The Icing on the Corpse (21 page)

Chapter 32

Stan rounded up Scruffy from the children's area of the library, much to Scruffy's chagrin, and hustled her outside. Scruffy had mastered the classic puppy-dog eyes. Accented by her long eyelashes, the look left most humans helpless. But not today. Today Stan was on a mission.

Stan drove Scruffy home and dropped her off, despite her protests, then drove back to the town hall. Pasquale's police car was parked in its usual spot. The sight made her fume. What was she doing sitting around in her office? There were murders to solve around here. She parked haphazardly in a spot near the door and strode inside, straight to Pasquale's office. Not bothering to knock, she flung the door open. Pasquale and Tony Falco looked up, startled, from what appeared to be a serious conversation across her desk. Pasquale muttered something that sounded like, “For the love of God.”

“Excuse me,” Stan said. “But we need to talk.”

“I'm in the middle of something,” Pasquale said, but Falco rose.

“Not at all, Trooper. I'd like for you to be available to our citizens.” He rose and turned a gracious smile on Stan. “Kristan, good day. Please take your time. I'll check in with you later,” he said to Pasquale, and left, closing the door behind him.

Stan resisted the urge to spit at him as he walked by.

Pasquale turned her Icy Stare of Death on Stan. “What is it now that couldn't wait?”

“I need to see Cyril Pierce.”

“Sorry. He's in custody. Waiting for a judge to set bail.” Pasquale turned back to the papers on her desk.

“Great. I can still talk to him, can't I? His father can't make it, so he asked me to check in on him,” she lied.

“I didn't know you were such close family friends with the Pierces,” Pasquale said.

“You don't have to be snotty,” Stan said. “I know you're just doing your job, but no one questions you. It's me everyone gets mad at all the time, even when I'm only trying to help. So since I'm already in trouble with everyone, and Jake's disappointed in me, can't you cut me some slack? This once?” She was mortified to hear her voice waver, but it was too late. Tears began to prick her eyes.
Do not cry in front of her. Do not cry in front of her.
She channeled the first song she could think of into her mind. Unfortunately it was Stevie Nicks's “Fall from Grace.” Her tears started to bubble into hysterical laughter, so she covered it up with a coughing fit.

Pasquale's face finally showed some concern. Stan figured she was more worried about a civilian having a breakdown in her office rather than said civilian's personal problems, but at least it got Pasquale out of her chair.

“Stan. Sit.” Pasquale pulled out the chair Falco had vacated and shoved her into it, a bit more forcefully than necessary. “Here.” She pulled a bottle of water out of a small refrigerator next to her desk, opened it, and placed it in front of Stan.

Stan drank, grateful for the time to get herself under control. When she felt like she could speak without crying, laughing, or singing, she put the bottle down. “Thanks,” she said.

“Listen.” Pasquale perched against the side of her desk. “My brother isn't disappointed in you. Are you kidding? He's crazy about you. But he's just really upset. He loved Helga. Our whole family did.”

Crazy about her? Pasquale was the crazy one. It was no use. The tears started to bubble up again. Of all the people in this town, why did she have to lose it in front of Jessie? “You're wrong. He is disappointed right now,” she said. “And I think he's mad at me.” She sniffled, searched in her purse for tissues. “Why can't he be mad at you? You're the one investigating.”

Pasquale smiled a little sadly. “He is mad at me. That's nothing new, though. I'm just more used to it.” She rose, walked slowly around the room. “Why are you involved in this? You don't want to be. Trust me.”

“I didn't want to be involved.” Stan swiped angrily at her eyes, grateful she'd worn her waterproof mascara today. “But I'm really bad at saying no to people. And Cyril was pathetic enough that it was extra impossible.” She shrugged. “So now I'm in it. May as well see it through.”

“Seems rational to me for someone with no investigative skills, no badge, and no gun,” Pasquale said. Her sarcasm was not lost on Stan.

She chose to ignore it. “Do you really think Cyril would hurt Helga? Why, Jessie? Why would he do that?”

Instead of getting a smart response, or a blank cop stare, Pasquale thrust her hands into the pockets of her trousers. “I don't know,” she said. “That's what I'm trying to find out.”

