The Icing on the Corpse (3 page)

“What happened?” Stan stared at Betty's white face. She felt sick, remembering Sarah Oliver's words.
Something's wrong.

Betty stirred and opened her eyes. Stan and Char exchanged a look of relief. When Betty's eyes landed on Char, she burst into tears.

“Now, Betty, don't be upset.” Char leaned over her friend as approaching sirens grew louder and an ambulance careened into sight. “The ambulance is here. You're going to be fine.”

“It's not me,” Betty whispered, struggling to sit up. Stan grabbed one arm and Char took the other, and they helped her to a sitting position. “It's Helga!”

Char looked around. “I don't see Helga anywhere.”

“Inside,” Betty whispered. Her next words were so soft Stan strained to hear them. “I think . . . I think she's dead.”

Chapter 3

Dead? The hair rose on the back of Stan's neck. How? Where was Sarah? Before she or Char could ask Betty any of these burning questions, the ambulance arrived. Two EMTs spilled out onto the sidewalk. They grabbed their stretcher and converged on Betty, taking her pulse, shining a light in her eyes, asking her name. Finally, one of them gave a nod, and they hauled her up and on to the stretcher.

“Excuse me?” Char hovered next to the female EMT.

“Yes, you can ride in the ambulance,” the EMT said, barely glancing at Char as she adjusted the stretcher to prepare for the trip down the sidewalk.

“No, no! That's not what I want. There might be an injured woman inside,” Char said. “Betty went inside looking for a friend. When she came out she said Helga had fallen.”

That wasn't what Betty had said, but Stan stayed silent. She certainly didn't want to repeat Betty's words—
I think she's dead
—for fear they might come true. Out of the corner of her eye, Stan saw Cyril casually snapping pictures, moving closer through the crowd. Always looking for the story.

The EMT paused. She held up a hand to halt her partner, then turned to Char. “Did she say where in the building?”

Char shook her head.

The EMT moved over to confer with her partner, a tall, thin man with carefully styled hair who looked like the senior of the two. After a whispered conversation, she pulled out her radio and called in a possible second ambulance needed. Her partner began wheeling Betty's stretcher away. Cyril edged closer, now jotting things down in his notebook.

Ray left his sidewalk duty and came over to take his wife's hand. “Is she okay?” he asked, looking from Stan to Char. “What happened?”

Stan opened her mouth, closed it again. She looked helplessly at Char.

Char pressed Ray's hand to her cheek. “We don't know if she was hallucinating or what, but she told us . . .” She dropped her voice and turned away from Cyril so he couldn't read her lips. “She told us . . . something happened to Helga. Inside. I don't know. We were just going to go in.”

“Why don't you go with Betty in the ambulance, dear,” Ray said, shooting a worried glance at Stan. “She probably needs a friend.”

“Yes, yes, I think you're right,” Char murmured with one last nervous glance at the EMT, who had just returned. “I'll go do that.” She hurried after Betty's stretcher.

“I'm going in to take a look,” the EMT said. But before she could head inside, the door opened and Jake emerged.

A shot of panic pierced Stan's chest and left her cold—her own sixth sense that things were about to go very wrong. Like when she was speeding down the highway and blew right past a cop. Only today there was a lot more at stake than a speeding ticket. Jake's face was pale and if she didn't know better, she'd swear his eyes were wet. He met her eyes briefly, then motioned to the EMT.

“You should come in here,” he said.

“You're confirming an injury?” The EMT pulled her radio back out.

“Just come in,” Jake said, urgency creeping into his voice.

The EMT obliged. Stan followed them, dread seeping through her body like a slow IV drip. She had no desire to see what Betty thought she'd seen, but Jake shouldn't have to go in there with only a complete stranger.

