The Cluttered Corpse (20 page)

“I already knew that. But what if he convinced this girl to get involved somehow? I wanted to find out if she'd been seen on Bell Street that day.”

“That's great. Now Lilith Carisse has fifty-fifty odds of making it alive. If she does make it, there's a good chance she'll be a vegetable, to put it bluntly.”

I felt tears well.

Pepper knows my weaknesses. She was enjoying twisting the knife.

“Congratulations,” she said. “That's quite an accomplishment.”

“I never thought she'd be in danger.”

“You never thought, period.”

“Someone tried to kill her because of this. It couldn't have been Emmy Lou because you have her locked up.”

I didn't like the implication of that curled lip.

I blundered on. “Maybe Bryony has a white van. Or the restaurant might.”

“What?”

Oops. “Nothing.”

“Did you say ‘a white van'?”

“Yeah I thought I heard something about that in the waiting room.”

Pepper fixed me with her steely stare.

“Really,” I squeaked.

“Maybe you heard it from a certain cop. What's his name now, Officer Shit-for-Brains?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“You stay away from my husband, Charlotte Adams. He's one of the few people who knows about the white van. But he'd blab to you, wouldn't he? Anything if he thought he could get a quick grope.”

“Nobody gropes me,” I said. “Nick's innocent. The main thing is to check and see if Dwayne Rheinbeck or Bryony Stevens had access to a white van. They're the main suspects.”

“Here's the bad news about your so-called suspects. I have checked them out. They're not having an affair. And your client? She's a nutbar. Maybe Lilith Carisse got run over for nothing. Live with that while you learn to mind your own business.”

“How do you know they're not having an affair? You didn't see how close they were to each other. Not a working relationship. More like—”

Pepper curled her lip again. “How about like father and daughter?”

By eleven o'clock, we learned that Lilith was out of danger but unconscious. When the news came to us in the waiting room, Rose and I clung to each other in relief. Afterward, Rose dozed from time to time, but I had too many things buzzing in my mind, not only intense guilt about Lilith but also the news that Dwayne was Bryony's father. Where did that leave all my theories?

At least the hospital staff gave us occasional updates about Lilith. I was pretty sure that knowing Benjamin had made a difference in the speed and quality of the information we received.

Toward midnight, Rose said, “I'm spending the night here.”

“You need your rest. And you shouldn't be alone. Tell you what, I'll go get Truffle and Sweet Marie, and you can have a houseful of guests tonight. Schopenhauer loves the girls. Tomorrow I'll come over and we'll spell each other off.”

Rose shook her head. “My heart's not so good. I might as well stay here as go home and get hauled back in by ambulance. I never sleep anyway, and I can't even think straight. I would appreciate it if you got Schopie and walked him, maybe take him home with you. Then in the morning, you can do a shift if you'd like.”

It wasn't easy squeezing Schopenhauer into the Mazda, but he was willing to cooperate. Fatigue washed over me as I drove from North Elm to my place. I hate to come home to a dark house. As I turned the corner and slowed, two small bright-eyed creatures raced across the street, barking.

“I must be tired, because my eyes are playing tricks. If I didn't know they were safe inside, I would have sworn that was Truffle and Sweet Marie,” I said to Schopenhauer. He licked my hand.

I parked in the driveway and hurried toward the house. Although I'd lived happily by myself for seven years in New York City, now that I'd come back to Woodbridge, I hated when Jack wasn't home.

I stopped at the front door. It stood open. The hallway and staircase lay in darkness. Schopenhauer barked. “Jack? Did you get back early?” As I stepped inside, I realized Jack's dung-colored Mini Minor was not in the driveway. I squinted up the long flight of stairs leading to my apartment. I knew even before my eyes adjusted that my door would be wide open too.

“Burglary!” I shouted into my cell phone. “In progress!”

“Your name and location, ma'am? Oh wait, is this Charlotte? Mona Pringle here.”

“Mona. My door is open, my dogs are gone. I have to find them, but what if he's inside my apartment? What if—”

“Your place, Charlotte?”

I hurried along the sidewalk frantically searching for Truffle and Sweet Marie. I huffed and puffed as I confirmed the address.

“Unit's on its way,” Mona said. “You're having a lousy week.”

I snuffled. “Craptacular.”

“I heard about your friend, Lilith. That's rough.”

