Corpse Pose Page 5

  He opened the car door and then hesitated. “Ms. Alexander?”

  A.J. moved to the edge of the porch. “Yes?”

  “If I were you I’d get the locks on those doors changed.”

  Five

  “What was that about?” A.J. inquired, rejoining Elysia in the kitchen.

  “What’s that, pumpkin?”

  “That whole ‘we always rowed ferociously’ bit. Are you trying to attract police suspicion?”

  Elysia’s narrow brows rose. “It’s much better to lay our cards on the table, don’t you think? I remember in the episode ‘Murder at the Peking Opera’…”

  Don’t look now: 221B Baker Street’s Greatest Moments.

  “He thinks we made up a story about an intruder to throw him off my trail,” A.J. interrupted. She rubbed her forehead, trying to smooth away the ache behind her eyes. What a long and horrible day it had been. She was tired and depressed and her back hurt. Being suspected of murdering a loved one was just the icing on the cake.

  Elysia replaced her teacup on the table. “He’d have to be off his twist, wouldn’t he?” She glanced up with a sly smile. “He fancies you.”

  “Mother, he thinks I’m a cold-blooded murderess. He doesn’t fancy me. Except in handcuffs.”

  “Ooh! Naughty.”

  A.J. chose to not hear that. “Anyway, he’s got to be married.”

  Elysia shook her head. “I don’t think so. No ring. And he’s the ring-wearing type.”

  “Then he’s gay.”

  Elysia tittered. “Pumpkin, if there’s one thing I know, it’s men. And that man definitely fancies you.”

  Either men had changed a lot in the years since Easy Mason was breaking hearts, or her mother was not quite the expert she imagined. Apparently Elysia had never noticed that Andy was gay, either. She still believed A.J. could salvage her marriage to a man who couldn’t, to save his life, name a single player in the NFL but could recite the lyrics to every song Judy Garland ever recorded.

  And now that A.J. thought about it, Detective Oberlin reminded her way too much of Nick Grant, Andy’s new “partner.” Grant had the same craggy good looks and overbearing masculinity. And like Detective Oberlin, Grant was in law enforcement. He was an FBI agent. No one would ever suspect that Nick Grant was gay, and no one would ever suspect Detective Jake Oberlin of being gay, but there had to be some reason a healthy, handsome thirtysomething man was not married. If he wasn’t gay, he had Serious Issues.

  Not that A.J. had the slightest interest in Detective Oberlin, with or without issues. One disastrous marriage was enough for any woman. And she wasn’t the type to have a fling—even if she wasn’t totally and completely sick of men. Which she was. Totally. Completely. So why was she even thinking along these lines?

  Following her own train of thought, Elysia suggested, “You could use that, pumpkin.”

  “Use what?” A.J.’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve got to be kidding! The last thing I need is to start another relationship, especially with…with—”

  “Who’s talking about relationships?” Elysia smiled, looking unnervingly like Snow White’s royal stepmum when the mirror gave the right answer. “I don’t mean you should get involved with that good-looking brute. Don’t be silly. You and Andrew are going to patch things up, naturally, but you can use this copper’s interest in you to your advantage.”

  A.J. became aware that her mouth was hanging open. Never a good look. Not for anyone. But whatever she might have answered, assuming she had an answer for the suggestion that she start brushing up her Mata Hari skill set, was lost as the front doorbell rang. From somewhere outside a dog began to bark.

  “That will be the press, I suppose,” Elysia murmured. “Just ignore them. They’ll go away. I wonder if Di has any biscuits.”

  “Why would reporters be ringing the doorbell? How would they know we were here?” A.J. pushed wearily to her feet as the bell rang again. “Does Stillbrook even have a newspaper?” More to the point, did they have a good chiropractor?

  “You could call it that, I suppose. I believe it’s called Our Babbling Brook. Something terribly precious.” Elysia sounded vague. “But I was thinking of the legitimate press, pumpkin. After all, your auntie was a bit of a celebrity in her own world.”

  Did Elysia think the folks from Yoga Journal were banging at the door? A.J. gave it up and made the return trek to the front door. She peered out the side window. A very short and very stout person with a dog stood on her porch.

