3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (12 page)

The sketch showed a nightgown more virginal than risqué, with a high neck and long sleeves gathered at the wrists.

I pulled the full-size embroidery pattern from the envelope. Unlike the crafts that decorated her room at Sunnyside, nothing erotic hid among the embroidered flowers.

Much of the writing had faded over time. With great difficulty, I read every word of the directions, hoping to find more information. In the margin she’d written, “
Something blue
.”

Was the nightgown for her hope chest or an upcoming wedding? For herself or a gift for someone else?

The next page, dated three weeks later, contained information on a crocheted granny squares baby afghan in pale yellow, mint green, and white wool. Lyndella had included one sample square. I found nothing sexual about that project, either. A lone note at the bottom of the page read, “
For the baby
,
” but gave no indication as to whose baby.

I marked both pages with red sticky note flags on which I wrote BC to indicate the crafts were made prior to the start of Lyndella’s
career
. Before I could flip to the next page, Mama arrived home.

“What’s all this?” she asked as she dropped half a dozen shopping bags onto the table and began nosing around the binders.

“I’m trying to find out who had a motive to kill Lucille’s roommate.”

Mama laughed. “You mean besides the pinko commie?”

“Lucille is many things, Mama, but I refuse to believe she’s a murderer.”

“Are you one hundred percent certain of that?”

“I can’t be a hundred percent sure of anything, but—”

“Butt out, Anastasia. Let the police handle things. This new hobby of yours is not very ladylike.”

“Hobby?” It’s not like I’d made a conscious decision to become an amateur sleuth. “Might I remind you that if I’d previously followed that advice and left things to the police, both you and I might now be dead?”

Mama shuddered. “Don’t remind me, but those were different circumstances. No one is out to kill either of us. Besides, you’re certainly not going to find your next husband by spending your spare time snooping around murder suspects at a nursing home.”

“My next husband? What makes you think I want a
next
husband?”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Of course you want a next husband. You’re far too young to live out the rest of your life like that spinster great-aunt of yours.” She glared at Ralph. “Maybe if Penelope Periwinkle had spent more time with eligible men and less time with that filthy bird of hers, she wouldn’t have died an old maid.”

Ralph squawked. “
You would be another Penelope
.
Coriolanus
. Act One, Scene Three.”

“Traitor. Remember who supplies your sunflower seeds,” I told him.

I turned back to Mama. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve given birth to your two grandsons. So unless you’re under the deluded impression that a couple of immaculate conceptions occurred, I’m definitely not an old maid and can’t possibly become one. Besides, I thought you’d already picked out my
next
husband.”

“You need to keep your options open, dear. Just in case things don’t work out between you and Zack.”

I nodded in the direction of the shopping bags. “Speaking of future husbands, is that what your shopping spree is all about? New man, new wardrobe? You had a date last night, didn’t you? Who is he this time, Mama?”

“Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor. You can’t expect me to pass up a 70 percent-off sale.” She scowled at my faded navy tank top and khaki cargo pants, both hovering this side of stretched out and threadbare. “As a matter of fact, you could use a bit of wardrobe updating. Tear yourself away from whatever it is you’re doing. The sale ends this evening.”

“When Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor decide to have a 100 percent- off sale, let me know. Until that day, I’m not interested.”

Mama let loose a huge sigh as she gathered up her shopping bags. “Honestly, Anastasia, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“Buy me a winning Powerball ticket, and I promise I’ll shop till I drop,” I muttered to her departing back as she headed toward her bedroom. Then I turned my attention back to Lyndella’s journal.

Baby items filled the next several entries in the journal—knitted sweaters, booties, and caps, all decorated with duplicate stitched
ducks and teddy bears; an assortment of bibs and burp cloths
embroidered with nursery rhymes; and a yo-yo doll. With great
difficulty, I strained to read every word of Lyndella’s tight, faded handwriting but again found no clue as to the baby’s identity.

Then I discovered a note written at the bottom of a page featuring the yo-yo doll. The ink on this page was not only faded but blurred, as though Lyndella had been caught in a sudden downpour as she wrote. Much of the page was indecipherable, but at the bottom I made out the following:
What am I going to do now?

The page was dated one week prior to the first ledger entry for John #1.

_________________________

yo-yo doll

NOTE: Yo-yo dolls contain small components that are choking hazards. Never give a yo-yo doll to a baby or toddler. Use only as a decorative item in a nursery or as a toy for older children who don’t put things in their mouths.

