A Really Cute Corpse
Read A Really Cute Corpse Online
Authors: Joan Hess
Table of Contents
A
ll I've ever wanted to do was mind my own business. However, for a variety of complex and convoluted reasons, no one believes me. My accountant, a spotty old thing who tends to hiss, has pointed out on several occasions that minding my business includes fretting over such details as quarterly tax estimates, misplaced invoices, depreciation schedules, and tons of papers in alphabetical order. The business to which he refers is the Book Depot, a shabby, dusty, disorganized bookstore in the old train depot down the hill from Farber College. But it is
my
shabby, dusty, disorganized bookstore, and I dearly love it, from its balky boiler in the rear to its leaky brick portico on Thurber Street. It provides a modest income and a steady supply of reading material. What more could one ask forâexcept a modest supply of reading material and a steady income?
ll I've ever wanted to do was mind my own business. However, for a variety of complex and convoluted reasons, no one believes me. My accountant, a spotty old thing who tends to hiss, has pointed out on several occasions that minding my business includes fretting over such details as quarterly tax estimates, misplaced invoices, depreciation schedules, and tons of papers in alphabetical order. The business to which he refers is the Book Depot, a shabby, dusty, disorganized bookstore in the old train depot down the hill from Farber College. But it is
my
shabby, dusty, disorganized bookstore, and I dearly love it, from its balky boiler in the rear to its leaky brick portico on Thurber Street. It provides a modest income and a steady supply of reading material. What more could one ask forâexcept a modest supply of reading material and a steady income?
My daughter claims that I don't mind my own business, but she actually is alluding to my maternal inclination to mind hers. Caron is fifteen, to put it mildly. Fifteen is a melodramatic age. Fifteen is a gawky, self-centered, pimply, confused age which no one wears gracefully, and Caron is no exception. She has my red hair and freckles, and lately has acquired the beginnings of some of my more mature physical attributes. Said convexities and concavities alarm both of us. We have
a reasonably amiable relationship, and avoid major mother-daughter conflicts for the most part. It is, however, somewhat like tiptoeing through the tulips in combat boots.
a reasonably amiable relationship, and avoid major mother-daughter conflicts for the most part. It is, however, somewhat like tiptoeing through the tulips in combat boots.
The third person who continually moans that I do not mind my own business is Peter Rosen. When he so desires, he is a man of great charm and wit. He has curly black hair, a hawkish nose that is quite appealing, and teeth that could star in a toothpaste commercial. His eyes are gentle pools of molasses, deceptively mild and warm. He is moderately persuasive when we are debating the issue of marriage, especially when we're particularly pleased with each other. We do so because he is divorced, I am widowed, we are of a comparable ageâand we are intimate when all-of-the-aboves' schedules permit such a thing.
There are moments less magical, however, when he has accused me of meddling, interfering, sticking my nose into his business, refusing to be completely candid, and in general being the cause of insomnia, incipient ulcers, gray hairs, and threatened demotion to traffic control. Peter is a lieutenant in the Farberville CID; I've been able to offer some assistance in a few of his more perplexing cases. Was he grateful? Was he pleased with my sense of community spirit and dedication to truth and justice for all? Was he the first to rush forward with congratulations for my undeniable prowess in exposing heinous criminals? Does the Pope wear a petticoat?
Despite the critics hovering in the wings to contradict me, I really was minding my own business ( on all three levels, no less) when Sally Fromberger sailed into the Book Depot, clipboard in hand. She glanced down at the ledger in front of me, shook her head at the smudges and eraser sprinkles, and shot me a calculating smile.
“Isn't this a fantastic day?” she demanded with enough gusto to dust the nearest rack of self-help books. She was not much taller than the rack, but almost as broad and certainly as packed with cheery advice and hints on getting oneself organized. Her blond hair glinted, her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed, and her fingers danced on the clipboard. She reminded me of a tomato about to burst. Into song, applause, or merely splatters of pulp, I was never quite sure.
“The sun is shining, the pollen count is down, and I'm only off a few pennies,” I said warily. Clipboards unnerve me.
“The weather's going to be just super this weekend for the Thurberfest. I have a copy of the minutes from the steering committee meeting last night. I spent the morning typing up the reports from all the chairpeople, except yours, of course. We missed you at the meeting, Claire. I hope nothing terrible happened ⦠?”
