A Conventional Corpse Page 15

The combatants were in the hall as I emerged. “Empty-handed, I see,” Walter said. “Where’s all the damning evidence when you need it? A clue, a clue; my kingdom for a clue.”

  Laureen scrutinized the hall. “Did you look in the linen closet?”

  “Sheets and towels,” I said, shrugging. “I’d better call the detectives, although they probably won’t be interested now that they have a suspect in custody.”

  “They do?” said Allegra as they swung around to stare at me as if I’d transmuted myself into Queen Victoria herself in order to pass judgment on the broach.

  I realized they’d been sent on to the student union before the paramedics arrived. “There was a second body in the cistern. He seems to have—well, fallen on top of Roxanne, and her body provided a cushion of sorts. He was unconscious when they fished him out.”

  Walter smirked. “Heavens, I hope he was worthy of her, although I myself would have preferred to land on someone with a bit more flesh. Was he a scorned poet from her past? The campus psycho who resides in the sewer pipes beneath the engineering building? A frat boy who’d recently been assigned to read about Medusa and realized this was his opportunity to emulate a Greek hero? I’m sure Roxanne’s obituary in Publishers Weekly will tactfully omit her familial ties to the Gorgons, but—”

  “But,” Laureen interrupted, “didn’t she have an assistant named Brace who was fired for shoddy pencil-sharpening? He was always very polite when I spoke with him, but he was justifiably nervous that he might lose his job on any given day. I fear Roxanne would have been mortally offended, and I use the phrase intentionally, had he bounced off of her.”

  “Bruce committed suicide in a cold-water flat in Brooklyn,” said Allegra as she finished the gin in her glass. “I think it must be her evil twin. They were joined at birth, after having been obliged to glare at each other in utero for nine months. Major surgery was required to separate them. Now he’s hoping she’ll be an involuntary organ donor.”

  Laureen pretended to consider this. “It’s not hard to decide which of them received the heart, is it? Perhaps that explains why she was so cold-blooded.”

  “Or such a blood-sucker,” Walter said. “If she is indeed Countess Dracula, we must find a wooden stake and get to the morgue before midnight.”

  I stopped short of foaming at the mouth, but just barely. “Your collective lack of compassion continues to astound me. Arnie Riggles is a custodian on the campus. He earns minimum wage, but at least he’s off welfare and has a job—one that none of you would ever deign to do. Not all of us can be ever-so-witty authors, can we? Somebody has to mop the restroom floors and sweep up the popcorn at the football stadium. The more fortunate are allowed to drive your limos and carry your suitcases to your hotel rooms. The less fortunate stand behind fast food counters and wonder how they’ll pay for daycare and antibiotics. They can’t afford thatched cottages in St. Mary Mead, much less condos with hot tubs.”

  “Oh, Claire,” Laureen said, squeezing my arm, “I meant no ridicule. My father was a butcher and my mother cleaned houses. The working class has far greater dignity than we ever will.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Walter, tilting his head so that he could look down his nose at her as though he were a marble general posed atop a prancing steed. “I have risen above the ghetto of genre fiction. My novels are worthy of rigorous analysis by academians and devotees of serious literature. I taught at Harvard before I chose to retreat to an environment more receptive to introspection and spiritual growth. You may feel humbled by your roots, and perhaps you should—it sounds like a dreadfully Dickensian childhood—but I am free of such unbecoming humility. In order to enhance your self-esteem, you might consider writing a novel, and I use the term loosely, in which the heroine does not climb the stairs to investigate bats in the belfry.”

  Laureen had replenished the gin in her glass, and she wasted little time in tossing it in his face. “Don’t make me kill you, Mr. Dahl. It is not an unpalatable idea.”

  “With a dagger?” said Allegra. “Our innkeeper is likely to have a paired set, with inlaid pearl handles. Only the best for Mr. Dahl. We’d better do it before the second session is over, though. Afterwards, the line of volunteer co-conspirators will stretch out to the street and around the corner. Dilys can sell tickets for a dollar a plunge, and we’ll read about it in the next Miss Palmer novel. I myself will write Courting Animosity.”

