Organize Your Corpses Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Never place a large object over a smaller one . . .

  In the kitchen I found no sign of Miss Henley or the dogs. Not good. Somewhere in the distance Truffle and Sweet Marie set up a wild racket. The barking sounded like it was coming from the dining room. I ran, stumbling over bits of debris, old toy cars, empty cornflakes boxes, and a clothesline. I narrowly missed crashing into two oak beams leaning at crazy angles. I’d already made a note to get those put away safely as soon as the team showed up. I kept an eye out for more beams as I careened through the junk.

  My red stiletto boots were not made for running. I tripped and snagged my best hose on a pile of rusty springs scattered on the floor. Finally I rounded a corner and spotted Truffle and Sweet Marie. They were yipping at a pile of newspapers that had toppled over and blocked the path. They must have cornered a mouse. Or worse, that cat.

  “Come away and leave whatever it is.”

  Okay, so obedience is not their best thing.

  “Miss Henley will tear strips off us for making this mess even worse, you turkeys.”

  I reached forward to scoop them up and stopped, stunned. I climbed over the fallen stack of paper. I pushed the dogs away and fell to my knees. Sticking out from under the toppled pile was a pair of shoes, black patent, with small gold buckles. Classy, expensive. Roberto Capucci’s unless I was mistaken.

  The shoes had feet in them, feet with nice-quality trouser socks. There were legs too, covered in charcoal wool.

  Miss Henley.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ORGANIZE YOUR CORPSES

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by Mary Jane Maffini.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21580-7

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  I am indebted to Lyn Hamilton, Mary MacKay-Smith, Victoria Maffini, and Giulio Maffini for their help and comments on this manuscript. Many thanks to Sue Pike for her inspired suggestion of the model for the fictional counterpart to Charlotte’s hometown: Woodbridge, New York. Linda Wiken of Ottawa’s Prime Crime Mystery Bookstore has been unwavering in her support from start to finish. I am grateful to my agent, Leona Trainer, for her enthusiasm, to Tom Colgan of Berkley for being such a splendidly cheerful and accessible editor, and to Sandra Harding for bailing me out on more than one occasion. My miniature dachshunds, Daisy and Lily, have given me more than enough material for doggie devilment in the series. It goes without saying that any pesky errors are my own.

  Don’t waste your valuable time organizing stuff that’s on its way out anyway.

  1

  “Is this some kind of death wish?” Sally’s question trailed off in a high wail.

  I held my cell phone away from my ear. “She’s just a client, sweetie. And I’m on my way now. Talk to you later.”

  “Hold on, hold on! Listen to me, Charlotte Adams. You’re talking about Hellfire Henley, the same teacher who made our lives at St. Jude’s a living torment. Have you forgotten physics class?”

  “Actually, I believe I said ‘Miss Helen Henley,’ not ‘Hellfire.’ That’s because she’s a potential client. I’m not reliving high school.”

  “Are you deranged? That woman used to be able to make the jocks on the football team cry.”

  I moved the phone just a little bit farther away from my ear. “Then again, I never played football.”

  “You know what I mean. She got you suspended. And she treated me and Pepper and Jack like scum. And poor Margaret Tang. Whoa. It wasn’t easy to be a Korean kid in Hellfire Henley’s class. How can you forget all that?”

  “Sweetie, that was sixteen years ago. We’re not helpless kids anymore. You have three children of your own. I’m a professional organizer. Margaret Tang’s a lawyer, Pepper’s a cop for heaven’s sake, and Jack is, well . . . whatever. Anyway, Miss Henley has a high-profile project. Just the kind of boost I need to make it in Woodbridge.”

  “Yeah, well, what if it’s a trap?”

  I let a chuckle escape.

  Sally said, “Not funny, Charlotte. Hellfire was like a fiend for organization. What kind of help could she need from a former student? Think about that.”

  “She’s inherited the Henley House from a cousin who was definitely not a fiend for organization. It’s a disaster.”

  “Spare me. That moldering ruin at the top of North Elm Street? Yuck. You mean she lives there?”

  “Of course not. She has a beautiful home, but she’s responsible for this place. It’s hard to imagine, but Miss Henley’s overwhelmed. Henley House has huge histo
ric significance for Woodbridge. So this project is bound to generate media interest.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Girl, you are so deluded.”

