Motion for Malice (6 page)

"Good night to stay home," I agreed. Every fiber of my body minded him stopping by. He was close enough to being my boss that it felt like the crossing of some undefined line to have him in my apartment. Besides, I was tired and hungry, and I was missing Bert Convy on
Tattletales
. I liked Bert Convy. He ranked right up there among all-time great TV game show hosts. Plus he wasn't hard to look at.

I shut the door behind him a little too hard. "How did you know where I live?"

He seemed surprised. "Your personnel file, of course. Howard keeps them in his credenza. You might want to talk to him about that whole 'doesn't work well with others' thing. Anyway, I wanted your opinion on something." He slid out of his coat and glanced around for a coat tree. When he didn't find one, he hung it on the doorknob. It puddled on the floor. I made a mental note to step on it when I saw him out as payback for nosing into my personnel file. He was dressed in Boy Lawyer casual, khakis and a blue oxford shirt over what was probably a dickey. Wally in a dickey made sense. "Where's your best light?"

I frowned. "Where's this going, Wally?"

"I want to show you something." He squinted up into the kitchen's fluorescent light. "Is it in here?" He walked into my kitchen.

I glanced with longing into the living room. My Chocolate Cheerios were getting soggier by the minute. Bert Convy's face time on the Game Show Network was winding down. Any minute now, Maizy might be back with the time capsule rental car, expecting me to sit and stare at the Destinies with Dorcas storefront for hours on end. It was enough to make me yearn for Monday morning.

Wally sat down at the table, crossed his right ankle over his left knee, pulled up his pant leg, and pointed at the tattoo on the inside of his ankle. A minuscule pink rose on a tiny green stem. "What do you think?"

I forced my mouth to close. "It's…"
A pink rose!
"Are you sure you wanted to do that, Wally?"

"I didn't do it," he said. "Not really. It's a sticker." He peeled it off to show me. "See? I'm taking it for a test drive. Kicking the tires, if you will." He chuckled. "I wanted to see how I liked it before I got the real thing." He plastered it back onto his ankle. The stem end stuck up like the corner of an unlicked stamp. "The thorn makes it more manly, don't you think?"

There was nothing manly about a pink tattoo on a man's ankle, thorn or no thorn. Plus the whole thing was so small, it could just as easily have been a little glop of strawberry jam or a nick from shaving. Of course, that would mean Wally shaved his legs, and I really didn't want to go there.

"Do you think Sherri will like it?" he asked.

I thought about Frankie Ritter's collection of Rorschach test tattoos that dwarfed Wally's pitiful little rose. Of course, Frankie had two hundred pounds on Wally—he had a bigger canvas to work with.

I looked into Wally's hopeful, frostbitten face and didn't have the heart to lie. "You might want to think about going bolder," I told him. "And bigger. And less pink."

The hopefulness wavered a little. "How bold?"

I shrugged. "Maybe something on your bicep. Your
whole
bicep." I glanced at his arm and saw he really didn't have one.

He did a sad little arm flex that just made the oxford shirt bag at the elbow. "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "I wear short sleeves in the warm weather." He stared at a drop of milk I'd spilled on the table while fixing my dinner. "How big?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know, Wally. Just…" My gaze dropped to his ankle. "…
bigger."

He thought about that for awhile. "Bigger," he repeated gravely. "That's what I need, something bigger. A grand gesture. Sherri likes grand gestures."

Problem solved. I didn't care what the grand gesture was, as long as it didn't involve Wally being in my apartment or me having to examine any more of his body parts. I reached for his coat.

"Thanks, Jamie." He pulled it on, fumbled for my hand, and gave it a vigorous shake. "You've been a lot of help."

I couldn't imagine how, but I got all the thanks I needed when I watched the footprint on the back of his coat disappear down the stairs.

The online obituary showed up on Tuesday, a glowing piece of fluff obviously supplemented by Weaver, accompanied by a black and white photo of a slim, pre-psychic Dorcas in capris and a sleeveless button-down blouse. No jewelry, no robe, no crystal ball, and no Chandler. She was smiling broadly into the camera. She looked like a contented housewife, and maybe that's what she'd been.

