A Conventional Corpse: A Claire Malloy Mystery Page 3

  “You won’t give me a chance to explain?”

  “I can see no reason to give you a chance to explain anything, from the global warming crisis to your rekindled relationship with Leslie, Boris, and Igor. May you all bump into the specter of Stalin during your next jaunt to St. Petersburg.”

  “I have not rekindled my relationship with Leslie,” Peter said, although not as firmly as I would have liked. “There is a complication, but it involves all of us. I’d like to take you out for dinner and talk about it. May I come by at seven?”

  “No.”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  I picked up the pencil and made several scratches of no significance. “I have other plans. I seem to have been forced into coordinating a mystery fiction convention on the campus this weekend. I need to study my notes and prepare remarks. If you’re still around next week, you can call me. If not, don’t worry about it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be around next week?” he said.

  “I have no idea. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some phone calls to make.”

  I glowered at his back until he was gone, then snatched up the telephone and called my best friend, Luanne Bradshaw, who owns and runs Secondhand Rose, a used clothing shop a few blocks up the street. “What have I done?” I wailed as soon as she answered.

  “I have no idea,” she said with the briskness I’d expected—and needed. “What’s more, tell the detectives I take no responsibility, will not offer you an alibi, and am unable to raise bail.”

  “You’re a lot of help.”

  “Doctor Ruth, I’m not. Shall I assume this has to do with Peter?”

  “Maybe,” I said grumpily.

  “And what is it you think I should do?”

  “If I knew, Luanne, I wouldn’t have called you.”

  “Is that supposed to make sense?”

  I stared at the door through which Peter had exited. “No, it’s not. He asked me to go out to dinner so he can tell me all about Leslie’s dogs. I said no. Now it’s possible I’m overreacting, but—”

  “Did he tell you that he wanted to discuss Leslie and her canine companions?”

  “Luanne,” I said, “stop being reasonable. If I’d wanted to know the time and the temperature, I could have called the five-five-five number. All I want is sympathy. You’re my friend, not my attorney.”

  “Pizza later?”

  “Yeah,” I said and hung up.

  There was most decidedly a conspiracy, although it was challenging to see Peter, Sally, and Luanne with their collective heads bent over the blueprints.

  By Friday I was what might politely be called a disintegrating basket case. Peter had neither called nor dropped by, which was for the best. Sally was continuing to hyperventilate from her hospital bed, calling several times a day with increasingly convoluted details. Caron and Inez had expropriated my car; I hoped none of the luminaries expected a limousine. My aged hatchback most definitely did not fall into that category.

  I was glumly watching my science fiction hippie attempt to shoplift a paperback when the telephone rang.

  “Don’t think about leaving with that book in your coat pocket,” I called, then picked up the receiver. “Book Depot.”

  “Ms. Malloy?” said an unfamiliar voice.

  In that the voice held undertones of an arctic breeze, I considered the possibility of resorting to a gelatinous accent and an assumed identity. However, I took the high road. “Yes, this is Claire Malloy.”

  “This is Laureen Parks.”

  “Oh,” I said, gulping.

  “I understand that you’re now the coordinator for the conference. I am not unfamiliar with the necessity of staying in rather quaint accommodations, but this inn will not do. I specifically made it known to that other woman that I require a suite in which I may smoke. This ridiculous woman at the desk continues to avow that smoking is not allowed anywhere inside the building. I do not stand on sidewalks late at night and puff away like an unmarketable prostitute.”

  “Laureen Parks,” I mumbled.

  “You’re familiar with my work?”

  “Of course I am, Ms. Parks. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written.”

  “Admiration is always appreciated, dear, but let’s save it for later. Either you reason with this woman or I take the next flight out of here.”

  “Please don’t do that,” I said. “You’re the cornerstone of the convention. Over a hundred fans have registered to meet you.”

  “They will not meet me if I’m expected to spend two nights in a prisoner-of-war camp. I realize that smoking is a vile ploy to maim or kill everyone on the planet who has risen above the filthy habit, but I will not be sent to the woodshed to have a cigarette. This young woman at the desk has refused to back down. Am I on my way to the airport, Ms. Malloy?”