  She unlocked the door and yanked it open.

  She blinked.

  Apparently one of those suburban lawn gnomes had come to life and was seeking refuge in rural New Jersey. A.J. had a quick impression of a lime green coat, red trousers, black rubber boots, and a hat that looked as if it had been fashioned from a burlap sack—although “fashioned” was probably the wrong word.

  Next to the gnome stood a stocky yellow Lab, tail wagging with nonaggressive enthusiasm. The dog barked a couple of sharp “notice me” barks.

  “Sorry to intrude,” the gnome said in a low sexless voice.

  “Monster!” gasped A.J., addressing the dog, not the gnome.

  How had she forgotten about Monster, her aunt’s beloved four-footed companion for the last decade?

  “Oh, Monster!” Swinging wide the screen, she dropped down on her knees. Monster pushed into her arms, panting his hot doggy breath in her face, his melting brown eyes gazing trustfully into her own. His tail banged against the screen as he wagged it frantically.

  “He remembers you,” the gnome said approvingly. A.J. looked up, wiping impatiently at the tears spilling over her cheeks. Was she going to spend the next week crying every time something caught her off guard? What had happened to her? “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just…so glad to see him.”

  “Sure,” the gnome said understandingly. “You must be A.J. I’m Stella Borin. Di’s tenant and nearest neighbor. I live about a mile down the road.” She waved toward the pasture and the woods beyond. “I heard you were over here, and I thought I’d bring the pooch by. I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear about your auntie.”

  “Thanks,” A.J. replied huskily. She rose and shook Stella’s hand. The woman had a grip like a stevedore. Dark round eyes studied A.J. shrewdly.

  “Stella Borin,” Elysia drawled from behind A.J. “Just back from Fashion Week in Paris?”

  Stella eyed Elysia without favor. “I heard you were back, Elysia.”

  A.J. didn’t remember Stella, so she had to be a relative newcomer to Stillbrook. Elysia, on the other hand, seemed to know her well enough to dislike her. Interesting. Especially since her mother didn’t spend much time in New Jersey these days.

  She found herself wondering how closely in touch Elysia had remained with Aunt Di. All that stuff about “rowing” and not knowing what was in Aunt Di’s will. What was Elysia up to?

  Monster plowed through A.J.’s arms, sidled past Elysia, and disappeared into the house.

  “He’s looking for her,” Stella said grimly. “He’s been waiting for her to pick him up all weekend.”

  A.J. mopped her eyes with her sleeve. “Thanks for bringing him home.”

  Stella shrugged. “He wasn’t happy over at my place. And the cats don’t like him, old gentleman though he is. Do the police have any suspects yet?”

  A.J. shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s terrible. Nothing like this ever happened around here before.”

  “Oh, pish! This used to be mob country,” Elysia broke in. “I suppose it still is. In fact, isn’t your, er, spirit guide some bloke named Stinky Malone, killed in a shootout back in the Roaring Twenties?”

  “Spirit guide?” A.J. repeated.

  “Slapsy Malone,” Stella said a little huffily. “And, yes, he was slain in a shootout, but that was eighty years ago. This is a safe and healthy environment to raise a family. We’ve got excellent schools and any number of local attractions: museums, historical sites, swimm
ing and hiking and horseback riding. We’ve got art galleries and a farmer’s market and antique shops and bookstores and a winery and air balloons and…”

  A.J. wasn’t listening. She was remembering summers spent in Stillbrook: most of her childhood summers and one truly unforgettable—for all the wrong reasons—school year when her parents had separated. The separation hadn’t lasted. Her father and mother were even more miserable apart than they were together, which was saying something. A.J. had loved the summers, but the school year was hell. She hadn’t fit in. In fact, she had stood out like a zebra in a herd of Shetland ponies.

  Deer Hollow Farm and Aunt Di had been her refuge.

  “Are you selling real estate these days?” Elysia inquired. “A.J. won’t be staying here. Her life is in Manhattan.”

