The Goodbye Body (19 page)

Caron and Inez had lost the attention of their friends, who were in the pool. I sat down and said, “Did you run out of suspense?”

“The problem,” Caron said grimly, “is that we don’t have a grand finale. We can go only so far, and then it stops. No one has been arrested. Dolly hasn’t confessed or returned in a blaze of glory to accuse the culprit. There’s no smoking gun. The police can’t even find the body.”

“That’s why we had to stop writing,” added Inez as she fastidiously applied sunblock to her nose. Nobody’s going to buy a book that’s missing the last three chapters.”

Caron sighed. “It was a dumb idea, anyway.”

I saw no need to agree with her. “Maybe Peter will think it’s okay for you and your friends to go to a movie tonight.”

“What friends?”

“The ones in the pool,” I said, surprised.

Inez put the sunblock bottle down and said, “They already have plans. The mall’s having a talent show next week, so they’re going over to Rhonda Maguire’s house to work on an act. Rhonda’s going to do a Britney Spears thing while they sing backup.”

“And everybody else throws up,” said Caron.

“The winner gets a two-hundred-dollar gift certificate that’s good in all the shops,” Inez said, now scratching her nose. “What’s worse, we’ll get to hear all about it the rest of the summer. They’ll probably even show up for the first day of school in their matching short-shorts and spangly tops, and autograph the freshmen’s notebooks.”

“Emily says Rhonda’s going to get her belly button pierced,” said Caron. “It’s so totally gross.”

“That it is,” I murmured. “Why don’t you and Inez concoct a dramatic scene in which you stumble over a body in the pine needles?”

“While we twirl batons and yodel? Now that would get a lot of votes.”

“You have to sing or dance, Ms. Malloy,” Inez explained carefully. “Last year some sophomore did an act with her trained poodle. Everybody called her Puffy and tossed dog biscuits at her the rest of the summer, and she had to transfer to a private school.”

“Remember Twinkle Toes from about three years ago?” said Caron. “She did a ballet routine and fell off the stage. Afterwards, she dropped out of school and is waiting tables at a cafe out by the highway.”

The four not-so-friendly friends came out of the pool and began to dry themselves. “Thanks for letting us swim,” said Carrie.

“Yeah,” said Aly, “and call us if you find any more bodies.” She glanced at me. “Just joking, Mrs. Malloy. I mean, the police have him in the morgue. It’s not like he’s going to show up at midnight or anything.”

Giggling, they picked up their clothes and went into the house.

Maternal wisdom was called for, but I couldn’t come up with even a beginning that wouldn’t be dismissed as lame. “A police officer is going to come any minute and padlock the gate. He or she will then stay to keep an eye on things while I go to the grocery store. Is there something you’d like?”

“Whatever, as long as it has cyanide in it,” said Caron.

Inez groaned, albeit softly. “Who can eat at a time like this? I wonder how much Twinkle Toes makes in tips every night?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Inez,” Caron said. “We’ve got all summer to apply to boarding schools. We’ll get to wear plaid skirts and cardigan sweaters. If we’re really lucky, we can play field hockey.”

“Aren’t you a bit premature?” I said. “You don’t have to enter the talent contest, you know. Just sit in the audience and clap unenthusiastically.”

Caron looked at me. “So we should give up? Is that what you think? Aren’t you supposed to be a role model?”

“Even John Dewey had to defend his decimal system,” added Inez. “It was very controversial at the time.”

Caron snorted. “Controversial? Did the other librarians light torches and storm his castle? Give me a break.”

“Well, then,” I said, “I’ll just go inside and make a grocery list. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

Before I could make it to the door, the woman officer who’d been at the house at noon came in through the gate. She stopped to attach a padlock, then came to the patio. “Hello,” she said to the girls, “I’m your bodyguard for a while.”

I was so grateful that she hadn’t said “babysitter” that I wanted to give her a hug. “Did Sergeant Jorgeson tell you what to do?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “Protect and serve—that’s what I’m here for.”

