The Icing on the Corpse (25 page)

“I don't
know
anything,” Betty said. “But . . .” She trailed off again.

“But what?”

“But they talked about Doyle all the time, my mother and Helga. It was like . . . a code word for something. I never could figure it out.”

“A code word? That doesn't make sense. Did they talk about it in relation to Felix?”

“They never mentioned his name. But it did seem to be in reference to a past event. I heard my mother and Helga talking once. Before she died.”

Stan frowned. “So a long time ago, then.”

“Yes.” Betty narrowed her eyes. “There's nothing wrong with my memory, if that's what you're thinking.”

“It's not,” Stan said. “What did they say?”

Betty laced her fingers together and rested her hands on top of the pile of folders on her desk. “My mother was very sick. She was on a lot of medication. It was right before she died, and Helga came to see her. My mother asked her to promise that someday they would tell the story.”

“The story about Felix?” A rush of adrenaline coursed through her system. She'd been right.

“That's all they said. ‘The story.' Helga promised her they would. She said when the time was right. But I did hear her say that she would keep the drawer. Always.”

“The drawer.” Stan jumped up and paced the room. “What drawer?”

“I don't know.”

“I doubt she was talking about a sock drawer.” Stan thought about it. “Library card catalogues have drawers.”

Betty frowned. “Yes.”

Stan could hear the implied “duh” in her tone. She ignored it. “And they're in alphabetical order.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that's the answer, then.” Stan stopped in front of Betty's desk, tapping one finger against her lips. “Maybe they're talking about the D drawer in the old library card catalogue and not Doyle's books. That catalogue is getting a lot of attention these days. It even rated a new space in the museum, you just told me.”

“My goodness, I never thought of that,” Betty said. “I've been reading Doyle's books for years looking for clues and I don't even like Sherlock Holmes.”

“So if Helga and her friends were there in the library basement the night Felix was killed, why would the card catalogue be important? We need to see what's in it,” Stan said. Then her eyes widened. “Arthur. Arthur Pierce knew about Doyle.”

“They were all friends,” Betty said. “Why is that surprising?”

“Because Cyril told me he wasn't there. That he'd just reported on it. But Arthur specifically mentioned Doyle. And, you know what else?” Stan held up a finger triumphantly. “He mentioned Felix, too. He called him ‘slick.' It didn't click for me when I was talking to him, but now that I'm thinking about it, how would he have known that if he'd only covered the story
after
Felix was dead? He was there. I wonder if Arthur and Felix had a run-in.”

But Arthur hadn't wanted to talk about it. Which didn't make sense, if Helga was calling ghost hunters in to uncover the story. Although, that could mean Arthur had a more sinister reason for not wanting anyone to know he was there.

Had Arthur Pierce killed Felix Constantine? Had Helga known that? Did anyone else?

“Why weren't Maeve and Helga talking?” she asked Betty. “I heard they haven't been as close in recent weeks.”

“I don't know,” Betty said slowly. “But now that you mention it, I did notice that, too.”

Stan sat back, thinking. “We need to get in to see that card catalogue. And we need to stop them from removing it. Do you have a key?”

“No, but I can call—”

“No, don't call anyone. We can't tell anyone about this until we figure out what's in the drawer.” Stan wound a strand of hair around her finger, let it fall, wound it again. “We have to get in there tomorrow. I have a plan. But I need help. And you can't tell anyone,” she repeated. “Are you in?”

“Tomorrow's the celebration,” Betty protested.

“That's right.” Stan smiled. “Which means people will be otherwise occupied. So, are you in?”

Betty hesitated for a long moment, then nodded. “I'm in.”

“Good. Meet me at my house at eight.”

Chapter 39

Stan left the library and slid into her car, her mind still racing, and almost didn't hear her cell phone ringing. She fished the offending object out of her bag. “Hello.”

“Stan?” It was Amara, and she sounded excited.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come over?”

“Right now?” Stan glanced at the clock on her dashboard. “What's going on?”

“I got a reply from Carmen Feliciano.”

