Half-Price Homicide (20 page)

“Don’t forget the rock dust,” Kathy said. Her face was smeared with mud and white streaks. “We’re covered in white dust from our shoes to our hair. If the guys aren’t home, we can shower in the basement bathroom and wash these clothes. You can wear my clothes until yours are clean. The pants might be a little baggy.”

Kathy drove back to her house with scrupulous care. “The lights are off in the living room,” she said. “I don’t think Phil and Tom are home yet. Let’s sneak around the side and into the basement.”

Helen and Kathy threw their clothes and tennis shoes in the washing machine. They were dressed in twenty minutes. Their hair was clean and combed, but wet. Kathy’s jeans were too big for Helen and her shoes were too small, but she could wear them.

Kathy checked on the children again. Both were asleep. She dug wool gloves and a hooded sweatshirt out of a closet. She stuffed the van’s protective newspapers and drop cloths into a plastic trash bag, then cleaned off the shovels, rake and handcart with a garden hose. Finally, Kathy rolled the handcart through a flower bed to cover the rock-dusted tires with mud from her yard.

Helen found Rob’s anonymous silver rental car easily, thanks to the license tag number on the plastic key ring. It was parked at the curb.

“Here,” Kathy said, “put on this hoodie to hide your face, and wear these wool gloves. Your fingerprints can’t be in Rob’s rental car. And wipe those keys down so you don’t leave your prints.”

“You think of everything,” Helen said.

“I hope so,” Kathy said. “We have to save my son.”

Helen started Rob’s car and turned on the air-conditioning. She was sweltering in the heavy winter clothes. Helen drove to the nearest car-rental office, two blocks away, while Kathy followed in the van. The office had closed at six p.m. Helen parked the car at the edge of the lot, grateful her hoodie hid her face from the security cameras.

Helen climbed into her sister’s minivan and they drove behind a failing strip mall.

“See any security cameras back here?” Kathy asked.

They drove through again carefully, but couldn’t spot any. Helen tipped the plastic trash bag filled with newspaper and the drop cloths into the Dumpster.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Ten o’clock,” Kathy said.

“Is that all? I thought it would be at least five in the morning,” Helen said. “We’d better stop at the mini-mart for some white wine. That’s why we told the boys we were going out.”

“And some Ben & Jerry’s,” Kathy said. “I’m hungry.”

“What flavor?” Helen asked.

“Chubby Hubby, of course,” Kathy said.

Soon they were at Kathy’s with wine and ice cream. Kathy parked in her drive and said, “The living room lights are on. The guys are home. I’ll go throw our clothes in the dryer. We can drink wine until they’re ready.”

“We have one big advantage,” Helen said. “No one will be surprised if Rob never shows up again. No one will file a missing-person report. Nobody cares enough to search for him. And that church basement will be there for a long time.”

“Swear to me that you will never mention what we did tonight to anyone,” Kathy said. “Not even Phil.”

“On one condition,” Helen said. “If Rob’s body is discovered, you will tell the police that Rob woke up after Tommy bopped him, and I hit him in the head again.”

“But that’s not what happened,” Kathy said. “The police will think you killed Rob.”

“So will Tommy,” Helen said. “He won’t sacrifice himself to save Aunt Helen. Swear to me. Do it now.” Her voice was hard.

“I swear,” Kathy said.

“Good,” Helen said. “My nephew will not suffer for my mistake.”

“But you didn’t kill Rob,” Kathy said. “He refused treatment for his head injury.”

“And I refused to open my eyes while I was married to that man,” Helen said. “That’s the mistake I have to live with.”

Helen gathered the courage to look into her mother’s coffin. Dolores was a withered wax doll, boxed for showing on pillowy satin. Her face was overwhelmed by the towering dark wig. Dolores had worn that style for years. Her friends wouldn’t recognize her without it.

Funeral directors in two states had tried to erase the effects of Dolores’s last illness, and failed. Only her hands looked good. Now the cruel IV bruises were gone. Dolores’s favorite white rosary was twined around her hands, as Catholic tradition dictated. She would meet her maker in the pale pink dress from her second wedding. The collar looked too big for her wasted frame. Dolores wore the pearls her beloved first husband had given her on their wedding day.