The heavy wooden door slammed behind them. Stan paused inside the doorway to look around. She'd never been in the museum before. At first glance, it wasn't what she'd expected. She supposed her definition of “museum” was geared toward a fancy art museum. This was small, about the size of her dining room and living room combined, and much less sophisticated. Preserved documents and historical artifacts made up the decor instead of gold-framed oil paintings or modern glass sculptures.

She didn't have time to take it all in. Jake moved through the main room purposefully, leading them past exhibits of old farming tools, collections of photographs, what looked like an old library card catalogue. Past a desk in a small alcove in the back of the room. A red purse—Helga's purse, probably—hung neatly on a hook on the wall next to the glittery purple cane Stan recognized as Helga's constant companion, next to Gerry. A black cape was draped over the back of the chair. She saw Jake's gaze linger on it; then he moved on, around a corner to another door.

This one led to a stair well. The EMT coughed, the noise amplified in the small, quiet space. Stan jumped. Then, very faintly, Stan heard someone crying.

Jake pointed, his face grim. “Down there.” He let the EMT pass. He'd already seen.

The EMT took the stairs carefully. Stan peered down and saw Sarah bending over a small, still form clad in pink at the bottom of the stairs. Stan couldn't see the entire scene, but what she could see looked . . . wrong. The pink-clad legs were splayed in an odd manner. She turned away, feeling light-headed and sick all at the same time. She hardly ever prayed, but found herself doing it now for Helga, the poor woman, and her daughter. And, of course, Jake. She thought about Sarah's insistence that something was wrong with her mother. Ray hadn't seemed confident in her medium abilities, yet she'd clearly been right.

“Is she . . .” Stan didn't want to say the words.

“I don't know,” Jake said, but he didn't sound hopeful.

“Oh, Jake.” She hugged him. “I'm so sorry.”

He hugged her back. Held on until the crackle of static and disjointed voices floated up as the EMT radioed something. She moved away from the top of the stairs and sank into a chair. A minute later, the EMT appeared, supporting Sarah as they climbed. Helga's daughter sobbed, her face in her hands.

“Can you . . .” The EMT motioned to Sarah. Jake slipped an arm around the distraught woman.

“Come on, Sarah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We should go outside. Let them . . . do what they need to do.”

Stan followed them out the door, blinking against the light after being inside the dark museum. A small crowd had gathered around Ray at the foot of the museum steps. In the front was Don Miller, Helga's son. His wife, Carla, stood next to him, holding two small boys' hands, her face pale. When Miller saw Jake and Sarah, he pushed past Ray.

“What's going on here?” he demanded.

Jake pulled him aside and spoke in low tones. Miller's face paled, then just as quickly turned stone-like. Carla tugged her boys away so they couldn't hear the conversation. Sarah made no move to hug her brother or even speak to him. She kept her face pressed against Jake's shoulder until Jake gently handed her over to Don. Don took her arm rather roughly and led her away without another word, over to where his family stood. He motioned to Carla, and she and the two little boys followed them across the street.

Jake returned to Stan's side, looking exhausted. “How do you break this kind of news?” he asked quietly, looking at the people waiting for a party. Stan didn't think he expected an answer, so she didn't try to give him one. Instead, she followed his gaze.

The crowd hadn't thinned at all. If anything, more people had arrived. News spread quickly in Frog Ledge under normal circumstances, and half the town seemed to be waiting for an update. When things happened, it was like an electronic news feed beamed directly into each person's home. Everyone knew everything, immediately. And bad news seemed to travel even faster.

Most folks remained across the street on the green, where Mayor Falco tried to take control of the situation and keep people from descending on the museum. The group that had migrated across the street to the sidewalk kept a respectful distance from the museum steps, where Ray kept up a casual guard. The first ambulance was gone, having whisked Betty, accompanied by Char, away to the community hospital.

Ray left his post to join them. He looked just as distraught as Jake. His eyes searched their faces. “What . . . ?”

Jake shook his head. Stan stared at the sidewalk.