  I was sorry I didn’t have a spare moment to swing by the hospital and rip the IV needle from Sally’s hand in hopes a bloodclot would rush to her brain. “Please, Ms. Parks,” I said in what might have sounded like a pathetic whine to those tapping the phone line, “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Find a bench in the garden and have a cigarette. Enjoy the azaleas.”

  “I have become increasingly less amenable to being treated as a pariah, Ms. Malloy. However, you sound like a reasonable person, so I’ll give you ten minutes, and even a few more, to convince me not to demand to be taken back to the airport. I’ve always been fond of azaleas.”

  My hand was trembling so violently that I could hardly replace the receiver. I’d known for months that I would encounter authors whom I’d equated with gods and goddesses—now it was not just sinking in, but slamming in like a bumptious thunderstorm. Laureen Parks, on the telephone, tossing out my name as if I were a regular person. I wasn’t; I was a dyed-in-the-wool fan who’d practically teethed on her books.

  It was not the best time to close the Book Depot, but I stuck the sign in the door and turned the deadbolt. I would have hurried to my car to drive to the Azalea Inn, had not said vehicle been taken by Inez and Caron for the afternoon. I let myself out the back door and headed down the railroad tracks for the historic house that had once been owned by Farberville’s most famous (or infamous) author, Azalea Twilight, prosaically known as Mildred Twiller. She’d been murdered, as had her husband, and the house had been vacant for most of a year until an obscure cousin had appeared to revitalize the property.

  At the pertinent bridge, I scrambled up the embankment, paused to pull twigs and leaves out of my hair and wipe the perspiration off my face, and then took several deep breaths before I went into the Azalea Inn.

  Inez was cowering just inside the doorway. “Oh, Ms. Malloy,” she said, dangerously near tears, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. That woman told me not to set one foot outside until this is resolved, but Sherry Lynne Blackstone’s plane is scheduled to arrive in ten minutes. I’ve got to pick her up and be back at school before sixth period. My parents will kill me if I get a bad grade in algebra. They’re still upset about my C-minus in biology last year because of the thing about stealing the frozen frogs. What’s more, Jason—he’s the president of the Latin Club—told me after first period that he’s really, really counting on me to help with the banquet decorations.” She blinked behind thick lenses, reminding me of a guppy in an aquarium filled with piranhas. “He acted like he might ask me to sit with him tonight at the head table.”

  “Can you make it back to school on foot if you leave now?” I asked her.

  “If I leave right now.”

  I patted her on the head. “Fortuna favet fortibus, dear. Go for it.”

  She gave me a bewildered look, then wiped her nose on her shirt cuff, tossed me the car key, and dashed out the door. “Thanks, Ms. Malloy,” she called as she reached the sidewalk and turned in the direction of Farber Street.

  “Fortune favors the bold,” I muttered through clenched teeth, then went to the sun room at the end of the hall. There was no hint of cigarette smoke in the air, but the thirtyish
woman behind the desk, obviously smoldering, was close to spontaneous combustion.

  “I’m Claire Malloy,” I said cautiously.

  “That’s nice.”

  “I understand you’re having a problem with Laureen Parks . . . ?”

  “The lady in question is the one with the problem. This is a smoke-free establishment. She’s not even supposed to smoke in the garden. It’s bad for the botanica.”

  “I didn’t hear any delicate coughs when I came up the walk.”

  “Maybe not.” The woman stood up and proffered her hand, which was as dry as her expression, and, quite possibly, her life to date; she had the aura of someone whose most dramatic outbursts thus far had taken place in a junior high civics class. “I’m Lily Twiller, owner of the Azalea Inn. I had several conversations with Sally Fromberger about the conference. I guess it never occurred to either of us to bring up my non-smoking policy.”

  “It’s on the platter now,” I said, squeezing her hand with what I hoped she interpreted as sympathy rather than annoyance. “You’ve booked five rooms for two nights, as well as the reception tonight and the picnic supper tomorrow night. I can’t swear the other authors aren’t smokers. It might be best if I call the Holiday Inn to see if they can accommodate us.”