  I had a feeling the second session might require a disarmament treaty to be signed in advance. “Look,” I said, “I shouldn’t have climbed on that particular soapbox. Arnie’s an alcoholic disaster, who, among other sins, has failed to produce the key to the room where I’d hoped to handle the book signing. I’ll worry about the missing notebooks later. Please take my car and drive to Old Main, where you should have no difficulty parking. Caron and Inez will be lurking; one of them can bring Sherry Lynne and Dilys back here, then pick you up at five o’clock. Let’s please just get through the rest of the day without this level of acrimony.”

  Laureen patted my cheek. “You poor thing. Here you are playing Nancy Drew, and no one is taking you seriously. We will toddle off and behave like the professionals we are, and charm the polyester pants off the attendees this afternoon and this evening. It would be nice if you could arrange to sell books at some point, but murder can be pesky.” She gave Allegra a nudge toward the staircase, then opened her purse and took out a tissue. “Do dry your face, Mr. Dahl. You look as though you have some tropical disease that is causing your skin to slither. The car key, Claire?”

  I handed it to her, and to my amazement, they did toddle off. Acerbic remarks may have drifted behind them as they retreated, but death by dagger was not mentioned within my hearing.

  I’d searched all the rooms on the second floor, and I couldn’t envision Roxanne methodically shredding hundreds and hundreds of pages and flushing them. Perhaps I really should share this with Farberville’s finest, I thought, although I doubted they would find it anything more than the ravings of a most unwelcome meddlesome snoop. Peter’s eyes would roll, while Jorgeson’s would converge with unhealthy intensity on the nearest inanimate object.

  On a brighter note, access to Room 103 might be on Arnie’s bedside table at the hospital. With luck, I might be able to remove his key ring, and then relocate the boxes of books to the Azalea Inn before the picnic supper. I wasn’t sure how I would do this, but I was ready to carry the books halfway up Mount Everest if that’s what it took to sell them.

  Once again, however, I was without a car, and the hospital was a good three miles away. Lily might, if pressed, offer me the loan of an ecologically-appropriate bicycle. I could wait for Caron or Inez to bring Sherry Lynne and Dilys back to the inn, but it seemed more likely that Sherry Lynne would opt to search for Wimple. Dilys might inquire about the nearest mall, and either or both chauffeurs would happily accommodate her. It was, after all, Saturday afternoon.

  It occurred to me that there was a car out front, albeit one I was not technically authorized to drive. I returned to Roxanne’s room, took the key from her purse, and went downstairs. After making sure the notebooks and manuscript were not in the trunk of the car or under a seat, I drove away, feeling as if I were Hertz’s worst nightmare.

  When I approached the information desk in the lobby of the hospital, I was relieved to see that the shift had changed. “Arnie Riggles?” I said, the epitome of bright-eyed and excessively bushy-tailed optimism.

  One of the women punched buttons on a computer. “He’s in police custody,” she said. “No visitors allowed.”

  “I’m his sister,” I confided. “His little sister. I drove all the way from Tennessee to be with him. I would have been here sooner if I hadn’t been obliged to stay till the end of Mama’s funeral.”

  “Your name?”

  I moistened my lips. “Jackie Daniels. I’ve got his Medicaid card, his living will, and his toothbrush. If you’ll just tell me his room number, I’ll leave them with the officer at th
e door.”

  “I don’t suppose that would be a problem,” she said, then told me the number and directed me to the elevators behind her. “We all hope your brother recovers, Miss Daniels, and that his . . . predicament with the authorities can be resolved.”

  “I’m hoping for a coma,” I said as I went around the desk and past a gift shop jammed with plush animals, flowers, and helium balloons. I was not tempted.

  The police officer sitting in a chair by the door of Arnie’s room was broad-chested, hairier than some of Jane Goodall’s subjects, and cursed with acne. Had I encountered him in civilian attire, I would have assumed he was Caron’s age.

  “Next of kin,” I announced blithely as I attempted to go inside.

  “Wait a minute, ma’am. No visitors.”

  I had left my scruples in the garden at the Azalea Inn. “My brother, on his death bed, is doomed to lie in bleak solitary confinement as he spirals downward to an eternity of damnation?”

