The Icing on the Corpse (18 page)

Chapter 27

Stan pulled into her driveway. She didn't notice Cyril sitting on her front porch steps until she'd gotten out of her car. His bike stood neatly to the side of her porch. He had an orange cat with him. The cat sat right next to him, at attention, watching Stan as she climbed the steps.

“Who's your friend?”

Cyril pointed to the cat's collar. There was a piece of paper clipped to it. “I'm not sure who this is. He was just sitting here when I got here. But he has a note. I didn't read it. Didn't seem to be my place.”

“Hmmm.” Stan regarded the cat, then stooped to pet him. He immediately purred and smushed his face against her hand. “I don't remember seeing you around before. Do you have a house? Are you just here for a treat because someone told you it was the place to go?”

Cyril watched her curiously but didn't say anything. Inside the door, the dogs barked. The cat wasn't fazed.

“Let's see what this note says.” Stan took the piece of paper off the cat. He watched her with interested green eyes.

“Dear Stan,”
she read.
“My name is Benedict. My mommy just died and I need a home. Can you help? I heard you have good food. XO, Benedict.”
She looked at Cyril. “What the . . . Who does that? And why does that name sound familiar?”

He shrugged. “Your reputation precedes you.” He glanced at his watch. “We have a story to write. Can you give the cat a home or not?”

“I can't just take someone's cat! Who left him here? Are you sure you didn't see anybody?” She looked around, as if the perpetrator might be hiding behind one of her trees. She couldn't quite place the name but felt certain she'd heard it recently.

“I'm telling you, no one was around but this cat.”

“This is nuts.” She sighed. “Well, come on. I'll set you up in the guest room until we figure out who dropped you off on my doorstep.” She scooped the cat up. He purred again and rubbed against her chin.

He was adorable. Stan had always been partial to orange cats, not that she could admit it to Nutty, who certainly wasn't going to be thrilled.

“Come on in,” she said. “I was actually looking forward to telling you how it went with Pasquale.”

“Really,” Cyril said. “That's good news.” He followed her inside, stopping briefly to pet the dogs.

“Come sit. I'm going to put the cat upstairs.” She snuck up to her guest room as stealthily as possible without letting Nutty see their guest. Luckily she had an extra litterbox. She hurried to the basement, filled it up, and brought it to Benedict's room. She set up a blanket for him, then went downstairs to fetch some food and water as Cyril paced her kitchen. Nutty watched her suspiciously as she added a couple of treats to the bowl.

“Relax,” she told both of them. To Nutty, “I'll explain later.”

When she returned, Cyril sat, pen and notebook out. “So what happened with Trooper Pasquale?”

Stan recounted her conversation with Jessie while she made a new pot of coffee.

“Thank you for defending the newspaper. But you didn't get anything on why they think it's foul play.”

Stan frowned. Maybe she hadn't done so well after all. “She wouldn't comment.”

Cyril paused in his pacing and tapped his fingers on the counter. “I'm not surprised. She always plays things close to the vest.”

“Shocking, considering her personality.” Stan made a face, then reminded herself she was talking to a real reporter. About Jake's sister. She was losing her PR edge. “I still don't get why she's after you. Unless there's something you're not telling me.” She eyed him, wary again. “People would tell me I'm crazy, having you, a murder suspect, in my house.”

He shrugged. “I'm only a person of interest so far. I didn't do anything to Helga. I think there's more to this than Pasquale is letting on. She told me I was seen in the vicinity.”

“And that person thought, gee, Cyril looks like he's off to murder someone? None of this makes any sense,” Stan said. “Didn't you and Helga get along?”

“We got along swimmingly,” Cyril said.

“Swimmingly?” Stan rolled her eyes.

“Hey, did you get voices?” Cyril asked, changing the subject.

“Voices? What do you mean? Isn't that Sarah Oliver's department?”

“Real people. Reactions to the news.”

“No, that wasn't part of the deal,” Stan said.

“It's always part of the deal. It's how you write a story.” He glanced at his watch. “There are people at the War Office tonight for special tours in honor of Helga. Can you run over and ask them? Those are her friends anyway. They'll be good choices.”

