3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (10 page)

“This is my facility,” she continued. “I make the rules. No one else.”

I wondered what Shirley was even doing here today. Maybe it had something to do with Lyndella’s murder, but I had a sneaking suspicion Shirley Hallstead had no life beyond Sunnyside. Contrary to her comment about not working on weekends, I suspected she spent a good portion of her weekends at Sunnyside. Her entire self-worth seemed tied to her job. Something told me the woman had few, if any, friends. Part of me felt sorry for her. However, that didn’t excuse her acting like a tyrant.

“I’ve had enough of you. Get out of my building. You’re fired.”

A moment later those of us lingering in the hallway saw Reggie Koltzner run out of Shirley’s office and make a beeline for the back of the building. Poor kid. However, she’d be much better off without Shirley in her life. Maybe she’d even stop abusing herself.

I gave a tug on Mephisto’s leash and headed for the front entrance. Mephisto hesitated as a brutal wall of heat hit us. He yelped as he stepped from the walkway onto the parking lot asphalt and immediately yanked me toward a patch of burnt grass at the edge of the curb. Once he planted all four paws on the dead grass, he held his ground, refusing to budge, no matter how hard I tugged at his leash.

Finally, I understood why. The temperature of the black parking lot surface had to be a good twenty degrees higher than the hundred and two degrees beating down on us. Sandals protected my feet, but Mephisto wore no doggy foot coverings on his paws. The only way I was going to get him into the car was by hauling him into my arms and carrying him. Ugh! Nothing like lugging twenty-odd pounds of hot, panting dog in triple-digit heat.

“You owe me,” I said as I deposited him in the passenger seat of the rust-bucket sauna on wheels. I cranked down all four windows, then settled in behind the steering wheel. Mephisto rode home with his head hanging out of the car, doggie slobber blowing in the breeze.

We arrived home to an empty house. I filled a fresh bowl of water for Mephisto and a glass of ice water for myself. He lapped up all of his water before I took my first sip. I’d have to remember to bring a water dish for him when I brought him back to Sunnyside. After his second bowl, he waddled over to the nearest air-conditioning vent and planted himself directly under it. “Not a bad idea,” I told him.

According to the message board next to the phone, Alex and Nick planned to attend a pool party after work, then head over to Clark for the fireworks. Westfield never has fireworks. We have more highbrow summer entertainment like concerts in Min-dowaskin Park and downtown street corner jazz. So laden down with blankets and folding chairs, we hike over to the next town for our yearly dose of rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air. Tonight I’d forego the fireworks for a long soak in a cool tub.

The message board also contained a short note from Mama:
Be back late. Don’t wait up.
Unfortunately, that could only mean one thing with my mother—she’d set her sights on Husband Number Six.

To verify, I checked her room. Sure enough, cast aside Chanels (Mama’s designer of choice) were strewn over her bed and Lucille’s. A sea of cardboard shoeboxes, tissue paper, and designer heels covered the floor. The evidence screamed loud and clear that Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe was once again in full husband-hunting mode.

I pitied the poor guy. Except for my own father, Mama’s husbands never lived long after the wedding. The last sucker hadn’t even made it to the altar before someone thrust one of my knitting needles into his heart.

The good news was that I had the house entirely to myself for the next several hours. I drew myself a cool bath. Knowing if I started to read a novel, I’d never find time to finish it, I grabbed the cartons filled with Lyndella’s notebooks and placed them on the floor next to the tub. The craft editor in me was dying to peruse them.

After setting the caddy across the edge of the tub, I grabbed the top loose-leaf from the carton nearest to me, settled into the water, and flipped open to the first page. Lyndella took meticulous notes on each of her projects. In a very tight, neat, flowing script she had recorded materials, directions, and cost, plus her start and completion dates. She included sketches, diagrams, fabric and yarn swatches, directions, patterns, and photos of both the finished projects and the inspiration pieces where applicable. A sheet protector held the contents of each page.

Although I hadn’t realized it earlier, almost all of Lyndella’s work contained some element of the erotic or pornographic, even the appliquéd quilt on her bed. It was just far less in-your-face than her lint David, the X-rated elements hidden among floral motifs.

I would have loved to examine the quilt closer, but I didn’t remember seeing it in any of the boxes. Reggie must have bagged it up with Lyndella’s clothes. I hoped someone shopping at Goodwill didn’t mistakenly buy it for a little girl’s bedroom.

As I read the various notations written on one page, I realized that these notebooks were not only journals of Lyndella’s crafting history but of her life. Mostly a certain part of her life. Hidden within the various notes were other notes—the who, what, where, and when of her numerous sexual encounters, among other things.

