The Goodbye Body (20 page)

Therefore, I thought as I drove toward the grocery store, he’d given her his cell phone on the first night. Which was curious. If she’d felt the need to have one, she could have afforded to buy a new one. From what I’d found in her files, she hadn’t bothered to do that. Why would she want one with a New York area code, making every call long-distance?

I glanced at the rearview mirror and realized I was driving well below the speed limit. Several trucks and cars were trapped behind me, not baying like hunting dogs on the scent of a fox with a limited life expectancy, but likely to run me off the road if given a chance. What’s more, my minor field trip had put me at least half an hour behind schedule. I did not want to find Lieutenant Peter Rosen sitting on the porch when I returned. All I could do was hope the level of acrimony at the mayor’s office had not yet reached its climax.

I raced through the grocery store, grabbing whatever caught my fancy and tossing it in the cart. I bought five steaks on the assumption Sara Louise might return, then added another in case Madison did, too. I toyed with taking my chances in the express lane, but I wasn’t in the mood to be publicly harangued by potentially militant shoppers. I drummed my fingers on the cart handle, fumbled with my wallet when the time came, and refused the advances of a sacker whose primary goal seemed to be helping the elderly, disabled, and distracted with their groceries. After I’d stashed the bags in the backseat, I backed out, narrowly avoiding a car jockeying for dominance in the small but crowded domain, and drove to Dolly’s house.

There were no vehicles in the driveway. I parked in front of the door and carried the groceries to the porch. The door was locked, so I shifted the bags until I could free a finger to push the doorbell. Corporal McTeer opened the door and immediately held out her arms to help me. As we went into the hall, I was startled to hear sultry Latino music from the den.

“Having a party?” I said as we headed for the kitchen.

“Nothing like that, ma’am. I put the padlock key on the table in the hall in case you need it later. And I want you to know I’ve been keeping an eye out for the media. A reporter and photographer from the local paper showed up, but I flashed my badge and warned them they were trespassing. Other than those two, nobody’s come by. Sergeant Jorgeson called a few minutes ago to make sure everything was okay, and said to tell you the lieutenant would be here in an hour. A guy from a florist shop called to say he had more flowers to deliver. I told him to call later. Oh, and someone called from a print store to say that the brochures were ready to be picked up. Ms. Goforth must have a busy life.”

“And I’m very sorry she’s not here to deal with it,” I said as I began to unload the groceries on the island. “But why the tango music?”

Corporal McTeer blushed. “I’m afraid it’s partly my fault. Caron and Inez got to talking about the talent show at the mall, griping about how they didn’t have a chance to win. I told ‘em they most likely couldn’t unless they came up with something really unique. I usually go watch, and every year it’s the same flat-bellied teenaged girls wiggling their asses and trying to sing whatever’s high on the pop charts. Most of them sound like starving piglets. I just pointed out that the judges are the same age as their parents. Not to be disrespectful, Ms. Malloy, but how much time do you spend watching MTV?”

“I don’t even know what it is.”

“That’s what I told them. They kicked it around, then Inez saw the videotapes on the shelf. I don’t know if they’ll chicken out, but at the moment they’re swooshing all over the room and having a fine time. If I should have kept my mouth shut, I’m sorry. At least they’re not moping anymore.”

“Oh, no,” I said, “I think it’s—well, interesting, and decidedly preferable to moping. And I owe you an apology for being gone so long.”

“My shift’s not over for another two hours, and this sure beats paperwork. Feel free to ask for me by name tomorrow if you need to run more errands.”

“I certainly will.” I assured her I could fend off the media for the remainder of the afternoon. She was reluctantly calling the police department for a ride as I went to the doorway to the den to see what progress Caron and Inez had made. The music was erotic, evoking images of alley cats in heat, circling each other in a stylized ritual with an obvious conclusion. I found myself in the murky area between being aghast and impressed. Inez was bent back so far that her hair brushed the rug, with an arm flung toward the ceiling. Caron was poised over her. I averted my eyes and looked at the TV screen, where the same scene was being reenacted by a black-haired woman in a scarlet gown and a man who surely moonlighted as a gigolo when not making instructional videos.

