The Cluttered Corpse Read online

  “You know what? This is one thing we can deal with. The rest of it’s a big insane unknowable nightmare. So we’re going ahead. But I don’t think we can get rid of any of these critters. I don’t want her coming home and flipping out because some pink bunny rabbit that I’ve never even seen went out with the trash.”

  “No arguments from me. I guess you want it done quickly.”

  “Yep. Only thing is I usually sleep until nine or ten in the morning because I get in late. The house is yours from then on. And I’m out every night, if that helps.”

  “It does. I’ll come up with a storage plan that’s not too complex or pricey, because Emmy Lou may decide on a more permanent solution later on. I’ll get some units that you could use elsewhere or sell off if that happens. And I’ll have a colleague working with me, which will speed up the project. Do you want a cost estimate?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care what it costs.”

  “Good, we’ll solve the overflow for the short term and preserve her collection. How does that sound?”

  “Yeah, sounds good. Whatever you want, as long as when she gets home, if she wants some particular fuzzball, she can have it. Look, I realize I sound crazy too. I know they’re only plush toys. But you know what? They’re the only damn thing I have any control over.”

  Lilith got out of the LeMans as Dwayne was hotfooting it out the front door again. He nodded absently in her direction and thrust a set of keys into my hand as I introduced her.

  “Don’t worry,” I called after him as he raced for his car.

  “Talking to the wind?” Lilith said with a grin.

  “Emmy Lou’s had some kind of breakdown.”

  “That’s freakin’ awful. Don’t blame him for flipping out,” she said.

  I led the way up the stairs to show her what we were faced with. “The last time I was here, there were toys all over the stairs. I guess the police removed them. Dwayne wants us to keep them all. He’s worried that any change will be traumatic for her. Let’s inventory the lot and figure out a quick solution to display some and store the rest.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “See if there are categories we can place then in. Make a note about which ones are where. That kind of thing.”

  As we opened the door to Emmy Lou’s bedroom, Lilith’s face lit up. “I love this. If it hadn’t been for what happened here, this whole thing would be a blast. Like spending the night in a toy store. I don’t even know why’d you’d want to organize them in the first place. They’re great the way they are.”

  She didn’t change her mind after we checked out the spare room that doubled as an office. “Wow, I thought there were a lot in the main bedroom. This is the best job ever.”

  “Good attitude, except for the don’t-know-why-you’d-organize-them part. And we’re going to make sure we’re never alone in the magic toy store. Just in case.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not looking for trouble. And I haven’t forgotten Tony’s death or your slashed tires either. Not to mention the prank phone call and the complaint to the police.”

  “Right,” I said grimly, staring at the giant stuffed zebra. “Let’s go get our flat-pack bins and we can tackle these suckers. We can break them down into oversize, regular, and mini.”

  “Darn,” Lilith said. “I was hoping we’d go by color. There’s some great purple stuff here.”

  Believe it or not, the census of stuffies didn’t take quite as long as I thought it would. I measured the walls in Emmy Lou and Dwayne’s bedroom, hallway, and spare bedroom. I took a number of shots of the rooms with my digital camera so I wouldn’t forget details. I even took a few of the downstairs, to keep the style that Emmy Lou and Dwayne favored firmly in mind. I spent most of my time working with a layout of the rooms and furniture templates, figuring out how to rearrange the rooms to maximize the storage. As Lilith whirled through her task, I calculated the number of bookcases it would take to double-line two walls in the main bedroom. The upstairs hallway was long enough to handle four units, and the spare room could be completely lined with bookcases. Each one could hold a lot of fuzzies. If I could convince Dwayne to store the furniture in that room, then we might have a quick solution. If Gary Gigantes could squeeze me into his crowded schedule, he could attach the bookcases, put them on casters, slap on some nice trim to hide the joints, whatever I would need to make this work.

  Meanwhile, Lilith had even managed to complete a sub-sort by color too. When you find a reliable, intelligent, hardworking assistant, you learn not to argue with her. Anyway, the color idea was growing on me. Dwayne had not returned by the time we left the bins full of toys, locked up the house, and started walking to our cars. This time no harm had been done to either vehicle.

