Organize Your Corpses (20 page)

 
It had been a beautiful day, but it was not a beautiful night. The skies opened as I left the house. Lucky for me I keep an umbrella in the car. The roads turned slick with puddles and patches of sodden leaves. Even so, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and drive by Professor Quarrington’s home on my way to the client’s house. Maybe the head of the historical society was just screening his calls. Maybe a knock on the door was in order. I double-checked the address that Ramona had given me and mapped out a route that took me past his home.

I slowed as I drove down the lovely old street he lived on. I peered through the windshield trying to see some of the numbers through the gloomy night. I thought I must be getting close when someone leaned on their horn behind me. What was that about? Even if I was crawling along, there was no one coming the other way, so why didn’t he just pass me?

Good riddance, I thought when a dark van shot by. As I watched with my mouth open, the van made a U-turn and headed straight for me, high beams shining in my eyes, blinding me. I gripped the steering wheel and made a sharp turn to avoid being hit head-on. The Miata shot off the road and bounced onto the sidewalk. A white picket fence loomed straight at me. I heard my car hit the fence and the fence hit the ground and my chin hit the steering wheel. I staggered out of the stalled car. I watched slack jawed as the van rocketed off, splashing dark water in its wake. It vanished around the corner before I could even identify the make. I turned back to the Miata, which was resting on a section of downed fence, and tripped over a stray picket, tumbling to my knees. I felt the stiletto heel of my beautiful red boot snap off.

What was going on?

As I stood unsteadily, dazed and rubbing my chin, the porch light flicked on at the nearest house. A bald man with an oversized umbrella came out and walked toward me. He seemed deep in thought, pipe in mouth, head lowered. He raised a pair of spectacular eyebrows at the sight of the Miata, partly on the lawn, partly on the sidewalk. He bent down and examined the picket fence. He straightened up again and gave his shiny bald head a perplexed scratch before he noticed me and transferred the stare in my direction.

He said, “By any chance would that be your vehicle on my front lawn, miss?”

“Someone ran me off the road,” I said with a definite wobble in my voice.

“Excuse me, but did you say someone ran you off the road?”

“Yes. A dark van. He turned and came right at me.” My hands were shaking and so was I.

“For heaven’s sake. How dreadful.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry? Never mind sorry. Are you injured?”

“I hit my chin on the wheel.”

“Head injuries. Quite dangerous. Don’t want anything to happen to the brain. Shall I call for an ambulance?”

“I feel bad about your fence. I love picket fences.” I tried to keep my voice steady. I didn’t want him to think I was on the verge of tears. Even if I was.

He said, “You love picket fences? Really. Well, I’ve never been very attached to that one. I much prefer a lovely stonework wall. Or a bit of wrought iron filigree, but there’s no accounting for taste. Lucky for you, I haven’t got either one or you would have been badly injured. Now see here, young lady, you’re trembling. You’d better come in and have a glass of juice or a tumbler of brandy.”

“No, thank you. You’re very kind. I’ll leave my information so we can settle up for the fence. I don’t know if the insurance will pay for it.”

He bent and picked up my broken boot heel. He raised his spectacularly expressive eyebrows and said, “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“The police?”

“Yes, the police. I believe you just told me that someone tried to run you off the road.”

“I don’t think I want the police. My head is really spinning. Perhaps I just imagined it.”

He glanced back at his ruined fence. “Imagined it?”

“No, I suppose it really happened. But it’s just so hard to believe.”

He shrugged. “There are lots of insane people out on the road. But you are definitely shaking.”

“And I’m not sure where I put my umbrella,” I said idiotically.

“Really? You have to watch out for shock, you know. In you go.” He took my arm and led me, half limping, half hopping, up the stairs and through the shiny black front door into the house, before I could even admire the brass knocker.

“I must get to my client’s before her husband gets home.”

“Brandy first, police second. I’m afraid your client is way down the list.”

