3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (24 page)

“And she feared that information getting out?”

“Exactly. She had no idea the vic was even still alive until she received a blackmail threat from her. Instead of paying off Mrs. Wegner, Hunter dispatched Silvestri to deal with the problem.”

“How’d I miss that in Lyndella’s journals?”

“I don’t think you did.”

I thought back to Lyndella’s entry about finding a golden ticket. “Lyndella must have caught Hunter on television and recognized her.”

“Yeah. It’s doubtful Hunter turned tricks under her real name when she worked for the vic. Until she saw a picture, Lyndella wouldn’t have known the congresswoman and her former employee were one and the same.”

“Which must have happened the day she wrote the entry about finding a golden ticket. And days later, Dirk moved into Sunnyside. But how’d you find out all of this?”

“Once we made the connection to the congresswoman, she realized her only recourse was to cooperate. I’m guessing it has to do with Georgia being a death penalty state.”

“But what about Mabel? Why did Dirk kill her?”

“So far, Silvestri’s not talking. If I had to guess, I’d say Mrs. Shapiro just got on his nerves for one reason or another.”

Mabel had grown rather bossy in the days after Lyndella’s murder. I suppose it doesn’t take much sometimes to give a killer incentive to kill. Poor Mabel. “He seemed like such a bland, mild-mannered guy. Half the time I didn’t even notice him around.”

“Those are the most dangerous killers. They’re great actors. They blend into their surroundings, and you never see them coming until it’s too late.”

“Dirk is an excellent artist. It’s hard for me to reconcile someone who can create such beauty on one hand while taking lives on the other.”

“He’ll have plenty of time to paint where he’s going, and he won’t be taking any more lives.”

He also wouldn’t be taking part in the gallery show. I’d have to call Clara to tell her we’d lost another exhibitor. Whether I wanted to or not, I’d also have to go to Sunnyside tomorrow. With the opening less than a week away, we’d need to fill some large holes.

The door swung open, and Lucille shuffled her walker into the room. A nurse followed behind her. “Your mother-in-law checked out okay,” she said. “A few minor bruises but nothing broken. She’s free to leave.”

“We’re picking up Manifesto, and you’re taking me home,” said Lucille. “I’m not spending another minute in that hell hole full of lunatics running around with guns. That man nearly killed me!”

Actually, he nearly killed me, but why argue? “All right, Lucille, but I don’t have a car here.”

“I can give you a ride back to Sunnyside,” said Detective Spader.

“Fine,” said Lucille. “Let’s go.”

“Do you mind if I get dressed first?” I asked her.

That’s when my self-absorbed mother-in-law noticed the hospital gown. “What happened to you?”

“Someone tried to kill me.”

Lucille scrunched up her nose and skewered her mouth in disbelief. “Exaggerating as usual, I see, Anastasia. Well, you’ll get no sympathy from me. If you hadn’t forced me into that place, none of this would have happened. This is your own fault.”

So what else is new?

twenty-three

When we arrived back
at Sunnyside, pulling in the back entrance to avoid the news vans parked at the front entrance, Detective Spader decided I shouldn’t drive the short distance home. He placed a call to Harley and Fogarty while I retrieved Mephisto. With any luck, I’d avoid Shirley and the bureaucratic paperwork involved in Lucille’s release until tomorrow.

Once inside, I tiptoed down the hall past Shirley’s closed door and made my way to the lobby, keeping off to the side to avoid the gaze of the reporters gathered like a flock of vultures at the front entrance.

“Girl, you okay?” asked April when she saw me.

I glanced up and down both halls before answering her. No Shirley in sight. “Sure. Just a few scratches.”

“Shut up! Looked like a lot more than scratches from where I stood.”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “Can you bring Mephisto to me? I don’t want any of the reporters to know I’m here.”

“Sure thing.” She unhooked Mephisto’s leash from the back of her chair and walked down the hall with him. Anyone peering inside would think she was taking him for a walk.

When April had traveled beyond the view of anyone on the outside, she handed the leash off to me. “I’m bringing my mother-in-law home,” I said. “She’s refusing to come back to Sunnyside.”

“Can’t say as I blame her. Not with what’s been going down here lately.”

“If Shirley says anything, let her think Lucille’s spending the night in the hospital. I’ll deal with her and all the red tape tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. Shirley left for the day. That woman was one out-of-control, power-suited basket case in stilettos, especially once the news crews started showing up.”

I can imagine. Talk about a PR nightmare. I wondered how Shirley would spin the events to her Board of Directors, not to mention the press.

“You got any inside info to spill?” asked April.

“Watch the news tonight.” Then I added, “National.”

April’s eyes bugged out. “You shitting me, girl?”

“Would I do that?” I tugged on Mephisto’s leash and headed toward the employees’ entrance.

