Olive and Let Die (16 page)

Melanie stood staring at the dead woman, her face immobile. Impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Flower arrangements lined the room. I read the tags. There was a tasteful one from the Bonaparte Bay School District. Another featured gerbera daisies, with letters
spelling B-I-N-G-O on white cards stuck into the arrangement. A photo of Doreen and a half-dozen other ladies, including Paloma, at the American Legion was stuck into the basket. I had to smile.

From out front came the sound of a car door shutting. Melanie sighed. “All right. Let's get this over with.”

I wondered if Doreen would mind if I slapped her cousin.

Caitlyn sat in a chair off to the side, tapping something into her phone. I amended my prior thought. I wondered if Doreen would mind if I slapped Melanie with Caitlyn's cell phone. Melanie and I stood at the foot of the casket as the first of the mourners entered the room.

Doreen had known a surprising number of people, based on the steady stream of folks who filed past her. If I had to guess, I'd say at least half the population of Bonaparte Bay was here. Whether it was to pay respects to Doreen, or to get a look at either Melanie or our second murder victim this year, I couldn't tell.

Paloma came in, wearing a lovely peach-colored scarf that looked beautiful with her caramel complexion and dark hair. She was accompanied by several other women, some of whom I recognized from around town.

She knelt in front of the casket, murmured a prayer, and crossed herself before greeting us. Her eyes swam with unshed tears. “I'm sorry for your loss,” she said.

How ironic
, I thought. I hadn't even known the woman, so had I really suffered a loss? I should be comforting Paloma.

“Thanks, Paloma,” I said. “You've been a good friend to her and a big help to me.” I cut my eyes to Melanie, who stood there rigid and unsmiling. She seemed uncomfortable,
shifting her weight from foot to foot. Not surprising, considering the ridiculous shoes she was once again wearing. How many pairs did she travel with anyway?

Paloma reached inside her purse and pulled out a small sheet of paper covered in purple splotches. She showed it to Melanie. “The girls and I were wondering if we could put this inside Doreen's coffin. We had so much fun on Thursday nights at the Legion.”

Melanie tipped her head. “What is it?” Her eyes scanned the room. She was subtly agitated, her body still but her fingers tapping on her thigh.

Paloma smiled. “It's a winning Bingo card.”

“I think that's a lovely idea,” I said. “Go right ahead.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. I gave her a subtle jab with my elbow. What was it to her? I was glad Doreen had had friends.

Paloma waved to the group of women who had congregated near the table of cookies, coffee, and water in the back. They advanced en masse to the casket, where they stood in a line, hands folded in front like fig leaves. Paloma held up the Bingo card, which I could now see bore signatures that I assumed were from her posse.

“O-seventy-five,” she said.

“O-seventy-five,” the others repeated. Somebody rang a little bell.

The ladies filed past us, reaching out to take our hands and give their condolences. One asked if they could all get their picture taken with Melanie later. She shrugged and nodded. Leave it to Melanie to use a funeral as a photo op.

Which made me think again of Spencer Kane. I wondered if he was out front somewhere, waiting for Melanie
to emerge so he could take her picture. Melanie was only a minor celebrity, so while pictures of her might be interesting to her fans, I couldn't see that there'd be a lot of money in it for him. Still, even if one of the tabloids paid him only a few hundred dollars, that was probably a couple of weeks' pay at the
Bay Blurb
.

I was about to take a break from coffin duty and get a bottle of water when a hush came over the room. The low murmur of subdued conversation, punctuated occasionally with a too-loud laugh, was gone. The room was still as, well, death. All eyes were focused on one spot.

Inky stood in the doorway, channeling Bruce Springsteen in a narrow dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a bolo tie. His head was freshly shaved and moisturized, skin giving off a subtle glow in the lights. His little soul patch was sharply outlined on his chin.

Spiro came in behind him. Inky nodded to people, but didn't speak, as they made their way to the front of the room.

I gave Inky a hug and nodded to Spiro, who nodded back. “I told him not to come,” Spiro said. “But he insisted.”

“I didn't do anything wrong,” he announced. “What am I going to do? Go into hiding?” His voice echoed around the room.

Hmmm. Much as I believed that Inky was innocent, it seemed a teeny, tiny bit inappropriate that he was attending the calling hours for a woman he was accused of murdering. Oh well. Who was there to be offended? Melanie? Me?

Inky knelt in front of the casket, said his prayer, and crossed himself. He stood and stared at Doreen, frowning. His hand moved toward the body.

