The Icing on the Corpse (26 page)

“And she told Don what she was doing, didn't she?” Stan asked.

Pierce nodded. “Don didn't like it either. But I don't think Don killed his own mother.”

“Agreed. Carla, on the other hand . . .” Stan looked at Arthur Pierce. “She threatened you, didn't she? When she came to your apartment?”

“Tried to,” Pierce said. “She didn't scare me much. Didn't have much to scare me with. My son's already in trouble. He's all I got. I doubt she scared Helga, either, until she shoved her down the stairs.”

“You know this for a fact?” Jessie asked. “She told you she pushed Helga?”

“The only thing I know for a fact is what I did all those years ago,” Pierce said. “But Mrs. Miller, well, she was adamant that she didn't want this story to come out. It would kill us all, she said. Did she confess to me? No.”

“Did she threaten you with bodily harm?” Jessie asked.

“She told me she'd do whatever she had to do to keep our big mouths shut.” He shook his head. “Young ladies today have a lot of sass.”

Stan looked at Jessie. “She thinks she has a lot to lose. Her status. Her husband's position in town. And she's been pushing Hatmaker to get rid of the pieces from the old library. Including the card catalogue.”

“So what's in the drawer?” Betty interrupted.

“Ain't nothing in the drawer,” Pierce said. “But Constantine's blood's still on it.”

Betty sat back, stunned. “That's why you've all been talking about this drawer for years?”

“We need to get the drawer. That's why we need to pretend the pieces are being moved today,” Stan said to Jessie. “I guarantee you, Carla will show up once Dale calls her. To make sure it's done. And then you can arrest her.”

“Me too, if ya need to,” Pierce said.

Pasquale sighed. “I think I need a new job. Or at least a new town.”

Chapter 41

The celebration began promptly at eleven with cannon fire. It nearly scared Stan out of her shoes as she walked across the street. Scruffy and Henry trotted along on either side of her, happy to be included. She planned to hand them off to Lorinda, offering their help for the library programs while she slipped away later. She'd left Benedict roaming the house to see how he and Nutty did together. If they could pass the test, he could stay. If not, she'd have to figure something else out. But today, things were looking up.

In more ways than one.

The Frog Ledge Marching Band had launched into the opening song. Stan couldn't tell what it was. She could see a large crowd already gathered, singing along as they paid tribute to Helga. She led the dogs up the street and to the fringes of the crowd. Scruffy immediately announced her presence by wooing repeatedly until those nearest turned to look at her. Henry looked embarrassed.

“Welcome!” A woman wearing a colonial costume walked up, carrying a large basket. “Would you like a pin?” She held out a big button with Helga's picture on it. A close-up. Not a flattering one, either. Stan wondered what had happened to the cannon but decided not to ask.

“Sure.” Stan took it, hoping to slide it into her pocket, but the woman waited, still smiling. Stan took the hint and fixed it to her jacket.

“Lovely, dear. Enjoy the day.” The woman walked away with her basket, looking for her next victim.

Stan checked the crowd. There was Betty, wearing a purple coat and matching hat. Helga's favorite color. She walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. “Everything looks great,” she said when Betty turned.

“Hi, Stan. It does,” she agreed, looking around. “Except for that god-awful pin.” She wrinkled her nose. “We're going to have refreshments in the library all day. The dogs are welcome to go in, of course.”

“Thanks,” Stan said. She scanned the crowd. “Seen Hatmaker yet?”

Betty shook her head. “Not yet. Stan, are you sure—”

“Relax. Everything's going to be fine. Pasquale has our back.”

“I hope so.” Betty sighed and looked around. “I haven't seen Carla.”

“She's around,” Stan said. “I'm sure of it. She wouldn't miss the chance to be the star of the show.”

Twelve-fifteen. Almost showtime. Stan leaned against the refreshment table in the library and flipped through the day's program. The proclamation and official ceremony for Helga was happening at twelve forty-five, which was perfect. Everyone would be occupied when Marty drove up at one. She'd seen Pasquale a few minutes ago. She wore street clothes and was engaged in a conversation with someone. Maybe another undercover cop? She took a sip of the Revolutionary Punch offered by a costumed character walking around with a tray. It tasted disgusting. Or it could be her nerves that made it off-putting. Her stomach was twisted up. This had to go off without a hitch or Jessie would kill her. And she'd look like a fool.

God, she'd better be right about this, or she'd be run out of town. Or at the very least, sued for slander. Or libel. She always got the two mixed up. Helga's killer would still be on the loose. And Cyril would perhaps end up in prison for a crime he didn't commit.

No pressure.

She'd seen Jake once, but he'd been busy helping the War Office people haul their weaponry around. He hadn't seen her, or at least he hadn't seemed to. Maybe after this was over they could have a real conversation so she could explain Adrian Fox hadn't been in her kitchen for an unseemly reason so early in the morning. She hoped he would listen.

Her mother was also on-site. Stan had seen her with Falco earlier. Unlike Jake, her mother had seen her. She just hadn't acknowledged her. Which was also a bitter pill to swallow. Stan knew she had to figure something out on that front, especially if her mother was going to continue residing in Frog Ledge even part-time. But right now she had to focus on her plan going off without a hitch.