Stan recovered quickly from the shock of Jessie's honest, no-sarcasm-involved answer. “Maybe I can help you,” she said. “Please let me talk to him.”

Pasquale looked at her for a long time before she spoke. “You tell anyone, I'll throw you in jail, too. Meet me at the barracks in half an hour.”

 

 

Entering the state police barracks from the rear did not bring back fond memories of her own experience as a murder suspect. But she had no choice. It was the only way Pasquale would let her in to see Cyril.

“You coming?” Pasquale asked impatiently. She held the door. Before she let Stan pass, she held out her hand. “Cell phone.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm not supposed to let you in there in the first place. I'm not going to let you hand him a cell phone, too.”

Stan handed it over and followed her through the dark hallway, past doors with keypads next to them. She knew one of the closed doors led into an interrogation room. She'd been there before. She followed Pasquale into a stairwell. The holding cells were in the basement. They were as sparse and ugly as she'd imagined. Luckily, her experience had ended in the questioning phase.

The first two cells were empty, which seemed like a positive. Maybe recent arrests had been minimal. As if reading her thoughts, Pasquale smiled. “They're only empty because the criminals got moved to the real jail. No bail money.”

Excellent.
Stan almost bumped into her when she paused abruptly in front of cell number three. She peered inside. Cyril Pierce sat on the cot. He blinked when he saw Stan.

“Fifteen minutes,” Pasquale said, and went back the way she'd come. Stan heard the door slam behind her and had a sinking feeling she'd just been locked in here.

“What are you doing here?” Cyril asked, as if she'd just showed up at his office unannounced rather than came to visit him in jail.

“Coming to visit. You're welcome,” Stan said.

Cyril missed her snarky tone. “Nice of you, but I didn't think I could have visitors.”

“I can be convincing when I want to be. And I needed to talk to you. You're not telling me the whole story.”

“The whole story? The whole story about what? Nice story, by the way. One of the cops brought it to show me.”

“Thanks. But stop trying to distract me. The whole story about why you got arrested!” Stan paced the small hallway. “You told me Pasquale tagged you because you were hanging around near the green and the museum early Sunday morning before the celebration. It sounded lame to me when you said it, because
hello,
you're a reporter. That's what they do. But now I'm really not buying it.” She ticked points off on her fingers. “One, Helga sounded like a difficult person, from what I'm hearing. Two, Betty Meany immediately thought Helga had been murdered, but swore me to secrecy about it. Three, Edgar Fenwick said he told Helga to let sleeping dogs lie, but she didn't listen. And four, people don't get arrested for being in the neighborhood unless there's a darn good reason. There were plenty of other people around, too.” She knew she had more reasons than that but couldn't remember them all right now.

“Wait. Betty thought Helga had been murdered? Before I got arrested?”

“Way before. And that's off the record.”

Cyril frowned. “Did she think it was me?”

“No. Well, she said she didn't know who it was. I don't know if that's true or not, but I didn't get the sense it was you.” She searched her pockets for her cell phone to see the time, then remembered Pasquale had confiscated it. “Did you see Dale Hatmaker around the museum early that day? He's hot for her job, you know.”

Cyril shook his head. “Dale Hatmaker was doing a cemetery tour that morning. I know because he asked me to cover it, but I didn't have time to do both.”

“He was? With witnesses? You're sure?”

“Positive. I saw them on my way to the green,” Cyril said.

That killed her theory about Dale's desire for Helga's job being strong enough that he would want to kill her to get it. Which left her no choice but to believe Felix Constantine was the answer. “Well, that narrows it down. What do you think Edgar Fenwick meant about telling Helga to let sleeping dogs lie?”

Cyril gave her a blank look. “I have no idea.”

Stan didn't quite believe him. “Tell me about your father. That's what I've been wanting to ask you for days now.”

“My father? Why?”

“Because he was the reporter on the Constantine murder. I wanted to know if he remembered anything about it. He—”

“Leave my father out of it,” Cyril interrupted. His tone changed from matter-of-fact to angry.

Stan stared at him. “What?”

