The Icing on the Corpse (22 page)

“How would I know that? The police never figured it out. Damn straight we woulda wrote about it if they had.” Pierce waved his cigar. “Someone like him, who knows? He wasn't a local. Any number of folks coulda been after him. Followed him here. Who knows.” He pointed the cigar at her. “Way he operated, wouldn't surprise me. Slick, he was. That wasn't no upstanding profession, boxing. Just 'cause you're a smooth character. B'sides, the coroner couldn't find nothing for a weapon. That was something that didn't get a lot of press. Could be, the drunken fool fell and hit his head. Maybe that's why they never pursued it.”

His words barely hung together. Stan's brain hurt trying to follow his logic. “So, what would all that have to do with Helga? Would someone kill her because of something she knew about Felix's death?”

Silence. Then Pierce shook his head. “Helga was my friend. Much as I wish it hadn't happened, she took a bad spill. All this hoopla—well, it's just that. Hoopla.” Arthur got up and went to a leaning pile of stuff on his counter. He perused it, then pulled out a cigar box and selected a new one. Lit it, puffed, and returned to his seat. Stan had a troublesome vision of what would happen if Arthur fell asleep with that cigar lit around all these newspapers.

“Mr. Pierce, with all due respect, what if it isn't hoopla? What if there's something to this theory? It's the only way we're going to be able to help Cyril,” she said. “Helga seemed like she wanted to remember Felix. She wrote a whole article in her book. I would think you did a lot of work on that story. Can you please just think about it and let me know if anything comes to mind?”

Pierce regarded her with no expression, chewing incessantly on that cigar. “Listen,” he said, finally. “There's only one way you're gonna be able to figure out what happened to that boxer.”

“There is?” Stan's heart started to pound. He knew something. Now they could move forward, figure this out, get Cyril out of jail, and restore Frog Ledge's sanity. “How?”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” Pierce nodded, looking immensely pleased with himself. “He's got all the answers.”

“Sir Arthur . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Pierce. What do you mean?”

He looked at her like she was an incredibly stupid woman. “Just what I said. Doyle. He's got the answers.”

“But he's dead,” Stan pointed out.

Pierce shook his head. “You young folks. No imagination at all.” He laid the cigar in an ashtray and picked up the television remote. “Young lady, I have a show to watch. You'll excuse me, won'tcha?”

With that, he turned the TV on. The volume had to be at thirty or higher, because the sound nearly blasted Stan out of her seat. Resigned, she thanked him, hoped he heard her, and let herself out, wondering how much Scotch Pierce had downed before her arrival.

Stan took the elevator back to the first floor. As the door opened to let her off she almost bumped into Carla Miller, who was waiting to get on.

“Hello! We meet again,” Carla said with a bright smile.

“Hey, Carla.” Stan stepped off and held the door so it wouldn't close. Carla got on, her bright smile remaining in place until the doors closed between them. Stan watched the buttons until it stopped. On the fourth floor.

Chapter 34

Stan didn't know where else to go but home. Her bright idea of confronting Betty had resulted in one more person angry with her. Her visit with Arthur Pierce hadn't gotten her anywhere but smelling like old cigar, armed with a drunken suggestion to ask a dead author for help. Fabulous. Just like the rest of the week.

She pulled into her driveway and headed inside just as her cell phone rang. Fumbling around in her purse as she tried to get the door open and keep Nutty from running outside, she saw Brenna's number just as it went to voice mail. Hope filled her chest. Maybe Brenna had decided she was being silly and wanted to tell Stan she wasn't angry anymore. That she was on her way over to help with the wedding cake. She waited impatiently for her voice mail alert to sound, then pressed Play.

And felt her spirit deflate as Brenna's voice filled her ear, cool and aloof and not friendly at all.

“Stan, it's Brenna. I wanted to let you know that I'm resigning from Pawsitively Organic. I've accepted a full-time job and I think it's best if we part ways now.” A slight hesitation, then she spoke again. Stan could hear a faint quiver in her voice. Or maybe she just hoped to hear it. “Thanks for letting me work with you. I learned a lot.”
Click.