Lucille, Mephisto, and I rode in Detective Spader’s mercifully air-conditioned unmarked sedan. Fogarty drew the short straw and drove my stifling rust-bucket with Harley following in the police cruiser. When we arrived, I offered the three officers cold drinks, but they all declined.

Once inside the house, Mephisto scurried to his air vent of choice, and Lucille shuffled off to the bedroom she shared with Mama. I released Ralph from his cage. As I refilled his water bottle, I heard Mama scream.

Shouting ensued. Mama, Lucille, and one very decidedly male voice rose in discordant cacophony. I raced down the hall, Ralph flapping along ahead of me.

Lucille stood in the entrance to the bedroom. I poked my head into the room and found Mama and Lawrence Tuttnauer huddled together in Mama’s bed, the sheet drawn up to their chins. “Mother!”

“
Mother, mother, mother!
” squawked Ralph flying into the room. He landed on the headboard and stared down at Mama and Lawrence. “
Hamlet
. Act Three, Scene Four.”

“Get out!” shouted Mama. She pulled her arms out from under the sheet and flapped them at Ralph. “Shoo, filthy bird!” Then she turned to me and Lucille. “Both of you, get out, and take that flying rodent with you!”

“I will not,” said Lucille. “This is my room.”

“What’s she doing back here?” asked Mama, directing her question to me. “She wasn’t supposed to come back until the end of the month.”

“Well, she’s back early,” I said. “You and Lawrence will have to move your afternoon delights to his home.”

“We can’t do that,” said Mama.

I raised my eyebrows.

Mama scrunched up her nose. “Cynthia. She doesn’t approve of our engagement.”

Which was the one thing Cynthia Pollack and I had in common. “Then I guess the two of you will have to get a room.” And because I’d reached my limit (can you blame me with the day I’d had?), I added, “There are several motels out on Route 9 that rent by the hour.”

“Anastasia! How can you say such a thing to your mother and future stepfather?”

Easy when my mother and Future Stepfather Number Six acted like rutting sheep. I sighed. My neck hurt like hell, and my head was following suit. I needed a quiet soak in a cool tub and a very strong margarita. It didn’t look like I’d get either any time soon. “Mama, I’ve had a rough day. Get dressed. You’re welcome to entertain Lawrence in my home, but from now on you’ll both remain clothed with at least three feet on the floor at all times.”

That said, I marched back down the hall, into the kitchen, and out the back door to the one place where I could find escape from perpetual family drama. The dark-room sign had better not be hanging on the door.

It wasn’t. I knocked. A moment later Zack opened the door. He took one look at my bandaged neck and I thought he’d throttle me. “How the hell—”

I placed my hand across his mouth. “Don’t. I’ll tell you all about it. After I calm down. Or better yet, we’ll watch the news together, and I’ll let Diane Sawyer fill you in. Just please tell me you have the makings for a supersized, industrial-strength margarita. With lots of salt. If not, I might cry.”

He pulled me across the threshold and into his arms. Before he could tell me whether he had the makings for a supersized, industrial-strength margarita with lots of salt, I began crying anyway.

Actually, I blubbered. I’d reached that point where the remainder of adrenaline that had carried me to this point finally deserted me. I was now officially running on empty. After a few minutes, I didn’t even have enough strength to continue crying.

Zack led me to the sofa and sat me down. Then he pointed to my neck. “Are you sure alcohol is a good idea?”

“Right now I don’t care if it’s the worst idea in the world. I want one.”

“Okay, one very supersized, industrial-strength margarita coming up.”

“With salt.”

“With salt. Will you be okay while I make it?”

I nodded. “Just don’t take too long. I’m on the verge of implosion.”

Three minutes later he placed a highball glass in my hand. I licked the salt from one side of the glass, then gulped down half the drink without coming up for air. The salt and fruit juice replenished my electrolytes, bringing life back to my nerves and muscles, while the alcohol helped numb the pain in my neck, although it would probably eventually contribute to the pain in my head. At the moment I didn’t care.

I placed the glass against my forehead, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

_____

Two hours later, Zack nudged me awake. “I would have let you sleep, but I figured you’d want to see this.” He pressed the remote to unfreeze the ABC
Breaking News
logo on the television screen. We watched in silence. At the end of the report, Zack turned off the TV. “So you almost got yourself killed again.” He pointed to my neck. “How bad is it?”

“Hardly more than a couple of scratches.”

“Scratches don’t require stitches.”

“Deep scratches do.”

“How deep?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I want to know everything. But not now.” He drew me into his arms and kissed me in that way he has that feels like no other kisses I’ve ever experienced.

“I’m ready for more,” I said.

“More margarita?”

“More you.”