The second ambulance pulled up to the curb with flashing lights—no sirens. A bad sign. Another EMT jumped out. He unloaded a stretcher and hurried inside just as a state police car pulled up to the curb. Jake's sister, Frog Ledge Resident State Trooper Jessie Pasquale, climbed out.

Why is she here?
Stan felt Jake brace himself next to her. Jessie wasn't always the easiest person to deal with. As the news rippled through the crowd that she was on scene, voices quieted as if they were going to be able to hear what would happen next all the way across the green.

Jessie walked through the crowd on the sidewalk, which parted for her like the Red Sea, until she reached them. Instead of her usual cop face, she wore the same sorrow as her brother. Jake looked like he wanted to hug her but didn't know how she would react, so he did nothing.

“I heard there was a possible unattended death,” she said. Her voice sounded like sandpaper on wood, gravelly with grief. The official word—
death
—made Stan wince. Betty had been right, even though everyone had hoped she was wrong.

“Death?” Ray repeated, too loudly. A low buzz began circulating through the crowd.

Jake nodded, his face carefully blank. “Not confirmed.”

Jessie looked away. Stan watched her eyes blinking furiously and realized she was trying to avoid crying.

“I'm going inside,” she said.

Jake looked like he wanted to stop her, but then caught himself and nodded. “Okay,” he said simply, and watched her disappear through the door, his sadness so palpable Stan felt it vibrating off his body.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this helpless. Useless, really. Jake's own grandmother had been gone for years, and she knew what Helga meant to him. The loss of her own grandmother still nestled in her bones, resurfacing often and without warning, and she had passed away nearly a decade ago. Knowing Jake would experience that made her ache for him.

It was disorienting to see him so vulnerable. In such a short time he'd become her rock. It wasn't just her, either—most of the town relied on him for one thing or another. He was one of the strongest foundations this community was built on. It could be for something as small as setting up equipment for an event on the green, or as big as rehabbing a historic building, and anything in between. Jake had grown up in Frog Ledge and made a conscious choice years ago to return there, start a business there, be with his family, and nurture the town he loved. He always had a smile and a kind word, and always knew the right thing to do.

Today he looked nothing like that Jake. He looked lost. Adrift. Heartbroken. He paced around their little spot of sidewalk and kept glancing across the street at the crowd still gathered, waiting to hear what had happened.

“I'm going to go to the hospital,” he said. “I feel like . . . she shouldn't have to go alone. And I don't know if Sarah or Don . . .”

“Do you want me to go with you?” She hated hospitals ever since her father's illness, but she knew Jake needed support. “Or would I be intruding?”

Jake looked at her like she was nuts. “Intruding? I would love if you came with me.” He squeezed her hand gratefully, then held it tighter as the EMTs brought the stretcher out. They did a good job of navigating the people deftly and quickly so no one could get a good look at Helga. Jessie did not appear behind them.

“Let's go,” he said.

Stan started to follow him, then saw Jessie come out of the building. She hesitated, then said to Jake, “Go grab the truck. I'll be right there.”

Jake nodded, too distracted to ask why, and headed for the street. Stan approached Jessie, who looked at her warily.

“Are you okay?” Stan asked.

“Fine. Thank you.” Jessie started to brush by her, but Stan persisted.

“I know your family was close to Helga. I'm really sorry,” she said, then turned to walk away. But Jessie stopped her.

“My brother's going to have a hard time with this.”

“I'll help him as much as I can,” Stan said.

Pasquale nodded. She walked briskly back to her police car, got in, and drove away.

Stan watched her go, then hurried to join Jake, waiting in his truck behind the ambulance.

Chapter 4

The first time Stan met Helga Oliver, the older woman had been part of a reenactment event hosted by the local War Office volunteers. Char had coaxed Stan into going, convincing her that to fully appreciate living in Frog Ledge, one had to understand how important the town's role had been in shaping New England history. Beginning with the unassuming, two-story building that housed the Revolutionary War operations back in the 1700s.