That was it. Over. Stan felt tears prick her eyes. Just like that. She was on her own. Stan leaned against her door and allowed more tears to come. Seemed like all she'd been doing today, aside from making people mad, was crying. The dogs ran over to greet her. They looked concerned. Scruffy jumped up and held her paw out, sensing Stan was upset. Stan smiled through her tears and took the dog's paw.

“Thanks, honey. Okay, I have to get myself together. Lots to do. I can't change it, right? If Brenna doesn't want to work with me, there's nothing I can do to make her change her mind.”

She shooed them down the hall and shrugged off her coat as the doorbell rang behind her. She cringed. Now what? More bad news? She didn't know if she could take it.

Cracking the door, she peered out. Amara was on the front step. “Bad time?” she asked, noting Stan's red eyes.

“Don't ask.” Stan pulled the door wide. “What's up?”

“You've been leaving me voice mails to stop by. About the DNA thing.”

“Right. Yes, come on in.”

“Sorry I didn't get to call you back sooner.” Amara stepped in and shut the door behind her. “This last inspection for the clinic is killing me.” She stopped and looked at Stan. “You look like you're having a great day.”

“You don't know the half.” Stan led her to the kitchen. “A cat showed up at my house last night. Apparently he was Helga's cat. Sarah dumped him on my porch. Did some
woo-woo
thing that if he was meant to be with me, he'd stay. So I lectured her about it and she cried, and then I caved and said I'd try to keep the cat. Apparently Helga told her—just yesterday—how wonderful I am. Then I went to see Jake. Which didn't go so well because of this reporting thing. But it went better than it did with Brenna, who actually quit working with me. Just before you came in. Let's see, what else? Betty's mad at me, too, because I asked her about her mother being at the Constantine murder scene. In case you haven't been following, that's been a big story in town.” She stopped for a breath and handed Amara the DNA envelope.

Amara stared at her, fascinated. “Wow. That's quite a day.”

“That wasn't the end of it, but really, I don't have the energy. Want coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'm coffee'd out. Do you want some of my Rescue Remedy?” She pulled a yellow tube out of her purse. “Great for stress.”

“Sure, why not. I'll try anything today.” Stan accepted the spray. “What do I do with it?”

“Spray in your mouth.” Amara nodded approvingly as Stan sprayed a few squirts, then took the envelope and read the name of the company. “Sounds familiar. I think Helga wrote down for me where she sent it. Let me look.” She fumbled in her purse. “That way I won't open someone else's mail by accident. Aha.” She pulled out a slip of paper. “Yep, same company. Guess I'm good.” Amara ripped open the package and scanned the single sheet of paper as Stan brought her mug to the table.

“I have no idea how to read this,” she said.

Stan peered over Amara's shoulder at the five different pieces of paper Amara pulled out of the envelope. One was a certificate stating Amara's DNA had been analyzed by the company. The next two were reports with graphs at the bottom. The final two were maps with lots of swirly lines snaking across them.

“Hmm.” Stan took one of the reports and glanced through it. “There's a website where it says you can log in and see your personal page and some of the possible relations.”

“Well, that doesn't help me. I don't have a log-in.” Amara threw up her hands. “Forget it. I have so many things to do for the clinic. I can't be—”

“Amara. You are way too stressed out. So much for Zen. And Rescue Remedy. Look, you use the kit number and password up here.” Stan pointed to the top left corner of the report.

Amara broke into a smile. “You're so smart. Got a computer?”

“Yeah, I'm real smart. So smart the whole town hates me. Here.” Stan handed her the iPad. “Have at it.”

“The whole town doesn't hate you. Maybe I will have coffee. Unless you're busy. I can do this from home,” Amara said.

“No, please. I need something to keep me occupied,” Stan said. “At least until whatever mayhem the ghost hunt brings tonight.” She got up to pour Amara's coffee.

Amara cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to be involved in that? Given everything else going on,” she said when Stan opened her mouth to protest.