This particular notebook began shortly after Lyndella arrived at Sunnyside twenty years ago. On a page dated August twenty-ninth, along with directions and patterns for an appliquéd wall hanging depicting one of the acts described in the
Kama Sutra
, she’d written:

Never met so many prudes in my life. The women act like nuns. The men have no imagination. Missionary position is all they’ve ever known. These people need an education, and this place needs a good shaking up. I’m just the person to do both. And won’t that piss off a certain someone?

A clue to Lyndella’s killer—perhaps the person she wanted to piss off—might hide in the pages of this book or one of the other journals. Shouldn’t the police have taken them as evidence when they did their CSI thing?

Yesterday Detective Spader had given me his card, telling me to contact him if I remembered anything further. I probably should get out of the tub and call him immediately, but my curiosity had other ideas. I wanted to read through all the journals first.

Did this constitute obstruction of justice? I didn’t think so. After all, the CSI team had the chance to grab the journals yesterday and didn’t. The crime scene tape had been removed from the room. Lucille had moved back in; Reggie had been in the process of disposing of Lyndella’s possessions. Besides, I didn’t know if the journals contained anything pertinent to the investigation and wouldn’t know that until I read through all of them.

Would such an excuse hold up in court? Unbidden, a vision of Zack’s ex-wife came to mind. Patricia stood in front of me, shaking her head and muttering, “Naughty Anastasia” as I was led away in handcuffs.

I checked the date on the last page, then set the binder on the tile floor and reached for another. Each thick loose-leaf appeared to span
numerous years. If one of them contained a clue to the identity of the killer, chances were, I’d find that clue in the most recent notebook.

The second binder dated back to before Lyndella moved to
Sunnyside. I set that one aside and grabbed a third binder. This one dated back to the nineteen thirties, but it wasn’t a craft journal
. This book was an accounts ledger.

For The Savannah Club for Discerning Gentlemen.

nine

Oh. My. God.

That certainly explained Lyndella Wegner’s obsession with sex. Not to mention her Southern accent. I started skimming the pages and couldn’t believe what I was reading. Good grief!

“Hello? Anyone home? Anastasia?”

I heard Zack calling from the kitchen. Why hadn’t I locked the door? “Be right there,” I yelled back. No way was I ready for Zack to see me butt naked in broad daylight. Hell, I wasn’t sure I wanted him
ever
to see me butt naked in broad daylight. Mood lighting was an overweight middle-aged gal’s best friend.

I stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel. After quickly drying myself, I dashed into my bedroom, closed the door, and threw on a long cotton sundress, the better to conceal hairy legs in desperate need of a sit-down with a razor.

Before joining Zack, I dashed back into the bathroom and grabbed the carton of binders containing the accounts ledger, then padded barefoot into the hall.

“Hey,” I said, finding him in the kitchen. “You’ll never believe what I discovered.”

Zack had Ralph perched on his shoulder and was feeding him chunks of apple. “I hope it’s a solution to global warming. I can’t believe how hot it is out there.”

“Sorry, I lack the requisite science-specific genes.”

“Too bad. The guy who figures that one out will make a fortune. What did you discover?”

“Something a lot hotter. In a matter of speaking.” I set the carton on the kitchen table. Then I pulled out the accounts ledger, flipped it open to the first page, and handed him the open book.

Zack stared in disbelief. “The woman killed at Sunnyside was a ninety-eight-year-old madam?”

“Until she semi-retired and moved to Sunnyside.”

“Semi-retired?”

“Apparently, once a call girl, always a call girl. According to some of the other Sunnyside residents, Lyndella slept with any and all residents in possession of a Y chromosome.” I indicated the carton. “And the proof is written in these notebooks. And several dozen others.”

Zack flipped through some of the ledger pages. “She certainly kept detailed records. This ledger dates back over eighty years. Did you read through it?”

“I quickly skimmed the first few pages, then flipped randomly. What I’ve learned so far is that she started out as one of the
girls
when she was still in her teens, then bought out the owner before she turned thirty. Looks like she kept detailed records of all her
clients
and payment from Day One, noted what she paid for the operation, then kept account of each girl’s johns—numbers and first names to indicate clients, along with dates, payment, and preferences. So far I haven’t found any mention of her selling the business. I was looking for that when I heard you come in.”

“Maybe the bordello is still in operation, and she gets a cut of the action.”

“I thought about that, but I don’t think so. She moved to Sunnyside twenty years ago, and she didn’t have enough money for a single, or at least she hasn’t for some time. Maybe she did in the beginning.”

“So what’s your theory, Ms. Sherlock?”