The small red colonial on the green known as the War Office served as the area's “command center” during the war. Today it was a historical building that drew local visitors and tourists more often than one would expect in such a small town. Volunteers manned the office and offered tours three days a week from May through October and on special occasions. Most days during those months, if you drove by the green, you'd see two of the volunteers sitting in rocking chairs in the driveway, dressed in their period costumes and waving to people. They were the heart of the War Office—the ones who kept it running and made sure no one ever forgot an important date in town. The volunteers organized activities and made sure the costumes were up to snuff. They coerced enough people to be in each show they put on. Helga Oliver was instrumental in these activities.

Stan remembered Helga's role vividly in that first reenactment she'd attended. Dressed in a man's costume, a general's hat pressed tightly over her white hair, she stood out more than any other actor or actress. The suit worn to battle had been way too big on her five foot two frame, but she rocked it. Stan remembered Helga clumping around in heavy boots, leaning on her glittery purple cane as she made her way around the green barking orders at the “troops” like a real general. Stan thought Helga was probably the most noticeable character on the battlefield, mainly because of her sass. For an eighty-seven-year-old, she'd led the way and stolen the show.

Today, the memory made her sad. Even from that one day on the “battlefield,” Helga's feisty personality and energy had shone through. Like Stan's own grandmother. Stan had so many memories of her dad's mother. Frannie Connor taught her to cook “real” food for animals. Her favorite was of Gram serving dishes of turkey on her front porch to stray cats, ignoring and inevitably laughing off her neighbors' scorn. A free spirit. Helga had the same vibe.

Stan perched on the edge of an uncomfortable chair in the hospital waiting room, watching Jake and Helga's boyfriend, Gerry, speak with the doctor who confirmed Helga's death. Gerry had arrived right after they did. No sign of Don or Sarah. Would they bother to come, knowing she was already gone?

She felt incredibly out of place. Not having known Helga well or her family at all, she didn't want to overstep. So she sat and watched, trying to pretend she wasn't. Jake looked terrible, but he was too much of a gentleman to be selfish about his own grief. He was going to have his hands full for awhile. Stan's phone beeped. She fished it out of her jacket pocket to see a text from Char:
I'm at hospital with Betty. Where are u?

Stan texted back:
Here too w Jake. U in ER? What room? I'll come over
.

Char returned:
202
.

Stan rose and caught Jake's eye, signaled that she'd be back in a few minutes, then ducked into the hallway. She paused, taking a few deep breaths, trying to bring her own Zen back. This was certainly not how she—or anyone else—had expected this day to turn out. She thought briefly of Lilypad, her abandoned gift. It should've been a day filled with fun, community, and a glimpse of spring. Instead, it had turned darker than any winter's day.

Scanning the corridors for directions to the emergency room, she followed a maze of lefts and rights, past the chapel, the cafeteria, and three different elevator banks until she landed in front of the check-in desk.

“Betty Meany, room 202,” she said through the glass.

The nurse buzzed her in and immediately went back to her phone call, not bothering to offer directions. Stan entered the U-shaped wing, averting her eyes from the rooms with open curtains where people were sick or injured. She hoped she was heading in the right direction. She felt like she'd been wandering for hours when she heard Char's voice. Relieved, she hurried toward it just as Char stepped out of the room and yanked the curtain behind her.

“Of course you should come! I'm happy to bring her home, but I think she'd like to see her husband, don't you?” She saw Stan and rolled her eyes, shaking her fist at the phone. “Why don't y'all go on in and see her while I finish arguing with her good-for-nothing husband,” she said to Stan, not even bothering to cover the mouthpiece. At an indignant response from the other end of the line, she turned her attention back to the phone. “Well, I don't care, Burt. That's how y'all are acting!”

Stan slipped into Betty's room and pulled the curtain shut behind her. Betty lifted a hand in greeting. An IV was taped to the back of it. She looked pale, but alert.