  As we reached the cars, I spotted Mr. Wright in his garden across the street. I nodded in his direction. “That’s the one who might be Emmy Lou’s father,” I said to Lilith.

  She said, “Figured that. I noticed him on Sunday when I got here. And today too. He’s oozing mean. Bet she didn’t have any picnic growing up there.”

  “My impression too. If he is, what would make a smart, successful woman like her come back here? To flaunt her success in front of him?”

  Lilith shrugged. “Hey, I have some of what they call unresolved issues too. And if I won a million-dollar mansion across the street from my mom and her live-in, I’d let it sit empty forever. I’d torch it before I’d set foot in it.”

  “Ah.” Something to think about.

  “Looking at that old guy reminded me of why I left and why I’ll never go back.”

  “You didn’t see the wife?”

  “Thought I saw a timid little person scurrying around. That’s part of the pattern too,” Lilith said, her face hard. “Don’t ask me to go there, if you don’t mind.”

  I left it. I’d learned early not to probe into Lilith’s past. Some memories are better left undisturbed.

  I put the Rheinbecks’ keys into my purse and fished out my car keys. I stared at them and slowly pulled out the Rheinbeck keys.

  “What?” she said.

  I stared at the keys and at the front door. I said, “How did Tony get in there?”

  “Through the door?”

  I shook my head. “Not likely. Emmy Lou kept her doors locked, and she made Dwayne lock them too, even when I was sitting in her living room with her. In fact, when I got there for our first meeting, she unlocked that dead bolt. I had been thinking that Tony got in and frightened her. But I can’t see how that would be. I can’t believe she would have let him in the house. How could he get in without a set of keys?”

  “We should check.”

  A half hour later, we confirmed that all the first-and second-floor windows were locked and showed no signs of having been forced or pried.

  “So,” I said, “either Emmy Lou let him in—”

  “Which might be why she’s overcome with guilt,” Lilith said.

  “Or he had a set of keys. Which doesn’t make sense. What if someone else let him in?”

  “But who?”

  I could think of only one other person who had the keys to Emmy Lou’s house. Sweet, loveable, concerned, heartbroken hubby Dwayne. Was I playing into his pudgy hands?

  At dinnertime I made the mistake of turning on the television to see the news. What was I thinking?

  Todd Tyrell loomed in my face, gleefully offering his comments on a local tragedy:

  Last night’s drowning in the Hudson is the second in two weeks. WINY wants to remind our viewers that the Hudson can be unpredictable in the spring. Take good care. Elsewhere in news, no arrest has been made in the tragic death of Tony Starkman.

  Tony’s ten-year-old face flashed on the screen, followed by a shot of his anguished and possibly not quite sober mother, then a clip of poor damaged Kevin wailing on the lawn. I waited and sure enough I showed up too, looking as though I could give Bluebeard a run for his money.

  Todd’s voice over added:

  A
lthough forty-one-year-old insurance executive Emmy Lou Rheinbeck is being held in the case, there is no word yet on whether Woodbridge Police will be questioning Charlotte Adams again. The Woodbridge businesswoman found the body in her client’s home on Sunday afternoon.

  “Questioning again!” I squeaked.

  Truffle and Sweet Marie barked. Maybe they were upset that Todd could manage to infuse such innuendo into “Sunday afternoon.”

  As the phone began to trill, I braced myself for another round of client cancellations.

  The best thing about closets is that you can always clean them out when you have to clear your mind. They’re always fair targets. I wanted to take my mind off Emmy Lou on the one hand and my collapsing business on the other. It was a week ahead of my regular seasonal pruning, but hey. It helped that I was mad as hell. Tuesday’s not my regular cleanup night, but I was willing to be flexible on that. I spent the evening putting away my winter gear. I cleaned both pairs of my leather boots and stuffed paper in the toes. Fifteen minutes later I snagged one of each pair from under the bed where Truffle and Sweet Marie had relocated them. The dogs love seasonal cleanups. So many opportunities to make themselves unhelpful.

