Organize Your Corpses (11 page)

“Not that I’m trying to find that out, but that reminds me. Helen wanted me to find some documents that Randolph might have hidden in Henley House.”

Rose snorted, “Hidden up there in that mess? Not much chance for finding them in that case.”

“You’ve known the family for years. Any idea what they’d be?”

“No idea at all. What’s the matter? You didn’t like the coffee, hon?”

“I already had too much today. Do you think the documents would be connected with the property?”

“Can’t imagine. Old Mr. Henley kept on top of all his legal stuff. Not likely there’d be documents floating around. But if they are, maybe the police will find them. They’re taking it all seriously. A blonde detective talked to me already. I told them pretty much what I told you. Of course, they were in a bit more of a hurry.”

“That reminds me, I’d better get going. Dogs to walk and feed. Thanks so much for all this information. It helped me understand these people a bit more. I wish I’d known more about Miss Henley.”

“If you come back again for a visit, I can show you some pictures of those girls. My, they were lovely.”

“Thanks. I will come back, and when I do I’ll rig up a gadget to catch your mail, so it doesn’t fall on the floor.”

“I’d appreciate that. Here, I’m going to put you in my book. Hand me it, hon. It’s on the table in front of you.” I passed her a little address book with a happy spaniel on the front of it and waited until she’d written in my phone number and address. “You never know,” she said.

I said, “Don’t bother walking me to the door. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you joking? I don’t leave my door unlocked these days, hon. People are getting murdered in this neighborhood, and I’m not planning to leave this world before my time. So you’re going to drop in again sometime?” Rose trailed behind me all the way to the front door, her breath rasping.

“Sure I will, Rose. And you know what? I’ll bring my grubbies by and I’ll help you clear out your second floor if you’d like. We can do it bit by bit over time. I can haul stuff down, and you can decide what to do with it.”

“Well, that’s just sweet of you, hon. I look forward to that. Now, I need my nap,” she wheezed, “but when you come back, remind me to tell you about Crawford, the other cousin. They all grew up together.”

“Who? Crawford?” I said, but the yellow metal door closed and the lock clicked.

7

By the next day I took stock of my situation. My major client was in the morgue. My dogs were sleeping. My phone was bombarded by crank calls. Jack was checking out point-of-sale systems for his cycle shop. Sally had taken the kids to the pediatrician. Margaret was doing whatever lawyers do. And I was just plain stuck.

I reminded myself that an important tactic is to keep busy when you get bogged down. Have some pleasant little projects to take your mind off your problems and reinforce your serenity. I made a new set of color-coordinated files for my office and paid my bills. I had already put my spice shelf in alphabetical order and stocked up on the toilet tissue, paper towels, and candles on sale at Hannaford’s. I arranged them neatly in the lovely little storage closet I have next to my bedroom. I shook Truffle and Sweet Marie awake and took them for a much longer walk than they wanted. Then I went back to being stuck.

So much for theory. I could not take my mind off Miss Henley’s death and the documents I’d been paid to find. Were they connected to her death? If I could find them, would that point to a culprit? I could hardly complete the project. For starters, the site was off limits, surrounded by police tape. But I didn’t feel comfortable about keeping the money. It wasn’t a legal issue. More of a niggling moral quibble. It was a large enough sum that I felt I had to earn it.

For reasons that seemed solid at that particular moment, I decided to visit Olivia Henley Simonett. Maybe she could shed some light on the documents.

But first I hit Kristee’s Kandees.

 
The front entrance to Stone Wall Farm was flanked by twin pillars. The two-story white building sprawled across a broad lawn. At the far end of the long grassy expanse a fringe of woods framed the area. In the distance, a range of misty Catskills loomed. Pretty spot. But if it was a farm, I was an astronaut.

I admired the immaculately trimmed grass, with not a stray leaf in sight. There might not have been any wood smoke, but you could sure smell money in the air. I pulled into the visitors’ parking lot and slid the Miata into an empty spot. It was half the size of the shiny black Lexus SUV parked on one side and the aged blue Cadillac on the other. In the row of parked vehicles opposite mine, a new bright green Echo and a red Jeep made a cheerful statement next to a brown utility van and the large wheelchair-accessible van with Stone Wall Farm’s name and logo tastefully displayed in black letters on the glossy white surface. The only vehicle out of place was an ancient, badly rusted Toyota Supra.

