A Rose From the Dead (6 page)

“It’s after seven o’clock,” Marco muttered, twisting in his chair to glance around the room. “Still think we’ll be out of here at eight?”

At that moment Delilah swept up to our table. “I do beg your pardon,” she said breathlessly as Max jumped up to seat her. “I had a slight difficulty, but everything is under control now.”

“Are you sure?” Max asked, which was exactly what I was wondering. Delilah’s pastel pink hat was askew, and several wisps of her blond hair had managed to break free of the hair spray and were flying about her face as though she’d been in a wind tunnel.

“Of course I’m sure,” she said, tucking her hair in place. “I had a little delay, is all. I ran out of glue and had to go out to our van for more.”

“You should have beeped me,” Max said. “I would have gone for the glue.”

“Darlin’, I was in the storage room, just yards from the back door. It didn’t take long to get to our van from there. Now, don’t fret.”

“Did you happen to see Sybil on your way in?” Mark asked her.

Delilah leaned forward to say quietly, “Sybil was in the storage room when I went to fix the lace. She kept insistin’ that I leave because of some silly rule that says no one is allowed in after six, but I could tell by her jittery behavior it wasn’t about a rule. She was waitin’ for someone. So I told her, ‘Honey, I have one little-bitty thing to glue on, and I’m not leavin’ until you let me in to do it.’” Delilah smiled. “She let me fix it, although she was as nervous as a cat the whole time.”

“But even if she’d been waiting for someone,” Jane said, “Sybil would never allow herself to be late to the banquet, not when she’s in charge.”

Everyone at the table agreed with her.

Over the PA system I heard, “Sybil Blount, please come to the banquet hall.”

I turned to glance around the room, but even the announcement failed to produce Sybil. I saw Chet Sunday seated near the back with a group of men in tuxes, no doubt his sponsors from Habitation Station. The far table where Angelique had sat was now empty.

By seven fifteen, we were not only hungry but also annoyed. The servers were poised outside the kitchen doors, their carts loaded with salad plates; the bowls of bread and rolls on the tables had been emptied and filled again; and all around me exasperated guests buzzed with speculation.

“She probably found herself a bellboy toy,” I heard one man say.

At seven twenty the colonel strode up to the podium. “We seem to be missing our chairperson, so I’d like to ask Reverend Schmidt to come up and give a blessing. Then we’ll get started.”

Applause greeted his announcement, and the dinner took off at last. We ate field greens topped with goat cheese, blueberries, and walnuts in a light balsamic vinaigrette; pecancrusted chicken breasts stuffed with spinach and Gorgonzola cheese on a bed of couscous; and white asparagus spears in a lemon beurre-blanc sauce. Delilah hadn’t misled me. It truly was a spectacular meal.

But a rushed one. At seven forty-five, as dessert was being served—a chocolate torte with raspberry sauce—Colonel Billingsworth again went to the podium. “I’d like to ask for four volunteers to judge our casket contest. If you’re interested in judging, please raise your hand. I’ll announce the winner in half an hour, after our judges have had a chance to review the entries. In the meantime, could I ask the ladies who have prepared a skit for tonight’s entertainment to please come forward?”

“Sybil must have taken ill,” Jane said. “She’d never let anyone take the contest judging away from her.”

“Marco,” I said quietly, “I have a funny feeling about Sybil’s absence.”

He grabbed a bottle of white wine from the table and splashed some into my glass. “This will make it go away.”

“I’m serious.” I picked up my clutch purse and whispered to him, “I’m going to look for her. Want to help?”

He gazed at me for a moment, probably trying to decide whether he could get away with saying no. Then, muttering “I know I’ll regret this,” he followed me out of the banquet hall.

W
e explained the situation to the hotel manager, who tried to ring Sybil’s room. When he didn’t get a response, he sent a woman from housekeeping up to the fourth floor with us to knock, and when that didn’t work either, the woman used her master key card to unlock the door and call inside, “Housekeeping, Mrs. Blount. Hello?”

“Why do I keep picturing that shower scene from
Psycho
?” I whispered to Marco, gripping his hand.

The housekeeper scowled at me but proceeded inside anyway, making us wait in the hallway. A few moments later she returned and said, “I’m sorry, but no one is in the room.”

Then where was Sybil?

We headed for the exhibition hall to check her cosmetics booth. The vast hall was deserted because of the banquet, and the huge lights overhead had been dimmed, making the rows of booths feel like a ghost town. At booth four we found a big silver makeup case; several oval mirrors on stainless-steel stands; a stack of brochures; jars holding her blushes, foundations, and powders; and a dummy’s head wearing a wig and the shiny makeup that was Sybil’s trademark look, but there was no sign of Sybil.

As we paused at the top of aisle two, trying to decide where to search next, I happened to glance over at the mannequins on display at the funeral outfitters’ booth. To my surprise I saw a black fishnet stocking dangling from the female dummy’s fingers. And that wasn’t all. Someone had removed the mannequin’s navy dress and shoes and replaced them with a zebra-striped wrap dress and black patent spike heels.