To tell the truth, I felt very reassured that this professorly type was taking care of me. My knees were knocking, my chin had started to throb, and I felt as though I was only one degree from being an ice cube.

Of course, he was bald and that helped. I have always liked bald men. My mother’s third husband was bald, and I have fond memories of him. So, for whatever the reason, I found myself in a warm, traditional, inviting foyer with white wainscoting and soft light. I sniffed just a hint of pipe smoke.

He led me into what must have been the living room. I collapsed into a wingback chair with a faded burgundy stripe. The room was warm; a fire burned in the fireplace. Deep built-in bookcases flanked the fireplace. Unless I was mistaken, the books were double lined on the shelves. Good use of space, even though it might make them hard to find. In addition, books tumbled here and there in piles around the room. Volumes were stacked in between the lovely antique chests and the comfortable old chairs. More books lurked under the coffee table. Five or six lay open on top. I must have interrupted a project.

My hands were still shaky when he returned with a brandy snifter. I clutched it while he stepped out the front door and returned in about thirty seconds.

“Drink up. And I’ll call the police unless you’d prefer to. And there’s one less problem to worry yourself over,” he said. “As far as I can tell, that damn fence is salvageable. Came down in one piece. I suppose I’m stuck with it.”

“I’ll come over with my friend tomorrow and put your fence back up,” I said. “If there’s any damage, I’ll pay for it. I shouldn’t be nosy, but are you working on a big project?” I pointed to the open books on the coffee table.

“Always working on a project. Historical society stuff. Great fun. Keeps me out of trouble now that I’m retired from the university. By the way, in the confusion, I quite forgot to introduce myself. I am Simon Quarrington.”

“Very nice to meet you,” I said.

He cleared his throat. Kindly. “I don’t believe I quite got yours.”

“Oh. I forgot.”

Alarm flooded his face. “You forgot your name? We really must call for help.”

“I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Charlotte Adams. And normally I make a bit more sense.” I stared with dismay at my muddy knees and broken boot.

He showed no reaction to my name. I figured he wasn’t the TV-watching type. Good.

“Well, Charlotte Adams, you’ve had a nasty scare. I believe this is exactly the sort of circumstance under which one does call the police.”

“I don’t even know if I can explain it and make sense,” I said. If this was the one person in Woodbridge who didn’t know, I preferred not to fill him in on the situation with Miss Henley and Pepper.

“Your choice, I suppose. But I do believe they have to be informed about accidents.”

“You said the fence was all right, and there doesn’t seem to be any damage to my car. And I really have to get to see my client.”

“Actually I don’t think you should drive anywhere. And heavens, you’ve worked your way through that brandy too. Is there anyone we can call?”

“I might just walk home.”

He held up his hand. “Not a good idea. And since you’ve knocked over my fence and refused my offers to call the police, the least you could do is indulge me in this, Charlotte Adams.”

I said, “I can call my friend Jack. He’ll bike over.”

“Did you say bike over? Oh dear. On a night like this? I’d take you home myself, but I’m not allowed to drive anymore. Meddling doctors, you know.”

Jack’s on my speed dial, naturally. I took out my cell and pressed “1.” As it rang, I said, “Please don’t worry about me. It’s strange but I was trying to locate your house. I wanted to speak to you and I couldn’t reach you on the phone.”

“Speak to me?” The spectacular eyebrows rose higher. “Whatever for?”

“Why doesn’t he pick up? Sorry. Yes, I wanted to talk about the Henley family,” I said.

“Oh well, yes. Lots to talk about there,” he said, giving the eyebrows a waggle.

“I’ll have to leave a message for Jack and then we can . . .” At that point, my eyes rolled back in my head and I slid onto the faded blue carpet.

13

“On the bright side,” Sally was saying to someone I couldn’t see, “some of those EMS guys are probably ready to settle down.”