Which was getting harder by the minute as her nerves wound tighter and tighter. She was concentrating on her breathing in hopes of calming herself when Tony Falco appeared in front of her, looking apologetic. “Kristan, I'm sorry to bother you, but I need a favor and everyone's tied up. Can you assist?”

Leave it to Falco to foul things up. She pushed her annoyance away and pasted on a smile. “What do you need?” she asked.

“Can you go get Helga's cane? We need it for the dedication ceremony and it's still over at the museum. I have to sign the proclamation and take some pictures, or I'd do it. Would you mind?” He held out a key. “You can slip right in the back door so no one thinks the building is open.”

Stan glanced at her phone. It was twelve thirty-five. She thought fast. She should be able to run over and get in and out before Hatmaker went to unlock the doors for Marty, and she and Pasquale planned to show up. Plenty of time. She might even get to peek at the drawer herself while she was over there.

“Sure,” she said. “I'm on it. Be right back.” She grabbed the key and hurried across the street.

Chapter 42

Stan slipped the key into the lock and pushed the museum's creaky back door open, reaching for the light switch. Fluorescent glare flooded the room. Shutting the door behind her, she took a few steps forward and peered around the corner into the main room. Everything appeared to be copacetic. The card catalogue still sat where she remembered it, curbing the irrational fear that Carla and crew had liberated it overnight. Breathing a sigh of relief, she hurried over. And did a double take.

“Oh, no . . .”

There was a gaping hole in the second row of the catalogue. She scanned the letters on the cards. The card below the hole had
E–F.
The card above read
C.
The
D
drawer was missing. Which meant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been silenced.

She stared at the empty hole, refusing to believe it. They had been so close. But not fast enough.

Mad now, she let loose a string of curses. How could this have happened? She should've called Jessie last night instead of this morning. They shouldn't have waited. Stan thought she might cry. But she had to get Helga's cane, pull herself together, and walk back out to the party. Then she needed to huddle with Betty and Jessie.

She started back down the hall toward Helga's desk. But she didn't make it far. She heard a noise behind her, suspiciously like a lock turning. Before she could turn to look, something hard—like a two-by-four—slammed into her lower back, sending her sprawling on her face. Stars danced behind her eyes and nausea swirled in her belly. She tried to ignore the pain long enough to flip over to defend herself from the next attack.

Stan raised her hands to shield her head, pulled her knees up into her chest, and rolled away. She opened her eyes and tried to focus in front of her.

She saw boots. Expensive ones. The fancy Burberry winter kind. Stan had looked at a pair last year and passed them up in favor of her Uggs. Now she was glad she had. Her eyes traveled up farther, resting on her assailant's face.

Carla Miller loomed over her, still brandishing her weapon. It looked like a two-by-four. The only difference was the knob in the front, which felt like it had left a dent in her back. It was the card catalogue. Letter
D,
she was certain.

Looked like her theory had been right. Lot of good that would do her now, facing a deranged woman with a card catalogue as her weapon. Not to mention the historical swords and other paraphernalia scattered around the museum. If only she'd been able to grab Jessie before she ran over here. She had at least another twenty minutes before Marty drove up. She'd better move quick, or she might meet the same fate as Felix Constantine. And Helga.

Stan crab-crawled far enough back that Carla would probably miss if she tried to clobber her again, and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in her back. “It's no use, Carla. Everyone knows what you did to Helga. Your own mother-in-law. It's too late to try to cover it up.”

Carla chuckled. “You're delusional. I'm the next mayor's wife. My husband has served on this council for years. You think anyone would believe your story? You don't even know what you're talking about.” She tossed the drawer on the floor with a resounding thud and reached into her pocket. When her hand emerged, it held a small black revolver.

Stan's head spun as she registered both the gun and Carla's words. Mayor? She had Don running for mayor in her mind? The next election wasn't even for a year and a half. And where had she gotten a gun?
Come on, Marty, Jessie. Wasn't anyone ever early anymore?

“It doesn't matter if you get rid of the drawer. Arthur confessed to Felix Constantine. He told the police everything, including your threats. It's over, Carla. Make it easy on the rest of your family. Think about your kids,” Stan said.

Carla hesitated for a split second, then rage filled her face. “I'm getting rid of this godforsaken piece of evidence that's plagued my family for years. And we'll keep our rightful place in this town. You're not stopping me, that's for sure. You have no idea how hard we've worked to get to this place. I'm not letting anyone stand in our way. Don has a long political career ahead of him, and no one's taking it away from us. Now, get up.” She nearly spat the words. The gun jumped with every word.

Stan kept her eyes on it, her throat dry, heart pounding. “I'm not stopping you, but the police will. Trooper Pasquale will be here any minute.” Stan hoped. Unsteadily, she forced her legs to move and got up, holding on to the nearest piece of furniture. Her back screamed in pain. She'd never thought about how lethal those silly drawers could be.