Materials

basic yo-yo supplies to sew 61 yo-yos made from a 5" circle
template

buttonhole thread

quilting thread

four embroidery needles

four
¾
" jingle bells

8" x 8" muslin

compass or 8" diameter plate

small amount of fiberfill

sewing needle

black and red embroidery thread

three 2-hole buttons

½
-yd. 2" wide gathered lace

4-ply yarn for hair (your choice of color)

fabric glue or glue gun

Directions

Thread two yards of buttonhole thread through an embroidery needle. Knot ends together. Thread the needle through the top of a bell, then insert the needle through the doubled thread and pull to secure the bell.

String 14 yo-yos onto the thread by inserting the needle into the bottom (ungathered side) of the center of each yo-yo, pushing the yo-yos down toward the bell.

Leave the thread and needle attached for the first leg. Construct a second leg in the same manner.

Repeat this process for the two arms, using 10 yo-yos for each arm.

Using a compass or a plate as a template, trace an 8
"
circle on the muslin for the doll’s head. Cut out the circle. Using the quilting thread, sew a running stitch 1/4
"
from cut edge. Place fiberfill in the center of the circle. Gather the muslin around the fiberfill, adding more fiberfill if needed to make a firm head. Gather the opening closed and knot the thread.

With the black embroidery floss, make French knot eyes. Straight stitch a mouth with the red embroidery floss.

To assemble the doll, pass one leg needle through one hole of a 2-hole button. Pass the other leg needle through the second hole. Tie the two lengths of thread together, knotting several times.

Passing both needles through each yo-yo, string twelve yo-yos for the body. Pass one needle through one hole of a second 2-hole button and the other needle through the other hole.

String the arms through the same button, one arm through each hole. Knot the arm threads to the body threads.

Pass all four needles through the remaining yo-yo for a neck. Pass two needles through one hole of the remaining button and the other two needles through the other hole. Knot the threads. Stitch the head to the neck over the button.

Using the quilting thread, sew a running stitch around the gathered edge of the lace. Place the lace around the bottom of the head and tie off at the back of the head to form a ruffled collar.

To make the doll’s hair, cut yarn into 4" lengths. For each section of hair, knot three lengths together at the center of the yarn. Glue knots to head along hairline, then in horizontal rows across the back of the head.

eleven

The next craft page,
one featuring a crocheted baby bunting, was dated two weeks after John #1. In the margin Lyndella had written, “
Had doubts at first but an amazingly enjoyable way to earn a living. Preacher be damned. Not looking forward to having to stop for several months.
”

I consulted the ledger. In those two weeks Lyndella had
entertained
Matthew #1 three times, James #1 twice, William #1 twice, William #2 twice, John #1 four additional times, and John #2 three times.

Mama came back into the dining room. She’d changed into a sleeveless pink seersucker sundress which she accented with a white coral necklace, a white straw hat, and white sandals. “Going somewhere?” I asked.

“Out to dinner.”

“With Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor?”

“Of course.” She pirouetted to show off the halter back of her dress. Not many sixty-five year olds can wear a halter without eliciting stares and snickers. I had to admit, Mama looked damn good for a woman of her age. Probably a hell of a lot better than I’d look in that same outfit. Sometimes life is so not fair.

“Like it?” she asked.

“It’s lovely. Will anyone else be joining you for dinner this evening?”

“Of course, dear. You don’t think I’d get all dressed up to dine alone, do you?”

“And would this person have a name?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

I waited for more information, but Mama spun around and headed for the front door. “Don’t wait up, dear.”

Not only does Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe have a better body than her much younger daughter, she’s also got a far better social life.

I pulled a yogurt out of the refrigerator and returned to the puzzling life of Lyndella Wegner. As I ate, I read through the next several months of Lyndella’s crafting life and the few personal comments she made from time to time. The pieces began to fall into place. I kept reading, eager to view the complete picture.

But was I reading too much between the lines? All of Lyndella’s notes so far were more cryptic than definitive. I needed to bounce my ideas off someone, and the only someone who knew enough about the situation to be of any help was a certain guy living above my garage.

The silver Porsche Boxster parked in my driveway told me Zack
was home. I headed out the back door and up the outside staircase that led to his apartment.