“I have to find my dogs. They ran away.”

“Not such a good idea. You should get in your car, lock the doors, and start her up. Wait until the police arrive.”

“They were running like crazy. They're not afraid of cars. They could be hit! Truffle! Sweet Marie! Come home!”

Mona Pringle raised her voice. “Charlotte? Please get in your car.”

I was hunting for the dogs when the first police car swung onto the street, red and white roof lights flashing. It was joined by a second one coming from the other direction. That was reassuring. The police officers got out of the cars, and at almost the same moment two small dogs scampered recklessly across the street half a block away and raced off in the opposite direction.

“Mona? Tell them I'll be right back!”

Five minutes later, two panicked dogs continued to shake as I carried them under my arms. With Schopenhauer as a guard by my side, I joined the cops. Naturally, one of them had to be Nick. It was nearly midnight. Was he working overtime?

“Nice place, Charlie,” he said.

“It was,” I said.

The other cop stepped over the devastation that was my tiny perfect apartment. Cushions lay on the floor; the sofa was upended. The wooden legs of my pretty occasional chair were broken. The upholstery was slashed. The contents of my closet lay scattered across the floor: skirts, jackets, even my new white shirt that I hadn't even worn once.

“Please don't step on that,” I said to the new officer.

My dresser drawers had been dumped. Nick regarded my underwear with interest before I hastily swept it out of his sight. Someone had pulled the sheets and comforter off my bed and dumped them in a heap. My supplies had been tossed from their shelves, along with out-of-season clothing. It was a measure of how much they'd been traumatized that Truffle and Sweet Marie didn't each grab a roll of toilet paper and play Make Some Clouds. Luckily the burglars hadn't emptied my jewelry box.

In the kitchen, things were worse: the doors of my perfectly organized cupboards were open. Pans, cans, strainers, cleaners, dry goods littered the floor. My spices were no longer in alphabetical order. My last container of Ben & Jerry's sat melting sadly on the counter. A broken jar of Dijon mustard was splattered everywhere, yellow streaks staining my pretty cream-colored cabinets. I picked up the dogs so they didn't cut their paws.

Next I checked my small office area, which is nothing more than a section of my bedroom hidden by a screen. I was followed by the officer I didn't know and even more closely by Nick. The first thing I noticed was the upturned trash can and the paper recycle bin that seemed to have been flung at the wall, denting the drywall.

“I guess they took your computer,” the other cop said.

I shook my head, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “At least I had my laptop with me. I worked on some projects while I was waiting at the hospital today.”

I wondered. Could Nick have done this as an excuse to get into my apartment? He knew I was at the hospital…No. Too much like a plan for Nick.

I turned my attention to my poor, still-cowering little dogs. I covered them up with a blanket, gave them a reassuring pat, and told Schopenhauer to watch over them. It was time to check out Jack's place. Sure enough, it had been turned over too. But there was less to trash, since his parents' furniture was in storage, he had absolutely no food, and what burglar is desperate enough to steal a collection of Hawaiian shirts? I explained that I wasn't sure whether Jack had money or bike parts in his apartment. His books lay sprawled from wall to wall. Nick bent over and picked one up. “Can't see anyone ripping off this stuff.”

Jack's prized CD collection had been dumped out of the holders. There was a crunch as Nick stepped on a couple of the jewel cases.

“Why would anyone do this?” I sniveled.

The cop I didn't know gave me a strange look. “Burglary, ma'am. Theft.”

“But of what? They didn't take my jewelry. Some of it's valuable. And they didn't take Jack's CDs.”

Nick said, “I dunno, there's a lot of jazz. And way too much classical and opera. Weird and screechy in languages no one can understand. No fence is going to touch them. You can't give that crap away. Now if he had tools or something, that'd be different. You think he did?”

“We'll have to ask him. He'll be back from Troy later.” As the words flowed out of my mouth, I wanted to claw them back.

Nick cleared his throat. “If you don't mind me saying, Charlie, you shouldn't stay here tonight.”

“I'm staying. I have to clean up! I can't leave my home like this.”

“It might not be safe.”

“Why not? The so-called burglar's gone. Why would he come back? And how would he get in if I'm here?”

“With a key. The same way he did before.”

“What?”

Nick said, “With a—”

“I heard you. But how would he get a key? The only people who have a key to the front door and my door are me and Jack.”