“You're bluffing,” Carla snapped. “Nobody really cared about what happened sixty years ago as much as my poor, dead mother-in-law thought they did.” She chuckled, and the sound sent chills down Stan's spine. “God, I hated that woman from the day I met her. Bossy, demanding, critical battle-ax. You have no idea how satisfying it was to shove her down those stairs, even though technically I wasn't planning on it. Now, let's go. I need to be rid of you before my hauler gets here. They won't find you in the basement for a while.”

This woman was stark raving mad. She was going to shoot her in the basement and leave her body there. Where was the cavalry?

“Where's Don?” Stan asked, still trying to stall for time. “Does he know what you did?”

“My useless husband? Probably somewhere in a corner, crying over his mommy, the wuss. His mommy, who made my life a living hell. Always nagging and complaining. Carla, your sauce is bland. Carla, your laundry basket is overflowing. Carla, why do you need another designer bag with my son's hard-earned money?” she mimicked. “On and on and on, every day. And Don never defended me. Never told her to shut her mouth. She was trying to turn my boys against me, too. She's lucky she made it to eighty-seven. Now it's my turn to get some attention.”

A sound from outside caught Stan's ear. The unmistakable rumble of a truck engine in the back parking lot. Marty was here. Which meant Jessie wasn't far behind. Carla was toast.

She just didn't realize it yet.

Carla heard the sound, too, and froze. “Move,” she barked. “Now. To the basement.”

Stan obliged. Carla shoved her forward, the gun jammed into the small of her back, propelling her down the hallway toward the back of the museum. Her mind raced. Her palms were damp with fear. She needed to stay away from the stairs leading to the basement. Carla probably planned to shoot her at the top, let her fall, and shut the door behind her, then fluff her hair and greet Marty.

No way. This full-of-herself, designer-label wacko wasn't going to win. Stan's eyes fell on Helga's purple cane, still resting on its hook, and calculated the distance to it at the same time a rap sounded on the back door. About five feet, give or take.

“Hey, Carla? It's Marty.” His voice was muffled through the wood.

Carla hesitated, clearly unsure what to do first. Stan grabbed the split-second advantage. She dove to the ground and flung herself into the space under Helga's desk, flattening herself against the wood. She heard Carla hiss out a breath, heard her footsteps as she moved closer to the door, and then her normal, saccharine-sweet, I'm-not-going-to-kill-anyone voice. “Coming, Marty, give me one second, honey, would you? I'll come out.”

Stan inched farther under the desk. She noticed Helga's chair had wheels.
Perfect.

“Sure thing,” Marty called agreeably.

“Great.” Carla's voice changed as she focused on her other situation. “Now you're dead.”

That's what she thinks.
Stan shoved the chair forward with all her might, catching Carla off guard. As Carla stumbled aside, trying to avoid it, Stan leaped up, grabbed Helga's cane off the wall, and brought it down full force on Carla's hand, knocking the gun to the floor.

Carla screamed in indignation. Stan could see her calculating in her head—should she go after the gun or go after Stan?

Stan didn't give her a chance to think about it. She swung again, planting her feet and putting all her power behind it, as Carla rushed at her. This time she hit her in the side of the head. Carla crumpled to the ground, stunned, just as the door opened and Marty, Betty, and Jessie all ran in. On their heels was Dale Hatmaker.

Jessie took one look at Carla Miller on the ground and shook her head. “You can't even follow directions when they're your own?” she asked Stan.

“I didn't mean to mess it up,” Stan said. “Tony Falco asked me to come over and get Helga's cane. Which ironically I just used on her. She killed Helga. I was right.”

Dale Hatmaker paled. “She did what?”

Stan narrowed her eyes at him. “Don't play dumb. You were in on it.”

“Me?” Hatmaker's eyes almost popped out of his head. He held up his hands and looked at Jessie. “She and Don asked me to help get the museum in order, that's all. I had no idea . . .”

“Go sit over there until I figure out what to do with you,” Pasquale told him. She pulled her radio out. “You can send two cars,” she said. “Somebody needs to get Don Miller in for questioning, too. And find someone to take care of his kids. Lovely.” She shook her head. “Talk about family values.” She disconnected.

From the floor, Carla moaned.

“Regardless, I guess my plan worked,” Stan said to Jessie.

“Not exactly how it was supposed to,” Jessie reminded her.

“That wasn't my fault!”

“It never is.” Jessie turned as her backup, Trooper Lou and another guy Stan hadn't seen before, raced into the building. “About time, folks. The murder suspect is over there.” Jessie pointed to Carla, who was trying to sit up, still dazed. “And take him in for questioning.” She indicated Hatmaker, still sitting on the floor, face ashen. Stan watched as they cuffed Carla and took her out of the building. She was glad it was over, but for the Millers, it was just beginning. Those two little boys, Donald and Derek, would have a long road ahead of them.

Jessie turned to walk out, then paused and looked back at Stan. “Thank you.”

Stan glanced over her shoulder. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Jessie said impatiently. “You brought Helga justice. Thank you.” And she followed her colleagues out the door, leaving Stan with her mouth open.