I couldn’t imagine what it cost to keep a loved one in a place like Stone Wall Farm, but like Rose, I’d never be able to manage it. Inside the building, the grand foyer smelled of wax and fresh flowers. Soothing toile wallpaper and immaculate wainscoting warmed the entrance. A bird of paradise flower arrangement in a heavy black vase perched dramatically on a demilune table. Behind it, a vast mirror, framed in gold leaf, magnified the works.

Handrails had been mounted along the walls, but they were painted to match the wainscoting and blended in. I approved of everything I’d seen so far in my visit to Stone Wall Farm. Next my eye was drawn to the broad curved staircase with the polished mahogany banister, sweeping gracefully to the second floor. The corridor above was set off against the dark wood railing. A very appealing picture. Probably not so different from Henley House at the height of its glory. In fact, except for the cutting-edge safety and security details—coded-card system, fire detectors and monitors—Olivia Henley Simonett probably felt right at home here. Of course, she would have to use one of the two elevators set off to the side of the staircase.

A polished reception area with more fresh flowers lay straight ahead of me. I walked past the formal sitting room to the right. I stopped to observe. Two white-haired women with walkers sat chatting on one of several chintz sofas. Behind them a girl of about twenty with purple spiky hair stared out the window. She wore a uniform that matched her hair, and was holding her fingers in a way that smokers do when they need a fix and can’t get outside.

A painfully thin man with lank dark hair sat hunched over in a motorized wheelchair in high-gloss red. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-nine, his poor bony shoulders making dents in his T-shirt. He faced a large baroque cage with a pair of small parrots. He was quite obviously upset. I couldn’t make out what he was trying to say, but his agitation was growing. His legs jerked.

One of the women on the sofa turned toward the girl with the purple hair and whispered to her.

“Pretty boy,” the green parrot said seductively.

The blue and yellow one tried its luck with, “Treat time?”

The girl at the window turned, walked to the young man, and gently pushed his hair back. “You got your hair in your eyes again, dude. You’re going to need to get a do like me, Gabriel,” she said. “And a bit of gel.”

His answer was unintelligible to me.

“You’re welcome,” she said, patting his shoulder. “All part of the service.”

“Thank you,” said one parrot.

“Snack?” said the other one.

“May I help you?” a voice said.

I whirled, expecting a third parrot, perhaps pink. A birdlike woman smiled at me. I recognized that particular smile. It was the type you reserve for prospective clients. I should know. I have my own prospective-client smile. I took a lesson from this woman and reminded myself to let my smile reach all the way to my eyes.

I did my best to smile back. I’d felt apprehensive coming to Stone Wall Farm, but now I was relieved. The place was immaculate, well run, organized—qualities I love.

I asked for Olivia Simonett. The birdlike woman gave a small flutter and said, “Oh, I don’t think . . . I mean, well . . .”

“It won’t take long,” I said confidently. “I just want to say hello to Olivia. I brought her some chocolates.”

“She’s been very . . . perhaps you shouldn’t . . . so distressing.”

A bell rang sharply on the desk, and the woman nearly took flight. The bell rang again, and she fluttered down a short hallway to a doorway marked “Executive Director
.”
A tall woman with smart silver hair stood in the door watching me. From where I stood I could feel her ice blue eyes assess me, before she turned away.

I shuffled my feet for a moment and then gazed up the long, curved polished wood staircase. I thought I saw a movement. I squinted. Sure enough, I spotted shoulder-length white waves and a flowing flowered garment. Olivia was making her slow way along the upper hallway, with the help of a walker and the sturdy dark-haired attendant, whose glasses still had a definite tilt. I moved without thinking.

They had just entered a suite when I caught up. The door stood open, revealing a vast and lovely room, full of light and chintz and flowers. A talk show played on the television set.

The attendant whirled and gasped, “Who are you?”

“A friend of the family.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right. Marilyn hasn’t been herself.”