  Stella opened her mouth but then seemed to think better of it. “Well, the pooch will be company for you,” she said to A.J. “It gets lonely out here sometimes.”

  “She’ll be staying at the farm with me,” Elysia said.

  “Will she?” Stella looked amused. To A.J. she said, “You’ll find my number in Di’s phone book. You give me a call if you need anything.”

  “Wouldn’t you know if she needed you?” Elysia asked sweetly. “Wouldn’t you see it in your crystal ball?”

  Stella flashed Elysia a surprisingly black look, but the smile she offered A.J. seemed genuine.

  “You come and see me, A.J. Any time you like.”

  “Don’t worry, pumpkin,” Elysia said as A.J. closed the door on the last glimpse of Stella Borin’s Jeep taillights retreating into the twilight. “You won’t have to stay a day beyond the funeral.”

  “The police might have a different idea.” A.J. turned on the parlor light and sat down gingerly on the overstuffed sofa. Her back hurt even more than usual, and she was going to have a colorful set of bruises by morning. Her stomach was growling, but the idea of food made her queasy. What she really wanted was a long hot soak in the tub to loosen up her muscles and warm her bones. A bath and then a long deep sleep.

  Down the hall, Monster could be heard walking slowly from room to room, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

  “Oh, bother the police!” Elysia said with unexpected sharpness. “You leave the police to me.”

  A.J. scrutinized her mother’s face curiously. “You don’t think it was some random madman, do you? You think someone Aunt Di knew killed her.”

  Elysia blinked. “I…suspect no one and everyone,” she said at last.

  “Well, that narrows it down.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with you, pet.” Elysia was unexpectedly earnest. “You’re going to go home and patch things up with Andrew and forget all about this appalling tragedy. I know it will take time, but it’s what Diantha would have wanted.”

  Was it? A.J. wondered. “Actually, what I’m going to do is call a locksmith,” she said, getting up off the sofa.

  “We can call from the farm.” Elysia trailed A.J. into the hall. She meant Starlight Farm, the property she owned on the other side of the valley.

  A.J. took a deep breath. “I’m not going to the farm. I’m going to stay here tonight.”

  Elysia went very still. “You what?” A.J. knew that tone only too well, though it was many years since Elysia had tried it on her.

  “I’m going to be sleeping here.” She hated the fact that she sounded defiant. As though she knew she was in the wrong—which she didn’t. It felt right to stay at Deer Hollow. She felt close to her aunt here. She felt like she had come home.

  “A.J., you cannot stay here.”

  “Detective Oberlin would have said—”

  “I’m not talking legalities,” Elysia exclaimed. “I’m talking common sense. Just a few hours ago someone broke in here!”

  “That’s why I’m calling a locksmith. Anyway, I think Oberlin was probably right. It was probably just a kid on a dare. Or maybe even someone trying to steal a few antiques from a deserted house. I don’t believe he’ll come back now.” She caught sight of the dog vanishing into another room off the hallway. “Anyway, Monster will protect me.”

  “What if it wasn’t a kid or someone trying to nick the silver?” Elysia asked. “Suppose it was the person who murdered Di? Suppose he was looking for something, something that was worth killing for. Do you honestly believe an old dog and a new set of locks is going to stop him?”

  A.J. had a sudden and unnerving picture of a sinister someone creeping up on the house even now. “Jeez, Mother! Do you mind?” She turned to the phone, dialing information and asking for the number of a local locksmith. While the operator looked up the number, she covered the mouthpiece. “It makes sense to stay here since I’ll have to sort through all this stuff.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll find something that will help catch whoever killed Aunt Di.”

  She turned back to the phone as she was connected to the locksmith.

  Finishing her call, A.J. joined Elysia in the kitchen, where her mother stood examining the contents of the refrigerator.

  “I suppose I could manage an omelet,” Elysia was saying vaguely. “If I could find something to put in one…”

  “You don’t have to cook dinner, Mother. Really.”

  “We have to eat.”

  She had a point. A.J. could feel her blood sugar bottoming out. “Green onions,” she pointed out. “Mushrooms.”

  “Mm. Bacon or a bit of ham would be lovely….”