“I think her operation was shut down, possibly raided by vice. She grabbed her liquid assets and fled, moving where nobody knew her, and bought herself a spot at Sunnyside.”

“You have to admit, she was one damned enterprising woman for her day.”

I raised both eyebrows. “Really?”

“Think about it. There weren’t many opportunities for women back then. Most didn’t finish high school, let alone go to college. She probably had the choice of working in a sweat shop or working up a sweat.”

“There were other options.”

“Other than marriage? Not many. For all we know, her parents sold her. Or she may have been kidnapped.”

I shuddered at the thought.

“White slavery is still very much alive,” he continued. “Even in this country.”

I’d heard that, seen the occasional news articles. “If she bought out the business, it’s unlikely she started out as a sex slave,” I said.

“True.” Zack closed the ledger and placed it back in the box. “From the looks of things, I’d say Lyndella Wegner enjoyed her work immensely.”

“And was still enjoying it up until sometime Friday night or early Saturday morning. With or without companionship.”

“How do you—”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. Me and my big mouth.

“What else did you find?” prodded Zack. “A dildo?”

Busted. “In the medicine cabinet. Battery operated and rather life-like.”

“You sure it doesn’t belong to Lucille?”

Could it? My mother-in-law had been without a man in her life
for many years. We both pondered the question for a moment, then
simultaneously said, “No way!” and burst out laughing. Besides, I unpacked Lucille’s suitcase. I definitely would have noticed any sex toys. Still, I made a mental note to do a bit of snooping through her drawers before she returned home.

“I spoke with Patricia,” said Zack, changing the subject. “She said this sounded like a perfect assignment for her pain-in-butt summer intern. Records that old haven’t been digitized yet, so she can exile him to the bowels of the building to dig through musty files. If she’s lucky, he’ll take most of the summer to find anything.”

“Tell her I said thank you.”

“It’s going to cost you. Big time.”

“A Manhattan assistant district attorney is blackmailing me?”

“Actually, I think she’s blackmailing both of us. She said I have to bring you up to Westchester for dinner if you want the information.”

“That’s going to have to wait until I’m done working at Sunnyside. I don’t have a spare day until then.”

“Which should be about the time it takes her intern to comb through all those records.”

“Then she’s got herself a deal.”

“Now,” said Zack, “I noticed you’re all alone tonight. How about if we have that second date?”

“Braaack!” squawked Ralph. “
Now we are alone, wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?
Two Gentleman of Verona
. Act One, Scene Two.”

Zack laughed as he handed Ralph another apple chunk. “I stand corrected. Since you’re
nearly
alone—”

“I wondered when you’d get around to asking. What did you have in mind?” And it better be something that doesn’t involve baring my legs, I thought to myself. If I ever have any discretionary money again, I’m treating myself to laser hair removal.

_____

Monday morning started out even hotter than Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. The thermometer outside my bedroom window read ninety degrees at seven o’clock. How was that even possible? We live in New Jersey, not the Mojave Desert!

Every blade of grass on my lawn had withered and died. The hydrangea, rhododendron, and azalea bushes surrounding the house drooped from lack of hydration. I couldn’t afford to water anything; my water bills were high enough, but neither could I afford to replace the landscaping. Talk about a catch-22! I prayed for rain but saw not a cloud in the sky as Mephisto and I left the house and headed for Sunnyside.

Devil Dog seemed reluctant to hop in the car. I suspected he
knew our destination. The dog possessed more brains than I’d given
him credit for in the past. Separated from his mistress, Mephisto was nowhere near the pain in the mutt he was with Lucille around. I don’t know why that should come as a surprise to me.

“Be a good doggie, and you don’t have to go visit her again until next weekend.” I hoisted the big lummox up into the back seat. He’d made it clear he wasn’t going on his own volition. Mephisto whimpered. Normally, he growls at me. I guess that said it all.

Once we arrived at Sunnyside, Lucille greeted Mephisto with open arms. “There’s mother’s precious! Did you miss me?”

If she only knew. “I’ll be back to walk him during my lunch break.”

“Why are you here?” she asked. “Isn’t it Monday?”

“I’ve taken a temporary weekend job teaching arts and crafts here. Today is the Fourth of July. Independence Day,” I added, not sure whether the commie curmudgeon recognized the significance of the date.

“So that’s what all the racket was last night.”

“Fireworks. Yes.”

“Gave me a blinding headache.”

“Are you sure the headache was from the noise? Did you tell the nurse on duty? After all, you recently underwent brain surgery.”

“I’m not a fool, Anastasia. I know they cut open my head and poked around in my brain three weeks ago. A headache that begins right after the noise started and ended a few minutes after taking a couple of Tylenol, is a headache from the noise. Nothing more. But thank you for your concern. If that’s what it was.”