  “I was told he’s going to recover.”

  “If your own brother’s soul was in peril, would you not insist on kneeling by his bed and praying for his salvation? This country was founded on Christian principles.” I gave him a stem look. “Does your mother know you’re an atheist?”

  “I happen to be a Baptist.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “I should think you’d allow me to read the Bible to my brother while he writhes in anguish. Therein remains the only glimmer of hope to save his soul. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’”

  The officer managed a weak smile; I was surprised he didn’t have braces, or at least a retainer. “He’s doing fine, ma’am. Not five minutes ago he was griping about getting chocolate pudding instead of butterscotch.”

  I wiped away a rather elusive tear. “Our great-grandmother begged for butterscotch pudding just before she died. Arnie was hunkered on the foot of the bed, sobbing his eyes out. He was four years old.”

  “Hey, why don’t you wait here while I call the precinct and clear it? I’ll tell them who you are and all, and it should be okay.”

  “My name is Jackie Daniels,” I said sweetly. “Be sure and mention that.”

  As soon as he started down the corridor, I popped into Arnie’s room. He had a pair of black eyes that rivalled a raccoon’s, scabbed abrasions on his forehead and chin, and gauze bandages taped across his nose. A swath had been shaved across the forepart of his hair; the stitches reminded me of a zipper. His ensemble was comprised of a hospital gown with the transparency of tissue paper and a formidable plastic neck brace that dictated that for once in his life he keep his chin up.

  “You look like hell,” I commented as he hastily grabbed the covers, thus depriving me of the joy of ogling his pasty calves and bony knees.

  “Senator! I knew you were the sort to visit your constituents in their hour of need. This remote control for the TV is making me crazy. This is a public institution. I pay my income taxes like everybody else, and I expect—”

  “You’ve never paid a dime in income taxes, or even a nickel. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve found a way to avoid paying sales tax on a pint of bourbon.”

  “You didn’t happen to bring one, did you?”

  “No, Arnie, I did not,” I said as I moved away from the door. “Why didn’t you unlock the room in Old Main this morning?”

  He turned his face away. “Now that is kinda complicated, Senator. If the truth be known—”

  “You won’t hear it from him,” Peter said as he came into the room. “He spent the night in a locked facility provided by the always-accommodating Farberville Police Department. This morning he was arraigned, posted bail, and left in a huff, according to the bailiff.” He gazed at me. “Jackie Daniels?”

  “At your service, Sherlock. You certainly arrived quickly. Is your hansom cab outside the door?”

  Peter did not smile. “I was conferring with the attending physician in the lounge. Now that you’re here, Ms. Daniels, perhaps you can persuade your brother to explain in greater detail why he ended up in the cistern with a dead body. We of the Farberville CID seem to be lacking in imagination. Our only theory is that he lost his balance after he pushed her.”

  “Why would I have done that?” squawked Arnie. “You won’t even tell me who she was, for pity’s sake! For all I know, she could have been a bleeding-heart liberal and a loyal supporter of the Senator here. I would never harm one of her constituents.”

  “Does Arnie need a lawyer?” I asked Peter.

  “He’s been advised of his rights, which is not to imply that anything—and I mean anything—he’s said has made the least bit of sense and could be used in a court of law. A commitment hearing, maybe.”

  Arnie managed to sit up. “I am a committed citizen. I have never failed to vote except maybe when I am without legal residence, which has happened on occasion.” He glanced warily at me. “You didn’t feel obliged to go into that with the lieutenant, did you?”

  “No,” I said, “and I won’t if you’ll just provide me with the key to the room in Old Main. Otherwise, the sky’s the limit—or should that be the skybox?”

  He gestured at a locker. “They put all my clothes and stuff in there. I had my keys earlier, but I’m not real clear about what happened after I went by your apartment.”

  “Think,” Peter said coldly.

  I rummaged through Arnie’s crad-encrasted clothes while he supposedly thought. I found no massive key ring that permitted ingress to the skyboxes, all of the classrooms and offices on campus, the basement doors of freshmen women’s dorms, and whatever else was theoretically secured from the likes of miscreants such as Arnie.