  “Seriously, Sally, people will think if I can handle this horrendous job then I can solve their problems with chaotic offices or cluttered garages or—”

  “You know what, Charlotte? She’s just going to toy with you, then toss you aside to face public humiliation.”

  I massaged my temple. “If a client’s not happy, she doesn’t get to humiliate me. I simply walk away.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. This is the meanest woman in the Hudson River Valley. It cannot possibly end well. After she’s through with you, you’ll be lucky if you can crawl into a hole. And anyway, I need you to help me. You know Benjamin’s been crabbing about the kids’ toys everywhere. He sprained his toe on a Lego project and now he’s on my case big-time. So how about if I become your client? I’ll pay you and you won’t have to face Hellfire and I won’t have to deal with Benjamin. You know how anal retentive he can be.”

  I felt a guilty twinge of sympathy for Benjamin with his sprained toe. That couldn’t make running his busy medical practice any easier. I wasn’t falling for the anal-retentive tyrant talk. I knew firsthand the chaos Sally and her three darlings could create. Never mind. Sally’s been my friend since grade school. I love her, I love her kids, and I love her besieged husband. I said, “Tell you what. I’ll give you a hand. Not as a contract, as a favor. I’ll pop over tomorrow and take a peek. In the meantime, how about getting a jump start on it? Ask each of the kids to pick out their seven favorite toys.”

  “Seven toys? Seven? You’re kidding. How can they narrow it down to seven? What is the matter with you?”

  “Seven, max. Gotta go now.”

  “Do not go to that horrible Henley House alone, Charlotte. Wait for me! I’ll come with you. Give me time to find a sitter.”

  Right.

  Luckily Sally couldn’t see me roll my eyes. “Catch you tomorrow.” I squared my shoulders, flicked the ignition, and roared up North Elm Street to meet Miss Helen Henley.

  The three-story house hunkered on a huge lot at the rocky crest of North Elm. I decided to give the steep driveway a miss and parked my freshly washed Mazda Miata on the street. I marched up the endless stairs to the front door. Five minutes later, I was still shivering on the decaying verandah as the afternoon light faded. I hummed a few bars of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.” It was the first of November and the wind bit through my skirt and collarless leather jacket. I sniffed wood smoke. I hoped it was coming from Henley House. With luck, I’d be standing in front of a warm fire soon.

  Dead leaves swirled around the bare oaks. No one had made any effort to rake, pile, or bag them. I just hate that. A large brass plaque proclaimed the house had been built by Phineas Oswald Henley in 1898. Too bad for poor old Phineas. This was one historic home that had definitely gone all to rat shit.

  I peeked around the end of the sagging verandah to the parking area alongside the house. A Lincoln Town Car in a pale metallic shade indicated that Miss Henley had already arrived. It was a lot of car for one retired teacher, but she’d always favored full-size domestic models. I stamped my feet to keep warm. What was keeping her? Probably just a typical Henley power trip. For the second time, I banged the brass door knocker.

  “Try a little patience,” said a peremptory and familiar voice.

  Seconds later the massive oak door creaked open. I pulled myself up to my full height of four foot eleven and a half inches. The red knee-high leather boots with the stiletto heels and the killer points boosted me to five-three and a half.

  Miss Henley didn’t recognize me.

  She hadn’t changed a bit. She must have been well past seventy, but she had retained her splendid posture and the iron helmet of hair, hard enough to bruise your knuckles. Her grey eyes reminded me of a metal fence post on a winter day. Of course, she hadn’t worn trousers in the classroom at St. Jude’s, even charcoal, fine-tailored ones like these. The sweater was right though. Charcoal cashmere, unless I’m losing my instincts. Her only jewelry was a small pink and white cameo brooch. No rings, definitely no earrings. I glanced down and was not disappointed. Patent leather flats with small gold buckles, classy, well made, expensive. I figured they were Roberto Capucci’s. Obviously, Miss Henley’s Achilles’ heel was in her shoes.

  I smiled like a fellow shoe person and extended my hand. “Charlotte Adams. We have an appointment.”

  Two large tears trickled down her leathery cheeks. Tears are a part of this business although they don’t usually start at the front door. But I was ready. I reached into my briefcase and held out a couple of man-size tissues.

  “What can I do?” she asked in a slight tremolo, wiping her eyes.

  “Well . . .” I said, filled with hope.

  “My miserable cousin, Randolph, has left all this behind,” she interrupted, twisting the tissues in her hands. “Look what he’s done to this beautiful old house. Appalling. And the grounds.” She gestured toward the neglected lawn. Shredded bits of damp tissue drifted to the floor.