Stan shrugged. “I may as well do something that I've always wanted to do.”

“Good way to keep it in perspective. Besides, this happened before. You thought people were upset with you.” Amara shrugged. “It all worked out, remember?”

“Thanks for reminding me that this isn't the first time I've alienated myself from the entire town,” Stan said. She brought the mug over and rearranged the papers so she didn't dump coffee on them. As she did so, her eyes fell on the scribbled sheet of paper Helga had written the DNA company name on for Amara. And her eyes widened. “Whoa. Does that say—” She snatched it up. “State Historic Preservation Office. This was Helga's note?”

Amara was barely paying attention. “She wrote it for me, yes.”

“But was it her paper or someone else's?”

“I think she took it right out of her purse,” Amara said, finally looking up. “Why?”

“Because this is the place that asked Izzy to stop the construction.”

Amara stared at her. “You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“That's odd. Why did she want to halt the construction?”

“I guess no one knows but her. And maybe Sarah,” Stan murmured. Although she had a hunch. “Can I keep this note?”

“Sure.” Amara was already back to the DNA. “This is so wild,” she said. “I can't believe I can find family members by swabbing spit on a Q-tip and playing online.”

Stan chuckled. “I think it's probably more complicated than that. So, what'd you get?”

“Hang on, trying to figure out this website. This is actually kind of cool.” She turned the tablet around so Stan could see the screen. “I don't really know the difference between Y-DNA and mtDNA.”

“mtDNA is mitochondrial, I think. It was highlighted on the report. And you can look at that specifically.” Stan pointed.

“Again. So smart.” Amara tapped the icon and scanned the easiest column to read—the one with names. “Most recent match. Carmen Feliciano. Born 1925. No date of death.” She looked at Stan. “Is this my relative?”

“Must be. Recognize the name?”

“No, not even sure if it's male or female.” Amara sighed.

“Let me see.” Stan took the tablet back and perused the site. “Look. That name is under family finder, too. According to this, you have some shared DNA, which makes you somewhere between fourth and remote cousins with this person. And”—she handed the device back triumphantly—“there's an E-mail Your Relative button.”

“Huh. Super cool.” Amara hesitated. “You think I should e-mail him/her?”

“Well, duh. Isn't that why you did all this?”

“True. I guess I'll go for it.” She swiped the e-mail button, tapped out a short message, and hit Send. “There. I guess now I wait. But wouldn't this person be pretty old? You think they're using e-mail?”

“That's such a stereotype! You're terrible. Besides, look at Helga. She was probably better at technology than we are. You should Google Carmen. See what you can find.”

Amara pulled up Google search and typed in her new relative's name. “Hmmm. I have a male Carmen Feliciano from New Jersey who's being indicted for racketeering.”

Stan laughed. “You have mob in your family? That's kind of cool.”

“You're so weird.” Amara scrolled through the hits. “The rest of them are female. And way too young to be my Carmen. Listen to this. Carmen Feliciano on Twitter. ‘Dog owner, macchiato junkie, super-sexy double agent.'” She shook her head. “Doubt she's mine. But here are some white page listings.” She scanned them. “There is one in Connecticut, but doesn't give the town and it's unlisted. She/he would have to live close by, right? For Helga to get DNA?”

“No idea. The kit could probably be sent by mail. Maybe wait a day or so and see if you get an e-mail back and then you can decide what else to try,” Stan said.

“I guess I'll have to.” Amara shrugged. “I've waited this long, what's another day?”

“While you're waiting, here.” Stan went to the freezer and began pulling out frozen doggie meals. “Why don't you take these home so you have them. And I can get them out of my freezer. I have a wedding to cater and I need the space.”

Chapter 35

“You ready?” Izzy had dressed for the ghost-hunting occasion. Or maybe she had dressed for a spy investigation—Stan wasn't sure which. She wore head-to-toe black, including a knitted cap pulled low over her forehead. She still managed to look elegant and magazine-cover ready. Everything she wore seemed to work on her. If Stan didn't like her so much, she might be jealous.