“I said, leave my father be. He's not well, and that was a long time ago. He wasn't even there that night. He just covered the murder. I doubt he'd remember much about it anyway.” Cyril turned and walked to the back of his cell, his back to Stan. “Listen. I appreciate you helping me. I didn't kill Helga. I don't know if anyone killed Helga, or if she really did fall. But that's not your problem. Just forget about it, okay?”

Forget about it? Both he and Betty had, in their own way, dragged her into this mess, and now they wanted her to bow out gracefully and go on with her life? Too late. The stakes were too high. “Cyril, I can't just forget about it,” she started to say, but then Pasquale's footsteps sounded on the stairs.

A minute later, she appeared. “Time's up,” she said, motioning to Stan. “You're done.”

Stan had no choice but to follow her. She glanced back at Cyril one more time before she walked away. He still had his back to her.

Chapter 33

Knotty Pines, the senior living center where Arthur Pierce resided, was just over the border of Frog Ledge's neighboring town on the west side. When Stan drove up, it struck her that it was larger than some college campuses. There were three different buildings in the sunny yellow community, all branching out from one main building where the offices were located. The complex had three components—the assisted living facility, the independent living area where folks maintained their own apartments, and the full-time care area. The construction looked new and the grounds out in front looked as good as they could look in the middle of winter. Unsure where to park, Stan looped around the driveway and found herself behind one of the buildings, near a covered bridge over a small pond. Seating areas with benches overlooked what must be flower gardens in the nice weather.

But she still had no place to park. She backed down the narrow driveway and circled again before coming across a small parking lot about a quarter-mile away from the main office. Residents must not get that many visitors, if this was all they offered. Which was sad.

She'd been up most of the night contemplating this visit. Benedict, her new friend, had helped. She'd spent some time with him and told him her dilemma over a bowl of chicken, rice, and carrots. He'd agreed she should seek Arthur out, though he hadn't offered her any clues about what might have happened to Helga, based on his proximity to her in the days before her death. So here she was.

She parked and walked briskly through the chilly air to the front door. A large desk with pamphlets was positioned next to the door. No one manned it, though, so she walked through the entryway into a larger waiting area. Three hallways branched off in front of her. No main desk. No one in sight. So much for security.

Stan chose the direction that looked like it might lead to people and found an office directly on her left. A woman with her hair in a bun and glasses perched on the edge of her nose looked up from some paperwork and fixed an unfriendly stare on her.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice dripping with boredom.

“Hello, I'm looking for Arthur Pierce,” Stan said in her friendliest voice.

The woman sighed and yanked her glasses off. “Go back the way you came and take a right. The nurse's station is there and they can direct you. I'm the facilities manager.”

Good for you. At least they don't normally let you talk to people for a living.
Stan bit her tongue and smiled. “Thanks so much.” She turned and headed in the other direction.

This time, she chose the right hallway and found a much more cheerful nurse behind the desk. “Arthur? Sure thing. He's in apartment 409. The independent living area, that way.” She pointed down the hall where Stan had encountered Ms. Personality. “Walk all the way to the end and take the elevator to four, make a right, and you'll find him a few doors down. If he doesn't answer, knock on the door to the right. He spends a lot of time at his neighbor's.”

Stan thanked the nurse and doubled back the way she'd come, breezing by the nasty manager's door without looking inside. She couldn't help but peek into the rooms she passed. Habit. She'd always been the kid who loved to look into people's windows at dusk while she walked her grandmother's dog Sabrina, just as the sky was turning shades of navy and the rooms already lit seemed so bright. She would imagine the lives of the people inside the houses. Create stories for them. Were they married? Kids? Having a fight? Or, on days when her imagination was in overdrive, she thought maybe they were spies, planted in the neighborhood to keep an eye on an international criminal. People in the neighborhood had probably thought she was a crazy Peeping Tom.

