3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (7 page)

“The letter doesn’t say Ira left Lucille,” said Mama. “She may have kicked him out.”

I quickly perused the letter again. Lucille had little tolerance for
anyone who disagreed with her. Mama could be right.

“Dad loved kids,” said Ira. “He always regretted that he and mom
couldn’t have more than one. Even if he and Lucille broke up, I think he’d want to have a relationship with his son. If he knew that a son existed.”

I had absolutely no doubt that the Lucille of the letter and photo was Karl’s mother. I also had no doubt that Ira was Karl’s half-brother. The proof sat across the room from me, written in his DNA. “Did you know about your father’s previous marriage?”

Ira shook his head. “That’s another mystery. I found no evidence of a previous marriage. Believe me, after finding this letter, I searched high and low. No marriage license, no divorce papers. Nothing referring to alimony or child support. He and Lucille may never have married.”

“Or he was a bigamist,” said Mama.

“Dad was an attorney. He’d never jeopardize his practice by breaking the law.”

Not that the two are mutually exclusive. Especially in New Jersey where our prisons have been home to many a lawbreaking lawyer. I kept that thought to myself, though. “So either he and Lucille married, then divorced, and he didn’t keep any proof of it,” I said, “which would be very odd for an attorney, or—”

“They never married,” added Mama.

“But she took his name,” I reminded her. “For both herself and Karl. Why would she do that if she and Isidore never married?”

“For the sake of propriety,” suggested Mama. “Consider the stigma of a child born out-of-wedlock back then. It’s not like today where young people start families, then eventually get around to marrying. Or not.”

“We’re talking about Lucille here, Mama. When did she ever do anything for the sake of propriety?”

“Maybe your husband can shed some light on all this,” said Ira. “When do you expect him home?”

I took a deep breath before answering. “Actually, Karl won’t be coming home, Ira.”

“He’s away on business?”

“He died this past winter.”

Ira’s mouth dropped open, but no sounds came out. Poor man. He’d spent weeks working up the courage to contact a sibling that he’d never meet. I didn’t know how to comfort him. An awkward silence settled over the room with Ira fighting to hold back his emotions and Mama and I at a loss for words.

When the phone rang a moment later, I was glad for the excuse to leave the room, if only for a minute. Maybe I’d think of something to say by the time I returned.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Pollack?”

“Yes.”

“This is Officer Harley from the Westfield Police Department.”

Officer Harley and I had history. Thankfully, neither he nor his partner, Officer Fogarty, have leaked my trials and tribulations stemming from Dead Louse of a Spouse to the town newspaper. “How are you?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t calling for a donation to the Police Benevolent Association.

“Can you get over to Sunnyside right away, ma’am?”

“Of course. Has something happened to my mother-in-law?”

“We may have to book her.”

“Book her?” What sort of trouble could Lucille have gotten herself into already? “On what charges?”

“Murder.”

six

I grabbed my keys,
dashed out the back door, and slammed smack into Zack’s chest.

“Whoa! Where’s the fire?”

“I’ve got to get to Sunnyside. Harley wants to charge Lucille with murder.”

“Who’d she kill?”

“He didn’t say. Crap!”

“What?”

“I ran out without saying anything to Mama and Ira.”

“Who’s Ira?”

“Karl’s half-brother.”

“Huh?” Zack grabbed my arm as I started for my car. “You’re not making any sense. I’ll drive.”

I didn’t argue with him. As much as I never again wanted to rely
on any man, I wasn’t above accepting Zack’s knight-in-shining-
armor offer at the moment. Besides, the air conditioning worked far better in his Porsche Boxster than it did in my Hyundai. With the mercury still hovering close to triple digits, I’d compromise my scruples for a cooling blast of AC.

As Zack sped out of the driveway, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and called home.

Mama answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Mama, I—”

“Anastasia! Where in the world are you?”

“On my way to Sunnyside. Something’s happened—”

“What? Did that Bolshevik cow finally get what’s coming to her?”

“Mama!”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure she deserved it.”

“Just make my apologies to Ira, please? I’ll be home as soon as possible.”

“Don’t worry about Ira, dear. I’ll take very good care of him.”

That’s what I was afraid of. By the time I returned, Ira, no doubt, would be armpits deep in family dirt and wishing he’d never rung my doorbell, but maybe that was a good thing. It would save me the trouble of having to explain that he hadn’t missed much by being five months too late to meet his half-brother. Not to mention that he’d most likely saved his bank accounts from Karl’s raiding fingers.

“None of this makes sense,” I said as we zipped through downtown Westfield. “Lucille is many things—annoying, mean, strident, and a pain in everyone’s tush. But a killer? I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“I don’t know,” said Zack. “She can wield a mighty nasty cane.”

“But only as a threat. She’s never used it as a weapon on anyone.”

“Didn’t she smack Flora with her cane once?”

“The jury’s still out on that one. You know how Mama’s prone to hyperbole, and she’s certainly not above an occasional fib if it suits her purpose.”