Marilyn? Was I in the wrong spot?

I stared at the elderly woman who had just slumped into an oversized velvet recliner. She wore a flowered silk dressing gown in soft shades of pink, silver, and fuchsia. Her pink hair ribbon was tied neatly. Despite her unfocused eyes and the white hair, there was no mistaking that splendid Henley nose and eyebrows. This was Olivia Henley Simonett.

“Olivia,” she snapped at the attendant before snatching up a handful of tissues and blowing her nose. She turned to me and said sadly, “My name is Olivia.”

“Yes, of course. I know that. And I am Charlotte, Olivia. I brought you some truffles.”

The attendant flushed a deep and unbecoming red.

“Olivia, Olivia,” she muttered. “Lord help me. I had another patient named Marilyn, and I guess I am getting old and making mistakes. I am so sorry, Olivia, honey.”

Olivia giggled. “You
are
getting old. You sure are. You are a real mess. I know your name, Francie Primetto. You should know mine.”

The nurse flushed deeper. “That’s embarrassing. I’m new here with Olivia. We’ve had a complicated staff shuffle, and I’m just used to the night shift. Everyone’s asleep in the night.”

Her patient said, “Now you’re on the day shift, Francie. So you have to be nice to me. You have to remember my name.”

The nurse’s broad face broke into a smile. “I sure will be. You’re a lovely lady, Olivia.”

“I am.” Olivia shone her smile at me. “And you are lovely too. Helen used to bring me chocolates. She was always wonderful.”

“I’m sure she was,” I said.

“Can I have them? The chocolates? I’ve been good. Haven’t I, Francie? Very, very good.”

I hesitated a bit. Were there rules here? No chocolates before lunch?

“I have been good,” she said. “All day.”

To hell with the rules if there were any. I don’t approve of rules governing chocolate anyway. “I brought them for you,” I said, passing over the small gold-wrapped package.

“Those are my favorites. Helen brings those.” She pointed to an empty box in the wastepaper basket. “But these are good too.”

Did I see a sparkle of mischief in those startlingly blue eyes? They gave her quite a youthful look. Perhaps living in a place like Stone Wall Farm, where every physical need is taken care of, keeps you young in some ways. Of course, I was sure Olivia Henley Simonett, if she’d had any choice, would have chosen to live a normal life outside this perfect prison. Even as we stood there, the ribbon seemed to come undone.

If Helen Henley had lived to be a hundred she would never have let her hair tumble around her shoulders in long, bedraggled white waves. The staff of Stone Wall Farm would have been on their toes. Keep that ribbon tied, you slackers. Or else.

I don’t know what made me say, “Your ribbon is coming loose. Can I fix it for you?” Olivia Simonett was so fragile and childlike; it made me want to protect her. I could understand Benjamin’s reaction more now that I’d met her.

“All right. Helen used to do that for me.” Her wavering smile flickered then faded. “But something happened to Helen. What happened to Helen, Francie? Did she die?”

The nurse reacted. “Oh honey, we’re not supposed to get you upset.”

As the blue eyes filled with tears, Olivia’s voice soared in panic. “Did Helen drown?”

Francie caught her breath.

“Did she? You have to tell me.” If Olivia’s wailing got any louder, they’d hear it downstairs.

“No. She didn’t, Olivia,” I said. “She didn’t drown.”

“That’s good. Drowning is the worst. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t. I just can’t.”

“No, honey, don’t think about it,” Francie said.

“But she died though. Didn’t she? Helen died.”

How many times would Olivia have to be told this? Would it be just as painful every time?

“Yes, Olivia,” Francie said. “She did.”

Olivia unwrapped the chocolate box and flipped off the lid. “That’s sad about Helen. Very sad.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Olivia widened her bright, innocent eyes. “Why are people always dying?”

“There, there, Olivia,” Francie said. “Don’t worry about it, honey.”

“Randy too. Randy died. Silly Randy. Randy never brought me a present. I thought maybe I wouldn’t get any more chocolates.”

As I searched for words that wouldn’t make the situation worse, she reached for a truffle. “Oh goody. I like the white ones best. There are three in here.”