  “I’ll have to send the drapes and bedspreads to a dry cleaner’s. I might even have to arrange for the carpets to be shampooed.”

  “The Thurber Farber Odor Foundation will cover any additional expenses.”

  “Well,” Lily said rather ungraciously, “I suppose I can make an exception this time, but if I find one single cigarette butt in the rose bushes—I don’t know what I’ll do!”

  “Go buy ashtrays.” I continued down the hall and out the back door into a garden enclosed by a high, red-brick wall. My first sight of Laureen Parks was less than impressive. She was seated on a concrete bench, slouched over as if observing ants trekking through the grass, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. One of her feet was twitching impatiently, although I’d arrived well within my promised ETA. I’d seen more dignified—or at least more optimistic—drunks in doorways.

  “Ms. Parks?” I called.

  She immediately straightened up, yanked the cigarette from between her lips with a shaky hand, and turned to me with a warm, if suspect, smile. “Ms. Malloy? You really ought to consider joining the cavalry. You came galloping to my rescue in record time. So which is it—the inn or the airport?”

  “The inn,” I said, gaping at her. She’d obviously been beautiful in her earlier days, with elegant cheekbones and a fine, smooth forehead. Now, in her seventies, age had softened her features and etched lines on her luminous complexion. Despite her gray hair, I could easily visualize her as any of the giddy heroines in her novels. “Lily has agreed to temporarily rescind the smoking ban. I’d love to talk, but I have to pick up Sherry Lynne Blackstone at the airport. Please make yourself comfortable and I’ll be back.”

  “You’re a good egg, Ms. Malloy.”

  “Thank you.” I wiggled a hand and went back down the hallway and out the front door. My car was parked at the curb. I had five minutes to make it to the airport, so I could hope to be no more than ten minutes late. Sherry Lynne would not be met with a brass band and children holding fistfuls of daisies, but I could get there only a few minutes after the baggage had been unloaded and set on the conveyor belt.

  As I drove down the highway at a speed prudently within range of the legal limit, I tried to remember Caron’s casual recitation of the proposed pickup schedule. The next three authors were arriving in a fairly close clump. I could deliver Sherry Lynne Blackstone to the inn and go to the high school, but I wasn’t confident Caron could be plucked out of study hall with time to drop me off and make it to the airport before the authors panicked.

  Sally Fromberger was the organizer and overseer of introductions and remarks; Caron and Inez were the official gofers; I was the person meant to rack up sales in the back of the room. Quite clearly, the situation had gone haywire, but there was little time to deal with it. I pulled into the airport and parked in front of a sign that warned me that I had three minutes to conduct my business or have my car towed (at my expense) to an unknown destination. At that moment, I almost hoped it would be, thus absolving me from further responsibilities.

  I’d seen Sherry Lynne’s photographs on the cover flaps of her books, but I was aware that they might not be timely. I roamed through the crowd gathered by the baggage carousel. I was beginning to despair when I spotted a possibility—frizzy hair, florid complexion, paranoid eyes.

  “Ms. Blackstone?” I said.

  “Where is my cat?” she snapped in response.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “Wimple is delicate. I simply cannot allow him to be left on the runway in this temperature. If he is not produced in the next sixty seconds, I shall—I don’t know—scream, possibly. I cannot—”

  She broke off as a pet carrier appeared on the conveyor belt. “Oh, my darling, were they unkind? Did they handle you too roughly?”

  I grabbed the carrier. “We’re all thrilled that you’ve agreed to participate in Murder Comes to the Campus, Ms. Blackstone. Why don’t you let me take you and your cat to the Azalea Inn? The two of you can relax for a few hours before the reception.”

  Sherry Lynne Blackstone in no way resembled Laureen Parks, but when she smiled, her charisma was equally dazzling. “You are such a dear,” she said, clutching my arm and literally glowing at me as if she were a supernova and I an orbiting (but promising) chunk of rock. “So many people don’t understand the enigmatic personalities of cats.”

