3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (14 page)

Mabel wouldn’t have had any qualms about leaving Lyndella out of the show, had Lyndella still been alive, but I didn’t mention that. “I’ll do my best to see that everyone is represented, but you’ll all have to accept that the gallery has the final say.”

“Better do more than your best, hon. You don’t want to piss off anyone.”

Was that a threat? As much animosity as there had been between Lyndella and Mabel, I hadn’t considered the possibility of Mabel being Lyndella’s killer. Mabel hardly seemed capable of strangling Lyndella, but maybe the strangulation took place more through surprise than strength.

Lyndella showed no signs of a struggle, but the killer may have struck while Lyndella slept. Or maybe Lyndella was first drugged. Then again, if Mabel had murdered Lyndella, why now? Why after so many years of putting up with Lyndella’s verbal abuse? What had changed?

Maybe Mabel had finally reached her breaking point and just snapped. If that were the case, I probably wouldn’t find any clues combing through Lyndella’s old journals.

_____

Instead of driving directly to Sunnyside, I first stopped home to change clothes and walk Mephisto. After the mutual animosity that had defined our relationship from the onset, the dog and I were now bonding. I wondered how Lucille would deal with that once she came home.

Neither my mother-in-law nor Sunnyside had phoned me concerning her imminent departure. I had no intention of making my presence known once I arrived. Lucille’s progress on her feet yesterday boded well for her eventual total recovery, but by her own admission, she wasn’t anywhere near ready to take care of herself on her own. No matter how much she complained, she’d remain at Sunnyside for now. I held the medical power of attorney papers to make sure of that.

I arrived home to find the stereo blaring, Ralph squawking, and Mephisto holding his paws over his ears. When I lowered the volume to a non-ear-bleeding decibel level, I heard a sound that made me want to cover my own ears.

thirteen

No mother should ever
have to hear her offspring having sex. Standing in the living room, I debated my next move. Do I walk in on the randy duo, running the risk of embarrassing the culprits to death and causing one son never to speak to me again? Would knocking on the bedroom door be any less embarrassing? Or should I just leave?

Once they were done making all their noise, they’d notice the lowered stereo volume. We could pretend nothing had happened, even though we’d both know exactly what had happened. And I’d know which son had been doing it by the way he’d avoid making eye contact with me.

No, that didn’t seem like the responsible parental move. I couldn’t ignore this. If nothing else, it was obviously past time to have
the protection talk
. I had no idea whether or not Karl had fulfilled that responsibility. Even though he’d told me he had, since he’d bailed on all his other family duties, why should I believe he’d ever had
the protection talk
? Since I was way too young to become a grandmother, I couldn’t take Karl at his word, recent experience having proved his words less than worthless.

Loathe as I was to do so, I marched down the hall toward the boys’ bedroom, only to stop short and issue a quick prayer of thanks to whichever of the gods looks out for mothers of teenagers.
The sounds of passion emanated from Mama’s room, not Alex’s and Nick’s.

The mother in me sighed a huge sigh of relief, but that relief was short-lived. What if my sons had arrived home instead of me? Mama’s actions were nothing short of irresponsible.

Mama’s bedroom no longer contained an entry door. After Lucille repeatedly locked Mama out of their shared bedroom, Zack came up with the ingenious idea of taking the door off its hinges and replacing it with a curtain rod and curtain. I stepped in front of the curtained doorway and called out to her. “Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe!”

The bouncing springs and moans of passion abruptly ceased. “I’m a bit busy right now, Anastasia.”

“I can hear that, Mama. Toss on a robe, and meet me in the kit-chen.”

“Can’t it wait, dear?”

“Now, Mama!”

When she joined me in the kitchen, nearly five minutes later, Mama showed no signs of remorse. She sat down opposite me, an irritation-filled expression plastered across her face. Catherine the Great appeared from the dining room and jumped onto her lap. Mama stroked the cat’s fur for several seconds before finally asking, “Well? I’m here. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”

“How could you, Mama? What if one of the boys had walked in on you?”

“They would have acted a lot less aggrieved than their mother. I don’t see what’s got you in such an uptight snit, dear.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not.”

“Mama, you were having sex! In my home. On your grandson’s bed!”

“I wanted to use your bed, dear. Two people on a twin is rather uncomfortable, but then I realized I might not have time to launder your sheets before you came home.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“Sarcasm isn’t becoming, Anastasia.”

“My
faux pas
, Mama. Now let’s discuss yours.”

“The only thing to discuss is how I wound up with a prude for a daughter. You must get it from the Periwinkle side of the family.”