  “That’s why I’m here, Miss Henley,” I said. “Organized for Success. Remember?”

  She snapped, “Of course I remember. Do you think I’m senile?”

  “Not at all,” I said, startled.

  “It’s all dreadful. Truly dreadful.” She combined the sudden mood change with a sad glimpse at the grounds.

  “We’ll fix it,” I said, glancing behind me to see nothing but swirling leaves. I turned back to face her.

  “Weren’t you one of my pupils?” she said.

  I tried smiling again. “Yes.”

  The red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “I do believe I remember you.”

  “And I certainly remember you.”

  “Has your handwriting improved?”

  “What?”

  “Smudges all over your work.”

  I wasn’t even in the house and already I was losing ground.

  “You must have me mixed up with another student.” Sally maybe or Margaret Tang or Jack Reilly or even my former friend, Pepper O’Day.

  “Something else then. Math.”

  I stiffened. “A strong point.”

  “Social studies.”

  “Straight As.”

  “English language.”

  I raised my chin. “I should hardly think so.”

  “Oh yes, it’s coming back to me. Attendance. Dismal record. You had that bizarre mother. Divorces. Scandals. It’s a miracle you finished school. You were never there.”

  “I’m here now, Miss Henley.”

  “I thought you’d gone on to work in the city.”

  “Yes. Investment banking.”

  “Did you get fired?”

  “No.” Good grief. What had she heard?

  “You have a pale line on your ring finger. I suppose that means you are recovering from a failed marriage.”

  Without thinking, I whipped my left hand behind my back. The pale line had been left by a square-cut diamond solitaire now lying on the bottom of the Hudson. Too bad my double-dealing dirty dog of an ex-fiancé hadn’t dived in after it.

  I said, “It does not.”

  “Well, what else would make you move back here?”

  “Excuse me?” I said, frostily.

  “I must ask myself if you could be equal to a task of this magnitude.”

  “You’re right, Miss Henley. You should find someone else.” I pivoted perfectly on my stiletto heels and stalked off toward the sweeping staircase with its rotting boards. I kept my nose in the air but gripped the banister on my way down. No point in ruining a perfectly good exit by plunging down the steps and snapping my neck.

  “You were always a drama queen,” Miss Henley called out. “You might as well come in and see what we have to contend with.”

  I said, after a slow reverse pivot, “Keep in mind this is a business relationship and I expect to be treated—”

  “Y
es, yes,” she said, disappearing into the gloom.

  Seconds later I got her point about magnitude. The narrow path through newspapers stacked at least six feet high filled a foyer that would have been splendid under normal circumstances.

  The paper gave off a whiff of mildew. I also noted the unmistakable reek of mice. Miss Henley forged on as if she’d gotten used to it, although perhaps she just had a head cold. I stopped and stared around and up. Wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling junk. Boxes, tools, building materials, frames, even a few broken lawn chairs. Here and there, I glimpsed rich red wallpaper and elaborate crown moldings, half hidden by spiderwebs and grime. Several heavy oak beams leaned haphazardly against paper towers. I didn’t see any sign of beams on the ceiling. Had these been salvaged from another historic property? For what? They’d be another challenge for my team if I got the job.

  Every room was choked with paper, garbage, and trivia. I spotted the odd item that might be worth a few dollars to collectors, but by and large, any valuable items were smothered by a thick layer of rubbish. As we proceeded through the house, from the first floor with its formerly grand parlor and dining room, to the spacious second-floor bedrooms, and finally to the third floor that had probably once been the servants’ quarters, one thing was clear: the place was a disaster. Okay, make that two things: it was also a firetrap.

  “Forget the basement,” Miss Henley said, as we descended from the second floor. “We’d never get down the stairs. I’ve cleared a space in the kitchen. And I’ve just made hot tea. There will be room for us to sit, while I define the task.”

  Miss Henley steered past a tangle of broken lamps. “Watch out for wires. You might trip and kill yourself in those ridiculous boots.”

  I could have suggested she find herself an organizer whose footwear suited her better, but I chose to watch for wires instead. The kitchen took me by surprise. It was hard to know what was most striking. The piles of rags on the antique stove? The row of truck tires? Or maybe the overflowing kitty litter?

  Two chairs were pulled out from a crowded table. A small bit of surface had been cleared in front of each.