I gazed over her shoulder at the pedestrians ambling down the sidewalk while I considered a variety of lies. Realizing the futility of the effort, I said, “Sorry about the meeting. I was tied up with a personal situation at home.” I did not elaborate on said situation, since it commenced with a headache, courtesy of my Hitleresque accountant, and escalated with Caron's bright idea that it was time for a learner's permit and legal access to a lethal machine. It concluded with scotch and a new mystery novel with lots of old-fashioned gore.
“Oh,” Sally murmured, flipping through the papers clipped firmly on her clipboard. “Well, here are copies of the committee reports from public relations, parade, pageant, food and drink vendors, clean-up, arts and crafts displays, secondary vendors, program scheduling, media coordination, music, street performers, treasury,
and children's activities. If we had your report on the current status of the Gala Sidewalk Sale, I'd feel a lot better.”
and children's activities. If we had your report on the current status of the Gala Sidewalk Sale, I'd feel a lot better.”
“The sidewalk sale is fine. All the merchants understand they can put out racks or tables and sell whatever merchandise they wish for whatever price they wish for as long as they wish. I didn't realize I needed to write it down and turn it in.”
“By midafternoon, please, and three copies if you get a chance. I think it's really vital that we stay on top of every detail of the street festival, since it's such a wonderful opportunity to bring the community together for a healthy, family-oriented affair.”
She laid down a thick stack of papers, gave me a perky little wave, and sailed away, content in the knowledge that she would have another officious, meaningless paper to retype, copy, and distribute to all the merchants on Thurber Street. All of us filed them in similar cylindrical metal containers, but Sally Fromberger was a happy woman.
Luanne Bradshaw, on the other hand, was not. Later that afternoon she came limping into the bookstore on crutches, her face pale and her eyes glazed with pain. I gaped at the thick tape around her ankle, then came around the counter to make useless gestures. “My lord, Luanne, what happened?”
“Lead me to a chair, a cup of coffee, and a weapon with which to kill our illustrious leader, Sally Fromberger,” Luanne said with a grim smile.
“Two out of three in the office.” I helped her hobble down the aisle, wondering what had led to her condition and mood. Luanne was one of my favorite store owners on the street ( and Caron's, too, although for different reasons) . She materialized a year or so ago and opened
Second Hand Rose, a used-clothing store that had about as many paying customers as the Book Depot. She claimed to be divorced, disillusioned, and disenchanted with murky family entanglements in Connecticut. We occasionally discussed said delicacies over a pitcher in the beer garden across the street, or over serious calories in the Mexican restaurant up the hill. We never discussed anything in Sally Fromberger's health food cafeâon principle. Clipboards unnerve me. Alfalfa sprouts unhinge me.
Second Hand Rose, a used-clothing store that had about as many paying customers as the Book Depot. She claimed to be divorced, disillusioned, and disenchanted with murky family entanglements in Connecticut. We occasionally discussed said delicacies over a pitcher in the beer garden across the street, or over serious calories in the Mexican restaurant up the hill. We never discussed anything in Sally Fromberger's health food cafeâon principle. Clipboards unnerve me. Alfalfa sprouts unhinge me.
“It's the damn Miss Thurberfest beauty pageant,” Luanne said, once we were settled in my tiny office. “Go ahead and say that you told me so over and over again. Harp on the countless times you said that I shouldn't have allowed Sally to browbeat me into directing it, that I should have skipped town, that I've lost my mind and deserve everything I get. Go ahead, Claireârub it in with lots of salt. Just remember I'm in incredible pain and you owe me money for lunch last week.”
“What happened to your ankle?”
“I was on stage with the contestants, trying to explain the four steps for the opening number on the preliminary night. We started with something that would have done Fred Astaire proud, but now we're down to a primitive box step consisting of forward, right, back, left. One would think a herd of cross-eyed cows could be trained to take four simple steps.”
“It doesn't sound like a choreographic nightmare,” I agreed. “Shall I presume that the bevy of would-be beauty queens cannot outstep cross-eyed cows?”
Luanne ran her fingers through her coarse dark hair and sighed. “Presume your heart out. Of the eighteen girls, about half can do the steps, but not to the music. Others lose count 'long about âthree' and come to a full
stop, blinking piteously. The rest then bump into their inert sisters, which results in bruises, tears, and acrimony. We're talking inches from hair-pulling and other forms of sheer brutality. What are they teaching in physical education classes these days?”
stop, blinking piteously. The rest then bump into their inert sisters, which results in bruises, tears, and acrimony. We're talking inches from hair-pulling and other forms of sheer brutality. What are they teaching in physical education classes these days?”
“So you stomped up on stage to straighten them out?” I asked, trying to maintain a properly sympathetic expression.