“How're you doing?” Stan leaned over and brushed Betty's cheek with her lips.

“Oh, fine. I didn't mean to cause such a commotion. I got a little unsteady on my feet after . . .” She trailed off and blinked. Swiped at her eyes and sighed. “I take it Burt doesn't want to come down.”

Lord. What was she supposed to say to that? “Char's talking to him. She didn't mention that.”

Betty smiled. “Honey, these aren't soundproof doors. I can hear Char yelling at him. As I'm sure the rest of the unit can, too. It's okay. Burt is who he is. I'm not ready to see him anyway.” She patted the edge of the bed, inviting Stan to sit. “Tell me what's going on. Was I right? Is Helga gone?”

Stan nodded and squeezed Betty's hand. “I'm so sorry.”

Betty's eyes misted over. “I am, too.” She motioned Stan to lean in closer. When she did, she whispered, “But it wasn't an accident.”

Stan's eyes widened. She sat back. “What are you talking about, Betty? Of course it was. She was eighty-seven, for goodness' sake! I imagine it's very easy to fall at that age. Especially when you're going down stairs as steep as the ones going into that basement.”

Betty grimaced and shook her head. Her hair had lost its sassy spikes and drooped into her eyes. She impatiently shoved it away with the hand not hooked up to a machine and struggled to sit up. Stan reached out and pulled her up higher on her pillows.

“That's the thing,” Betty said urgently. “She never would've been going down those stairs. She didn't go into the basement. It was a rule, for precisely that reason. She had a bad hip already and didn't want to injure it further. She said that was the way to die a slow and painful death—break a hip first and everything else goes downhill.”

Stan glanced at the bottle dripping into the IV. What were they giving her? Was she on some medication that was making her loopy? This was crazy talk. Helga had been alone in the museum . . . at least until Betty and Sarah had gone to look for her. Hadn't she?

Betty followed her gaze. “I'm not crazy. And I'm telling you the truth. I have proof!” She sounded immensely proud of herself.

Char chose that moment to burst back into the room, a fiery ball of red dress and matching hair. “They made me leave the area because I was too loud. But I couldn't help it. He is so infuriating. I'm sorry. I know y'all are married to him. But man oh man, if that was my husband—” She shook her fist. “He's on his way. I guilted him into it.”

Betty didn't look thrilled, and she refused to meet Stan's eye. Clearly she didn't want to continue her conversation in front of Char. “You didn't need to do that, Char. I'm happy having you or Stan take me home.”

“I know that, honey, but I wanted him to take some responsibility. He doesn't need to sit on his behind watching more sports. He wasn't even going to be at your event.
Our
event! Despicable.” She spat the words, then satisfied she'd gotten her point across, turned to Stan. “Is it true? Did we lose Helga?”

Stan nodded.

Char pressed her hands against her cheeks and shook her head. “How devastating. How could this happen? Her poor children. And how is Jake? That poor boy.” She clucked sympathetically. “He and his sisters loved that woman, let me tell you. And his mother, well, I'm sure she's going to be devastated. The whole town, really. What a tragedy. And on what was supposed to be such a wonderful day.”

“Heartbreaking,” Betty said. “Char, would you ask the nurse to come in here? I want to know when they're going to discharge me.”

“Of course.” Char thundered out of the room toward the nurse's station. Stan could hear her calling one of the nurses: “Ex
cuse
me! Mrs. Meany needs some help!”

Betty furiously beckoned Stan to come closer. Stan leaned back down so she could hear. “Like I said—I have proof. Her cane. She didn't have it with her. Did you see?”

Stan remembered when she walked into the museum with Jake, the cold, empty feeling she'd gotten, the forlorn cape and purple cane waiting neatly behind Helga's desk. “I did see it hanging up,” she said slowly.

Betty nodded triumphantly. “She never went anywhere—not even ten feet—without her cane. Helga didn't fall down those stairs. Someone pushed her.”