Dolores would go to her grave with reminders of the three major influences of her life: her two husbands and her God.

The lower half of the casket was covered with a blanket of pink carnations from Helen and Kathy. Portraits of Dolores as a radiant bride, a smiling young mother and a proud grandmother were displayed near the casket. Pictures of Lawn Boy Larry were noticeably absent. Helen suspected that was Kathy’s doing.

Helen felt a pang when she studied the photo of Dolores, Kathy and herself in sundresses from a long-ago summer. It was hard to believe the frail woman in the coffin had produced two robust daughters.

Helen bowed her head before the casket. Oh, Mom, she thought. You tried. I tried. We couldn’t make it work. I am so sorry. Consider your St. Louis funeral my last gift and final apology. I hope you are happy now and reunited with Daddy.

A rainstorm of tears poured down her face. Phil materialized at her side and stood beside her, head bowed and hands folded, then led her to a chair in the second row. Helen wept on his shoulder. Phil handed her his white pocket handkerchief.

“I love men who carry handkerchiefs,” Helen sniffled. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“I do,” Phil said. “You only have one mother.”

“But we didn’t get along,” Helen said.

“Then you have to cry twice,” he said. “For the mother you had and for the mother you needed.”

“Did I tell you I love you?” Helen said. “You look handsome in your navy suit.”

She blotted her eyes and surveyed the St. Louis funeral home. Her mother would appreciate its old-fashioned style. The walls were a gloomy face-powder pink. The flowers were comforting, dated arrangements of gladioli and fat mums. Helen read the flower cards. Larry’s dismal display was wilted. Helen wondered if the tightwad had fished it out of the funeral home Dumpster. She hid it behind a burly basket of yellow mums from Dolores’s bridge club.

Lawn Boy Larry held court near the casket, surrounded by well-dressed widows hunting for another husband. They hung on his words and fluttered their mascaraed eyelashes at him. Helen could smell their perfume two rows back.

A tall woman with quarter-sized rouge spots was glued to Larry’s side. Helen wondered if she was Mrs. Raines, maker of fork-tender pot roasts. Could you be a shameless hussy at age seventy? Helen hoped Mrs. Raines won the hand—and stomach—of Larry.

“Oh, Helen, dear,” Larry said. Her stepfather shambled over in a suit two sizes too big. “I wanted to talk to you about those pearls Dolores is wearing. I’ll instruct the undertaker to remove them when the casket is closed.”

“No, you won’t,” Helen said. “Mother wanted to be buried with her wedding pearls.”

“But they’re valuable, dear.”

Helen looked Larry right in his rheumy eyes. “Take those pearls off my mother, Larry, and I’ll make sure you get billed for shipping Dolores to St. Louis. You’re legally responsible for her debts.”

“But Helen, dear,” he began.

“I’m not your ‘dear’ and you’ll owe that Florida funeral home five thousand dollars, you cheapskate.” “Really, Helen,” Larry said.

Phil had gone for coffee in the family room and hurried back to Helen. “Is there a problem?”

“Not anymore,” Helen said. Her glare should have reduced Larry to a pile of ash.

Kathy had arrived with Tommy Junior in his best clothes: clean khaki pants and a white shirt. Both still fit, but they’d be too small after one more growth spurt. Tommy was trying hard not to cry, but his lower lip trembled. He straightened his back and marched toward the casket like a young soldier. Helen’s heart ached for him.

His mother followed. Kathy looked seedy and pale in her black dress. She walked carefully, as if the carpet were land-mined. Kathy avoided looking directly at her sister. Helen guessed the law-abiding Kathy felt the same heavy burden of guilt.

Last night, Helen had been tempted to tell Phil about Rob, but he fell asleep too soon. After a sleepless night, Helen decided confiding in Phil would be an indulgence. She couldn’t sacrifice Tommy’s future for her comfort. She hoped this secret wouldn’t hurt her impending marriage.

Helen took her place next to Kathy in the receiving line. The sisters greeted a parade of older women, many pointedly avoiding Larry. The women politely announced their connection to Dolores: “I was in your mother’s prayer group.” “We belonged to the Altar Society.”