Zack made sure the door was locked before leading me into the bedroom.

twenty-four

Thanks to all the
local and national press coverage surround
ing the arrest of Dirk Silver, aka Dante Silvestri, and Georgia
Congresswoman Adeline Hunter, we had an extraordinary turn
out for the opening at Creative Hearts & Hands the following
Friday evening. Besides friends and family of my crafters and most of the Sunnyside staff, total strangers crammed into the small Hoboken gallery. The overflow poured out onto the still steamy sidewalk and into the street.

But the best news? People came to do more than gawk. They bought. And bought. And bought. Two hours into the opening every single item contained a sold sticker, and Clara was busy taking orders for more of my students’ artwork and craft pieces.

With Mabel’s artwork removed from the show at the request of her family and Dirk’s removed at the request of the police, the gallery had room to include at least one piece each from all the crafters Mabel had originally excluded. They might not have needed the money, but they did need the affirmation and boost to their egos. Every one of my students strutted around the gallery with heaping plates of hors d’oeuvres in their hands, wide grins spread across their faces, and their chests puffed out with pride.

The one person who didn’t show up was Sunnyside’s director, not that I expected her, but according to my crafters and some of the staff, no one had seen or heard from Shirley Hallstead since shortly after Dirk’s arrest.

“Sorry I’m late,” said April after inching her way through the crowd toward me. She was back to wearing her Jersey pride T-shirts. Today’s chest billboard, a scooped-neck hot pink number with puffy paint black lettering, read,
Jersey Babe and Proud of It!
“I’ve finally got the 411 on Shirley, and girl, you are not gonna believe it.”

“Spill, April.”

“She’s gone.”

“As in quit?”

“As in fired. The board axed her ass. Turns out Shirley never paid for Lyndella to live at Sunnyside. She cheated the place out of twenty years’ worth of fees and covered it up with money she skimmed from the Mildred Burnbaum arts and crafts grant funds. Not only did the Board of Directors fire Shirley, but she’s got to pay back the money she embezzled, plus interest, PDQ. Otherwise they’re filing charges against her.”

April swiped a mini quiche off my plate and popped it in her mouth. “Can’t say as anyone will miss her. That woman had serious issues.”

I agreed. With the killer caught, Shirley gone, and my crafters flush with newfound discretionary funds, the remainder of my time at Sunnyside should prove blissfully uneventful. Too bad I couldn’t say the same for my personal life.

Being with Zack had surpassed my wildest imaginings. Granted,
my pool of personal comparisons was limited, but I’d read my share
of romance novels, and last Saturday night surpassed even the steamiest of them.

However, sex is a temporary panacea. After the rush of endorphins wore off, I still had to contend with Mama and Lucille.

Mama was barely speaking to me, especially after I’d walked back into the house last Saturday night, and she immediately guessed from the expression on my face that I’d gotten some. This only hours after I’d told her she could no longer have any—at least not under my roof.

The only impediment keeping her and Lawrence from running off and eloping was the not-so-minor problem of where they’d live. Like most of Mama’s previous husbands, Lawrence had little savings. Between the two of them, they couldn’t afford an apartment of their own, not with the prices of real estate in New Jersey.

Cynthia had made it clear Mama wasn’t welcome at the McMansion, and I certainly didn’t have room for the geriatric lovebirds at
Casa Pollack
. Over the last few days they’d begun working on Ira to foot the bill for an apartment. Personally, I hoped he’d agree. I love Mama, but she needs a man in her life, and for my own sanity, not to mention my budget, I need one less relative under my roof.

Of course, I’d rather have Mama than Lucille, but I had no way of palming Lucille off on some man. Or anyone else for that matter. Lucille was Karl’s albatross of a parting gift that would keep on giving. And giving. And giving.

And just because my home life wasn’t stressful enough, my mother-in-law now claimed I’d corrupted her dog. After considerable mutual animosity from the time he’d moved into my home, Mephisto and I had now bonded. Unfortunately, he’d made it clear that he preferred my company to Lucille’s.

I also had to brace myself for the inevitable meeting between Ira and Lucille and the fallout of such a meeting. Were Lucille and Isidore ever married? If so, had they divorced? As much as I hated to admit it, I leaned more and more toward Mama’s theory that neither had occurred and Lucille had legally changed her name to his. I awaited confirmation from Patricia’s intern’s records search, but my gut told me no such records existed.

One way or another, eventually, I’d have to decide whether or not to confront Lucille. I’d already kept several devastating secrets about Karl from her, believing she was better off not knowing her son’s true nature. Should I keep yet another secret from her, knowing any number of people might spill the Isidore beans?

But with all the current family drama and the drama yet to come, at least I was finally getting some. I scanned the crowd until I found the giver of what I was getting. Zack inclined his head toward the exit and raised his eyebrows in question. I pushed through the crowd to where that sexy silver sports car of his waited at the curb and asked myself, how lucky could one pear-shaped, cellulite-riddled, slightly overweight, more than slightly in debt, middle-aged widow get?

the end