  “Aunt Di was vegetarian. You’re not going to find bacon in her fridge.”

  “I never understood that,” Elysia sighed. “I simply can’t understand people who turn food into a religion. Oh, thank God, here’s some cheese.” She backed out of the fridge, balancing her eggs, mushrooms, and block of cheese.

  A.J. sat at the long pine table while her mother cooked. She couldn’t remember the last time Elysia had prepared a meal for her. She wasn’t sure if she ever had. A.J.’s father had fixed her breakfasts when she was small; the rest of the time they’d eaten out or had delivery. A.J.’s culinary skills were primitive at best. But an adult woman in a metropolis can live quite well on yogurt, diet soda, and Chinese take-out. Once A.J. had married, Andy had done all the cooking. Andy was a wonderful cook. He was going to make some man—probably Nick Grant—a wonderful wife.

  Elysia cracked eggs in a bowl with the casual flare of Andrey Hepburn in Sabrina. She was saying, “If we’re going to stay the night…”

  A.J. snapped back to the present. “Look, Mother,” she said awkwardly. “I was planning…that is…I’d prefer to stay…” The expression on Elysia’s face made her half swallow the rest of her words: “…on my own.”

  Elysia said nothing. Her silence did all the shouting for her.

  “I just need some time to myself. I need some time to think.”

  “I don’t see the point of thinking,” Elysia said shortly. She turned back to the stove.

  A.J. stared unhappily at the elegant and greatly offended line of her mother’s back. She felt horribly guilty. She was supposed to, of course; that was Elysia’s specialty. If only they could really talk, it would be different. But she couldn’t take an evening of advice on how to win back Andy, or worse, seduce that grim-faced cop. She couldn’t listen to Elysia’s catty reminiscences about Diantha. She was too tired to keep her guard up, and that’s what she always had to do with her mother.

  She needed peace and quiet. She needed time to deal with her grief in her own way.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Elysia’s back. “I feel like I have to do this.”

  “People always say that when they simply want their own way, don’t they?”

  “Please don’t be angry.”

  “Angry?” Elysia swung on her heel, smiling with ferocious brightness. “Pumpkin, if you prefer to spend the night all by yourself in this spooky old house with a maniac on the prowl, well, I’ve certainly never been one to interfere.”

  “That’s true,” A.J. said gravely. “And, er, thanks.”<
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  It was just after eight o’clock, and the locksmith had come and gone, when Elysia finally departed. A.J. went through the house double-checking the newly replaced locks on the windows and doors. Monster padded quietly after her, as though hopeful she could locate Diantha where he had failed.

  In the parlor she stopped to examine the groupings of photos on a pie-shaped table. There were several pictures of herself at different stages growing up. She ignored them, reaching for a silver-framed picture of her aunt and Gus Eriksson. Gus had died before A.J. was born, but she felt as though she knew him from documentaries and photographs. He had been a kind of cross between John Muir and Ansel Adams. Now she realized her aunt must have been her own age at the time the photo was taken, just a year or so before Gus’s death from leukemia.

  Gus had one of those bony intelligent faces, not handsome, but memorable. Di had a funny smile in the photo. She looked happy and young. They had never married, but theirs was one of those never-ending loves. Di never found anyone else—and she never looked that innocent and carefree again. But she had been happy, and she had lived a long and fulfilling life, and the thought of that gave A.J. comfort. In time she would get over Andy. There would never be anyone else for her, but she would be happy, and she would live a long and fulfilling life.

  Yeah, right. Doing what? Helping to arrange book signings for panicky writers? Coming up with strategies to revive interest in substandard dog food? Devising ad campaigns to convince consumers of the nutritional benefits of candy bars?

  I’m just tired, she reassured herself. She’d been through a lot over the past few months. It was natural that she’d feel a little depressed, a little dissatisfied with her life. She just needed a break. Maybe a funeral on the edge of civilization wasn’t the ideal vacation from her problems, but the change was bound to do her good. Give her time to sort things out.

  She turned out the light in the front parlor. Monster sat by the front door, waiting patiently to go outside.