A woman about seventy in a neat gray dress with black buttons down the front held both sisters’ hands and said, “I’m Mrs. Hurbert. I was your mother’s bridesmaid when she married your father. Not,” she sniffed, “when she made THAT mistake.” Mrs. H. glared at Larry, but he was too busy being fawned over by the widows to notice.

“I wanted you girls to know that shriveled old coot is advertising an estate sale at Dolores’s house,” Mrs. Hurbert said. “The day after the funeral.”

“What? ” Kathy said.

“I couldn’t believe it myself. But I saw the ad in the local paper.”

Mrs. Hurbert gave their hands an affectionate squeeze. “I’m glad you brought your mother home. He’d be too cheap to do that.”

At a lull in the receiving line, Phil said, “It’s two thirty. When do you want to leave?”

“Now if we’re going to make the lawyer’s appointment,” Helen said. “We can come back for the rosary service tonight.”

“Good luck with the lawyer,” Kathy said. “I have to check on Allison. She’s staying with Mrs. Kiley next door.” Kathy dropped her voice to a whisper and added, “I have the key to Mom’s house. I’m also going for a sneak preview of Larry’s sale.”

The bright afternoon sun stabbed Helen’s eyes, but she was relieved to breathe air free from the stink of hothouse flowers.

Tarragon “the Terror” Tyler, her lawyer, had an office in an anonymous glass tower near the county courthouse. Tarragon didn’t look like a terror, but Phil had assured Helen she was a tough negotiator on behalf of her clients.

The hippies’ daughter wore a gray pin-striped suit, short brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses. There was a soft, pretty woman under that severe getup. Helen kept expecting Tarragon to whip off her glasses and turn suddenly glamorous, like in the old movies.

Helen presented her divorce decree to Tarragon, then stumbled through her complicated story of how she ran from her sorry past.

Tarragon listened without interruption, then skimmed the decree, while Helen and Phil sat in uneasy silence. Finally, she spoke. “If the judge who signed off on the decree took a bribe from your ex,” she said, “that would be grounds to set aside this decree and go through the process again.”

“But I’m still divorced, right?” Helen said.

“Definitely,” Tarragon said. “I’m talking about the disposition of your joint property. That’s what would be set aside.”

“Rob’s bribery wasn’t mentioned at the judge’s trial,” Helen said, “but as I understand it, the prosecutors will expect Smathers to admit to accepting a bribe from my ex-husband today.”

“If that’s the case,” Tarragon said, “the court will have no sympathy for your ex-husband.”

“Good,” Helen said.

“However,” Tarragon said, “the court will still be pretty unhappy with you for ignoring its orders for more than two years.”

“Oh,” Helen said.

“But I can file a petition to set aside this decree.” The lawyer patted the pile of papers.

“Then it’s over,” Helen said.

“Not quite,” Tarragon said. “You’ve thumbed your nose at the court and skipped out on paying. They may not look kindly on you trying to come back and ask for a break.”

“But the judge—ex-judge—is working on a deal now to get better treatment,” Phil said. “Smathers is required to name everyone who bribed him. He’s already been disbarred.”

“I know,” the lawyer said.

“I gave the prosecutors the bank accounts Helen’s ex used and the dates he withdrew the cash,” Phil said.

“If there is concrete evidence of the bribery,” Tarragon said, “then the court will most likely set aside the divorce decree. Do you know where your ex-husband is now?”

Buried, I hope, Helen thought. “Rob has a habit of disappearing,” she said, truthfully. “With the law after him, he may vanish for good.” Also true.

“Well, if the ex doesn’t turn up,” Tarragon said, “there is no one to go to the court to ask for a new decree. You’ll be off the hook for paying him a share of your earnings. But the court will still be pissed at you. It will also be embarrassed by the whole situation, so no one will be inclined to do anything about it. Do you know where Rob is living now?”

“He was living on a yacht with a woman named Marcella,” Helen said. “She sails to South Florida occasionally. Rob told me she paid him a million dollars to go away, and he did. I don’t think Marcella will know where he is now, but her lawyer might.”