I opened my eyes. Jack’s baby blues stared down at me. Sally leaned over his shoulder. A pair of flamboyant eyebrows appeared over her shoulder.

Not surprisingly, I said, “What?”

“You lost consciousness, my dear girl,” said a voice I dimly associated with the eyebrows.

“But how . . . ?”

“I finished the message to your friend and these two turned up. Bit of luck, really, the timing of the message beep, I mean. Not the car on the lawn.”

“Too weird,” Jack said.

At that point a nurse stuck her head into the room and said, “Doctor’s here. Patient only, please.”

Much later, after a very boring series of neurological tests, the doctor set me free, with some painkillers and a lecture about driving. Sally drove me home. We dropped off the professor on the way. Jack retrieved the Miata from the lawn and followed us.

Jack accompanied me up the stairs to my apartment and offered to walk the dogs. I sat, still stunned, on the sofa, as he hooked up their leashes. He glanced over at me and said, “Did you recognize the van?”

“No. There must be a thousand dark vans in Woodbridge.

Everyone seems to have one.”

“But this particular one was aiming for you. Do you think that this whole Henley mess might be getting just a little bit dangerous?”

 
My to-do list was crammed:

 
Perhaps I should have added “Get head to stop throbbing” and “Have chin amputated.”

I wobbled into the kitchen and put on the coffee, before walking the dogs. The fresh air didn’t help. I dragged myself up the stairs toward the coffeepot and watched Truffle and Sweet Marie scamper back to bed. I winced as I took the first sip. My jaw hurt when I opened my mouth. I’d found that out the hard way while brushing my teeth. That was too bad. I had a lot of talking to do.

I finished the coffee and picked up the phone. After nine. Okay to call someone.

“Is this Lilith?” I said, wincing with every word.

“Mumph?” A very sleepy voice.

“Are you all right?”

“Who
is
this?”

“It’s Charlotte. Charlotte Adams. We met at Stone Wall Farm. And later in the park. I’m . . .” Ouch.

“Oh right. How did you get my number?”

“I was a bit worried. I saw you downtown and you seemed so—”

“Freaked out?”

“I was going to say ‘despondent.’”

“That’s me, all right. Someone stole my bike.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Now I’m up the creek.”

“I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, but someone I know might be needing some occasional help. I know you’re a certified caregiver, but I thought, just temporarily, it might help to get some extra cash until you find a new job in your chosen field.”

“Who?”

“A friend of mine. She’s an older lady on a home oxygen program and can’t really get around, although she has a perfectly good car in the backyard. If you were willing, I thought I’d pass your name to her.”

“What kind of car?”

“I don’t know, actually. It’s under a tarp. An old one.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lilith said. “I don’t even know why I asked. Sure, give her my name. I could work in a few drives, even when I find a new position. Sometimes older people just need someone to drop in. They need to talk and maybe just reach stuff on high shelves.”

“If business picks up, I’ll have occasional jobs,” I said. “Sorting and packing for clients. It’s occasional and intense.”

She snickered. “I hope none of your clients are like Miss Henley. And, before you answer that, yeah, you can call me. Thanks.”

“And before I forget, would you know if Olivia Simonett ever had a visit from her cousin, Crawford? That’s who I was asking her about when she pitched that fit.”

“Crawford? Randolph used to come in. He was an old weird dude, but Olivia loved his visits. And then Miss Henley, of course, used to bring her chocolates and then sit there with a face like a lemon. That’s it.”

“But no cousin Crawford.”

“I wasn’t there all that long. The person who would have known was Wynona. She took care of Olivia for years. Olivia was a lot better off with Wynona than with that ditz Francie.”

“Wynona. Any idea where I could reach her?”

“What do you mean, reach her?”

“To ask her about Crawford.”

“She can’t answer.”

“Perhaps if I ask her very, very discreetly.”

Lilith snorted. “I doubt that since she’s very, very dead.”

“Dead?”

“She was killed in that uptown shooting. How could you not know that?”