It took Stan a minute to place the name. A lot had happened since that conversation yesterday. “The DNA. Okay, so what happened?”

“You just need to come over.”

Now her interest was piqued. “Okay, be there in two.”

 

 

She made it in one, since it was only halfway down the street. A car she didn't recognize was parked in Amara's driveway—a big red Cadillac. Stan parked next to it and hurried up the front steps. Before she could ring the bell, the door flew open.

Amara looked like she was about to burst. Stan couldn't tell if it was excitement, fear, or something else entirely. “What's going on?”

“You'll never believe this.” Amara yanked her inside, then slammed the door and locked it.

“Wow. This is all very stealth.” Stan let her friend drag her into the living room.

A very tall, regal-looking elderly woman rose from the sofa. Amara dropped Stan's arm and took a deep breath. “Stan Connor, meet Carmen Feliciano.”

“Wow. That was more than just a fast e-mail reply.” Stan shook her hand. “Good to meet you.”

“And you as well,” Carmen said in a steady, clear voice.

Stan couldn't quite peg her age. Maybe seventies? She looked great, at any rate.

Amara was still staring at her like she was starstruck. “Carmen, can you please tell Stan your maiden name?”

“Certainly, dear.” Carmen smiled. “I am part of the Constantine family.”

It took Stan a second; then her mouth dropped open. “The . . . no way. Not the
Felix
Constantine family?”

“I should say so.” Carmen clasped her hands in front of her. “Felix was my big brother.”

“I might have to sit down,” Stan muttered. “You knew Helga Oliver?”

“I did. We became acquainted some years ago. She found me. Helga has been a lovely champion of my brother's memory. She remembered my name from way back then, when he died. It apparently took her some time to find me with my married name and all, but she did it. And then to discover that we potentially had family ties here, well . . .” Carmen rubbed her arms. “It gives me chills. I'm so grateful she contacted me about doing a DNA test. I knew she was quite involved in genealogy, so when she said she had a potential lead on a relative here, of all places, well, I jumped at the opportunity. I'm so sad to hear of her passing.”

Stan looked at Amara, sending her questions via mental telepathy. What did this mean? Could Carmen know something about her brother's death that could help this all make sense? She had to ask.

“Carmen. I apologize for asking this question, but did Helga ever insinuate that she might know anything about your brother's murder?”

Carmen frowned. “No, we didn't talk much about that. Just at the beginning because, you know, it connected us. But as a rule, we tried to stay with happier topics.”

That was disappointing.

“Were you and Helga close?” Amara chimed in.

“We tried to get together at least once a month,” Carmen said. “We'd alternate the driving. We both recognized we were getting old.” She chuckled. “Twenty minutes down the road isn't as simple as it used to seem. But we hadn't seen each other much recently. Although she did ask me to come to her house, quite impromptu, just a couple of weeks ago.”

“Really? Did she say why?” Stan asked.

“She said she wanted to talk. It sounded serious, which wasn't like Helga. She was always quite upbeat. But I couldn't make it. I had a trip scheduled, and told her I'd call her when I returned. But I didn't return until Tuesday.” She looked sad.

“So you don't know what she wanted to talk about,” Stan said.

“No, I know it wasn't to tell me about the DNA test, because I didn't send the kit in until the day I left. I can't imagine what she wanted, but I'm sorry that I'll never get to hear her tell me. I'm so grateful she connected me with Amara. Her last act of kindness.” She grabbed Amara's hands and squeezed. “It means so much to me to know that Helga and Frog Ledge never forgot my brother. Now Amara and I get to figure out just how we're related. It's such fun. I'm planning to sign up for one of these genealogy accounts so we can do this properly. But the visit . . . I suppose it could've been something about my brother. She did mention she wanted me to meet a friend of hers.”

“A friend?” Stan asked. “What was her friend's name?”

Carmen thought for a moment. “Hmm. Aaron, Arnold—no, Arthur. It was Arthur, because that was my great uncle's name.”

