Decorated to Death (5 page)

Checking the clock on the van’s dashboard, I was surprised to find that it was still relatively early in the day. Thinking back, I mentally reviewed the timeline of when we’d arrived at the cottage and discovered the body. I’d picked up Mary around nine o’clock and it had taken us about half an hour to find the cottage. Even though I didn’t recall the exact time, I was pretty sure that I’d phoned the police sometime between nine thirty-five and nine forty. Since we didn’t see any vehicles on Old Railway Road, and assuming the killer didn’t bother to stick around, I was guessing that the murder occurred no later than nine twenty-five. The problem with the timeline was that it ended without a clue as to when or how Dona had gotten to the cottage. If she came via automobile, was it hers? If so, then where was the car? Did the killer take it?

Mary and Pesty had fallen asleep. Taking advantage of the situation, I relit my cigarette and contemplated the glut of questions that were swirling around in my head like confetti in a wind tunnel.

I was deep in thought when Dr. Loo and two medical technicians arrived in Loo’s oversized black SUV. The SUV filled the remaining section of the drive leading to the highway. The trio exited the vehicle and were headed for the cottage when Loo instructed the two young men to go ahead, stating that she would be along in a moment. She waited until the techs entered the cottage before strolling over to the van.

“Mrs. Hastings, don’t you have better things to do with your time than finding dead bodies? I’m beginning to think Lieutenant Cusak’s right when he says your middle name is trouble.”

“Well, he’s wrong. For your information, Sleeping Beauty over there,” I said, pointing to Mary who was sawing wood, as was Pesty, “discovered the body all by herself. The only thing I did was to get Mary out of there as fast as I could and then I phoned the police.”

The petite brunette with the almond-shaped eyes and engaging smile looked more like a beauty pageant winner than a highly capable and respected medical examiner. “And now you’re hanging around for what? Hoping the murderer returns to the scene of the crime so you can capture him or her? Most of them don’t, you know.”

“Actually, we’d be long gone by now if Chief Stevens had someone available to take our statements,” I replied. “And yes, I most certainly do have better things to do than being stuck at a crime scene,” I added, deliberately ignoring her remarks regarding returning murderers and their capture.

“I’m sure that you do. All kidding aside, my mom almost lost it when my dad was laid up. Perhaps you’ll do better, although I think all men are lousy patients. Good luck,” said Loo, turning away from the van.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I called out to the medical examiner as she sprinted up the porch stairs. “Good luck with what? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” But by then Dr. Sue Lin Loo had disappeared into the cottage.

Stymied by Loo’s comments, I was struggling to make sense of the conversation when the cottage door opened and out walked Patti Crump, tape recorder in hand. At long last, Mary and I were finally going to give our statements and be on our way. It was too late for breakfast and a tad early for lunch but we had a good chance of making it to the brunch buffet at Farmer John’s. I could almost smell the three-cheese omelet, sausages, sourdough toast, bread pudding, and fresh coffee. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.

“My stars,” Mary remarked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “I had the most terrible dream. We were in the buffet line at Farmer John’s and just when it was our turn to be served, they ran out of food. Rollie Stevens came out of the kitchen wearing nothing but a chef’s hat and apron. He said the only thing left was some dog water and Dona’s dead body. When we tried to leave, he threw stale doughnuts and cold coffee at us. It was just horrible.”

“Yeah, it sounds like it, especially the part about Rollie and the chef’s hat and apron.”

Between Dr. Loo’s comments and Mary’s dream, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. The only thing missing was the red queen threatening to cut off our heads. Instead, Patti Crump, looking almost as grim as Carroll’s maniacal monarch, ordered us out of the van and onto the porch.

“Come on, Mar,” I said, “it’s time for us to go through the looking glass. Should you see any cookies, don’t eat ’em.”

If nothing else, Patti Crump was efficient. In no time flat, Mary and I had given our statements and were informed by Patti that we were free to leave. Even though I was anxious to do just that, the three vehicles parked around us made it virtually impossible.

“Wait in your van,” instructed Patti, a former heavy equipment operator, “while I jockey the other vehicles out of your way. They gotta be moved anyway, seein’ that the chief called Morty Butterworth of Stanford Motors to get a tow truck out here on the double.”

“Why on earth did he do that?” I commented aloud without adding that given the situation, a call for a hearse would have been more appropriate.

Since Patti, who’d reentered the cottage to collect the necessary sets of keys, either hadn’t heard my question or had purposely ignored it, Mary took it upon herself to provide me with the obvious answer.

“My stars, Gin. What’s happened to your logic? Why does anyone call for a tow truck? Because, you silly goose, they need something towed.”

“Jeez, now why didn’t I think of that? Thank you, Mary, thank you.” Jumping out of the van, I all but ran to the backyard of the cottage where the late-model silver Cadillac with the
DIET GAL
vanity plate was parked. I now had the answer as to how Dona Deville had gotten to the cottage, but the when and the why still eluded me. I also knew that as a lifelong jigsaw puzzle junkie, I wouldn’t rest until all the pieces were in place.

