the family cemetery behind the orchard. Now all three will be there first.”

  I leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “I didn’t know Ammie well, but she seemed like a vibrant young woman with wonderful dreams.”

  “She should have got married and started a family,” the man said gruffly. “Nobody in these parts needs dreams. Time and again I’d catch her curled up in her room, all weepy over some story in a book. And those notebooks of hers! I told her if I ever caught her scribbling when it was time to get supper started or tend to the animals, I’d bum every last one of them.”

  I gave myself a moment before I responded. “But she did drop out of college to run your hardware store, didn’t she?”

  “Reckon so,” he admitted.

  The woman gave me a trembly smile. “It’s so kind of you to come. Would you like some coffee? There’s all kinds of salads and casseroles in the kitchen. My sister brought her lemon icebox pie. It’s real tasty.”

  I was painfully aware that I was there under false pretenses, and I almost wished I could disappear into the upholstery like a drip of water on the cushion on which I was seated. “Thank you very much, but I can’t stay. I’m a committee member from the mystery convention that Ammie was planning to attend in Farberville, and I need to get back shortly. I was wondering if anyone else from the convention came by.”

  “You mean that woman from New York?” the man said. “I disremember her name, but she told us how she was Ammie’s teacher back in college and just happened to be in Farberville for this thing. Ammie had no business signing up for it. If she hadn’t gone into town last night, right now she’d be at the store. She was going to sing a solo at church in the morning. Every evening for the last two weeks I could hear her practicing while she weeded the garden.”

  “Did the woman from New York say anything else?” I asked, despite an urge to poke myself in the eye with the nearest sharp object, which in this situation, appropriately enough, was a poker beside the fireplace.

  Ammie’s mother sniffled. “She promised to do what she could to have Ammie’s stories published as a memorial. She said it depended on whether or not they were any good, but she was willing to fix ‘em up. She’s going to send us a letter after she’s had a chance to read them. We could use a little money to help with funeral expenses.”

  “So she took the notebooks with her?” I asked.

  “I showed her up to Ammie’s room and left her there. Twenty minutes later she came back downstairs with an armload of them. She was staggering like a three-legged calf when she went out to her car.”

  “And that was at about eleven?”

  “Closer to ten-thirty,” the woman said, frowning. “Folks were beginning to arrive, and the preacher wanted to spend some time praying with us and making arrangements for the service. It’s going to be tomorrow afternoon. I hope you’ll be able to join us.”

  I looked at them. Neither had noble foreheads or aristocratic noses. Jowls rather than cheekbones defined their faces. Their eyes were clouded. I wanted to fling myself into their arms and promise to operate the hardware store until the time came when Caron (their adopted but nevertheless devoted grandchild) and I stood over their graves and tossed in handfuls of ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust.

  “Please let me know,” I said as I stood up. “I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed for Ammie’s registration. It won’t be much, but I hope it helps.”

  Ammie’s father narrowed his eyes. “This woman that came earlier this morning—she ain’t stealing Ammie’s stories, is she?”

  I smiled as tactfully as I could. “Ammie’s stories are likely to be more important to you and your family than they might be in terms of literary value. I’ll do my best to make sure they’re returned to you.”

  “She coming to the service?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, then went back out to the porch and down the steps to my car. A mud-splattered white car was parked next to it, and my four new friends from the café were staring at me as I walked across the lawn.

  ‘Too early for the catfish to bite?” I asked as I dug my key out of my purse and unlocked the car door.

  Ed sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m from the FBI. Whenever there’s an accident, we conduct an informal investigation. Any illegally-converted guns in your car? Bottle of whiskey in the glove compartment? Plastic bag of marijuana under the seat? Amphetamines rolling around on the mats? Should I be calling for backup?”

  “Got your panties in a knot, don’cha?” drawled one of the blond wunderkinden “Want me to give you a hand?”

  I went over to their car and thumped his head with my knuckles. “The only hand that’s involved in this is the one I’ll use to rip that pathetic wisp of hair off your chinny-chin-chin. Were you this charming with the woman from New York earlier this morning?”

  “The look she gave us was enough to wither our balls,” Ed said. “We followed her all the way into Farberville, hoping she’d repent and give Squamus here a chance to achieve his manhood, if you know what I mean, but she—”

  “Don’t go talking about me,” the driver snarled. “I done it with your mother last week, and she squealed louder than either of your sisters.”

  I hastily intervened. “You followed her into Farberville?”

  Ed unclenched his fist and sat back. “We wasn’t gonna do anything. She parked in front of some big ol’ brick house and darted inside. We waited around, drinking beer and watching the college girls strut along the sidewalk, but then a cop car showed up. There weren’t no way Squamus could get it up after that, so we came back here. Any chance you might . . . ?”