“Maybe whatever happened at Sunnyside was an accident,” suggested Zack.

“Harley mentioned murder, not manslaughter.” I shifted in my seat to confront him. “What if something went horribly wrong with her brain during the surgery and caused her to become homicidal?”

“Wouldn’t the doctors have seen some signs of that earlier?”

“Who knows? Maybe not. Maybe whatever happened needed some sort of trigger to manifest itself.”

Zack turned into Sunnyside’s driveway, bypassed the guest parking lot, and pulled right up to the front door. “I guess we’ll soon find out.”

“They’re all waiting for you in the library,” said April when Zack and I rushed into the lobby. “Down that hall, last door on your right. Never had a murder here before,” she added, “but, girl, your mother-in-law couldn’t have chosen a finer pain in the ass to eliminate. Some of the residents want to pin a medal on her.”

I stopped short. “Are you saying Lyndella Wegner was
murdered
?”

“Apparently.”

“But I saw her this morning. She died in her sleep. I reported her death to you.”

“Rumor has it the medical examiner claims otherwise. The Union County crime unit is doing their CSI thing in her room right now.”

I sprinted the rest of the way down the hall to the library. Zack sprinted alongside me. Officer Fogarty stood in the hall, blocking the library entrance, but stepped aside to allow me and Zack entry.

Bookshelves lined the walls of the library. A circular seating area with burgundy leather upholstered chairs and two sofas filled the Oriental carpet in the center of the small room. Lucille sat ramrod straight in her wheelchair alongside one of the sofas.

Shirley Hallstead, still dressed in her navy power suit, was perched on the edge of one of the chairs but jumped to her feet as I entered the room. Officer Harley stood off to one side.

A rotund man in a pair of light brown trousers, white dress shirt, and dark brown solid tie stood towering over my mother-in-law. His shirt sleeves were rolled to just below his elbows, his tie loosened.

“Well, look who’s here,” said my mother-in-law, jutting her chin in my direction. “This is all your fault, Anastasia.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Shirley pointed an index finger at Lucille and in a voice filled with anger said, “Your mother-in-law killed Lyndella Wegner.”

“I did no such thing,” said Lucille. “You’re all trying to frame me.”

“We have a witness who heard you threaten to strangle her,” said Shirley. “Now Lyndella’s dead. Strangled. Explain that, why don’t you?”

“Lies!” said Lucille.

“That’s enough,” said the stranger. “I’ll do the questioning if you don’t mind, Ms. Hallstead.” He turned to Harley. “Escort Ms. Hallstead to her office. I’ll be with her shortly.”

“I have a right to stay here,” said Shirley. “Sunnyside is my responsibility.”

“And murder is mine,” said the man. “Now leave or I’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation.”

Shirley jerked away from Harley when he reached for her arm. With her head held high, her lips pursed tightly, she stalked out of the room, Harley following closely on her heels. The stranger closed the door behind them. Then he turned to me. “Mrs. Pollack?”

I nodded. “And you are?”

He flashed a badge. “Detective Spader. Union County.” He nodded
in Zack’s direction. “This here your mother-in-law’s lawyer?”

“He’s nobody,” said Lucille. “Just someone she’s taken up with to sully my son’s memory.”

I glared at her. “You might want to dial down the insults a bit, Lucille. It looks like you need all the help you can get right now.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You didn’t have Officer Harley call me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because the detective here wants to charge you with murder?”

“He doesn’t have a shred of evidence. My lawyers will make mincemeat out of him.”

“What lawyers?”

“The ones my sisters will hire for me.”

“Are those the same sisters who offered you a place to live after your apartment building burned to the ground?”

She had no quick retort for that. However, knowing the Daughters of the October Revolution, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they kept some old geezer of a commie lawyer on retainer. Lucille and her fellow sisters had faced many a judge over the years. At this very moment the other Daughters were probably fumigating the mothball stench from the guy’s fifty-year-old suit.

Detective Spader turned to Zack. “I’m going to have to ask you to step outside, sir.”

“You okay with that?” Zack asked me.

“Sure.”

As soon as Zack left, I confronted Detective Spader in as non-confrontational a manner as I could muster. “Exactly what happened here, Detective, and why do you think my mother-in-law had a hand in it?”

He answered my question with one of his own. “Am I correct that you reported Mrs. Wegner’s death, ma’am?”

I outlined the events of the morning for him. “She appeared to have died in her sleep. She looked quite peaceful, lying on her back, eyes closed, the quilt pulled up to her chin. I even remember a hint of smile on her face.”

“No signs of a struggle?”

“Absolutely not. At first I thought she was sleeping. It wasn’t until
I felt for a pulse that I realized she was dead. Why do you believe she was murdered?”

“The funeral director found bruising on her neck. As the law requires, he called in the medical examiner, who ruled her death a homicide and contacted the police.”

“You think she was strangled?”

“She was definitely strangled. With the scarf that was tied around her neck.”