Here, the stories carried by the rooms seemed sad. She was in the nursing home area, judging from the setup of each room and the hospital smells wafting down the hall. She was cheered by the sight of a fluffy tortie cat sitting on one resident's bed, all curled up in a ball like cats did. At least these folks could have their pets, or get visits from pets. Maybe they even had a resident cat or two. It was a positive thing to do, especially for people who were ill or immobile. Stan couldn't imagine one day without her animals. This was especially true when half the world was angry at her. Her pets still loved her. Even Benedict, who didn't know her well. They didn't care what mistakes she made.

She finally reached the end of the hall and the elevator bank. After waiting for what seemed like forever, the elevator doors finally creaked open. She gingerly stepped in and hit the button for the fourth floor, hoping for the best. It took a while, but the elevator finally released her unscathed. The walk down the wallpapered hall felt endless. She scanned both sides of the hall on her way, reading the numbers on each door. When she got to 409, she slowed. The door was wide open.

Stan peered inside. Her mouth dropped. The place looked like it had been ransacked, and she could only see the hallway leading to a kitchen. Correction—she couldn't actually
see
the hallway. Piles of newspapers, shoes, and jackets were strewn about in various stages of disarray. He couldn't be a hoarder, in a place like this. Could he?

“Hello?” She rapped with her knuckles, waited.

Nothing.

“Mr. Pierce?” she called, stepping inside with one foot, gingerly nudging aside a yellowing newspaper.

A loud yell and a crash made her jump a foot. “You're incompetent!” she heard a man's voice shout from the other side of the wall.

Whirling around, she realized the room right next to Arthur Pierce's was open, and the loud voices were coming from that direction. At least this was a trusting environment. Remembering what the woman downstairs had said about Mr. Pierce's tendency to visit his neighbor, she moved over to the door to the right of Arthur's apartment and knocked.

The voices stilled. Then, as if on cue, two heads appeared in the doorway. One was a shiny cue ball, with just a little white fuzz above each ear and a mustache. He had a hammer in his hand. The other head belonged to the man she'd seen Sunday with Cyril. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth again, too. She'd only gotten a quick glimpse of him then, but now she saw how closely his son resembled him. Stan figured once he released his grip on the smelly cigar, she would see the same bad teeth that plagued Cyril.

Don't be a jerk, Stan.
She shook off her inner conscience and smiled. “Mr. Pierce?”

The balding guy looked at his friend and whistled. “How'd you get a hottie like that to come see you?”

Arthur Pierce frowned at him and stepped out of the apartment into the hallway.

His friend rolled his eyes. “I'll hang my picture on my own. Maybe then it will stay on the wall.” He disappeared and slammed the door.

Pierce turned his attention back to Stan. “Yeah, that's me.”

“I'm Stan Connor. I live in Frog Ledge with your son. Well, not
with
your son,” she corrected, horrified. “I mean, we live in the same town.”

“I get it, Ms. Connor,” Pierce said in the same deadpan voice Cyril used. “Let's go over to my apartment.” He shuffled slowly past Stan to his open apartment, motioning for her to go first. He followed her in, closing the door behind him—and closing her in with him. The stale smell, coupled with the narrow, crammed space, made her throat constrict. She hoped nothing dead lurked underneath all these piles of things.

Stan took a few careful steps inside, then turned, not wanting him to come up too close behind her. Instead, she found him watching her curiously from the doorway.

“How can I help ya, young lady?” he asked.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your afternoon—”

Arthur chuckled, which caused him to wheeze. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose loudly before folding it and returning it to his pocket. Stan's stomach clenched. She never understood why anyone would want to put what was effectively dirty tissues in your pocket and carry them around all day. And reuse them, to boot. He cleared his throat. “You're not interrupting. What can I do for you? You here about my son?”

Stan hesitated, not sure how to answer. The old man had to know—didn't he?—that Cyril had been arrested.

“I read the paper,” he said. “I know what happened.” He waved his hand impatiently, urging her forward. “Go. Sit.”

Obediently, she proceeded through the tiny kitchen into a living room that had two chairs and an ottoman. Beyond the living room, she could see a bedroom and bathroom down another small hallway.