“Marco, look at that mannequin. Isn’t that the outfit Sybil had on today?”

“Sunshine, I don’t even know what
you
had on today.”

“Gee, I feel so flattered.” Walking over to bat the dangling stocking, I said, “Looks like Ross and Jess got Sybil again.”

Marco gave me a skeptical glance. “How did they get hold of her clothes?”

“Are you kidding?”

Over his shoulder I suddenly noticed the pulsing red and blue lights of police cars shining through the windows near the back hallway. “Marco, look.”

He started jogging toward the back exit. “I’ll check it out. You wait here.”

Right. I was going to stand
here
while he was over
there
where all the excitement was.

Um, no.

I slipped off my high heels and hurried after him, not an easy feat in a skirt that’s tight at the knees. As I hobbled down the hallway I could hear men’s voices coming from the storage room, and when I peered inside I saw two young cops from the county sheriff’s department talking to Marco. They were standing on the left side of the room by the last row of caskets, directly in front of one on a low stand, its lid open to reveal a silk lining that had been plumped up and painted to look like big, fluffy clouds. I remembered the entry: It was supposed to be a beach scene, and the casket itself had been filled with several inches of sand. Had someone vandalized it?

Pausing to put on my shoes, I slipped up behind Marco and ventured a glance around him, then instantly pressed my fingers against my mouth to stifle a horrified gasp. Inside the casket lay Sybil, her glassy, bulging eyes staring up at the ceiling with a terrified expression, her mouth gaping like a fish, and her body nude except for a sexy black lace teddy, with garter straps dangling, stocking free.

My stomach churned as I gazed down at the ghastly sight. Her shiny funeral makeup was in place but her lipstick had worn off, revealing blue-tinged lips. Her arms were bent at the elbow, with her hands near her shoulders, palms up, as though she were pushing something away from her face. I glanced around for a likely object, like a loose pillow, but all I saw was a big gray tool chest lying on its side behind the casket stand.

Marco noticed me and instantly drew me away. “Why didn’t you stay in the hallway?”

I signaled for him to wait as I took a slow, deep breath, hoping the shock would wear off. Unfortunately, it wasn’t happening. “Marco, did you get a look at her face?”

“I saw it.”

“Sybil didn’t just crawl into that casket and die.”

“I know. Come on, Sunshine. Let’s get out of here.”

I was trembling all over as he led me out of the room. I lurched to the wall and let my back flatten against it, my hands against the hard surface, trying to ground myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a dead body, but it was still a terrible shock.

“There’s a kitchen next door,” Marco said. “I’ll get you some water.”

I clasped his wrist. “Was she suffocated? Strangled? Shot?”

“I don’t know.”

“The cops didn’t offer an opinion?”

“No.”

“
You
don’t have an opinion?”

“I got here two seconds before you did.”

“Her mouth was open and her lips were blue, Marco. Make a guess.”

“Why are you snapping at me?”

Why
was
I snapping? “I’m sorry. I’m just rattled. I wasn’t prepared to see her…like that.” I took another breath. “Poor Sybil. And what an ironic place to die.”

He took my hand and rubbed it between his own. “Think of it this way. At least it was convenient.”

I pulled my hand back. “That is
so
not funny.”

“Come on. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

“How do you lighten death?”

“Isn’t that what everyone at the convention has been doing all day? Now, stay here and rest while I get that water—or would you rather have coffee?”

I couldn’t have swallowed anything if my life depended on it. “Nothing right now, thanks.”

I glanced toward the doorway, where I could see the cops cordoning off the crime scene with bright yellow tape. “Marco, do you think it’s significant that she’s wearing only her undies and is lying in a casket that looks like the seashore? Is someone sending a message?”

“Nah.” Standing at my shoulder, Marco said, “I’m guessing there was some kinky sex going on.”

“In a casket? That goes way beyond kinky. But you know, it
is
a possibility. Remember what Delilah said about Sybil waiting for someone down here? Maybe she and her lover climbed inside for a little romp in the sand, and right in the middle of—well, whatever—she had a heart attack and tried to push off whoever was with her. And then when the guy saw she was dead, he panicked and ran.”

“That would be a pretty callous thing to do. There would also be sand on the floor where he climbed out, and I didn’t hear anything crunch under my shoes.”

“You’re right. Plus, her clothes didn’t walk themselves out to that mannequin. You know what I’m thinking?” I heard the back door open and glanced around to see Sgt. Reilly coming up the hallway toward us. With an exasperated shake of his head, he said, “Look who’s right in the thick of things as usual. Abby Knight.”

He had apparently missed the Italian American hunk standing beside me.

“You’re still on duty?” Marco asked.

Reilly hooked his thumbs in his thick leather belt. “Like I said earlier, today’s my lucky day.”

“Your luck is about to get worse,” I said. “The chairperson of the morticians’ convention was found dead in a casket. Sybil Blount. You met her this morning.”