  I put my winter shoes in boxes and clipped to each box a digital photo of what was inside. Saves time when you’re looking for shoes on the top shelf of your closet. This makes sense for people with a few too many shoes, like me. I never said I was perfect. I stuck the boxes on that top shelf and brought down my warm-weather footwear. I set my winter coat and my casual jacket aside to take to the cleaners before storing in the basement. I examined my hats, scarves, and gloves. Anything I hadn’t worn in the past year went into the box for the Woodbridge Winter Warmth Fund, a charity that I support. Someone might as well enjoy them. The rest got washed and packed. Possibly I slammed the closet door a few times.

  “Charlotte?”

  I jumped.

  “Wow, what’s all this?”

  “Putting away my winter gear, Jack. Of course, if a person wears shorts and a Hawaiian shirt every day of the year, then that person doesn’t need to know about seasonal changes.”

  “That’s not true. I wear cycling gear a lot. And I have lots of these shirts,” he said. “I suppose I could—”

  “Oh be quiet. I should rat you out to What Not to Wear.”

  “Whoa. Are you mad at me about that baby comment? I’m sorry. I was thinking about how I felt, and I shouldn’t have imposed my feelings on you.”

  “That’s very modern of you, Jack. And I guess I’m taking my frustration about this case out on you. That sleazeball Todd Tyrell keeps insinuating that I am connected to Tony’s death. I’ve already lost a bunch of clients over it.”

  “Take a breath, Charlotte.”

  I took a breath. And another one.

  Jack said, “I thought you said you had a waiting list for clients.”

  I made a face at him.

  “Just trying to help. If you have too many clients, does it matter if you lose one? Maybe that one would have given you grief anyway.”

  “I reserve the right to be miserable.”

  “No one takes that Todd Tyrell seriously. How could they with that fake tan and those—how would you describe those teeth? Rushmore-size?”

  “Todd Tyrell’s cheesy chompers are not the point, Jack.”

  “What is the point?”

  I stopped and thought. “Aside from how am I supposed to run a business if everyone in this town keeps getting murdered, I’m worried about Emmy Lou. She couldn’t have done it. And yet they hauled her off to jail and now she’s in the psychiatric ward. At least WINY hasn’t picked up on that yet. It’s enough to make you weep.”

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “No. Why? What’s dinner got to do with anything?”

  His face lit up. “An idle thought: How about pizza? My treat? I’ll call El Greco.”

  He picked up the phone and ordered a large all-dressed double cheese. He remembered extra anchovies for me. Jack has the gift for cheering people. No wonder people drop thousands in his bike shop. Or they would if they would only walk through the front door.

  He said, “And I have a bottle of red wine downstairs. Be right back.”

  Truffle and Sweet Marie positioned themselves by the door to wait for the El Greco guy. They love pizza, although it’s not officially on their diet. They’re not fooled if you spell it.

  I called after him, “I might have some ice cream in the fridge. I’ll kick it in.”

  Tails thumped on the floor.

  Jack and I got in a quick game of Where’s Charlotte? Truffle and Sweet Marie managed to find me in the shower, behind the bedroom door, and downstairs in Jack’s apartment.

  Jack said, “They’re getting faster. We’ll have to put a bit of challenge into this.”

  I could imagine myself hiding out on the roof or under the Miata one of these days. “Maybe we should quit while we’re ahead,” I said. “Teach them to count or something.”

  When the orange Neon with the El Greco sign on the top skidded to a stop outside, Jack and I were clinking our wineglasses. The dogs set up a racket at the thunder of steps up to my door. A guy with a buzz cut and a Celtic tattoo on his neck grinned at me. I got the impression he had a pretty high opinion of himself. The grin vanished and he yelped as the dogs lunged for his ankles. Jack snagged his El Greco orange sleeve before he could tumble down the stairs.

  I snatched up the dogs and tucked them into the bedroom for a five-minute time-out. It’s not like I can cut off their allowances. Or ground them.

  Jack’s a whiz with a pizza. He cuts and plates like an artist. “Charlotte. You can’t let this stuff make you miserable. Your job is to help people. Put it all out of your mind. Let it percolate. Your subconscious will take care of it. This is time to relax.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Jack,” I said.

  I took Jack’s advice and turned my attention to another project that evening: my former mudroom client. Sure, she’d fired me. But she was merely doing her job as a mom, trying to protect her children from being in proximity to a possible killer. I couldn’t blame her for that, although I could, and did, blame Todd Tyrell. Even though I knew it wasn’t personal. Anything for ratings.