“What are you doing?” I said in a fierce whisper.

He ignored me and began to fiddle with Doreen's arm.

This was a disaster. I scanned the room. Yup, every eye was on Inky. Including the steely blue eyes of Lieutenant Hawthorne of the New York State Police, who had taken a seat in the back of the room.

It wasn't like he could hurt her. I knew it was insensitive, but she was already dead and autopsied. If there was any evidence, the authorities should have gotten it by now or it was going to be buried tomorrow.

“There. That's better.” Inky stood and straightened his tie so it hung perfectly straight over his sculpted chest. I looked into the casket. He'd pulled up the sleeve of Doreen's blouse to reveal the dollar sign tattoo on her left forearm.

“She just got the tat and she was so happy about it,” he explained. “But she never got to enjoy it. She'd want people to see it.”

Melanie's stare was fixed on Doreen's arm. Her face went pale and her hand trembled ever so slightly as I took it. Finally, some emotion from the Vulcan Queen of the Soaps. “Time for a break, Melanie. Let's sit down and have a drink.”

“I'm going to the men's room,” Inky announced. “Do you know how much water I've drunk since I got out on bail? There's not enough water in the St. Lawrence to flush out the toxins I absorbed in the Jefferson County lockup.”

Melanie allowed me to seat her in one of the family chairs off to the side. I realized that Caitlyn was gone, and I hadn't seen her for a while. I poured Melanie a cup of cold water and put a cookie on a napkin for her. A little sugar never hurt anyone. And it quite often helped.

Lieutenant Hawthorne made his way toward us. Great. More to deal with? Bring it on. He lowered his bulky muscles down onto the chair on the other side of Melanie.

She looked up at him and visibly relaxed. I expected her to purr and make one of her suggestive comments, but she was oddly silent. Melanie almost seemed . . . relieved.

It finally hit me. Under that cool, glib exterior, she was afraid. Doreen's killer was still out there, true. But what was Melanie afraid of? She'd been gone for twenty years, so it seemed unlikely in the extreme that she'd be in danger from anyone around here. Or had she killed Doreen—for money—and was afraid of being caught? But if that were true, her look of relief at the cop's arrival didn't fit. I reminded myself that, mother or no, I didn't know her anymore and I'd be wise to keep my guard up.

Inky had reappeared and was chatting with Paloma and the Bingo Goddesses. One woman pulled down the neck of her top and pointed to her left breast. Inky turned his head from side to side, examining it, then nodded. She must want a tattoo there. Because if she wanted him to do more than tattoo her, she'd picked the wrong team in the kickball match.

Lieutenant Hawthorne angled his chair so Inky and Spiro were in his line of vision. I decided on the direct approach.

“Did you know Doreen?”

“Did you?” he retorted.

“What? No. Your investigator already asked me that. We might have been distant cousins, but I didn't know about her and I'd never laid eyes on her until we found her.”

“Then why do you ask?” He pulled out a roll of cherry candies and offered me one. I shook my head.

“Because you're here. Why aren't you out looking for the murderer?” Annoyance made me bold.

He cut his eyes to Inky. “Who says I'm not?” His habit of answering a question with another question was infuriating.

His steel blue eyes met mine as I said, “Inky didn't do it.” Man, I hoped I was right about that.

He rolled the candy around in his mouth and swallowed, making his clean-shaven Adam's apple bob up and down. A pleasant little whiff of cherry filled my nostrils. “Maybe, maybe not. The fact that he's out on bond doesn't make him innocent. It only means somebody came up with the money to post his bail.”

I wasn't sure where he was going with this. Inky had at least three tattoo parlors that I knew of. My understanding was that the one located by Fort Drum and its ten thousand soldiers and spouses made a fortune. He had plenty of money and he was bankrolling Spinky's. Spiro couldn't have come up with the money himself. Since his little escapade a couple of months ago, Sophie kept him on a tight allowance.

“What possible motive could Inky have for killing Doreen? It makes no sense.”

“You're right. It doesn't make sense.” He ran his hand down his long-muscled thigh, smoothing out the crease in his pressed blue-gray trousers. “Which is why I'm here.”

Motive. By all accounts, Doreen had a smart mouth and a prickly personality, but she apparently had a loyal group of friends in spite of it. Might she have simply angered someone to the point that she or he snapped? But she thought she was coming into some money. What was it Paloma had said?
The time is almost up.
That could mean any number of
things, including the thought I kept coming back to. She was blackmailing someone for whatever reason, and the deadline she'd given her victim was approaching. Had her victim taken preemptive measures and strangled her? But why leave the body at Spinky's? It was just a little too convenient that that box of plastic wrap was sitting on the kitchen counter, where any number of people had access to it.