A first! Lucille had never thanked me for anything. Even though her gratitude came with a disclaimer, this was definitely progress. Did I dare hold out hope that an attitude adjustment waited in the wings?

Right! Talk about wishful thinking on my part. “That’s exactly what it was,” I said. With that I exited the room before she had a chance to respond.

I was surprised to see Shirley Hallstead as I headed toward the arts and crafts room. Once again she wore a power suit, this one salmon colored. The woman must not have sweat glands. How could she wear a suit in this weather?

“I didn’t think you’d be in today,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“It’s a legal holiday.”

“It’s Monday. This place doesn’t run by itself. I have a new extended stay patient arriving shortly. She’ll be rooming with your mother-in-law. Aside from the fact that I now have a public relations nightmare on my hands, thanks to Lyndella’s murder.”

“I do hope you don’t believe my mother-in-law had anything to do with that.”

“If I believed your mother-in-law was the killer, she’d be sitting in a jail cell, not taking up one of my beds,” she snapped.

I suppose my startled look gave her pause because she took a deep calming breath, then continued, “No, the truth of the matter is, when murders occur in nursing homes and assisted living facilities, the killer usually turns out to be a member of the staff.”

“Really?” I needed an advanced degree in psychology to figure out Shirley Hallstead’s mood swings. I wondered how many of those murders were committed by the facilities’ directors and administrators.

“They’re called mercy killings,” she continued.

“I’ve heard of those occurring in hospitals, but aren’t the victims usually terminally ill?”

“Not always. But as you can see, I have a lot on my hands right now.” She crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her foot. “Is there something you need, Mrs. Pollack, or are we just shooting the breeze here?”

And yet another whiplash-inducing mood swing. I needed a scorecard. “Actually, I did want to discuss something if you have a few minutes to spare me.”

Shirley glanced at her watch. “I can give you a minute or two.”

I plunged right in. “I want to organize an arts and crafts exhibition for my students.”

“We do those all the time. I told you Saturday that it was one of your responsibilities.”

“At an outside art gallery. Where they’ll benefit from the proceeds of the sales.”

“What? If there are any sales, the proceeds should go to Sunnyside to offset the cost of the supplies they use.”

“Aren’t the supplies covered by the grant you receive from Mildred Burnbaum’s estate?”

“No, just the teachers. The supplies come out of my budget.”

“Which is funded by the residents’ monthly fees, right?” As much as I wanted to, I refrained from saying
exorbitant
fees. “Just like their meals and all other services provided to them, they’re already paying for their supplies.”

“The money should still go to Sunnyside. The work is created here.”

Talk about grasping at straws! “Shirley, this isn’t a business with the residents as your employees. This is their home. They have the right to do what they want with their artwork, and they want—no, they need—the extra income. The way the economy’s been the last few years, many of them have little cash left after they pay Sunnyside each month. They’re excited about this opportunity. It gives them an additional cash stream.”

Shirley’s eyes bugged out. “You’ve already spoken to them about this?”

“Yes. I needed to know if they were interested before speaking with you.”

Her face grew an unflattering shade of red that clashed with her salmon power suit; a huge purple vein bulged along her neck and began to throb. “You had no right!” She spoke through gritted teeth, apparently trying to keep from yelling to avoid a scene. Too bad she hadn’t thought to do that yesterday when she reamed out Reggie.

“You’re turning out to be a real troublemaker, Mrs. Pollack. I never should have hired you.”

What a control freak! Didn’t I bail her out, allowing her to keep her precious grant money? Made me wonder if she was cooking the books and pocketing some of that grant money for herself.

I fought to control my temper. In as modulated a tone as I could muster, I said, “I fail to see how an art exhibit causes trouble. No one is asking you to do anything or fund anything. And the residents certainly don’t need your permission to take part.”

“I run Sunnyside.
I
control what the residents can and can’t do.”

“Really? I believe the Board of Directors might see things quite differently.”

That caught her off-guard. “Fine! Have your stupid art show. No one is going to buy any of that crap, anyway.”

With that she spun around and stormed off toward her office.

“Told you so.” I turned around to find Mabel Shapiro standing behind me, leaning on her rhinestone-studded walker. “That one’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

“She certainly is, Mabel, but I learned a lot from that little altercation.”

“I’ll bet you did, hon.”

“Bottom line, we’re going to have our gallery show. With or without her blessing.”

Mabel and I headed for the arts and crafts room. We arrived to find several of the other women gathered at the entrance to the room. “What’s going on?” I asked.