The sign hanging from the doorknob read, “Darkroom in use,” a warning not to open the door. The apartment consisted of one large, combined living room/kitchen, and two bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bathroom between them. Zack had converted the smaller bedroom into a dark room.

Even though he used digital cameras for most of his photography, Zack still shot with film for certain projects and did his own developing and printing. He gave up his Manhattan apartment to live above my garage five months ago due to a pair of geriatric neighbors who confused his darkroom for a meth lab and continually called the cops. After a raid that destroyed three days worth of location work, Zack decided he needed a more private space, one where he didn’t share walls with paranoid neighbors.

I hesitated before knocking. If Zack was working, I didn’t want to interrupt him. I turned to head back downstairs when the door swung open.

“Hey,” he said, “I was just thinking of you. Come see what I finished.” He reached for my hand and pulled me inside.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” I said. “I can come back later.”

“You’re not disturbing me. I was just about to take the sign off the knob.”

He walked me over to the large worktable set up at the far end of the living room. “Madagascar lemurs,” he said, pointing to the array of photos spread out on the table.

“Which is the one that sounds like a police siren?”

He reached for a photo of an animal that resembled a panda, except for the pointy black snout. “This one. The indri lemur. They’re very rare because they only reproduce once every two to three years. Took me forever to get these shots.”

“Camped in a jungle in Madagascar?”

“Unfortunately, the lemurs don’t frequent The Four Seasons.”

Surreptitiously shooting lemurs with a camera didn’t prove Zack wasn’t also surreptitiously shooting humans—with a camera or something a lot deadlier. No matter how many times he denied it, I still couldn’t shake the suspicion that Zack was also involved with one of the alphabet agencies. Didn’t all spies deny they worked for the government? After all, James Bond’s business card claimed he worked for Universal Imports, not MI6.

“So what have you been up to today?” he asked.

I shoved my worries over Zack’s real job to the back burner of my brain to simmer more. Maybe I had too active an imagination for my own good. If so, I could also be totally off-base about Lyndella. “I think I know why Lyndella became a prostitute.”

_____

A few minutes later, Zack leaned over my dining room table as I pointed out the various crafts and notes. “I think Lyndella got knocked up when she was fifteen. Either the guy promised to marry her and bailed, or something happened to him before the wedding took place.”

“Or they married and something happened shortly afterward,” suggested Zack. “You did say she went by
Mrs
. Wegner, right?”

“That’s another possibility. But for whatever reason, Lyndella was left alone and pregnant. Maybe she ran away; maybe her family kicked her out. Who knows? Either way, she wound up at a whorehouse and began earning a living on her back.” And in a multitude of other positions, given the notations concerning client preferences.

“Makes perfect sense. Does she mention the baby?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet, but she does mention how she’s not going to be able to work for several months, and the ledger bears that out.” I pointed out the gap in dates on the ledger page. “Here. See. Nearly five month between
clients
. The corresponding period in her crafts journal shows she did quite a bit of intricate sewing and needlework. I think she continued to work throughout her pregnancy, but she was working as a seamstress, probably for the other girls and the madam. She mentions the recipient by name on each page.”

I flipped back several pages and pointed out the names to him. “For Millie. For Evelyn. For Rebecca. For Madam Abigail. And so on.”

“Fascinating, but how does any of this prove Lucille didn’t strangle Lyndella?”

“It doesn’t. So far. However, my gut tells me if I keep digging through these binders and the ledger, I’m going to find clues pointing me to Lyndella’s killer.”

Zack pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. “Looks like we’re in for a long night. What toppings would you like on your pizza?”

Having two sets of eyes made sifting through the journal and ledger much easier. Zack and I continued reading and taking notes.

Mama arrived home alone well-past ten o’clock. Her date may have walked her to the door, but he didn’t come in.

“How was your dinner?” I asked.

“Lovely dear. Hello, Zack. If you two will excuse me, I’m exhausted.” With that, she headed for her room.

“I may have to start spying on her,” I said. “She’s up to something.”

“Listen,
Harriet
, she’s a grown woman and shows no signs of senility. Let her have some fun.”

“Letting her have fun usually means I wind up with another stepfather.”

“Would that be so bad?”

I thought for a moment. “No, I suppose not. I’d just like her to find one who sticks around for a bit before kicking the proverbial bucket.”

“Maybe six is her lucky number.”

“Lou Beaumont was supposed to be Husband Number Six. Look how that turned out.”