“I hope you weren’t pulled away from mall surveillance.”

“No such luck. I was back on desk duty, tracking down addresses for scofflaws. It’s amazing who ignores piddly little parking tickets. Even some of our city council members have piled up quite a few.”

Caron and Inez were lost in some gloomy reverie of plaid skirts and knee guards. I shrugged at the officer, then went inside to get my purse.

At this particular moment, I had no intention of going anywhere except the grocery store. I wasn’t even planning to drive by my apartment or the Book Depot. I would buy steaks, potatoes, salad, rolls, and whichever frozen dessert appealed. Bread, olives, and gorgonzola. Thirty minutes, max.

My intentions were honorable. They really were.

I drove in the direction of the grocery store, comparing my mental list with the contents of the refrigerator. Pistachios, pears, and pretzels. Steaks and accouterments. A can of fruit cocktail. Maybe a couple of pints of gourmet ice cream, since Caron and Inez would recover from the impending horror of the talent show at the mall and rediscover their appetite for junk food and gangster movies.

Petrolli Mordella had probably been a gangster, I thought with a frown, although not of the stature of Al Capone— who’d ultimately been nailed for tax evasion, as had Mordella. Peter might offer more information, but I could hardly count on it. I had a feeling our next conversation would focus on untaped telephone calls, which would leave both of us annoyed. And require me to find out what I could on my own.

I parked in front of the grocery store and cut off the engine. It was obvious that Mordella had come to Farberville to see Dolly. She’d spoken to him on the phone, and then in person, at which time he’d either given her his cell phone or she’d taken it without his knowledge. She could have shot him, I thought, and left his body behind the gazebo for some obscure reason. As hiding places went, it was a poor choice. Caron and Inez might have decided to explore the yard after returning from the airport. The gardener could have dropped by to fertilize the japonicas or sweep up pinecones. A meter reader might have come in through the gate. The body could have been found while Dolly was still at the airport.

Not that she’d necessarily stayed there for any length of time. She’d been seen when she entered it, but unless she was still crouched in a corner of the lost luggage room, she’d found a way to leave. Considering the nonexistence of public transportation in Farberville, Mordella must have had a car. Had he pulled up to the curb as Caron drove away, helped Dolly load her luggage into his trunk, and then spirited her away? He clearly hadn’t driven her to Atlanta, in that dead men are notoriously slow drivers. She could have easily done it herself by the following evening, with plenty of time to eat at ubiquitous chain restaurants and spend the night at a motel along the interstate. If Mordella had a car, that is.

Regrettably, he was not available to answer that question. It occurred to me that I might be able to find out more at the Fritz Motel, where he’d checked in (and possibly checked out). The police had already searched his room and interviewed the manager, but Peter would be disinclined to share the details. In fiction, the classic cop-boyfriend is willing to spill every investigative breakthrough with his doting amateur sleuth, but for the moment, that convenient venue was blocked with concrete barriers, flashing lights, and signs warning the unwary not to enter.

Therefore, in spite of my exemplary intentions, I pulled out of the grocery store parking lot and headed for the highway that kept the more toxic traffic at the perimeter of the city. Tucked among used-car lots, fast-food places, garages, and rusty metal buildings surrounded by sagging chain-link fences was the Fritz Motel, a yellow-bricked paean to the tremulous taste of the 1950s.

I went inside and smiled at the woman behind the desk. Grumbling, she pushed stringy orange hair out of her face, stubbed out a cigarette, and picked up a remote to lower the volume of a television set on a high shelf in one corner. The lobby decor, to use the term loosely, consisted of stained linoleum, folding chairs, and a plastic plant with dusty leaves.

“You wanna room?” she asked, resigning herself to the arduous task of exchanging a key for cash. ‘Thirty a night, two hundred for the week, payable in advance. No pets, no parties, no paying customers. Ten-dollar deposit for towels.”

“I was hoping for some information,” I said.

“You a reporter?”

“I’m merely an acquaintance of someone who stayed here several days ago.” This did not seem to be an overly egregious lie, since Mordella and I had been in close proximity at one point.