  “Oh, definitely,” I said, smiling. “Why don’t all of you boys be at the cemetery in Farberville at midnight? Bring a blanket and a six-pack. My grandmother was buried only yesterday, so the soil at her grave will be nice and soft.”

  “Sicko!” the driver yelled as the engine roared. The other three occupants expressed equally derogatory parting opinions as the car bounced over a cattle guard and up the road.

  To the best of my knowledge, one of my grandmothers was buried in a churchyard in Scotland. The whereabouts of the other was a bit of a mystery.

  Roxanne Small’s act
ivities were less so. She had made the condolence call, taken Ammie’s notebooks and manuscript with her, and had been chased back to the Azalea Inn by a quartet of inbred troglodytes.

  I wasn’t quite sure why she’d offered to do her best to have Ammie’s stories published posthumously. The gesture had been kindly, but not realistic, as Roxanne had well known. It was challenging to think that guilt had kicked in after all these years. Academia was more a stalking than a happy hunting ground; in my limited experience as a graduate student, I’d quickly learned that the trite “publish or perish” gleefully emphasized the latter. One of my professors had resigned to sail around the world after a journal rejected his article deconstructing Chaucer’s earlier efforts (which, for the record, no one outside of my seminar has ever been obliged to read).

  Ammie was less likely to have produced stories that might compete with The Canterbury Tales. Laureen Parks had felt, however, that Ammie’s seriously overworked manuscript held some promise. Roxanne Small must have agreed that the potential existed, despite the bleak reality that in most cases, it did not. Anyone willing to churn out a hundred thousand words can write a novel. And anyone with a hacksaw can perform brain surgery.

  I replayed my conversation with Ammie’s parents, but I could recall nothing they’d said about Roxanne that implied she had learned something, or had found proof that someone currently staying at the Azalea Inn was responsible for Ammie’s death. But she must have, and confronted this person in the garden—while backing too close to the cistern.

  And then there was Arnie, I thought despondently. Could he have been grappling with Roxanne when she went over the edge of the wall? Weight-wise, it was a fair match.

  I was not a happy camper as I drove back to Farberville. I was, considering how distraught I was, damn lucky to have made it intact.

  Chapter

  10

  Lily was sitting on the steps of the front porch of the Azalea Inn when I drove up. Her knees were splayed rather cradely, but as far as I could tell, there were no blood splatters on her clothes or a particularly disturbed look in her eyes. This was not to imply I might have proffered an invitation to spend an evening on my sofa with pizza, cheap wine, and video rentals.

  “Are the police gone?” I asked.

  She gestured at the curb. “Look for yourself.”

  “Well, I suppose they are,” I said lamely. “Did any of them have something significant to say?”

  “They stormed around the garden, causing irreparable damage, and then searched Ms. Small’s room as if it were a prison cell. One of them had me sign a receipt for a laptop computer. Why would they think I cared? They could have taken her luggage and thrown it off the bridge, or piled it in the alley and set fire to it This woman brought a curse on the Azalea Inn, as have you, Ms. Malloy. All I’ve ever wanted to do is create a nonviolent ambiance where we can all celebrate nature in an embracing environment. Hypoallergenic soap, healthy meals, cotton sheets with a two-hundred thread count—”

  “Can it” I said as I sat down beside her. “Did the police take anything besides the laptop?”

  “No. They spent less than half an hour in her room, then told me to leave everything as is until they get in touch with someone. I do hope they’re not planning a seance. The last thing I need are diaphanous netherworld creatures who go bump in the night. The azaleas will positively shrivel.”

  “Why, Lily, is it possible you have a sense of humor?”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  I sat back and looked at her. “I shudder to imagine your past lives. How old are you this round?”

  “Thirty-one. In case you were going to ask, which I presume you were, I have a master’s degree in art history and seven years of experience as a curator in a museum in Taos. When the Twiller trust informed me that I could have this house, I trampled over all the clay-splattered potters and purveyors of puerile watercolors in my haste to escape. I ran down three tourists clad in khaki shorts and Ray-Bans on my way out of town. I may have outstanding warrants, but I have no regrets.”

  I sucked in a smile. “You made the decision by yourself? Wasn’t that intimidating?”

  “I had no choice. All the bikers with the really good tattoos were headed toward Callfornia.”

  “So you came here and opened an inn?”

  “And without a clue,” she admitted. “I thought I could be a beacon of personal integrity, but all I’ve done since then is compromise. I even allowed a couple to bring their parrot last month. Birds are filthy creatures, Ms. Malloy. I myself will never sleep in the Hibiscus Room due to the possibility of air-borne diseases. Now I’ve allowed smoking, and I have no doubt that blasted cat was wandering around before you arrived. I’ve made an appointment for a double-session with my aromatherapist for tomorrow evening. They will all be gone by then, will they not?”

  “That’s up to the police,” I said, dearly hoping she would be proved right. “Were you in the kitchen when Roxanne Small came back this morning?”