Chapter 40

Sunday dawned gray, dreary, and cold looking outside Stan's window. Five-thirty on “celebration” day. Today, a week to the day after Helga died, her life would be celebrated. The entire town would probably attend—whether out of respect for her or curiosity about the murder investigation. Stan was certain there would be an equal number in both camps. As expected for February in New England, the weather was not going to fully cooperate. Snow still covered the green, enough of it that most of the activities would have to take place in the library parking lot. It even looked like it might snow again. It was certainly cold enough.

That wouldn't stop this hearty bunch, though. A little cold and snow never bothered them, especially when they were paying tribute to a loved one. The only sore spot would be the lack of newspaper coverage. Cyril was still being held at the police barracks. The
Frog Ledge Holler,
for the first time probably in a century or more, had ceased operations.

But not for long. Not if all went according to plan.

Stan had been up since two, running scenarios in her mind. At six, she called Pasquale's mobile phone. The trooper answered on the first ring. Unlike Stan, she sounded like she'd already eaten a healthy breakfast and gone to the gym. Stan tried not to resent her for it.

“I need your help,” Stan said. “This morning. Can you come to my house at eight?”

“Your house? Why? What's going on?” Pasquale asked.

“I'd rather tell you when you get here. But I need you to pick up Arthur Pierce and bring him when you come. Can you do that? Without your police car?”

“Pick up . . . why? You need to start talking, Stan.”

“I will. I promise. Please, just go get him? It's the only way I can think to get him here. This is about Helga. It's important, Jessie.”

“I'm a state trooper, not a taxi service,” Pasquale snapped.

“I understand that. But your position has more perks. So, will you do it?”

Jessie was silent, but her frustration was palpable over the phone line. “I swear to God, Stan, if you're leading me on a wild-goose chase I'm going to throw you in a cell right next to Cyril Pierce.” And she hung up.

Stan smiled. Jessie and Arthur would be at her house by eight. She was certain of it.

Things were falling into place.

By seven, activity was ramping up across the street. Stan could hear the voices and shouts as people descended on the area to set up for the event. The entire day would be devoted to historical reenactments, speeches, tours of the historical buildings, and refreshments at each stop, all as a tribute to Helga. The War Office would be open for special tours, and the historical society would also be open. The museum would remain closed. Which was critical to her plan.

By the end of the day, they'd have more to add to the history books.

At seven forty-five, Stan put the dogs outside to play. Betty arrived a little before eight, looking like she hadn't slept at all either. “So, what's this big plan? I'm a little worried about this, Stan.”

“Don't worry,” Stan said. “We'll have support.”

The doorbell rang again. Stan said a silent thank you. “And there it is.” She pulled open the door. Jessie and Arthur Pierce stood on the porch. Pierce looked indifferent. Pasquale looked annoyed.

Betty's eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Why are they . . . ?”

“Hush.” Stan motioned them in. “Good morning. Thanks for coming, both of you.”

“You didn't really leave us a choice,” Pasquale said. “What's all the cloak-and-dagger about?”

“Come in. I have coffee,” Stan said. “We'll tell you everything.”

“Oh, boy,” Pasquale muttered.

“Sorry to get you up so early, Arthur,” Stan said.

Arthur looked different without a cigar hanging out of his mouth. Jessie must've forbade it in her vehicle. He shrugged. “It was all just a matter of time.”

Pasquale looked at him curiously. Seemed like they hadn't had much conversation on the way over.

“I thought you said we couldn't tell anyone,” Betty hissed as she followed Stan to the kitchen.

“I can hear you, Betty,” Pasquale said. “I'm right here.”

“She's the police,” Stan said. “It's okay to tell her.”

“This is how I get to spend my day off?” Pasquale asked the ceiling.

“Sorry,” Stan said, handing her a mug of coffee. “But you'll thank us later. Arthur? Coffee?”

“Please,” he said, as if they were all gathering for a social occasion. “Black's fine.”

“Which one of you knows Marty Thompson best? The guy with the hauling company?” Stan asked as she poured.

“I do,” Pasquale said. “I went to school with him.”