Stan opened her mouth to protest when the doorbell rang. “Hang on,” she muttered, and headed down the hall, the dogs at her heels.

Jessie Pasquale stood there, dressed in full uniform, face grim. “Stan. Is Cyril Pierce here?”

Stan stared at her. This couldn't be good. His bike was right outside—and it was distinctive, with that silly basket on the front—so she couldn't say no. “Why do you—”

“Cyril Pierce?” Jessie called out, stepping past Stan into the hall. Henry and Scruffy started barking their nervous barks, Henry's coupled with worried looks in Stan's direction.

“Shh, guys,” she said, grabbing their collars as Cyril appeared in the hall.

“Yeah?” He didn't seem fazed that the resident state trooper was looking for him.

“Can you come with me, please?” Jessie asked.

“Where are we going?”

Jessie sighed. “Cyril, just get in the car.”

He crossed his arms. “I'm sorry, Trooper. I need to know what this is about.”

“Fine, then.” Pasquale didn't look at Stan. “You're under arrest for the murder of Helga Oliver.”

Stan's mouth dropped. What was Jessie doing? “Jessie. You can't—”

“Be quiet, please,” Jessie said, eyes still on Cyril. “Let's go.”

Cyril acquiesced. “May I get my coat?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

He went into the kitchen, returned a minute later with his coat and hat. “It's fine if you need to handcuff me,” he said.

Pasquale rolled her eyes. “Let's go.”

As he walked by Stan, he said urgently, “Get the voices and finish the story. I left you an e-mail address on the table. E-mail it there by eight and it will get printed. And don't worry. The truth will prevail,” he said in a louder voice, as Jessie Pasquale took his arm and led him out the door.

Stan watched helplessly as Pasquale led him to the squad car. This made no sense. Why wasn't Pasquale looking at others with more motive? Unless there really was something Cyril wasn't telling her, he wasn't it.

Was he?

Chapter 28

Stan regretted not having more compassion for the reporters she'd dealt with in the past. Not that the stories they'd been writing on her previous firm had been life and death matters, but still. She remembered days of pushing them right to their deadlines—even past them—because of corporate red tape and revision after revision of a two-sentence statement, demanding approval rights for quotes, insisting they change the slant of the story because it could be construed as slightly unfavorable.

She offered up a silent mea culpa to the journalism gods, then got out of her car and hurried to the door of the War Office. Before she could push the heavy wooden door open, it opened in front of her. A woman who had to be Helga's age or pretty darn close to it smiled at her. She wore a full-bodied light blue dress with an apron and corset and a bonnet over gray braids. Her bright red lipstick made her look like a corpse. “Good evening, child! Please, come in. Welcome to the War Office, headquarters of the Revolution efforts.”

Stan stepped into the room onto the gray slatted floor, uneven from years of heavy boots traipsing through, and took it in. Another place she'd never been to, just like the historical society and the museum. She felt terrible about that. Especially since she was only here now to get a quote. It wasn't that she had no interest; rather, she'd simply never made the time. When the volunteers had been part of other events out on the green, she'd enjoyed their tributes to the Revolutionary War, but a visit to learn about the town's war efforts wasn't anything that had occupied her mind as a must-do.

“Thank you,” she said to the bonneted woman, who struggled to close the heavy door behind her without letting it slam. “I'm Stan Connor.”

“Millie Simmons. Thank you for visiting the War Office.” She clasped her hands together and smiled. “Let me get my cape and I'll give you the tour.” Millie hurried through a doorway into another room.

Left alone, Stan observed her surroundings. The house was larger than it appeared from the outside. She took a few steps until she was in the center of the room next to a small, wooden card table with a matching folding chair. On the table was a feather pen, some sheets of paper, and a small lantern. An old-fashioned writing desk was pushed up against the wall. The floor next to it was a trapdoor. The rest of the room was filled with supplies, most likely for events: drums, whiskey barrels, toy rifles and wooden cutouts of rifles, pieces of costumes, and white cloth bags filled with something Stan couldn't identify. The fireplace looked like it was used regularly. Stan supposed it was—there probably wasn't any heat in here, and if there was, who would pay the bill? Revolutionary War weapons decorated the walls—muskets, rifles, all kinds of nasty-looking swords.

