Yesterday's Body Read online

  I was into the “G”s when Vanessa told me to run to the post office. “This needs to go second-day-air.”

  “Sure. I’ll take it during my lunch break.”

  “It can’t wait that long,” she snapped.

  I glanced at the clock. It was eleven twenty-seven. “A half hour?”

  She deigned to inform me, “The mail leaves the post office at noon.” Then, to pay me back for questioning her authority, when I got my coat, she snarled, “Older women shouldn’t wear plaid.”

  Ignoring her, I slid my arms into the blue plaid sleeves, cinched the blue plaid sash around my blue plaid middle, and grabbed my worn out patchwork tote. Why hadn’t she dissed that? Definitely, I wouldn’t keep the job for an entire month. Perhaps I wouldn’t keep it for the rest of the week. No, two days. Then I’d be gone.

  “What do you think?” I asked Clyde on the way to the post office. “Grounds for harassment? She did mention ‘woman.’ That could be sexual harassment, a much better bet than ageism.”

  Clyde was totally sympathetic. After all, he was my cat.

  Vanessa’s envelope was addressed to some company in the Virgin Islands. Did they get second-day-air that far away? Of course, a person could fly there in one day, but island residents were laid-back, so I’d heard.

  I mailed the envelope and my latest tape. I took my lunch break before I returned, despite what Vanessa might say. Clyde and I had a leisurely fifteen-minute lunch from the back of a hot dog stand, then it started raining. We dashed for the building and took the elevator to my sixth floor office.

  Asher was the only one there. He was going through my desk, or actually, Mrs. Hemingway’s desk. Should I turn and leave Asher to his clandestine search before he saw me? And do what? Stand in the hall like a naughty child? Go out into the rain? I coughed discretely, but Asher didn’t notice me standing in the doorway.

  “It’s not here,” he muttered as he closed my lower drawer. “Maybe in her car, or her house. But the...”

  Suddenly he glanced at me in utter surprise. I had to say something. “Can I help you look?”

  “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out to lunch?”

  “It’s raining.” Of course, that didn’t explain anything, but he was too preoccupied to notice.

  “Francine had something of mine,” he said. “That’s all I’m looking for. My property.”

  My, my. Nothing specific like Mr. Talbit’s key. Just his “property.” Ever helpful, I said, “Maybe the police took it.”

  “Shit.”

  I jerked my head back and gave him the shocked old lady glare, but he didn’t apologize. In fact, Asher wasn’t even aware of his indiscretion. He opened the top drawer, evidently for the second time, and pawed through it in a most inefficient manner. After three times through those drawers, I could have given him an itemized inventory, but I left him to his search. I preferred filing my nails.

  Once Asher left, the office was eerily quiet. There was no one to yip at me, no one to add new papers to my piles. There was also no folder full of past due invoices on my desk. Had someone filed them?

  I looked. Actually, I searched for the one name I remembered, Deefer, Andrew, and his $4,000 plus, sixteen-month past due invoice. It wasn’t in the paid files, the unpaid files, or even in the archival files. It wasn’t on anyone’s desk. Had to be in the totally redundant computerized records. I’d run out of searching time, so I copied the accounting files to my thumb drive. I’d lost those files, so I’d find them off the clock.

  My office mates returned, a bit wet from the downpour, Vanessa scowling, Barb limping a bit, but flexing her muscles. “A little exercise really gives me a lift for the rest of the day,” she said, popping a pec, or whatever it is they do.

  Before Vanessa could slam her (verbally, she could never handle her physically), I said, “Who took the folders on my desk? They were long overdue.”

  “What are you talking about?” Vanessa demanded. “How long overdue?”

  “One was sixteen months.”

  “Impossible. We’ve never let anything go unpaid that long.”

  “Must have been misfiled,” Barb said soothingly. “Whatever it was, it will turn up.” Barb smiled so optimistically, I hated to disillusion her but I shook my head.