Stan wasn't sure if it was her imagination, or if Jessie's cheeks had turned slightly pink at the mention of Marty's name. “Can you trust him?”

“Of course. What did Marty do?”

“He didn't do anything. I need you to call him and tell him to call Dale Hatmaker. I need him to say he can pick up the pieces they want to get rid of at the museum. Today at one o'clock. And then I need him to drive his truck over and pretend he's going to do that, but he's really not. Can you do that? And ask him to let you know if Dale agrees?”

Pasquale narrowed her eyes. “What's going on?”

“I have a hunch about who killed Helga. I think it was Carla Miller. But I need your help flushing her out today.”

Both Betty and Pasquale stared at her. Pasquale spoke first. “That's a big accusation, Stan. You're talking about the wife of a town councilman. And the victim's daughter-in-law, for crying out loud. How, exactly, did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“Can you please call Marty, and then we'll talk about it?”

Jessie sighed, muttered something about getting fired, and made the call. Marty answered right away and was happy to help. He promised to call Dale right away. Stan figured at least some of that was attributable to Jessie's position. Five minutes later, Marty called back. Dale had agreed to meet him at one o'clock.

“Great. Thanks, Marty,” Jessie said. “I owe you.” She flushed and turned away. “We can talk about dinner sometime, sure.” She hung up and pocketed her phone, cop face squarely back in place. “Now. Talk.”

Stan turned to Arthur. “Arthur, are you going to help me tell this story? There's a lot of parts I don't know. That's why I wanted you here.” She held her breath.
Please don't let him do the whole denial thing again. Jessie will kill me. Or arrest me.

Pierce looked at the ceiling, then around the room. Nutty, who had sauntered in to see what was happening, jumped on his lap and settled in, purring loudly. Pierce looked at him like he'd never seen a cat before. Just as Stan was about to get up and remove him, he started petting Nutty.

“I guess it's time,” he said. “We wanted to do this anyway, Helga and I. Then everything went to hell in a handbasket.” He took a wheezy breath, still stroking Nutty. “Helga and I . . . a while back we decided it was time to clear the slate. We wanted to go public with the story of what happened to Felix Constantine.”

Betty's eyes widened. “What do you mean? You . . . you knew all this time?”

“We've been walking around with the guilt for years. All of us. And, no, my son didn't know about this,” he said to Pasquale. “Helga was gearing him up to write the story, but she hadn't actually told him what the story was yet. He was interviewing her. On background.”

“The morning of her murder,” Pasquale said. “Is that why he was at the museum?”

“Yep.”

“See, he never told me that part,” Stan said. “He just told me he was in the vicinity, getting ready for the event.”

Pierce shrugged. “My son's good at his job. He was gathering information. Who ratted him out?” he asked Pasquale.

“Gerry Ricci saw him leaving the museum,” Pasquale said. “He didn't think anything of it until later. Had himself convinced Cyril had been involved. It was the only lead we had.” She looked at Stan. “I knew she had been murdered. The random ‘falling down the stairs' story didn't sit well with me.”

Stan looked at Betty. “I told you to talk to her earlier.”

“Can we get back to me and Helga?” Pierce demanded. “You dragged me out here at this hour, you should at least listen.”

“You're absolutely right, Mr. Pierce,” Stan said. “I'm sorry. Please, go on.”

Pierce looked satisfied. “So Helga and I decided we would tell the story. Only problem was our friends. The ones still breathing. See, we'd made a pact that night. Never to talk about it unless we all agreed, or unless we were dead.” He smiled. “'Cept me, of course. I had to write about it. Course I couldn't tell the whole thing, but I had to cover it. Anyway, all these years later, the rest of them didn't agree.”

“Maeve,” Stan said.

“Maeve, Edgar.” He shook his head. “You think about it, it's pretty amazing we got this far. That's a lotta people carrying this around for a long time.”

“What about the one who vanished? Tommy Hendricks?” Stan asked.

Pierce nodded admiringly. “You did do your research.”