Millie returned from the other room. She wore a long blue cape over her dress. “Well, then, let's show you around!” she exclaimed. “This is our main room, where the war officers strategized and kept watch over what was happening. It was a dark and dire time, and our soldiers and leaders worked tirelessly—”

“Um . . . Ms. Simmons? I hate to interrupt.”

“Don't be silly, dear. Ask whatever questions you have.”

“I'd love to hear all about the War Office, but I'm here because I need to talk to one or two of Helga Oliver's friends.”

Her smiled flickered a tad, but remained in place. “We're all Helga's friends here. What did you want to talk about? Other than how we miss her so, and this place is a bit worse with her absence.”

Stan nodded somberly. “I understand that. But I'm here as a reporter. To talk about a new development in her death.”

Millie faltered. “You . . . reporter? Development? Whatever do you mean, dear?” She sat down heavily on her folding chair, as if she were afraid the conversation would be too much to bear standing up.

Stan pulled her steno pad out of her pocket, already feeling like the devil. This reporting thing was difficult. “I'm writing a story for the
Holler.
Someone has been arrested in Helga's death.” It sounded so surreal, to say it out loud. “The police think her fall wasn't an accident. Would you care to comment?”

Millie's face went deathly white. Alarmed, Stan took a step toward her, afraid she might faint. Before Millie could say anything, the door swung open again and a man, also in full costume, entered, his heavy boots rattling the floor. Despite the funny hat, Stan recognized him. Edgar Fenwick, the ghost-hater. “Millie? Oh, hello there. I love to see visitors!” He adjusted his pants over his big belly as he walked over to Stan and pumped her hand. “Edgar Fenwick. Pleased to have you here.”

“Mr. Fenwick, hello. I'm—”

“Edgar,” Millie interrupted. “She's not a visitor. She's . . . a reporter.” Her lip quivered.

Edgar took a good look at Stan, squinting slightly. “Reporter, eh? With whom? Not the local. Cyril wouldn't know what to do with the likes of you.” He chuckled.

“I'm writing for the
Holler
. It's about—”

“Helga. It's about Helga,” Millie cut her off again. “Edgar, you'll have to talk to her. You won't believe what she has to say.” She rose from her folding chair and fled into the other room, where Stan suspected she was hovering in the doorway listening.

“Helga, she says? What do you need, young lady?” Edgar took the chair his counterpart had vacated.

Stan stifled a sigh and began her spiel all over again. “Trooper Pasquale has made an arrest in Helga's death,” she finished. “I'd like to get some reactions on that.”

“Arrest?” Edgar echoed. “What in blazes are you talking about, young lady? And where is Cyril?”

Stan sighed. “The police think someone killed Helga,” she explained again. She let the second question go unanswered.

Fenwick's eyes opened wide as saucers. “You're joking.” Around the corner, Millie made a sound like a baby bird screeching.

“I'm afraid I'm not.”

He stared at her. Millie came back into view, wiping tears away. “Who . . . who did it?” she asked in a wobbly voice.

“I can only tell you who was arrested, not who did it,” Stan said. “Since everyone is innocent until proven guilty, right?”

They both just looked at her. She sighed. “They arrested Cyril Pierce. I'm not sure why.”

Millie's hand fluttered to her throat. “I feel sick,” she said, and fled from the room.

“Cyril?” Edgar looked shocked. “You must be mistaken.”

Stan shook her head. “I'm looking for some comments from Helga's friends about that news.” Hadn't she said that about three times already? “How does it feel to hear that?” Kind of a silly question, in retrospect.

Edgar stared past Stan, out the small window into the night. “I warned her,” he said, so softly Stan had to strain to hear him.

“Excuse me?”

He focused on Stan again, as if he had just remembered she was there. “I said, I warned her.”

Stan shivered, just a bit. “Warned who?”

“Helga, of course,” he said. “Not that she ever listened to reason.”

“Warned her about what?”

“Not to stir up the past. You know what they say about those sleeping dogs.” He nodded, slowly. “They say let them lie.”