  Lily nodded. “I’d just finished slicing the scallions when she came in and asked for a cup of coffee. I told her she’d have to settle for tea and offered to bring it to her in the sitting room. Most of my guests understand that this is not a fast-food establishment with a pimply adolescent eagerly awaiting the chance to dunk another batch of frozen french fries in rancid oil.”

  “Did Ms. Small complain?”

  “She said that tea would be fine, then went upstairs. She was not in the parlor ten minutes later when I took in a tray. In that the basil required my immediate attention, I left everything on the table.” She glanced at me. “The police officers were brusque. May I assume there’s no implication that my herbal blend was a factor?”

  This had not occurred to me, although it was possible Lily had been tutored in Taos by a homicidal New Age shaman. “Nothing’s been suggested. Have you ever seen the man who was found in the cistern? Could he have been skulking around this morning?”

  “Unless his name was Basil Rathbone, I couldn’t say. I was chopping. Had there been blood and guts on the cutting board, I most likely would have noticed. I do not have a security guard in the garden. The gate is latched but not locked.”

  “What about your other guests? They were drifting in about that time, weren’t they?”

  “Indeed they were,” Lily muttered darkly. “The one with the flamboyant hair insisted on making a long-distance call. We finally agreed that she could use the phone in my office, as long as she reversed the charges. She was shrieking about Larry King when I left the room. The one with the English accent thanked me for the tea I’d so thoughtfully left for her. The smoker had the audacity to ask for matches; I suggested that she go outside and find sticks to rub together, preferably on the railroad tracks while a freight train approached. Later, the woman with the cat banged open the kitchen door and demanded to know if I’d chopped up her precious pet and added it to the pesto. I assured her that all of my dishes are strictly vegetarian.”

  “And the gentleman?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Gentleman? There is no gentleman in residence at the Azalea Inn. If you’re referring to that foul-tempered boor, I heard his voice in the sunroom, but I did not scurry out to drop a curtsy and offer to draw him a bath. The only thing he deserves to soak in is a vat of sulfuric acid. I shall cheerfully sacrifice a towel or two.”

  “Did you notice to whom he was speaking?”

  “Most likely God. He seems to feel as though they’re peers.” She stood up. “I’d better get started on the crescent rolls, unless the supper is to be held elsewhere. If so, the foundation is still going to have to reimburse me for expenses. Stone-ground wheat is not cheap.”

  I had a feeling that yellow crime scene tape around the cistern would be interpreted as nothing more ominous than artful decoration. “Lieutenant Rosen didn’t say anything to suggest as much, did he?”

  “He asked me where the hell you were,” Lily said with a smirk as she disappeared inside, leaving me
to feel like the ninny I was. Caron and Inez were more subtle—or at least more adept in verbal subterfuge. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Ms. McLair had appeared on the sidewalk and demanded to know when I intended to turn in my term paper. The topic would not be the intricacies of immaculate conception.

  I brooded for a moment, considering certain biological processes beyond my control, then went down to the rental car parked at the curb and peered into it. With the exception of a neatly-folded road map, the seats and floor were pristine. The notebooks that Roxanne had collected at Ammie’s house must have been taken inside the inn. According to Lily, the police had not removed them from the Hibiscus Room. Had they been tossed in the cistern, the peculiarity of their presence would have warranted a comment from the paramedics or the investigators.

  “Therefore,” I mumbled to myself as I returned to the porch and eased open the door. Hoping that Lily was up to her elbows in dough, I glanced around the sitting room, then tiptoed up the creaky staircase.

  Roxanne’s room was not locked. I looked (okay, snooped) in the closet, under the bed, and in the cabinets in the bathroom. The one suitcase she’d brought was undoubtedly less tidy than when she’d packed it, but there were no notebooks beneath Victoria’s sexy secrets and a bottle of gin. The manuscripts on the dresser bore coffee stains and notations in pencil. None of them was thick enough to be Ammie’s six-hundred-page masterpiece of murder, passion, political conspiracy, alien abductions, sabotage in the Middle East, and whatever else she’d come up with over the last ten years.

  So where had Roxanne stashed the notebooks and manuscript she took from Ammie’s bedroom? She’d come directly to the Azalea Inn. Aware that she was being followed in a blatantly menacing fashion, she’d hurried inside. The boys from the boondocks had remained out front until the first police car appeared.

  Her briefcase and purse had been left on the bed. The former contained only a few letters and faxes regarding manuscripts in production, a galley with the unpromising title of “Celebrate Your Cellulite,” and a copy of Allegra’s tour schedule, much scribbled upon with telephone numbers, deletions, revisions, and notes to contact various media people. The purse contained loose change, an airplane ticket, a car key with a plastic tag, a worn nail file, a wallet with more cash and credit cards than any one woman needed for a lifetime, and empty gum wrappers.