  I decided to take the optimistic view and start up a little plan in case she got over her fears and called me again. Most of my clients who had canceled during the murderous events the previous fall had called back. Including Emmy Lou. Sometimes it took a while, but it pays to be prepared.

  I studied the digital pictures of Bernice’s hallway, scattered with orphaned shoes, crumpled papers, forgotten lunch boxes, coats, mittens, and more. Bernice had been overwhelmed by this, but it seemed fairly straightforward to me. I drew up a couple of principles that I felt confident she could agree with if I ever saw her again: first, every home should have a pleasant and welcoming entryway, front and rear. It sets the tone. Perhaps that seemed more important to me because I didn’t have it when I was growing up. I thought the children would benefit from a sense of order and control: their permission slips would have a spot incoming and outgoing, their shoes would be easy to find, their raincoats dry, their lunch pails devoid of strange green growths.

  I knew it would help if there was a place for the children to sit down to get dressed and undressed and a spot for each one to store their gear, clothing, and papers. They each needed hooks at the right height to hang up jackets. I could only estimate the heights.

  I sketched away.

  I figured Bernice’s family could use a bench with shoe cubbies underneath, a row of colorful hooks on top, and a gadget to dry wet shoes or boots near the vent. The closet could be reconfigured to stash the odd-size sports gear so it was out of sight but still easily accessible. The opposite wall of the entryway would be ideal for a corkboard to post notices, main family schedule and calendar with key dates marked, and of course, the children’s artwork currently crumpled and curling on the floor. And each child could use a container fo
r incoming school and sports notices, treasures, information, and a separate container for outgoing signed permission slips, notes to the school, and so on. I thought those could be inexpensive magazine holders on a sturdy, low shelf. If Bernice and her children didn’t like that look, we could try a variety of in-basket/out-basket solutions.

  I picked up my paint color wand and put sticky tapes on several paint shades I thought would be harmonious, welcoming, and cheerful without being jarring. Color is so personal that Bernice and her children would make the choices. I’d offer them a jumping-off point.

  A couple of hours later, I had drawn up a plan for first discussion, shaded in a wall color, and clipped on sample pictures of cubbies, magazine holders, in baskets, and sports-gear organizers.

  I sat back and smiled. I hadn’t fretted about Emmy Lou’s problems or my own for hours and I’d accomplished something. Jack tells me I’m born to help people, and I have to admit, there is a lot of satisfaction in it. Of course, I might never get to go over this with Bernice, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I put the project in the plastic folder I’d started for it and filed it away. No matter what Bernice decided, it would probably come in handy some day. And if it didn’t, I’d had fun doing what I love.

  Something tugged at the back of my mind and yanked me awake at three a.m. The dogs stirred resentfully. I couldn’t go back to sleep. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if I would ever sleep through the night again. This time I had Bell Street on my mind. There was something about it. But what? I shouldn’t have been surprised to have a fitful sleep, after an evening of sulking, more because of the television coverage linking me with Tony’s death. I lay awake and thought back to what I’d seen on the WINY coverage. I made an effort to blank out Todd Tyrell’s face as I closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct the scene outside the Rheinbecks’ place after Emmy Lou’s meltdown over Tony’s death.

  The cameras had panned to the crowd that had gathered around. Neighbors. Friends. Delivery truck parked. Patti Magliaro anxiously wringing her hands. Bill Baxter pacing and running his hands through his hair. I wasn’t in that footage, but I knew I’d been upset and it would have showed plainly on my face and in my actions. We’d all had the kind of confused and distressed reactions you might expect. But when I’d reached Dwayne and the restaurant and told him about Tony’s death and Emmy Lou’s arrest, his first reaction had been anger rather than shock. Emmy Lou’s loving husband had been red faced and furious, banging the bar with his beefy arm when I gave him the news. He’d shown belligerence instead of worry. Fury instead of panic. That seemed plain wrong to me. A nagging voice in the back of my mind kept asking what Dwayne was angry about. That would be the same Dwayne who had the only other set of keys to the house. Pepper would sneer if I tried to convince her about Dwayne’s out-of-character reaction, for sure, but she might take the part about the keys seriously.