  “Hard to say,” Arnie said as he ineffectually attempted to scratch his nose through the dressing. “There was something real important that I had to do so the Senator here wouldn’t be mad, but it’s muddled. Maybe a swallow or two of bourbon might help me remember. Do they have room service here? I’ll take a double on the rocks and a side of butterscotch pudding.”

  Peter stood up. “Ms. Daniels and I will ask at the nurses’ station. While you’re waiting, Mr. Riggles, I strongly suggest you make an effort to recall your actions this morning. Unless you can come up with something more definitive than this, you’ll be charged with homicide and transported from here to the jail. You will not pass ‘Go’ or collect two hundred dollars, and I can assure you we do not have room service or serve butterscotch pudding.” He took my elbow and attempted to hustle me out of the room.

  I yanked off his hand. “Do you remember going into the garden behind the Azalea Inn, Arnie?”

  Arnie gave Peter a calculating look. “Would that be felony breaking and entering or merely misdemeanor trespassing?”

  “What that would be is the least of your worries,” said Peter. “You did hear me say ‘homicide,’ didn’t you?”

  ‘To tell the truth, I didn’t, Lieutenant Rosen. My ears have been ringing something fierce since I came to in the emergency room. If I weren’t so good at reading lips, I wouldn’t have been able to follow this conversation at all. I thought you said something about hominy, as in grits.”

  “Why did you go to my apartment?” I persisted. Arnie grinned, displaying repellently fuzzy teeth. “I’ve always liked you, Senator.”

  “Why the back steps?”

  “The front door was locked.”

  “That makes sense,” I conceded. “And the cat?”

  Peter once again took my elbow. “Let’s not start harping about the cat, Ms. Daniels. There is a body in the morgue, no doubt by this time in a refrigerated drawer. We would like to know why Mr. Riggles pushed her into the cistern.”

  “I did not!” protested Arnie. He fell back and began to moan as if his skull had imploded from the impact with the pillow. “I can’t remember anything except not pushing this lady into the cistern. Of that I’m very sure.”

  I was too frustrated to rally any resistance as Peter pulled me out to the corri
dor. “He’s lying, obviously,” I said, “but I’m not sure about what. If there’s a mutant subspecies of humanoids on the planet, Arnie is its spokesperson.”

  “Claire—if I’m permitted to call you that—is there any chance you might just tend to this mystery convention and allow the Farberville CID to conduct an investigation without your interference? Once we have the physician’s permission to stick Arnie behind bars for homicide, I will send out every uniformed officer who’s not allergic to cats to poke through the garbage bins in the alley. We’ll get search warrants for all the fraternity and sorority houses. We’ll put up roadblocks and examine every vehicle that attempts to leave Farberville with a feline hostage in the trunk. A SWAT team will converge on the animal shelter, with assault weapons, bullhorns, and a helicopter or two.”

  “Does Leslie find this level of sophomoric sarcasm amusing?”

  “I couldn’t say,” he said coolly.

  “Am I free to leave?”

  “You are free to do as you choose—as long as you stay several miles away from the suspect.” He realized he was still holding my elbow and released it with an endearingly boyish blush. “Is this it, Claire? Should I continue making an effort to try to talk any of this over with you?”

  “I have a better idea, Peter—if I’m permitted to call you that. Why don’t you explain it to Caron? She’s had freshman biology, so she knows what happens nine months after the sperm and egg shack up. I suppose she does, anyway; she barely passed the course, and she found that unit a major gross-out, to use her terminology.”

  I went around him and hurried down the hallway, baring my teeth at the uniformed officer as he came puffing by, his zits aglow like fairy lights. The elevator took a maddening moment to arrive, but no one attempted to intercept me.

  Once I was in the relative safety of Roxanne’s rental car, I realized that I had failed to share the information about the missing notebooks and manuscript. Then again, hadn’t I been ordered not to interfere? If and when the officiously official team interviewed the authors, it seemed probable that very little of what had transpired the previous evening would be volunteered. Ammie Threety’s death had already been dismissed as an accident. The prime suspect in Roxanne Small’s death was in custody, sans butterscotch pudding, which meant the nurses, aides, and orderlies on the next shift were in for a hard day’s night.