We arrived at Farmer John’s shortly after eleven o’clock and were seated immediately. Unlike Mary’s dream, there wasn’t a dead body or a crazy cop in sight. Being almost as hungry as Mary, I made short work of what can only be described as a sumptuous three-course brunch. Once Mary had polished off a second generous helping of peach cobbler, and I had a napkin stuffed with enough tidbits to satisfy a certain four-legged eating machine, we were back in the van and headed for home.

While I was mulling over the events of the morning, Mary busied herself with the radio. Finding nothing to her liking on any of the FM stations, she switched to the AM ones.

“For chrissake, Mary, either pick something or shut the darn thing off.” I’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth when I heard the grating voice of Seville’s star reporter, Hilly Murrow, slicing through the stream of static. “Don’t touch that dial,” I yelled, pushing Mary’s hand away from the radio.

“Well, excuse me,” a miffed Mary replied, “I didn’t realize that you’re such a fan of local programming.”

“I’m not but I would like to hear what’s being said locally about Dona’s death, seeing that we missed the news out of Indy while we were in Farmer John’s. And I’m sorry that I yelled at you. Now, let’s listen to Miss Know-It-All’s take on things. If nothing else, she’s opinionated.”

Even though Hilly’s report was light on facts and laced with innuendoes, I managed to glean from it that Dona’s entire entourage, including Ellie and Rufus Halsted, Todd Masters, Maxine Roberts, and Marsha Gooding, had arrived in town Friday night. They, along with Dona, checked into an unspecified bed-and-breakfast establishement. Without disclosing where, when, or why, Hilly implied that she had been present when the Deville entourage learned of Dona’s death. She used words such as devastated, stunned, grief-stricken, shocked, and heartbroken in describing the group’s reaction to the news.

With an irritating voice that matched her contentious personality, stick-thin body, and sharp facial features, the middle-age newshound droned on. According to Hilly, other than a certain young doctor who was a newcomer to Seville, everyone in town had been looking forward to seeing the health spa diva at the Book Nook.

The way Hilly carried on, one would think that the late Ms. Deville was a combination of Mother Teresa and Princess Diana. From my own brief telephone encounter with Dona, I felt a comparison to Marie Antoinette with a pinch of Cinderella’s stepmother thrown in would have been more on target.

The young visiting doctor, again, according to Hilly, as well as the two local women who’d discovered the body were at the top of the police chief’s short list of suspects.

I’d heard more than enough and was about to turn off the radio when Hilly mentioned a freak accident that had taken place on the thirteenth hole of the Sleepy Hollow golf course.

“Despite it being officially ruled as an accident,” intoned the reporter in her best “I know something you don’t know” voice, “I find it strange that the wives of the two men involved in the bizarre incident are the same two women who, for some unknown reason, were at the Deville crime scene and claim to have stumbled upon Dona’s body. Chief Stevens had better watch his step with these rather slippery suspects. And that’s my tip of the day. This is Hilly R. Murrow reminding you that what happens in Seville is always news to me.”

“Talk about yellow journalism,” Mary fumed, clicking off the radio. “I feel just like Jack Nicholson did in that movie when he demanded that Tom Cruise show him the truth.”

I thought about straightening out Mary’s mixed-up film dialog but since I agreed with the gist of what she’d said, I decided to let it go. Like Mary, I, too, was frustrated and upset with Hilly Murrow’s version of the news. I also wanted to know more about what the reporter had referred to as a “bizarre incident” supposedly involving Charlie and Denny. Passing my cell phone to Mary, I asked her to give Charlie a call. When he failed to answer, she then called Denny.

From Mary’s reaction to what her husband had to say, I surmised that some nincompoop had been accidentally struck by a golf ball. The unlucky guy was taken to the hospital via ambulance where Dr. Peter Parker confirmed that the ball had broken the man’s kneecap. Only after Mary ended the call did I learn that the injured nincompoop and Charlie were one in the same.

Dr. Loo’s remark about her parents and her belief that men were lousy patients finally made sense. Most likely, she’d been present when Charlie was admitted into the hospital and made the assumption that I’d been notified. No wonder she questioned my presence at the cottage.

Even though the traffic was light, the drive to Garrison General Hospital in Seville seemed to take forever. Everything, including my mood, had deteriorated. How much more could go wrong, I wondered as I pulled the van into the hospital’s parking lot. I was about to find out. Stepping from the vehicle, Mary and I were drenched to the skin by a sudden, heavy downpour that seemed to come out of nowhere.

“You know something, Mary,” I remarked as we splish-splashed our way across the lot’s wet surface, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

Three hours and about a half dozen cups of coffee later, Dr. Peter Parker came into the fourth-floor lounge with the news that Charlie’s knee surgery was over and the prognosis for a complete recovery was quite good.