She gave me her full attention. “Your face is familiar. Not on TV or anything like that. … Wait a minute—you’re the one that found the body in the freezer. You ought to sue the newspaper for running that photograph. You looked like you’d been spit up by a bear.”

“It was awful, wasn’t it?” I said with a weak laugh. “I realize the police have already been here, but—”

“Oh, lordy, I thought they’d never leave.” She leaned forward, resting her chunky breasts on her forearms. “Three, maybe four truckers came scuttling out of their rooms, yanking on their pants. I don’t reckon the women with them were their wives, or even their girlfriends. It was pretty damn funny.”

“Did anyone visit Mr. Mordella?”

“The cops must have asked me that fifty times. This is my place, and I can’t afford to hire any help. I keep the office open until midnight, then lock up and go to bed in the room right back there. Unless I’m cleaning rooms, I can’t see who or what goes in and out, which suits me just fine, thank you very much. As long as I get the cash in advance, I don’t care, either. This Mordella guy seemed polite, despite having a real funny accent. He paid for three nights, asked about making long-distance calls—I don’t allow ‘em—and wanted to know where he could get something to eat. I told him about the cafe next door. I didn’t see hide nor hair of him after that.”

“He did get a telephone call, didn’t he?” I asked.

“Like I told the cops, some woman. I transferred the call to his room.”

I’d learned nothing more useful than the libidinous proclivities of truckers, but I wasn’t ready to give up. “I suppose the cops searched his room thoroughly?”

She made a face. “They crawled all over it, even brought in a dog to sniff for drugs. I told ‘em that when I went in to change towels and make the bed, I didn’t see any signs that he enjoyed the companionship of any of the hookers that hang out at the truck stop. I can tell.”

Dearly hoping she wouldn’t, I said, “Did you happen to notice his car?”

“A rental, according to the cops. They had it towed off after they finished searching the room. They wanted me to sign some piece of paper, but I told ‘em what they could do with it. It wasn’t any of my business, same as I told that private detective that came by. I don’t ask to see a driver’s license or a suitcase like they do at fancy hotels. I heard that in places like New York City, you have to pay more than a hundred dollars a night. It goes to show some people have got more money than sense.”

“A private detective came by? When was that?”

She scratched her head as she mulled it over. “You know, I kind of forgot about that, what with the cops and all. The day Mordella arrived, I think, but the guy wasn’t looking for him. He was after some kid that had jumped bail over in Oklahoma. He asked to look at the registration book, and I said okay, thinking he wouldn’t have much luck unless the kid’s name was Smith or Jones “

“He didn’t find him?”

“Said he didn’t expect to, that he was just going by all the area motels. He described the kid, and I told him I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him. I’ve had private detectives before, but they’re usually doing divorce work.” She glanced at my left hand. “You ever been divorced, honey?”

I shook my head. “Can you describe this private detective?”

“Nothing to write home about. Average size, dark hair, not real old or young. I didn’t pay a whole helluva lot of attention to him, since I was watching one of those shows where everybody is having sex with everybody else, so they all get mad and throw chairs at each other. Sort of like professional wrestling, I guess. No matter how wild it turns, nobody ever seems to get hurt.” She looked over her shoulder at a clock on the wall. “In fact, it’s about to come on. I can make some coffee if you want to stay and watch.”

“I wish I could,” I said, backing away, “but I promised to go by the grocery store. Did the private detective leave his card or a number to call?”

“He just said thanks and left. Now I’m wondering if I ought to have told the cops. What do you think?”

“You probably should,” I said virtuously.

She reached for the remote. “Yeah, when I get around to it. I don’t see how it has anything to do with Mordella. Hey, I bet you could get on one of these shows and talk about how you found his body in the freezer. Course you’ll have to say you had sex with it. Now that’s a creepy thought, isn’t it?”