Caron spotted me. She mumbled something to Inez, who awkwardly stood up. Both of them stared as if I’d caught them filching cookies from the proverbial jar (or in this day and age, downloading essays concerning vengeful whales or doomed love). After a moment, Caron found the remote and turned off the VCR.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” I said. “I just thought I’d let you know I’m back.”

Caron flopped down on the ottoman. “We were just fooling around. Dolly told us to help ourselves to the videos.”

“We were getting bored with the gangster movies,” added Inez.

“That’s right,” said Caron. “There’s nothing worth watching on afternoon television. It was just something to do.”

“For the talent show,” I suggested mildly.

Caron rolled her eyes. “It’s not like either of us is willing to get half naked and pretend to be a pop diva. That sort of thing is so juvenile. I mean, we’d have a better chance doing a taxidermy demonstration onstage.”

“Not that we’d actually kill an animal,” said Inez, appalled. “Too gross.”

“Besides,” Caron continued, having adopted verbosity as her best defense, “the tango has historical significance. Its origins were in brothels in the late nineteenth century in Argentina. It was considered vulgar until it became the fad in Paris in the 1920s. It’s terribly symbolic of seduction and sexual—”

“I can see that,” I said.

“We’ve already done the first video,” Inez said. “It’s really much easier than you might think, once you’ve mastered the tango close, the pivot turn, and the left open walk. We’ve about got down the dip and the flip, but the fan’s tougher. Do you want to try any of it? It’s all about the hip movement and the basic slow-slow-quick-quick-slow rhythm.”

I noted her beaming expression. “You seem to have discovered a hidden talent, Inez.”

“Not really,” she protested, although without conviction. “I mean, Caron’s pretty good at it, too. She’s much more dramatic than I am,”

Caron flopped onto the sofa. “No kidding. Peanut butter’s more dramatic than you are, along with algebra homework, gym class, C-SPAN, and vanilla ice cream.”

“Excuse me for being ever so drab,” Inez shot back. “Why don’t you call Rhonda and see if she wants another backup singer? That way you can wiggle and jiggle your way into stardom. You will let me wash your limo, won’t you?”

“Now, girls,” I intervened, reminding myself that they might also be in the throes of cabin fever, “as they say, it takes two to tango.”

“Or tangle,” Inez said sulkily.

Caron clutched a pillow. “But it only takes one to throw a temper tantrum. I was merely pointing out that I have a certain flair for interpretive dance.”

“If falling on your butt when trying to master the left flick qualifies.”

“At least my lips don’t move the entire time.”

I felt a pang of envy for those still wheeling carts past the produce counters, weighing potatoes and gravely examining apples for evidence of abuse. “I’m going to finish putting away the groceries, and then go out to the patio. I don’t want to find smears of blood on the upholstery—okay?”

By the time I’d found a spot for the gorgonzola in a drawer in the refrigerator, folded the bags and put them in the pantry, and made myself a drink, I could hear tango music from the den.

And the doorbell.

And the telephone.

I did a very fine slow-slow-quick-quick-slow, with a flick and a flip, and what might have been a fan (as if I had any idea what any of that meant). I then banged down my drink, went out into the hall and picked up the receiver, said, “You’re on hold, so think Mozart,” dropped it on the table, and then opened the front door.

Cal was on the porch, grinning at me over an arrangement of frivolous spring blossoms. ‘Put them anywhere,” I said to him, then went back to the table in the hall and randomly punched buttons on the black box before picking up the receiver and saying, “Claire Malloy, here to protect and serve.”

Peter sounded bemused as he said, “You want Chinese?”

“No, I have steaks,” I answered, relieved that it wasn’t Dolly, a testy father, Don Corleone, Don Juan, Don Ho, the pool guy, or anyone else who would require diplomatic attentiveness. “Potatoes, salad, wine, all that stuff.”

“Do I hear music?”

“After dinner, there will be ballroom dancing, so slick back your hair and wear your shiniest shoes.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s dandy, Peter. When shall we expect you?”

“Mozart?”

“Mozart had to cancel. Some sort of problem with his visa. Half an hour?”

Peter made a small noise, then said, “About half an hour, unless you want me to rent a tux on my way over.”

“I thought all you rich dilettantes owned your own tuxes and diamond cufflinks. I will definitely have to rethink this marriage proposal. I’ll see you shortly.” I hung up, pushed the only buttons that weren’t blinking, then turned around and smiled at Cal, who was hovering nearby, still holding the flower arrangement.