Before I could voice this to Lieutenant Hawthorne, Clive appeared in front of us. “Lieutenant? Could you come with me into the hallway? It's important.” His normally imperturbable funeral director countenance was faintly flushed and his voice was tense.

The trooper nodded and followed Clive. I debated. Whatever Clive wanted to say to the lieutenant was clearly meant to be private. But if it had something to do with the murder investigation, I wanted to know about it. Inky's freedom was at stake. My mother was involved in this somehow, I was almost sure. Either way, it was my business. Or so I told myself.

I followed them out into the hallway, just in time to hear Clive say “body.” Had he found something on Doreen's body? Some kind of new evidence maybe? They went through a door, beyond which I could see the kitchen. I pressed my lips together. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The kitchen's back door was just swinging closed as I reached it. I grabbed it before it shut and left it open a crack, just wide enough for me to see through. I blinked, then looked again. Someone lay on the ground next to a pot of asters in full bloom. But that wasn't the only thing blooming. Thick crimson liquid oozed into a growing pool around the head of the victim.

FIFTEEN

“My God,” I whispered. The lieutenant snapped his head up, barked an order for an ambulance into the phone, and headed for me. Too late to shut the door and pretend I hadn't been there, so I stepped out onto the back stoop. “Who is it?” But I knew who it was even before I got too close. Spencer Kane. He wouldn't be reporting—or photographing—anyone for a long time. If ever.

Lieutenant Hawthorne was all business, as usual. “Georgie, do you have some kind of corpse-dar? Go back inside.”

“Is he . . . dead?” My guts were twisted up and tears threatened to breach the banks of my eyes. Would the killing never end?

“The ambulance is on its way,” Lieutenant Hawthorne said. “But it doesn't look good. Clive, take Georgie back inside. Don't let anybody leave until my backup gets here to take names.”

During the next hour the normally subdued funeral home was abuzz with activity. Clive herded all the mourners into another room out of respect for Doreen. I made additional pots of coffee and refilled cookie trays until they were gone. The trooper made short work of taking names, and the funeral home emptied out pretty quickly.

I helped Clive clean up, since his wife was on the same leaf-peeping slash gambling trip Sophie was on, and then turned to Melanie, who was parked in a wingback chair and looking like a zombie. “You two will stay with me at the Bonaparte House tonight.”

Caitlyn looked like she was about to protest, but she clammed up when Melanie nodded. “Do you have room for us? I wouldn't want to be any trouble.”

I stifled a snort. There'd been nothing but trouble since she'd come back into my life. “There are two extra bedrooms. And this way you'll be in town early for the funeral tomorrow morning.”

“I think I feel a migraine coming on,” Melanie said. “Caitlyn, did you bring my medication?”

Caitlyn looked slightly affronted. “Of course. That's my job.”

Migraine my foot. I gave Melanie a sharp look. “Don't even think about trying to beg off tomorrow. You're going to attend the funeral and the luncheon, and then you are going to give me some answers.” I was getting tired of saying that.

After we gave our statements to the police—extremely brief all around, since nobody had seen anything—we piled into my car and headed back to the Bonaparte House. I got
Melanie and Caitlyn settled into Spiro's and Cal's rooms, respectively, each of them claiming they were going directly to bed. I went out the kitchen door.

It was a lovely night. I sat at the employee picnic table and looked up at the stars.

A shuffling noise sounded over by the Dumpster. Brenda came toward me.

“Hey, Brenda. Nothing here for you till the weekend.”

“I didn't come for that. I came to see you.”

Me?
“Sit down. Want a snack or something to drink?”

I was glad when she refused because it seemed like a very long walk back into the kitchen, even though it was only a few yards.

“The girl. She was at the funeral home tonight.”

“Caitlyn? Yes, she was there.”

Brenda zipped her hoodie up a little higher. “She was in the alley arguing with Spencer tonight.”

I rewound the evening in my mind. Caitlyn had disappeared at one point, for quite some time. But arguing with Spencer and bludgeoning him were two different matters.

“Did it get physical?”

“Not that I saw. Like I told the cops, I finished my rounds and came back later. The girl was sitting in your car, fiddling with her phone. While Spencer was bleeding out in the alley.”