I scrolled down slowly, reading it. Dorcas had been a treasured friend of the Society of Seers, whatever that was. She'd once had an exciting career in retail, blah, blah, blah. Survived by her husband of twenty-four years, Weaver, and her loving sister, Deirdre Higby. Her funeral was scheduled for Friday, with the wake set for Thursday night at a local funeral home. It was open to the public, and I planned to be there. I printed out the obituary and carefully clipped off the ads for mortuaries and crematories and florists before tucking it into my handbag.

The next couple of days passed in the usual way, helping to ensure that the good citizens of the county would continue to experience the glamour of jury duty. It might have been my imagination, but I thought Wally was avoiding me. He got in early and stayed late and used Missy to ferry files up and down stairs.

When Thursday night came, I brushed the crumbs off of my funeral-appropriate outfit and headed to Dorcas's wake. The thing about funeral homes, it seemed to me they all looked like dollhouses. The grass is always lush, the flowers are always blooming, the colors are always tasteful, and the trim looks freshly painted. Except for the whole dead people thing, they'd be the perfect place to live.

Dorcas was lying in repose in the largest viewing room. I assumed. Weaver had gone the closed-casket route, so I couldn't actually see her. Other than that, it was pretty standard. Hushed voices, black suits, muted lighting, cloying scent of too many flowers. A huge spray of red roses with a fat white ribbon reading
Beloved Wife
in gold script lay atop the gleaming white casket. A large arrangement of pink carnations stood on a pedestal at the foot of the casket with a
Beloved Sister-in-Law
ribbon. Another equally large arrangement of red carnations stood on a pedestal at the head of the casket with a
Beloved Sister
ribbon. And a small arrangement in the vague shape of a dog bone was tucked neatly into a basket on the floor with a ribbon reading
Beloved Mommy
attached to its handle
.

My throat caught at the sight of that one. I hadn't figured Chandler for a sentimentalist.

I joined the short line snaking down the right side of the room to pay respects to Weaver, who seemed to be receding inside a three-piece black suit like a snow bank in the spring. He stood hunched over, as if weighted by his grief, his face pinched and pale. His mirror image, sans the palpable grief, stood next to him, right down to the identical black suit and carefully slicked back hair. I'd never heard Dorcas mention a brother-in-law, but there couldn't be two men with the face and bearing of an immaculately groomed rodent. A woman rounded out the receiving line. She bore a strong resemblance to Dorcas but in a more subdued way. Her skirt was black, her sweater was navy, her shoes were low-heeled. She had the same large-boned build, but her eyes, when she looked at me through a film of tears, were plain brown. She wore no makeup, and her hair had a smattering of gray at the temples. She introduced herself as Deidre Higby, Dorcas's sister. I told her I was sorry for her loss then slid up a spot to the Weaver look-alike, who announced himself as Seaver Beeber before passing me off to his brother. And then I ran out of things to say, so I just shook Weaver's hand, shaking my head in sorrow, mumbling nonsense that must have sounded like the appropriate platitudes to him, because he nodded and thanked me for coming, and then I scuttled off to find a seat.

I sat near the back my hands folded in my lap, head lowered enough to seem respectful but not so low that I couldn't people watch. It didn't take long to find someone worth watching. He sat against the far wall in green and black checkered pants and a black blazer over a white dress shirt. His hair was thin and slicked back. His eyes were a startling pale brown and dry as he stared at Weaver Beeber. Probably an old college buddy. I watched him for a moment. Curious, and a little unsettling, how his gaze never wavered.

The man a few seats to Checkered Pants' right was infinitely more interesting, at least visually. He looked to be in his fifties, olive-skinned, striking with black hair threaded with silver, and intense black eyes. It felt like a preview of what Curt might look like in twenty years. Not bad. But he looked out of place, sitting alone, dark eyes scanning the room, his expression not particularly friendly.

"I noticed him too."

I snapped my head to the left to find Maizy seated beside me wearing a baggy black sweater, a black skirt that skimmed the floor, black Doc Martens, and a black hat with a veil that concealed most of her face. She couldn't have looked more conspicuous if she'd worn a grass skirt. I kept my voice low. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing you are," she said. "Looking for the killer."

"I'm not looking for the killer," I hissed. "I'm here to pay my respects."