“Not by me,” said Lucille.

“I remember the scarf,” I said. “The ends were draped on top of her quilt.”

“You didn’t think it odd that she’d wear a scarf to bed when it’s so hot in this place?”

“Not really. It wasn’t the kind of scarf you wear for warmth, more as an accessory. Besides, from the little I’d gotten to know her, Lyndella loved to show off. The scarf was one I saw her crocheting yesterday. She probably tried it on when she finished it and forgot to take it off before going to bed.”

“Or the killer grabbed it and tied it around her neck,” he said.

“I don’t think the killer is my mother-in-law.”

“And why is that?”

“She doesn’t have the strength to cut her own food right now, let alone strangle someone as strong as Lyndella.”

Detective Spader’s bushy salt and pepper eyebrows rose up toward what was left of his hairline. “The deceased was ninety-eight years old. What makes you think she was strong?”

“She shook hands like a politician.”

My explanation elicited a chuckle he tried to cover up with a cough. “Your mother-in-law’s infirmity aside, you’d be surprised at the strength adrenalin can produce under the right circumstances.”

“Do you have any evidence pointing to Lucille as the killer?”

“All we have right now is one of the other Sunnyside residents
who claims hearing your mother-in-law shouting yesterday morn
ing that she was going to strangle Mrs. Wegner if she didn’t shut up.”

I turned to Lucille. “I told you to lower your voice, didn’t I?”

Lucille harrumphed. “If you’d taken me home like I demanded, he’d be out searching for the real killer instead of trying to railroad me.”

“Are you confirming your mother-in-law threatened Mrs. Weg-
ner yesterday?”

“Not exactly.”

The detective let loose a deep sigh and loosened his tie further. “Explain.”

I did. When I finished, I asked, “Are you arresting Lucille?”

“Not yet. I don’t have enough evidence.”

“And you won’t find any,” said Lucille, “because there’s none to find. You’re harassing an innocent citizen. I’ll have your badge before this is over.”

Detective Spader glared at Lucille. Another strangulation might occur at any moment if she didn’t keep her mouth shut. “Is she always this combative?” he asked.

“You mean you don’t know?” With her record I figured the Westfield PD had Lucille’s image plastered over their firing range targets.

“I recently transferred over from Essex County. Docs told me the stress would kill me sooner than a bullet. I’ve got another year before I can retire and figured I stood a better chance of making it here in Union County.”

“There are plenty of homicides in Elizabeth and Plainfield,” I said, reminding him that although Westfield might be considered a bucolic oasis, other parts of Union County certainly weren’t.

He shrugged. “Nothing’s perfect. Still beats the streets of Newark. I just never expected my first homicide investigation to be in Westfield. There hasn’t been a murder in this town in more than a dozen years.”

I imagined the stress of working in Newark would suck the life out of anyone. Those ruptured capillaries on the detective’s nose told me he drank too much. His girth certainly didn’t help. With a paunch that hung well over his belt buckle, he looked either nine months pregnant or like a heart attack waiting to happen. I also took note of the pack of cigarettes poking out of his shirt pocket and wondered if he’d live to enjoy that retirement.

“Have Harley and Fogarty fill you in about my mother-in-law,” I said.

“Those two? They’re out to get me,” said Lucille. “It’s all one huge
conspiracy to frame me because of my political views. Freedom of speech in this country is laughable.”

“And what might those political views be, ma’am?” asked Spader.

I answered for Lucille, figuring short and sweet trumped her going off on one of her anti-government rants. “She’s a communist.”

In a
sotto voce
voice Spader asked, “Anybody ever clue her in about the Berlin Wall falling and the Soviet Union dissolving?”

“Don’t speak as if I’m not in the room, and don’t you dare imply I’m crazy,” said Lucille. “I’m saner than you are! And I know far more about what’s going on in this country than you and the rest of your mindless blue brethren.”

Short and sweet obviously hadn’t worked. “Lucille, I don’t think this is the time or place for—”

“It’s always the time and place. That’s the trouble with you, Anastasia. With all of you. Does anyone really care that some prattling dimwit is dead? There are far more important things going on in this country that should be investigated instead of wasting taxpayer money on some slutty trollop.”

Talk about a non sequitur. Spader again raised those bushy salt and pepper eyebrows of his, this time even higher than before, and directed his question to Lucille. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, ma’am?”

Lucille once more jutted her chin toward me. “I tried to tell you this morning, but you weren’t interested.”

I remembered Lucille saying something about how I wouldn’t believe what had gone on in her room last night, but I didn’t have time to listen to another one of her complaints. “Tell us now, Lucille.”

“This place is a den of iniquity. I was awake most of the night, thanks to that floozy, her bouncing bedsprings, and all the moaning and groaning going on.”

Spader stared in utter disbelief. “Are you saying the victim, a ninety-eight-year-old woman, had a sexual encounter last night?”

“No,” said Lucille. “I’m saying she had more than one.”