“You’re sounding battier than a belfry,” he said. “Guess you have a right to feel that way, but what the hell does Mozart have to do with it? Is that who was in the freezer?”

“I couldn’t say. Do I need to sign something?”

Cal studied me. “What I think, Mrs. Claire Malloy, is that you need to sit down and have a sip of something soothing. You’ve got the worst caffeine buzz I’ve seen in years. I’m finished for the day, just dropping this off on my way home. Why don’t we go in the kitchen and have a nice chat about flowers? You can even offer me a beer if you want. I’ll bet there’s all kinds of imported lagers and ales in one of those cabinets. I myself am more accustomed to whatever’s on sale. My dog, though, he’s real particular. He turns up his nose at all those so-called light beers. I keep telling him that if he wants the pricy stuff, then he needs to get himself a job as a guard dog.”

I gestured at him to follow me into the kitchen. I found my untouched drink and sat down on a stool. “There are all sorts of beers on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

“Tough day?” he said as he opened the refrigerator and bent down.

It would have taken me more than half an hour to begin to describe it, so I settled for a sigh and said, “A very busy and confusing day. Did you find something to your liking?”

“Oh, yes.” He closed the refrigerator door, then opened a bottle of some exotic beer and sat down across from me. “Well, at least you’ve got flowers. Flowers are cheerful and you don’t even have to talk to them—unless you want to. Some folks do.”

“While others prefer to talk to their dogs.”

“I can assure you that I don’t prefer to talk to the mangy hound, but he’s the only one waiting for me when I get home.” Cal took a drink of beer, then pointedly waited until I’d taken a swallow of my drink. “Feeling better?”

“I suppose,” I said. “Who sent these flowers?”

“I don’t know. My job is to deliver them.”

I frowned. “The flowers that you brought this morning didn’t have a card. Could it have fallen off in the van?”

“Maybe you have an anonymous admirer. Ever think of that?”

I scooted over the arrangement he’d brought and pawed through the petals, so to speak. “There’s no card with these, either.”

“Then you’ve got a real determined anonymous admirer. A few years back, I delivered a dozen roses every blessed day for a month to a woman working in an insurance office. She pretended to be annoyed, but ol’ Cal didn’t buy that. She’s probably married by now—and hoping she’ll get a new vacuum cleaner on Valentine’s Day.”

“How very touching,” I said, “but I’d like to know who’s sending these. Who takes the orders at the florist shop?”

“The boss’s wife, but it’s after
five.
You can call her tomorrow. I tried to come by earlier, but you weren’t here. I was just taking a chance on my way home.” He took another drink. “I happened to drive by your bookstore this morning. There were police all over the place. Had some trouble, did you?”

I shrugged. “A vandal.”

“Do you think it had anything to do with that body in the freezer?”

“It must have,” I admitted for the first time. “Somebody’s looking for something, but I don’t know what it is. It must have to do with the mysterious Dolly Goforth. No one’s tried to break in here, but I don’t see how he could with all the activity during the day and the alarm at night.”

Cal tugged on his nose. “It seems to me, and I’m no brilliant detective, that she’s the one who needs to come forward and start explaining. Have you heard anything at all from her?”

“She called earlier, but I don’t know where she is. I’m also beginning to acknowledge that I don’t know
who
she is, either. She led me to believe that she was a rich widow, but she doesn’t own this house or the furnishings. She signed a six-month lease. She has no history. Well, she does have a history, but I don’t know how much of it is true.” I put down my glass. “The man in the freezer was some sort of hoodlum from Brooklyn, for pity’s sake. They obviously knew each other. I don’t know any hoodlums from Brooklyn or anyplace else. Do you? I mean, what sort of person knows hoodlums from Brooklyn?”

“Calm down,” said Cal. “You might be amazed at who all you know. You don’t demand resumes and detailed autobiographies from your customers at the bookstore, do you? Maybe this hoodlum was a distant cousin, or even someone she sat next to on an airplane. We bump into all kinds of people while we’re ambling along. My nephew’s son is doing time for second-degree homicide. Not my fault. I got an old army buddy who lives in a shack in Wyoming and has more guns than your basic battalion. Not my fault. Some guy comes in your store, buys a book, and then you find out he’s a serial killer. You supposed to take responsibility for that?”