“I'm ready.” Stan shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying to stay warm in the would-be foyer while they waited for Adrian and his crew. She'd kept her outfit simple—jeans and a sweatshirt, heavy coat, hat, and gloves since it was still freezing out. And probably inside, too.

Tonight was the night—they were going through the building with equipment and cameras, the next step in proving the Ghost in the Almost-Bookstore was for real. Despite all the bad things going on in town, Stan was excited. Not only had she gotten to meet her hero, but she was going on a ghost hunt with him. This day would definitely go down in history. Cyril had to be losing his mind that he couldn't report on this, but Stan wasn't about to add to her problems by taking that on, too.

Fox and his team had been on-site setting up since the workers left, and it looked like quite a production. There were six of them now, and they were running around with wires and cameras and other equipment. They moved quickly and efficiently with a minimum of conversation, evidence of a well-oiled machine. Outside, curious citizens—and some Fox groupies—lined up across the street, hoping to be the first to hear what they uncovered.

“They're gonna have to lock the doors,” Izzy said, gazing out at the crowd. “These crazies'll be following us inside if they think they can.”

“We've got that covered.” Fox materialized next to them. “It wouldn't be the first time we've had a . . . keen interest in a site. Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies. Why don't you come right on in,” he said, flashing them his high-wattage smile. “We're just waiting on one person. In the meantime, I'll tell you what we've done.” He motioned them into the main room, a mess of concrete, wires, tools, half-cut wood, and blueprints. “We're working with two kinds of equipment tonight: infrared cameras and digital audio recorders, which capture electronic voice phenomenon.”

“EVPs,” Stan said.

“Exactly.” Fox smiled at her. “You do watch.”

Stan blushed under Izzy's scrutiny. She felt like the teacher's pet all of a sudden. “I do,” she said defensively.

“I think it's great. So. With Izzy's permission, we connected the cameras on all three floors.” Stan noticed he didn't mention Jake's permission. Fox walked them around the room, pointing out cables and cameras of various sizes. “Our focus is on the basement area, because based on our research that's where the body was discovered. But we don't want to limit it to just this floor, because we've had worker reports that evidence has occurred on other floors as well. Tools missing, voices when there's only one person working, that sort of thing.”

“Does Frank know about the worker reports?” Stan asked Izzy in a low voice.

Izzy shrugged. “No clue. I think they banded together and compiled it after he ignored their complaints.”

Stan was about to ask her what happened after Frank stormed into the café, but one of Fox's crewmen walked in followed by Sarah Oliver.

“Ah, Sarah. Delighted you could join us.” Fox stepped forward and gave her a hug. “Sarah offered to be here tonight to see if she can help us uncover activity.”

Sarah beamed. She looked a little like she'd been drinking, or maybe it was the high heels she wore while trying to balance on the uneven flooring. She wore her usual flowy skirt, this one black lace, and a matching top. Her black hat had a lacy veil that covered her eyes, giving her an eccentric old-movie-star look. “And tell my mother's story. The hat is my mother's,” she explained. “She wore it often back then. I'm getting the feeling she wore it on the night of the party.”

Izzy caught Stan's eye and raised an eyebrow. Stan shrugged.

“Okay,” Fox said, with a nod to his crewman. “Val, let's secure the doors and get going.”

Val nodded and went off to follow orders. He returned with the rest of the gang.

Fox made the introductions. “Wolf and Val are running cameras. Max has recorders for EVP. Andy over there is using the dowsing rods.” He produced a notebook and pen. “Me, I'm in charge of taking notes and making sure we capture everything. Izzy is our building owner, Stan is a friend of hers who loves the show”—he winked at her—“and our medium, Sarah.”

“Yo,” said Max, flipping an unruly piece of too-long hair out of his eyes. He was the guy Stan remembered driving the van when they first came to town. He chewed gum incessantly and wore a shirt featuring a tiger looking down the scope of a rifle. “Let's get this party started.”