Stan had still never seen Cyril Pierce's office in Frog Ledge, but she'd always imagined it had that true newsroom vibe, despite its one-man staff. Arthur Pierce's apartment gave her the confidence that she was correct, if his son was anything like him. Piles of newspapers, old and new, were stacked on every available surface in the living room. An old-fashioned typewriter sat on a table by the window, with blank paper stacked next to it. Stan got the sense that the machine was actually used. She half-expected to hear the burps and buzzes and static of a police scanner. She chose the chair with the least amount of newspapers piled on it and sat on the edge.

“You can throw those on the floor,” he said. “I have a reason to have all of these, you know.”

“I'm fine,” she said, but he was already off on a tangent.

“Everyone's always trying to clean up after me, but I like my apartment this way. I know I should put my shoes away, but still. Even my wife understood. She said, ‘Once a newsman, always a newsman.'” He looked sad. Abruptly he got up, went into the bathroom, and returned with a handful of pills, then searched for some water.

Stan spied a glass on the crowded coffee table to the left of her chair—right next to a bottle of Scotch. She picked up the water and handed it to him. He nodded his thanks.

Once he'd swallowed his pills, he threw a pile of stuff off his other chair and sat. “So, what about my son? He didn't kill no one, you know. 'Specially not her.”

“I don't think he did either, Mr. Pierce. That's why I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Arthur stuck his damp cigar back in his mouth and chewed, waiting.

“Do you remember the murder of Felix Constantine? The boxer from 1949?”

Arthur blinked once. Twice. Rolled the cigar in his mouth. “Sure I do,” he said, finally. “I covered it. Why you wanna know about that?”

So much for Cyril's theory that he didn't remember. “Because I think it might have something to do with Helga's death.”

Arthur didn't speak for a long time. When he did, though his face remained unchanged, Stan detected a tremor in his voice. “Why'n the world would you think that, young lady? And what do you know about her dying?”

Stan spread her hands wide. “All I know is that suddenly it's a murder investigation and your son is sitting in the state police barracks. If it has nothing to do with that, what would it have to do with? Why else would anyone want to kill an eighty-seven year-old?”

“Except no one killed her,” Pierce said. “I think it's all just a big mistake.”

“That's quite a mistake.”

“The police have been known to make them.”

“Did Helga have any enemies that you knew of?”

Pierce smiled slightly. “You mean besides the people who didn't do what she wanted them to do? Nah, everyone loved her.”

“Mr. Pierce, I'm serious. This is important.”

“I gathered that when my son went to jail,” he said.

Stan leaned forward. “Did you leave a book on my front porch?”

Arthur frowned. “Why would you think I know where you lived?”

“Your son knows where I live. Someone left me the book Helga wrote back in the nineties. It has the initials
ACP
inside it.”

Arthur didn't respond.

“It was marked to the piece Helga wrote. About Felix Constantine.”

Still nothing.

“Is there something in there that's a clue? That could point us to Helga's killer and help Cyril? Help me understand, Mr. Pierce.”

“Young lady, if I had a clue that could help my son, I'd surely give it to you. But I'm 'fraid I don't.”

Stan gritted her teeth in frustration. “Have you heard about the ghost hunters who came to town to look at the old library building where Felix died?”

“Yup.”

“Then you know they're looking into paranormal activity there. They got an anonymous tip. Which seems convenient.”

Arthur stuck his nasty cigar in an ashtray and picked something off his tongue. “Don't pay much mind to that kind of nonsense. What're you gettin' at?”

“It seems like a coincidence that Helga died and the state police are investigating it as a murder, and at the same time there's a ghost hunt going on in the building where this other murder occurred. It might sound crazy, but I feel like the two are related, and you're the one who would have all that insider knowledge.”

Stan felt like she was starring in her own amateur episode of
Cold Case.
If she'd known any songs popular in the 1940s or 1950s, they'd certainly be playing in her brain right now. Since she didn't, her brain instead chose to play “The Chain” in a continuous loop. She wondered if she'd ever hear anything besides Stevie Nicks in her head again. Good thing she was a fan.

Pierce remained silent. He took off his glasses, rubbed them on his sleeve, and readjusted them on his face. Stared at Stan.

“You reported the story,” she tried again. “What do you think happened to Mr. Constantine? Did you have a theory on who killed him?”