It was not one I cared to think about. I returned to my car. My brilliant theory about Dolly absconding with Mordella’s car dimmed, then flickered out like a sickly firefly. The appearance of a private detective was a remarkable coincidence, considering Mordella had checked into the Fritz Motel that same day. Mordella had not been using an assumed name, in that the proprietor had put through Dolly’s call without hesitation. Therefore, his name was in the registration book for anyone to see, including a private eye purportedly chasing down a bail jumper. And whoever had shot Mordella hadn’t done so at the motel, unless he—or she— had been willing to risk hauling the body out to the parking lot. Although at the moment there was only a lone white car parked at the far end of the building, I suspected there was quite a bit of activity throughout the night.

I looked at my watch. There was no way I could make it to the grocery store and back to the house in my allotted half hour, even if I ran red lights and bullied my way to the front of the express checkout lane. On the other hand, Caron and Inez were in good hands with Corporal McTeer, who seemed more than capable of fending off obstinate reporters. None of them would mind, or even notice, if I was a wee bit late getting back. As Jorgeson had glumly observed, I wasn’t under arrest.

Having rationalized my behavior to my satisfaction, I pulled out of the motel lot and into that of the Cardinal Cafe. A few dispirited customers were scattered along the counter, drinking coffee. I sat down at a booth and picked up a menu.

A stocky young waitress approached. “Get you something, ma’am?”

“Iced tea, please,” I said. “If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She glanced back at the counter. “Long as one of them doesn’t have a heart attack, go ahead.”

“Do you happen to remember a man who came in here last Sunday? Short, balding, wire-rimmed glasses, probably with an accent?”

“Real mannersome he was, and a good tipper. He said he was staying at the Fritz. He was startled when I gave him the bill, said I must have made a mistake. I added it up again, but he was real sure it should have been more. I had to get out the menu and show him the prices. We both ended up laughing about it.”

“Was he alone?”

“Both times. He came in for supper, and then breakfast the next morning. I figured he was some kind of salesman. I never did get a chance to ask him where he was from or what his business was. Friend of yours?”

I was not making what might be described as significant progress. Petrolli Mordella had been polite. He’d rented a car. He’d probably chosen the Fritz Motel because it was the first one he’d seen coming from the airport. He’d been used to New York prices. I had no idea if he’d had biscuits and gravy for breakfast, but it didn’t seem relevant. He had not entertained a hooker in his room. Dolly had called him. She’d ended up with his cell phone but not his car.

I realized the waitress was looking at me. “He wasn’t exactly a friend,” I admitted with a shrug. “He came to Farberville to visit someone I know, and she’s worried about him.”

“The blond woman with the red Mercedes? That first evening, I stepped out back to take a break and noticed him talking to her in the motel parking lot. It surprised me, what her looking so classy and him kind of shabby and a lot older. Not that it was any of my concern, mind you. He was getting in her car when I went back inside. I almost said something about it to him the next morning, but we were busy.”

I put down a dollar. “I just realized I have to go. Thanks for your time.”

“Wish I could have been more help.” She tucked the dollar in her pocket, then frowned at me. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look familiar.”

I waited to hear how she was going to describe the picture in the newspaper. Opinions of my appearance had thus far been less than flattering. No doubt even Jorgeson had offered a few acerbic remarks to his wife over scrambled eggs.

“Don’t you have a daughter at the high school?” she asked. “A sophomore now, or a junior? Red hair like yours, only longer? I can’t recollect her name.”

“Caron Malloy.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Maybe I saw you dropping her off at school or something. It’s been a couple of years.”

“That must have been it,” I said, then left with unseemly haste. Once I was in my car, I sternly ordered myself not to so much as entertain a certain image, then sank back and reviewed what she’d told me. Dolly had shown up at the Fritz Motel the night Mordella arrived and taken him for a drive. The following morning he’d been healthy enough to have breakfast at the cafe. Dolly had left for the airport at noon. It was unlikely that within that small window of opportunity, she’d killed him, transported his body to her yard, showered and freshened up, packed her bags, and been waiting for Caron. It might have been possible—Dolly was a highly organized woman—but it was hard to swallow.