Was she that dense? “You really see nothing wrong with your behavior?”

“Of course not, dear. Why should I? I’m a grown woman with a grown woman’s needs.” She stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of something.”

She turned and sashayed from the kitchen. I called after her. “Who is he, Mama?”

“If we’re both lucky, your next stepfather.”

“Really? Why should he bother buying the cow when he’s getting the milk for free?”

Mama shook her head and muttered, “Definitely the Periwinkle side of the family.”

I grabbed Mephisto’s leash, clipped it to his collar, and rushed outside. How could my mother twist this situation around to make me the one at fault? I wasn’t a prude, but the
ick
factor in all of this
flew off the charts. A vision of Mama morphing into Lyndella
Wegner thirty years from now refused to leave my mind, no matter how much I shook my head to dislodge the image.

When I brought Mephisto back inside, the two horny lovebirds were going at it once again. I filled the dog’s water bowl and left without changing my clothes. No way did I want to walk past her bedroom, let alone undress to the sounds of a senior citizen mattress tango going on down the hall.

_____

I arrived at Sunnyside to find Mabel cooling both her heels and her walker’s rhinestone-studded wheels in the lobby. “About time
you showed up,” she said. “I’ve got everyone assembled and waiting
in the solarium. Figured the light there would work best for you.”

She led me down the hallway that took us past Shirley’s office. Luckily, the door was closed. The last thing I needed after my altercation with Mama was a run-in with Sunnyside’s director, especially since I’d segued from savior to rabble-rouser in her eyes.

Eleven Sunnyside residents awaited me in the solarium, their various works gathered on the bistro tables set up around the room with paintings lining one wall. The afternoon sun filled the space with light perfect for shooting the assembled artwork and crafts. A combination of air conditioning and whirring ceiling fans kept the glass-enclosed room from turning into an oven.

I had asked Mabel to tell the other crafters to bring their six best pieces for the shoot. Either Mabel had forgotten to convey my message, or she’d deliberately ignored me. My money was on the latter.

Having spoken of a possible gallery show to all my classes, I was also now surprised to see so few students from the arts and crafts program in the solarium. Many more had shown interest. “Where’s everyone else?” I asked.

“This is the best of the best.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t see Irene here. Her embroidery work is museum quality, and I know she was interested in taking part. And what about Bonita’s watercolors? Jerome’s stained glass? Maxwell’s—”

“You said space was limited. I didn’t want anyone left out, but I made an executive decision. Those others don’t need the extra cash. These folks do.”

I glanced around the room. Everyone had overheard the exchange. They had all turned from their various conversations and now stared at me. Waiting.

“You’re doing this to help those who need help, right?” asked Mabel.

True.

“They already know not everything’s going in the show,” she continued, “but I told them everyone would have at least something. Excluding the ones that don’t need the money means these folks get more pieces exhibited.”

She gave me a pointed look that dared me to disagree with her. I didn’t. The last thing I needed was someone else pissed at me.

Besides, Mabel was right. This show was about helping the cash-strapped residents of Sunnyside become a little less cash strapped. Hopefully, those not included would understand. I’d make an extra effort to include them in the magazine article and have our staff photographer shoot them and their work at Sunnyside. A few classroom shots would round out the article nicely.

My dilemma resolved, I spoke to the gathered residents. “All right. Let’s get to work.”

“Are you going to take our pictures, too?” asked Sally. “I need my roots touched up.”

“I need a new perm,” said Barbara.

“Don’t worry,” I told them, “I’m just photographing your work today for the gallery owner. She’ll choose the pieces to feature based on the snapshots I email her. Our magazine photographer will take your pictures at the opening a week from Friday. You’ll all have plenty of time to look your best.”

I had prepared a simple questionnaire and printed out copies of Trimedia’s standard release form, stapling the two together. I removed the stack of papers from my tote bag and placed them on one corner of a table filled with dozens of beaded necklaces, bracelets, and pins. I recognized the work as belonging to Sally Strathower. “While I’m taking the photos,” I said, “I need you to fill out some paperwork. Then we’ll set up an interview schedule.”

“What kind of paperwork?” asked Murray.

“The first is a standard release form to use photos of you and your work in the magazine. The other asks a few biographical questions.”

“Like what?” asked Dirk, eyeing me suspiciously.

“You better not need my social security number or date of birth,” said Murray. “I don’t give out personal information to anyone. Not with all those damn identity thieves lurking everywhere. My kid was hacked last year. They got hold of his credit card number and password. What a nightmare that was!”

The other crafters all nodded in agreement.