“And I read the story you left me in the book.” Stan met his eyes evenly until he lifted his chin in an acknowledgment.

“Yeah, I left the book. Since you were getting yourself all involved anyway, I figured you could use the facts. Tommy Hendricks died, too. Committed suicide a couple years after that. Helga and I knew about it, but we never spread it around. He'd moved to Florida and it just didn't seem like something we wanted to broadcast.”

“Wait.” Jessie held up a hand. “Mr. Pierce, I don't know what you're about to tell us, but I would recommend you think very carefully about what you're doing. You have no counsel present—”

Pierce frowned and waved her off. “I'm eighty-five years old. I'm dying anyway. You're free to do what you want to me. The truth is,
I
killed Felix Constantine. It was all me. And I'd do it again tomorrow.”

Betty gasped, her hand flying to her throat.

Jessie rubbed her temples as if she suddenly suffered from a major headache. “Mr. Pierce, there is no statute of limitation on murder, you know.”

“Like I said,” Pierce said. “Do what you want.”

“Why?” Stan asked. “What happened that night?”

His gaze turned faraway, like he'd already gone back there. Or maybe he'd never left. “We almost got to tell the story to Carmen. Felix's sister. Helga had befriended her, you know. We had it all set up. Then Helga died.” Pierce shook his head.

“Anyway, we snuck away from the big party that night. To our hangout.” He looked at Betty. “Alice had the keys. Felix tagged along. He'd set his sights on Helga. Partly because she was beautiful, and partly because he wanted to defeat his opponent before they got to the ring.”

“He wanted Tommy's girl,” Stan said.

Pierce nodded slowly. “But Tommy was too drunk to notice. A few of us took the party outside to the parking lot. Didn't wanna burn the place down smoking. A while later, I realized I hadn't seen Helga. Or Felix. I went looking for her.” Unresolved anger flashed in Arthur's eyes. “Found her in the library basement, trying to fight him off. He was drunk. Not listening to reason. Plus, he was a whole lot bigger than me. So I did what I had to do.” He looked at her, willing her to understand.

“I didn't mean to kill him. Just grabbed the first thing I saw—one of the card catalogue drawers—and clocked him with it. Guess I hit him hard enough. Or in the right spot.”

“The D drawer,” Stan said. “Where Doyle lived.” She couldn't imaging what Arthur had lived with over the years, from the incident itself to having to write about the murder he had committed day after day, week after week. What an extraordinary story. Stan wanted to hug him.

Arthur nodded. “Just happened that way. Fitting, all things considered.”

“Then what?” Stan asked. Jessie still hadn't spoken, but she listened intently. Betty looked like she was about to pass out.

“When we realized he wasn't gettin' back up, we all sobered up pretty quickly and decided to just leave him there. Swore ourselves to secrecy.” Arthur shrugged. “Alice ‘found' the body that Monday. The police talked to us—everyone knew we hung out there—but we covered our tracks. Frankly, no one cared that much. Like I said, he wasn't a local. I don't think a lotta effort went into it. But we never forgot.

“Helga never got over it. Neither did I, truth be told. So when she asked me to help her tell the story, I agreed. Hell, they'd just told me I'm gonna croak anyway.”

Silence descended over Stan's kitchen as they all processed this information. Finally, Jessie spoke. “So how do we get from this to Carla Miller? I'm not following.”

“I think Helga was trying to find another way to tell the story without breaking her promise to her friends,” Stan said. “Right, Mr. Pierce? Isn't that why she called Adrian Fox?”

Pierce nodded slowly. “Helga was spiteful,” he said with a smile. “One of the reasons I loved her.”

Loved her. Stan felt incredible sadness for Pierce. He'd loved Helga back then, and all these years later? And they'd been bound by this terrible secret. It must've been so lonely for both of them.

“She told Maeve and Edgar, fine, be difficult,” Pierce went on. “Promised them the story'd come out one way or another. So she thought about it and figured getting the ghost people in was the most public thing she could do. Plus, I think she really believed Felix haunted that place.” He sobered. “He haunted her, for sure.”