“In a casket.” Reilly nodded slowly, as if he heard that sort of thing all the time. “Fitting.”

“Convenient, too,” Marco added.

“You guys are sick,” I said, turning away. “I am
not
listening to this.”

Reilly stepped to the doorway to take a look. “Those are caskets? They look more like circus props.”

“Contest entries,” Marco explained.

“A casket contest?” Reilly blew out a big breath. “And this was supposed to be my day off.”

When he strode into the storage room, I couldn’t help but follow. Although I was still a little nauseated from the shock, my curiosity was too strong to keep me away. I motioned for Marco to come with me, but he grabbed my hand. “Where are you going?”

“You don’t really need an answer to that, do you?”

“Abby, you know how Reilly feels about you nosing around.”

“I’m just going to stand inside the doorway. I’ll be quiet.” I pretended to lock my lips, then turned to watch as Reilly made his way over to the other cops, staying outside the boundaries of the yellow police tape.

“Okay, what do we have?” he asked the county cops, taking out his notepad and pencil. Reilly wasn’t in the sheriff’s department, but because of his rank and experience, the younger cops had no problem letting him take charge.

“Victim’s name is Sybil Blount,” one of them said, reading his notes. “No ID on the body. Salvare gave us the name. The vic was in charge of—get this—a funeral directors’ convention.” He started to chuckle, but since no one else looked amused, he dropped it.

“Who called it in?” Reilly asked, craning his neck for a view of the body.

When the cop pointed toward the opposite side of the room, I peered around the doorjamb for a look. Someone else was there? Why hadn’t I noticed earlier?

I had to stand on tiptoe to see over a row of caskets, and much to my surprise, there sat Angelique against a black metal shelving unit on the black-and-white linoleum floor. She was hugging her knees to her chest and rocking to and fro, totally lost in her own world. Her eyes were closed, her white face was wet from crying, and her bare ankles and black ballet slippers peeked out from beneath the hem of her long black dress. No wonder I hadn’t spotted her. She blended right in.

I whispered to Marco, “Did you know she was there?”

He shook his head.

“Anyone get her name?” Reilly asked, studying her.

“Angelique DeScuro,” I offered, earning a scowl from Reilly and a nudge from Marco. Angelique didn’t even bat an eye.

The young cop told Reilly, “When we got here she was sitting cross-legged in front of the casket stand. There was a black fishnet stocking wrapped around her hand and she was stroking it against her cheek.”

“Fishnets, huh?” Reilly said. “You came up with that awfully quick, didn’t you?” At the cop’s embarrassed shrug, Reilly said, “Did you bag the stockings, Romeo?”

“There was only one, Sergeant, but the lady still has it. We bagged the tape recorder that was in her lap.”

Reilly’s eyebrows drew together. “A tape recorder?”

“One of those little portable numbers.”

There was no way I could keep quiet. “Angelique uses that tape recorder for her soul music,” I whispered to Marco. “Maybe she was trying to record Sybil’s soul before she died.”

That spurred another thought, so I turned again to add, “But if Sybil was alive when Angelique got here, why are Sybil’s hands in that palms-up position?”

Marco shrugged. He wasn’t in a talkative mood.

Reilly gave Angelique another appraising glance. She still had her arms wrapped around her knees, and tears continued to course down her cheeks, making flesh-colored valleys in her white makeup, but now her head was tilted back and her mouth moved, forming silent words, as though she were praying. “Has she given you a statement?” Reilly asked the cops.

“The only thing she would tell us was that she found that tool chest on top of the casket when she came into the room”—the young cop pointed to the big, gray metal container behind the casket stand—“and had to shove it off before she could open the lid.”

My mouth fell open. Now the position of her hands made sense: Sybil had been pushing against the lid. Poor Angelique must have arrived too late to save her. No wonder she was so distraught.

A chill ran through me as I tried to imagine the terror Sybil felt when she couldn’t get the lid open, reminding me of my own frightening experience in the phone booth. There were only two people I knew of who would be cruel enough to shut another person in a casket. The Urbans.

I turned to tell Marco, but he held a finger to his lips and pointed toward Reilly, who was crouched in front of the metal container. “Where was the tool chest when you got here?”

“Where it is now, and the coffin lid was up. We tried to question the witness further, but she got up and moved back there and hasn’t said a word since.”

Reilly rose to look around the crowded room. “The tool chest must have come from those shelves beside the door.”

I peered around the doorjamb again to see where he was pointing. On the bottom shelf a few feet away from me was a metal box identical to the one on the floor.

Marco whispered in my ear, “I’ll be right back,” then pointed down the hall toward the men’s room.

“Wait, Marco.” I stepped away from the doorway so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Am I the only one who sees a coincidence here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sybil locked in a casket, and me locked in that phone booth? I think we were both tricked by the Urban twins.”

“A prank gone wrong?” His lips pressed into a line as he pondered it. “How would they have convinced her to take off her clothes?”

“How would two good-looking young guys convince Sybil to get naked? Gee, let me think. This is
Sybil
we’re talking about, Marco.”