“I did, and was actually getting into it with enthusiasm. Last year's Miss Thurberfest and I were kicking up our heels, she with the abandon of youth and I with a slightly more restrained abandon, when I caught my heel on a protruding nail and nose-dived over the edge of the stage into the orchestra pit. The last thing I remember is the girls peering down at me, their little eyes wide with awe. I came to at the hospital, where the nurses' little eyes were narrowed with sardonic amusement.”
“Thus winning the title of first fatality at the Miss Thurberfest beauty pageant. Are you going to sue the theater owner for the damage and humiliation due to negligence?”
Luanne sighed again. “You've never met him, have you? I hobbled by this morning to see how the girls were doing, and he rose from the bowels of the orchestra pit to bawl me out for damaging his stage.
Me,
mind you, the me with a sprained ankle, a slight concussion, and a fanny literally black all over with bruises. I thought he was going to snatch away one of my crutches and beat me over the head with it. I ending up apologizing to him. I think I agreed to pay him for repairs.”
Me,
mind you, the me with a sprained ankle, a slight concussion, and a fanny literally black all over with bruises. I thought he was going to snatch away one of my crutches and beat me over the head with it. I ending up apologizing to him. I think I agreed to pay him for repairs.”
“He sounds delightful. How was it going this morning without your supervision and wisdom? If I recall Sally's last hundred-page report correctly, the pageant runs Friday and Saturday nights. The girls still have a few more
days to master the essence of the box step.”
days to master the essence of the box step.”
“Today they were rehearsing their talent acts.” She looked at me, and I looked at her. After a moment of silence, she said, “Baton twirling. Singers with a two-note range: flat and sharp. Dramatic recitations, one of which involves a Statue of Liberty costume with a torch that glows in the dark like a great green phallus. Fly casting. Pet tricks. I nixed the trampoline act and the stir-fry demonstration, thus forcing two more renditions of âThe Impossible Dream.'”
“Why are you doing this, Luanne? Don't give me any more nonsense about civic pride and obligations to the Thurber Street Merchants' Association. The civilians don't give a damn and the merchants are in it to feather their cash registers. In any case, such lofty ideals can be demonstrated in less painful ways than directing a flesh display for doting relatives and pubescent boys. One can gaze coldly at Sally Fromberger and just say no.”
She stuck out her lower lip and did a fair imitation of Caron Malloy when hearing the odds of signing up for a demolition derby. “I did say no. I also said no thank you, I really can't, I'm awfully busy, I'm terminally ill, I'm into Zen, I'm a militant feminist agitator, I don't have any free time, and please oh please don't make me do thisâI'll give you free clothes for a full year. Sally gave me the program for last year's pageant and McWethy's home telephone number so I could book the theater for rehearsals. Let's kill her.”
“I suppose we could slip cyanide into her soybean patty, or suffocate her with tofu, but they'd know who did it.” I gave myself a brief moment to savor the scenario, then shook my head. “We're being childish, Luanne. The more adult approach to the abdication of your position of authority is right there on your ankle.
Tell her you're in too much pain, then go home and stay there until the street festival is done. I'll come by every night with chicken soup and my very own impressions of the parade, the jugglers, and the Gala Sidewalk Sale.”
Tell her you're in too much pain, then go home and stay there until the street festival is done. I'll come by every night with chicken soup and my very own impressions of the parade, the jugglers, and the Gala Sidewalk Sale.”
Luanne leaned down to tidy up an errant strip of adhesive tape. “I did,” she said in a low voice. “Want to know what she suggested?”
“I don't think so. How about another cup of coffee and a rousing discussion of the state of the economy in the face of escalating interest rates? Or if you're in the mood for a good laugh, Caron's reasons why she absolutely has to get a learner's permit or be too embarrassed to show her face in public ever again as long as we both shall live?”
“Sally told me to double up on oyster-shell calcium tablets, then said that I needed an assistant for the rest of the week, someone who's taken a less demanding committee chairpersonship and thus has oodles of free time to help with the last minute minutiae.”
“She doesn't even know how to pronounce that word.”
“Maybe not. But I truly need someone whoâ”
“A recession might help the economy in the long run, you know. When unemployment goes up as a result of cutbacks in the wholesale manufacturingâ”
“A friend who will come to the aid of the Thurberfest, andâ”
“Then we're likely to experience a decrease in the prime lending rate becauseâ”
“A good, loyal friend whoâ”
“The Federal Reserve Board willâ”
“Because of my severely sprained ankleâ”
“Adjust due to the decline in the gross national product!”
“Handle a few itty-bitty details!”
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