  It was Vanessa who said, “You must remember you are a temporary employee, and you don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  True, more or less. But I wasn’t her problem. Was it Asher? With Francine out of the picture, did she expect him to return to her loving arms? Which, if he hadn’t, would certainly account for her frame of mind. Good riddance, I’d say, but, I wasn’t Vanessa.

  If I were to last the rest of the day, I had to improve her temperament. “Asher is certainly preoccupied,” I told her. “He just searched my desk for something that must revolve around Mrs. Hemingway’s murder. That obviously takes first precedence, temporary though it may be.”

  “Asher was here?” Vanessa asked, dangerously quiet. “We had a lunch date!”

  She kept talking, but I tuned out. I really hate vulgar language. Asher’s apologizing phone call a few minutes later only inflamed her all the more. I dropped the issue of missing files. No one was interested, not even Clyde.

  Both my office mates disappeared, Vanessa permanently without a word, and Barb for an hour after muttering something about “physical therapy” and “trick knee.” That gave me time for my private research. As I filed receivables in their cabinets, I checked out each computer listing. All receipts had been entered. What else could I do? Nothing.

  Maybe I should skip the chapter on the minimumly employed homeless because this job was not working. What I should have was a different job, one without bickering employees, or murder.

  I was worried, and I didn’t want to admit it, even to Clyde. The police were thorough. They’d copy every fingerprint in her house. There had to be at least one I hadn’t wiped away.

  Eventually they’d match them all. Might take weeks, but they’d identify me. They’d discover Francine was with my first husband when he died. They’d learn he had depleted our savings buying Lord only knows what for her.

  “Perfect motive for murder,” they’d say. Never mind that I didn’t know who she was when I borrowed her house. Never mind that I’d long since forgotten that disaster.

  “You were inside her house,” they’d say. “You had the motive. You had the opportunity.” With my years of karate classes, they’d add, “You have the ability to kill a woman and stuff her into a closet.” And, after Googling my name, they’d add the clincher gleaned from that totally false, totally discounted book.

  “You’ve killed before.”

  No, when the police tracked me to her house, I didn’t want them to find me at Francine’s desk as well. Just leaving town would not keep my name off the suspect list. Finding the real killer would.

  Chapter 10

  Mel Mumfor had become my lifeline to sanity. From all I’d heard, he was a former member of the homeless brigade who’d come upon better times. He had steady employment and a home, a three-story row house surrounded by doctors, dentists, and lawyers. The few homes on the block still dedicated to their original purpose were, like his, too narrow to gut and rebuild into offices, and too far from city center to turn into T-shirt shops. Small, but the three floors gave him what he wanted—rooms to fill with down-and-outers who needed a bed. When he’d overcome his own personal devil, he’d turned into a knight on a mission.

  Now Mel was sober and looked after everyone. Come cold or rainy days, he had a house full of the homeless he’d gathered from the street. They had to keep off the booze, but that was the only requirement for a night’s free lodging.

  Tonight, so far, I was his only guest. He skipped the sniff test and the lecture—the, “I’m a recovering alcoholic. If I can do it, so can you,” bit. I’d convinced him that wasn’t my problem.

  “What’s for dinner?” I asked.

  “There’s half a barbequed c
hicken left,” Mel said. “I planned to heat it up.”

  “Right,” I said and started opening cupboard doors. “You really want dried out leftovers?”

  “I’m testing your skills,” he said. “You haven’t disappointed me yet.”

  “You’re taking advantage of my good nature.” Of course he wasn’t, and he knew it. In my customary life I was an innovative but often haphazard cook, however, Mel was such an appreciative audience. And face it, I did need a break from outdoor research now and then.

  “Jo, were you ever a cook? I mean, work as a cook?” he asked.

  “No,” I said as I headed for the kitchen, but that wasn’t the end of it.

  “Restaurants are always looking for cooks.” When I didn’t comment, he added, “And fast food places as well. You wouldn’t need a degree from some fancy catering school.”

  “Tried that once,” I said, which was actually true. Years ago, but still true.