  We both winced at the high-pitched yowls emanating from the carrier. “So many people,” I said, thinking of Lily Twiller. Smokers had won the opening skirmish, but I wasn’t sure if cats could win the second round. Perhaps if the cats smoked, I heard myself thinking irrationally.

  I hustled Sherry Lynne out to my car, did the politically correct thing of setting the carrier in the backseat rather than the trunk, and politely looked away as Sherry Lynne dosed herself with nasal spray.

  “Laureen Parks is already here,” I said as I pulled onto the highway.

  “How delightful,” Sherry Lynne said. “Did she arrive on a broomstick?”

  “You know each other?”

  “We all attend the obligatory fan conventions every year. I’ve met Allegra, of course. She’s entirely too famous to hobnob with the rest of us, and she’s only written the one book. My first book was published about the time she was in diapers. I would never elaborate on what she was doing in them, but certain bodily functions come to mind. Some of the by-products of these functions should have been mentioned in reviews of her book.”

  Unable to respond, I drove back into town and sent Sherry Lynne and Wimple up the sidewalk to the Azalea Inn, then headed back to the airport, feeling like an amateur—and majorly disjointed—shuttle service.

  According to Caron’s cold-blooded assessment, the next three authors could be gleaned in one fell swoop, as long as no individual minded spending quality time at the Farberville airport. I parked in the shadow of the ominous sign and went back into the airport to gather the next batch of authors—Dilys Knoxwood, Walter Dahl, and Allegra Cruzetti. I was well beyond being thrilled to meet any of them. Had I been slated to face Jane Austen or Charles Dickens, I suppose I might have shaken off my exasperation and knelt with proper reverence, but I was much too stressed to do much more than stalk over to the baggage area.

  There were no suitcases rumbling by on the belt, and the only person in sight was a slight woman with curly blond hair, sprawled on the floor with a cellular phone in her hand, a flowery print skirt enveloping her like a garden on the scuffed linoleum. “Oh, dearie,” she said in a lilting English accent, “do you have the slightest idea how these things work? I’ve punched all the buttons to no avail. That’s not completely true; I just had a conversation with a very rude gentleman named Smitty. I don’t beli
eve I should care for him to fetch me.”

  “Dilys Knoxwood?”

  “Why, yes,” she said as she stood up, her eyes round with amazement and her cheeks as pink as the carnations (or whatever they were meant to be) on her skirt. “However did you guess? Are you one of my readers? I do love to meet my readers, and I shall gladly sign a book for you, but I wish you could tell me how to operate this device. My husband gave it to me just before I left, and the brochure is ever so technical. I’m not very good at these sorts of things.”

  “Whom are you trying to call?”

  She cocked her head. “Now that you ask, I’m not sure. Do you think I should call my husband? He becomes very annoyed, almost irate, when I interrupt him while he’s in his workshop. The last time I knocked on the door, he claims he almost sliced off his thumb. However, if you think I must, then I’ll risk it. He’s not all thumbs, after all.”

  It was clear she was as dithery as her elderly village sleuth. I would have been charmed had it not occurred to me that I needed to move two dozen boxes of books before the bloody reception.

  “Claire Malloy,” I said briskly. “I’m here to take you and your colleagues to the inn. I hope you won’t mind waiting for a few minutes. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t suppose I could have a cup of tea,” she said as she dropped the cellular phone in her enormous cloth handbag. “Tea is so much more comforting when one’s tummy has been tested by a bumpy flight.”

  I picked up the only suitcase in sight. “Let’s see what the café has,” I said.

  Dilys obediently trailed after me. I settled her at a table, coaxed a cup of hot water and a tea bag from the waitress behind the counter, and returned with a tray. “I wasn’t sure if you preferred lemon or milk and sugar,” I said with an apologetic smile.

  “This will do nicely.” She plunked the tea bag in the water and looked up at me. “Where is it that you said we are? I thought my husband said something about Florida, but the woman sitting next to me on the airplane kept insisting it was a place called Farberville.” She began to rummage through her purse. “I really do think I should call him, no matter how upset he becomes.”