“He never made it to the altar. Lou doesn’t count.”

Before I could say anything else, Alex and Nick barreled into the house with Ira following close behind. “Have a good time?” I asked.

“Uhm … sure,” said Alex.

“Yeah,” said Nick.

They certainly didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “Where’d you take them?” I asked Ira.

“Up to the Catskills. My kids’ camp had parents’ visitation. I thought I’d surprise them by bringing their new cousins with me.”

Alex rolled his eyes. Nick mouthed, “Brats.” Since all three of them were looking in my direction, Ira didn’t notice.

I smiled. “How nice. Next time I’d appreciate a bit more information, though. Especially if you’re going to be gone so long.”

“Right,” said Ira, looking a bit embarrassed. “I should have thought to leave you my cell phone number.”

Actually, he should have thought to ask my permission before taking my sons out of state, but I decided to bite my tongue. Something told me this wouldn’t be a problem after tonight.

“I didn’t realize the boys don’t have their own phones,” he added.

“We used to,” said Alex.

“Can’t afford them any more,” said Nick.

Ira looked even more embarrassed. “Well, I’d better get going. I have to pick up my wife at the airport in less than an hour.”

We all said good-night, and when I gave the boys my
Mom Look
, they remembered their manners and thanked Ira for taking them.

“So,” I said after closing the front door, “not such a great day, huh?”

“His kids are the most obnoxious spoiled brats,” said Nick. “Eleven-year-old twin girls who think they’re the next Miley Cyrus—”

“Except neither of them can carry a tune,” said Alex. “We had to sit through a talent show and listen to them yowl like cats. And then listen to Uncle Ira gush over them like they’re already superstars. The guy must be tone deaf.”

“They totally pretended we weren’t even there,” said Nick. “But their nine-year-old brother was worse. He’s convinced he’s headed to the majors.”

“Not that he can hit or field a ball worth a damn,” added Alex. “He struck out all three times at bat and committed two fielding errors.”

“When I tried to give him some pointers,” said Nick, “he told me to go fuck myself.”

“Did Ira hear him?” I asked.

“Yeah. Not that he did anything. Told the little shit to apologize, but when he refused, Uncle Ira just kind of shrugged and gave me a lame smile.”

“Ira’s pretty much a wimp, Mom,” said Alex. “His kids treat him like crap, and he let’s them get away with it.”

“I was really excited about having cousins,” said Nick. “What a bummer.”

“That’s the trouble with family,” said Zack, who’d listened quietly up until now. “You can’t pick and choose.”

“It’s not fair,” said Nick. “We’re already stuck with Grandmother
Lucille.”

“You’re not stuck with Ira and his kids,” I said. “You can choose how much of a relationship you want to have. Or you can choose not to have any relationship with them. I’m certainly not going to force you to see them, but you might want to give them a second chance.”

“Why?” Alex and Nick asked together.

“Because Ira sprang this on his kids without warning. Maybe they were acting out because they were jealous.”

“Jealous?” asked Nick. “They’re like totally loaded; we’ve got nothing.”

“You had their father,” said Zack.

“Huh?”

“Zack’s right,” I said. “Put yourselves in their shoes for a minute, Nick. How would you feel if one of your parents didn’t show up for visiting day and the other brought along a couple of strange kids who were spending time with their father while you were off at camp.”

“Could be they didn’t even want to go to camp,” added Zack. “What if they’ve been homesick?”

Alex and Nick mulled. “Yeah,” said Alex. “Ira didn’t use the best judgment, did he?”

“Definitely not,” I said.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eleven o’clock. As much as I wanted to continuing investigating Lyndella’s life, I knew I needed to put aside her journals for the night. I still had to pull together a presentation for tomorrow’s staff meeting, something I had planned to do over the three-day weekend, back when I thought I’d have a three-day weekend.

Hopefully I’d have some time to continue reading through the journals during the week.

By next weekend Detective Spader might have enough circumstantial evidence to arrest Lucille, and I couldn’t let that happen. Sitting in a jail cell for protesting without a permit or for compulsive jaywalking was one thing. Murder was quite another.

“Time to call it a night,” I said. “We all have to work in the morning.”

“And I’ve got to get up at the crack of dawn to catch an early train to D.C.,” said Zack.

“Meeting at headquarters?” I teased.

“The Smithsonian.”

Or so he claimed.