  Slyly, he said, “If you cook for me every day, I can offer you more than a box for anything you collect. How about a whole closet of your very own?”

  “You tempt me.” I passed it off, like I had before. “But could I surrender control over my worldly goods when I walked out each day?” He grinned, relieved that we could banter without serious consequences. Or, did I only choose to believe that?

  I found a package of ramen noodles, a few nuts, a can of mushrooms, and a half jar of peanut butter. I lined up his spices, decided which bits of veggies from the crisper in the bottom of the refrigerator were usable, and did my magic.

  Like always, he sat in his easy chair, reading the newspaper, while I whipped up a meal with what I found.

  After dinner Mel pushed his chair away from the table. “I’ll bring dessert on my way back.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Might bring someone home, so don’t sit around in the all-together,” he said before he left.

  I snorted, which was not at all ladylike. But then, his comment was not at all gentlemanly.

  He’d be gone for a while, hoping to find alcoholics between binges in need of a bed. After I popped the dishes into the dishwasher, I cleaned a couple of rooms. That was my “thank you” for value received; a room, in this case. Of course his home wasn’t really dirty. As a Police Maintenance Supervisor he knew more than just repair.

  Two hours later Mel returned with ice cream, chocolate sauce, and the new guy with the dreadlocks I’d seen twice before. Mel told me, “This is Zip.”

  “From New York,” I added.

  Zip gave me a sharp look, but he couldn’t place me.

  “Saw you on the street,” I said.

  He switched his accusing eyes to Mel. “What you do here, man? She ain’t no lush.” His tone was anxious, but his voice was soft as moonlight filtering through tropical trees. “What about that radio?”

  “First we have a bowl of ice cream. Then we listen to the scanner.”

  Ended up, we did both at the same time. Zip listened intently to the chitchat on Mel’s police radio, for that’s all it was. Officers signing on or off duty. Loiterer who was an undercover detective. Barking dog that disappeared. After forty-five minutes, Zip got up to leave.

  “Hear what you want to hear?” Mel asked.

  “Yeah, man. Like nothing. That’s the best kind a hearin’.” I’d heard that rhythm, that cadence before, and not just on the street. But where?

  He left and Mel said, “You know him?”

  “Saw him, that’s all.”

  Mel didn’t believe me, but he let it go. “He came looking for me. Said he’d give me a hundred dollars if he could listen to my police scanner.”

  “A guy off the street had a hundred to give away?” Mel shrugged so I asked, “Did he give you the money?”

  “He bought the ice cream instead. All I wanted.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So what you think? He do a crime?”

  “If he did, the police don’t know it.”

  I untied a shoe.

  “You’re going to insist, aren’t you?” When I silently kicked off the shoe, he reluctantly said, “Okay. I’m ready for the consequences.”

  As I removed my other shoe, I asked, “Remember the count?”

  “You really go through all this every time you eat a tiny dish of ice cream?”

  “Absolutely.” That was a lie, but much better than telling Mel he was turning into a porker. “Now, do you remember the count?”

  “Yeah.” With a huge sign of resignation he took the first position. “Hana, dul, set, net.” I led him through the karate moves, the back kick, the front kick, the side kick, the round house kick.

  “Keep your balance. Carry through with that leg after you kick.”

  We did chops and blocks.

  “Straight hand,” I cautioned. “Line up those knuckles or you’ll break a wrist.” And again, “Twist that forearm as you raise it. This is combat. You want a broken bone?”

  I kept him at it for half an hour, with me echoing an instructor, and him following my every move.

  “Enough!” he said finally, and I quite agreed.

  “So how did you learn karate?” he asked as we did the cool down stretches.

  “A long story, but it does come in handy. Good exercise too.”

  “And it’s another mystery, like you live on the street, won’t take a steady job, and insist on cleaning my house and cooking.”

  “I don’t cook for just anybody,” I said, trying to lighten the conversation.

  “Is that true?” he asked much too seriously.

  I changed the subject entirely. “I’m temporarily replacing Francine Hemingway.”