"Sure. That too." She glanced around, her head tilted back to look under the bottom edge of the veil. "Why do people wear these things? It's like trying to see through smoke."

"People don't wear them," I told her. "You're the only one."

"And now I know why," she said. "Is this what cataracts are like?"

I felt a sigh welling up. "I wouldn't know, Maizy," I said wearily.

"What's with Checkers over there?" she asked. "Doesn't he know it's rude to stare?"

"He seems obsessed with Weaver." I glanced over. Yep, still only had eyes for Weaver. "Wonder who he is. I'm thinking old college buddy."

"I'm thinking loony tune.
God,
this thing is annoying." Maizy adjusted her veil. "I can find out his name, no problem. I'm more interested in Mr. Happy a few seats away."

Future Curt.

"He must have rocked it thirty years ago," Maizy said. "He still looks like a bad boy."

I looked sharply at her. "What do you know about—"

"Did you get a prayer card, dear?"

I turned to my right, startled. An elderly woman had settled in beside me on a light breeze of subtle perfume. Her makeup was understated and meticulous. Her hair was pure white and perfect. Her outfit was pricey and well-fitted. She had to be eighty, and she looked better than I did.

I sat up a little straighter and pulled my shoulders back. There was nothing I could do about the rest of me. "I'm sorry?"

"Prayer card." She flapped one at me. "You must take a prayer card. They're over there." She pointed a manicured nail in the direction of a side table. "Oh dear, they're gone now."

"That's all right," I assured her. "I don't need to—"

"Let me give you one of mine." She reached into her bag and whipped out a stack of prayer cards as thick as a poker deck, which she proceeded to riffle through. "Let me see now. Agnes Barrymore. Cousin Rhea. Harrison Friedgen, bless his heart. Ah, there we are. Dorcas Beeber." She slipped it out of the stack and handed it over with a smile. "She was a marvel, wasn't she?"

"She was something," I agreed.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do without her," she said. "She guided my entire life. I didn't make a move without her. Why, she warned me about the recession months before it happened. She told me, 'Charlotte, you must take your money out of the stock market.' I didn't lose a penny."

I wondered how Dorcas had pulled that off.

"I'm Shondra Abbott," Maizy said suddenly, sticking her hand out. "What's that guy's name over there with the checkered pants?"

My mouth fell open.

Charlotte took a look. "Oh, that's Roger Marrin. He was a longtime client. Poor boy, his mother died not long ago and—"

"Did she dress him?" Maizy asked.

"
Will you stop it?"
I whispered savagely.

"I don't believe we've met," Charlotte told her.

"Sure we did, just a minute ago." Maizy smiled. "I'm a friend of the deceased's son. Is that Marrin with one
R
or two?"

I rolled my eyes.

Charlotte's eyebrows drew together in a perfect, shallow
V.
"But Dorcas had no children."

"That's what she told people," Maizy agreed. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Steven grew up with adoptive parents. He was a little accident, you see. And when the boyfriend refused to take responsibility, well, what choice did she have?" She shook her head sadly.

"Her
boyfriend?"
Charlotte echoed. "But she and Weaver—"

"Steven only just found his birth mother a few months ago," Maizy said. "And now she's gone. It's very sad."

"Oh my." Charlotte's hand fluttered to rest on her chest. "The poor boy." She glanced around the room. "Is he here now?"

"He couldn't bring himself to come," Maizy told her. "He's just distraught. He can't imagine who might want to do such a thing to his dear mother." She paused for a moment of sober reflection. "Got any ideas?" she asked brightly.

"Well, I…" Charlotte fingered the string of expensive-looking pearls around her neck. She was looking more distraught by the second. "I can't really say."

"Sure you can," Maizy said. "It'll be just between us girls. Did she ever mention someone threatening her? Following her?"

"Let me think." Charlotte chewed on her perfectly painted lower lip while I glowered at Maizy. Maizy waited with a small serene smile, ignoring me. "There was a client," she said finally. Surprised, I turned to look at her. "I don't quite have the name. Something to do with that Hitchcock movie,
The Birds
."

"Robin something?" I asked.

Charlotte shook her head. "No, no. The actress from
The Birds
, what was her name?"