“Of course, he’s going to require a great deal of care both before and after the cast is removed, especially since he’s got his heart set on returning to the golf links ASAP,” said Dr. Parker who, in spite of the hospital scrubs he was wearing, looked far too young to be a physician and surgeon. He also looked very, very tired. Despite not being the handsomest of men, Peter Parker, with his sandy-colored hair, sad brown eyes, and lopsided smile, had a certain average, all-American, apple-pie appeal.

“Mr. England,” he said, focusing his attention on Denny, “is it true that Mr. Hastings’s accident was the result of your tee shot going askew when a bee stung you on the buttocks?”

The affable, lanky Scotsman’s ruddy complexion turned a deeper shade of red while his nearly bald head turned a pretty shade of pink. “Yeah,” Denny replied, rubbing his crinkly blue eyes out of embarrassment rather than fatigue. “And you know what Charlie said just before he passed out from the pain? He said it served me right getting stung where I did ’cause I took so damn long setting up my tee shot. Now that’s what I call a real golfer.”

Apparently, the doctor was also a “real golfer” since he seemed to appreciate Denny’s comment a whole lot more than either me or Mary. Personally, I felt that Ronald Reagan’s remark about forgetting to duck would have covered things nicely.

After a final round of assurances from the doctor regarding Charlie’s condition, followed by a round of my heartfelt thank-yous, Dr. Peter Parker took my hand in his and gave it a surprisingly strong squeeze. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I’d just touched hands with a healer who was also a killer. I quickly dismissed the idea as being absurd. Just because his grip was powerful enough to crack walnuts, I told myself, it didn’t mean that he was responsible for choking the life out of Dona Deville, which, judging from the black-and-blue marks I’d seen around her throat, was how she’d met her untimely end.

Throughout the remainder of the day and into the evening, Charlie drifted dreamily in and out of consciousness. Seeking to fill the void left by the departure of Mary and Denny (I insisted they keep the dinner date with JR), I turned on the wall-mounted television set. Engaged in channel surfing, I was unaware that someone had entered the room until I felt a hand on my shoulder. Thinking that it was JR, who planned on visiting her father later that evening, I turned around in the small bedside chair and was suprised to find myself staring into the piercing dark eyes of Martha Stevens, the police chief’s loyal and devoted wife.

Martha had more on her mind than visiting the sick. With her creamy complexion, trim body, and smartly styled gray hair, the diminutive woman, who’d fled her island home when Fidel Castro proved not to be the democratic savior of the people, looked and acted far younger than her sixty-five years.

While Charlie managed from time to time to let out a moan or flutter his eyelids, he continued to be pretty much out of it, which was a good thing since Martha was about to make me an offer that any wife with an ailing husband wouldn’t refuse.

From personal experience, I knew all too well the truth of Dr. Loo’s pronouncement that men were lousy patients. Last year when Charlie came down with a bad head cold and took to his bed for three days, I gave him round-the-clock care. In return, he gave me a hard time. I came close to serving him divorce papers along with the homemade chicken soup. By the time Doc Parker pronounced Charlie fit to return to the land of the living, I was half dead from exhaustion and had new respect for Florence Nightingale.

Martha, a semiretired registered nurse and licensed physical therapist, had come up with an ingenious plan that would protect her husband’s reputation as Seville’s top cop and pave the way for him to leave the force on a high note. The plan was as follows: In return for her providing my husband with in-home care and outpatient therapy, something crucial to Charlie’s full and speedy recovery, I would provide her husband, Rollie, with a successful murder investigation, something crucial to his well-deserved, long-overdue retirement.

“Maybe some people, like my husband, don’t want to admit it, but when it comes to figuring out a complicated murder, you are a regular Sherlock Holmes,” said Martha. “You have a special gift that enables you to sense when things are not quite right. You are a true problem solver.”

That the woman had such faith in my sleuthing abilities was both flattering and scary.

“It will be like you Americans say,” Martha continued with a confident smile, “one hand will wash the other. It’ll be our secret. Together, we will put our husbands on the road to health and happiness. Is it a deal?”

“But, Martha,” I protested, “what happens if I fail? Or even worse, Matt finds out about my part in the plan?” In my head I could hear Matt’s voice reminding me that he was the detective and I was the decorator. I was to stick with what I do best and he would do the same. “Everyone knows how he feels about me sticking my nose in police business.”

“No, no, no. These things will not happen,” Martha quickly replied. “Your birthday and mine are the same. Those who are born under the sign of Capricorn do not accept failure. Don’t be concerned with your son-in-law finding out. He and Sergeant Rosen are far too busy with what Rollie tells me is an important investigation. Very hush-hush.”

Rollie’s assessment of Matt’s involvement in an unrelated investigation jived with what JR had said when I’d asked for Matt’s help. It also reminded me of something else my daughter had said in that same conversation: This time I was on my own.

“Okay, Martha, it’s a deal,” I said with more bravado than I actually felt. Only time would tell if the deal I agreed to would lead me back to the sunny side of the street or down a dark and dangerous path.