  “As in the deceased?”

  “That’s the one.”

  As I got ready to refute any leading questions, Mel pulled a switcheroo. He asked, with a penetrating stare, “How do you get those keys you collect?”

  He was jumping to conclusions—the right conclusions. Why had I bragged about borrowing a house, which I’d never actually done before? “Oh, I don’t know. Here and there.”

  “I don’t want to hear that you found her key. But, if you did, don’t go there. Not with cops and yellow tape surrounding the place.”

  Wrong subject. But, avoiding any mention of keys, I stuck with it. “What did the police radio have to say about her death? Or did you hear any goodies at work?”

  “A little,” he said. “Mostly rumors. Maybe true. She was hit on the head, but evidently not hard enough to kill her. It was the plastic bag over her head that did her in.”

  “Plastic bag? There was...” I’d been about to say, “There was no plastic bag.” Had I blown it?

  “You didn’t see a plastic bag? So you not only borrowed her house, you saw her body.”

  Yes, I’d blown it. What could I say?

  Fake it. “I’d do that? Come on. The newspaper didn’t mention anything about a plastic bag. Neither did anyone at work.”

  Did he believe me? Possibly. Other than a questioning glance, he let it pass. “They were right, evidently. No plastic bag over her face, but I heard a guy grousing about how he had to dig through a bunch of smelly garbage to find it, so forensics must have figured it out. It’s unbelievable what they can learn from a body. There’s blood lividity, bruising, or lack of bruising, body position, you name it.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “And the guys dusting for fingerprints were madder than hell. Don’t know why.”

  “Oh, really?” I said, quite innocently. I knew exactly why they were madder than hell. There were no fingerprints, unless they were mine. I’d been in a terminal polishing mood. Wiped everything—door knobs, counter tops, lamps, fancy dishes. Even put things away. I’d never before obliterated clues to a murder.

  Why did I ever borrow that house? Serendipity. Finding those keys. Research for another chapter. But empty houses should be just that, empty. No bodies, and no one to mind that I cleaned up a bit. Houses up for sale didn’t come with all that baggage.

&
nbsp; The conversation could get dangerous. I yawned for effect, and headed for bed.

  Mel turned up the volume on his police scanner as I left the room.

  Was that the explanation for the dream, the garbled sound coming through my door? The voice came from a radio, came from a telephone, came through the walls. Repeatedly. Voice over voice.

  “You the man. You the man.”

  I woke in the night, tried to finish the dream. Where did the voice come from? Not the police radio. It was on the telephone. I’d answered it at work. Mr. Talbit was “the man.” Someone with that Caribbean cadence called him. But a street bum would never call the president of Abbott Computing Services. Would he?

  ~ ~

  My breakfast was a large bowl of cereal with blueberries and plenty of whole milk. Restaurants insist on serving those tiny cardboard boxes of cereal with two percent, or even skim milk. Turns my stomach. I made scrambled eggs and bacon for Mel. Then I did dishes and finished cleaning the house. Mel didn’t offer to help. He knew better. Instead, he went outside to clear the winter weeds from his boxwoods, taking his police scanner with him.

  About ten I rode the bus into town with a full belly and a clean body. I turned on my phone for Sylvie’s call, but she must have given up trying. As I relaxed on a bench overlooking the boats in Ego Alley and thinking about my next meal, the call came.

  “Hi, Sylvie,” I said.

  “Not Sylvie.” It was Mel. “Thought you’d like to know. The police are looking for a woman. Description, five, five. Weight, one fifty. Medium brown hair. Blue plaid coat.”

  “Well then, it’s not me. At least ten pounds too much.” But of course, it was me, or my identical twin, and we both knew it. I jerked my head to the right to watch a woman walk by.

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  Not a police woman. I looked to the left. A waddling duck took to the sky. Wish I could do the same.

  He added, “Heard it on the police scanner, not the radio.”

  At least the whole population wasn’t in on the search. “Where are they looking?”

  “It was an alert to all patrol cars.”