“Those hackers should be ashamed of themselves,” said Berniece. She bobbed her head with such emphasis that her helmet hair actually moved slightly. “They stole money right out of my bank account a few years ago.”

“How’d they do that?” asked Estelle.

“They rigged the swipe machines at Michael’s to obtain customers’ debit card information. You must have read about it at the time. It was in all the papers.”

“I remember that,” said Sally. “My bank cancelled my credit card and sent me a new one because I sometimes shop at Michael’s. I was lucky, though. They didn’t get any money from me.”

“I don’t tell nobody nothing,” said Dirk. “Better safe than sorry.”

“I don’t blame you,” I told them. “I certainly don’t need your social security numbers or anything else that might jeopardize your finances. The questions are mostly in regards to your artwork and crafts. I’ll use your answers to help me develop the article I’ll be writing about all of you. I don’t think you’ll find any of the questions objectionable, but if you do, just leave them blank.”

“Fine,” said Dirk. He grabbed the pile and began passing the papers out to everyone.

“Need pens,” said Murray. “Can’t fill out forms without a pen, Chickie.”

Chickie
? Was that a compliment or an insult?

I hadn’t thought to bring pens for everyone, but I did have a few in my tote and rooted around until I found them. “You’ll have to share these,” I said, placing the four pens on the table.

Murray picked up two Bics. “We get to keep these?”

“Sure, Murray. Knock yourself out. Just don’t fight over them.”

He pocketed one and began writing with the second. Several others made a grab for the two remaining pens.

“You should bring more next time you come,” said Mabel. “It’s not fair some got and some didn’t.”

“They’re only Bics, Mabel, not Mont Blancs.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Murray and two others scribbled away at their questionnaires. The rest of the group waited somewhat impatiently for a turn with a pen.

“Everyone loves free stuff,” said Mabel.

Apparently so.

Leaving them to their forms, I began shooting the various crafts and artwork spread out around the room. The task took longer than I’d anticipated, thanks in part to a dozen self-appointed photo stylists. One by one they joined me, either before filling out their forms or afterwards. Each offered all sorts of unsolicited advice on how best to capture their particular pieces of art.

“You need to photograph that vase from several different angles,” said Murray. “Each side is different.”

“Not a problem, Murray.” I took a few more digital shots of the vase and each of his other ceramic pieces before moving on to the table of jewelry.

“Shouldn’t I be wearing my jewelry so the gallery owner knows what it is?” asked Sally.

“She’ll know.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Trust me. She does this for a living.”

“I still think I should be wearing them. Don’t you think so, Mabel?”

“Let her wear them,” said Mabel.

With the death of Lyndella, Mabel had morphed into the Napoleon of Sunnyside, a bossy, four-foot-ten-inch high and almost equally as wide, rhinestone-studded commander on jeweled wheels instead of a white steed. Challenged by no one, Mabel had taken over for the much-hated Lyndella Wegner. Only instead of grumbling about her, the others apparently had anointed her. Mabel Shapiro reveled in her newfound power, showing off by bossing me around in front of the rest of the crafters.

Not that it mattered. Clara would have the final say as to which items were selected and which weren’t. I shrugged my acceptance of Mabel’s edict and waited for Sally to adorn herself, deciding not to mention that the delicate pastel beadwork would get lost against the bold rainbow stripes of her size twenty-four boat neck T-shirt.

By the time we’d finished, the residents were talking dinner, speculating on that evening’s offerings. They packed up their crafts and artwork and headed off to their rooms. I scooped up the completed forms and headed for the exit, hoping to sneak out without running into either Shirley or Lucille. Of course, that would require luck, something I’d lost this past winter when Karl permanently cashed in his chips and my life crapped out.

What were the odds I’d meet both Shirley
and
Lucille in the hallway, coming at me from opposite ends, one power walking in her power suit du jour, the other shuffling along with her walker?

“Why are you here?” asked Shirley.

“It’s about time you got here,” said Lucille. “I’m all packed.”

“What?” Shirley whirled around to confront Lucille. “You’re not leaving. You haven’t completed your therapy.”

“I’m fine,” said Lucille. “I dressed myself this morning and fed myself both breakfast and lunch.”

That explained the stained shirt held closed with only one button. “Have you looked in the mirror, Lucille?”

“I’m not vain like you, Anastasia. I don’t need to look in mirrors. Now let’s go. I’ve been ready for hours.”

“I can’t release her until her doctors sign off that she’s completed her therapy,” said Shirley, “and that’s highly unlikely, given that she’s supposed to be here four weeks, and it hasn’t even been a full week yet.”