Nick smirked.

“Well, I didn't do it.”

Nick said, “Maybe Jack flipped. And trashed the place. Insane jealousy or something.”

I stared at him. “Are you smoking dope, Nick?”

“Hell no. I'm on duty.”

“Okay. I have my keys, so someone must have Jack's. He's gone to Troy.” A hellish world of possibilities unfolded in my brain. I babbled in a panic, “What if Jack picked up a crazed hitchhiker? What if he was robbed? What if he's been tied up and left to die?”

Nick and the other cop gawked at me as if I'd started speaking in tongues. I pulled out my cell phone with shaking hands and keyed in Jack's number. To my surprise, he answered.

“Where are you?” I shouted.

“Be home in half an hour,” he said. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Where are your damned keys?”

Long pause.

I tried again, “Well?”

“Last time I looked they were in the ignition. The car is moving.”

“Oh.”

If Jack's keys were in his ignition and mine were in my purse, what keys had been used to break in?

Nick looked at me with pity. “Somebody probably copied them. Have you left your handbag out of your sight recently? It doesn't take long for a pro to take an imprint. If they know your name, they can find your house. Of course, usually, they steal your credit cards too. Or they get the numbers and make copies. Any unusual activity on yours lately?”

I spent the next half hour on the phone with my two credit card companies. No one had done anything with mine. To be sure, they put a hold on both cards. Jack doesn't even have one, so I guessed we didn't have to worry about that.

“That's good,” Nick said. “But weird. It's a lot easier to make purchases with forged cards than it is to break into houses.”

“That's the problem,” I said. “I don't think this a break-and-enter. This person was searching for something.”

“I can understand that,” Nick leered.

“But what?” I said, ignoring him.

Nick finally took my statement and waited until the twenty-four-hour locksmith arrived. I spent the waiting time picking up the mess. I worked fast and kept a jump ahead of Nick. “Nothing is missing. Is that usual?”

“It's sort of weird.” He edged a bit closer.

It helped to mention Pepper's name once every second sentence. Sort of like hosing down a dog that's out of control. When the locksmith arrived, Nick gave up and went back to work.

By the time Jack got home, the locks had been changed on both our doors and I'd made a big dent in the disorder. I handed him his new set of keys as he reached the top of the stairs. “My treat.”

He stood in my doorway, staring. “Temper, temper, Charlotte,” he said. “I wasn't that late.”

“Let me guess. Your trip to Troy? Was it a wild-goose chase?”

“Honk honk,” he said.

It would have been the perfect night to sleep through. But my subconscious sounded a gong at the preferred time of three in the morning and told me why two of Emmy Lou's classmates looked familiar. They were no longer teenagers with bad haircuts; they were women in their forties with jobs around Woodbridge. Not that it mattered, because now I knew that Emmy Lou had indeed lived at number 7, that the man who denied being her father was indeed her father, and that she'd known and cared about Tony Starkman since he was a small damaged boy. Not that I understood what any of this signified, but you can't have everything. The same subconscious didn't offer insights about who might have hit Lilith. It was equally silent on my break-in. But it did remind me that I hadn't made a to-do list the night before and suggested that I add the following items to that list:

• Visit hospital to see Lilith
  
• Double-check to see if anything is missing after break-in
  
• Get LeMans back to North Elm Street for Rose
  
• Talk to Gary about progress with shelves
  
• Bring Dwayne up-to-date on shelving
  
• Pick up dry cleaning
  
• Call Sally
  

I was blasted from a deep sleep by the first shrill ring. Luckily my cell phone was by the bed.

Ramona said, “You sound groggy. Did I wake you?”

“It's okay,” I yawned.

“I know the old joke: you had to get up anyway to answer the phone. Of course, it is ten in the morning, not that it's any of my business. Can't talk long, we're up to our patooties in pesky patrons here. But I checked with the city system and the properties at 9 and 11 Bell Street, for your information, are owned by a T. Wright. Same name as the person you were looking for. Hope that helps. Gotta go.”

Rose called from the hospital as soon as Ramona hung up.

“I slept in, but I'll be there as soon as I can,” I said.

“No rush, they've wheeled her off for tests,” she whispered. “She won't be back for an hour and a half at the earliest. I'm going to get some shut-eye.”