Drop Dead Gorgeous

  “She asked me if I could call you and bring you in this morning,” Ricky said. “Didn’t exactly say why, but she called me just after five, which is early for me, too, I can tell you. The lady is a martinet. She rips into her stiffs bright and early. You can say no, of course. You’re a writer, I’m a cop. She makes us all jump through hoops, but you—”

  “I owe a lot of coroners,” Sean said briefly. And he liked Gillespie. He was curious as to why she would want to see him again.

  “I’ll be by in ten minutes,” Ricky told him.

  “I’ve got a rental; I can meet you—”

  “Naw, I’ll come by. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened in my life in years.”

  “Ricky, you’re a homicide detective in the big city.”

  “Yeah, sad, ain’t it?”

  Things grew more interesting at the morgue. After traveling lengths of corridors and halls to find Gillespie’s theater of operation, Ricky stood by Sean, watching as Gillespie worked on an older man stretched out on a gurney. “Looks as clean as a newborn babe,” Ricky said. “Not a scratch on him. This guy is a murder victim?”

  “Killed with kindness. His wife made him one apple pie too many. Heart attack,” Gillespie said briefly.

  “Then—” Ricky began.

  “Heart attack—we think by a good, educated guess. According to the laws of the state, since the poor fellow was alone when he expired, we have to make sure. Now, Detective, thanks for bringing me our friend the author. When I’m done with him, I’ll send him home, and you can quiz him later.”

  Ricky glanced at Sean, both amusement and resentment apparent in his gaze. “Okay, Doc, as you say. But I will quiz him later, you know. And we’re old high school buddies. Guys talk, you know?” Ricky waited a few seconds to see if he would be invited to stay anyway.

  He wasn’t. Sean didn’t intend to help him. He was too curious to know what Gillespie was up to.

  “All right, then…” Ricky said, starting out.

  “All right, then. See you soon,” Gillespie said cheerfully.

  Ricky finally left. Dr. Gillespie spoke into the mike, describing the deceased as a man of about seventy-five years of age, six feet in height, two hundred and thirty pounds. She described the outer signs of coronary on his body, the condition of his skin, etcetera, then prepared to make her initial cut. She hesitated—yet Sean was certain the hesitation was a ploy—and turned off the mike.

  “An autopsy doesn’t bother you, Mr. Black, does it?”

  He stared into her eyes and shook his head. “No, ma’am. I had to perform several to get my degree, and assisted at a number of them.”

  “Yes… as a crime writer—or because of your major in forensic anthropology?”

  “Both. And since you seem to know so much about me, why are you asking?”

  She smiled, and he liked her more. A stern old broad with her salt and pepper hair, she could dig into the human body and mind so it seemed, with both thought and compassion.

  “I do know a lot about you. I know of some of the people with whom you studied, and I’ve heard from them that you’re the best. Pity that academics lost you to popular fiction.”

  “You can put a lot of academics into popular fiction. You can say a lot as long as you do it carefully and keep from being sued. So… why am I here? Not to watch you carve up a victim of a heart attack.”

  She shook her head, then sighed softly, glancing at the mike again to assure herself that she had turned it off. “I’ve been here a long time. I can’t tell you what that means in a city like this. Battered babies, cruelly abused by those whose role in life is to protect them from danger and pain and the little hurts. The awful results of gang violence. The kids who got in the way on drive-by shootings. A husband burned to death by his wife. Plane crash victims. Automobile fatalities. The horrors go on and on.”

  Sean nodded, feeling a constriction in his throat, newly impressed by the compassion in this woman who worked with death—violent death—so closely.

  “I understand,” he said quietly.

  “I performed the autopsy on Amanda Olin.”

  Sean felt himself tighten, top to bottom, as if he’d just been encased in shrink-wrap. “Yes?” he said stiffly.

  She studied him. “Well, in my educated opinion, Amanda Olin was murdered. It’s possible to become entangled in vines, but the way the abrasions and bruises surrounded her one ankle… well, it was murder, even if it couldn’t be proven beyond a doubt.”

  “I didn’t murder Mandy,” he said, his tone low, but his voice trembling with a deep fury and bitterness he would never resolve.

  “I believe you,” Gillespie said. “Don’t go getting defensive on me.”

  “I was the one accused.”

  “But you weren’t the only one there, were you?”

  He exhaled. “No. And I’m damned sorry, but I can’t agree with your call on that one, Dr. Gillespie. We were kids. All just kids.”

  “All right. Fine. You’ve got your opinion, I’ve got mine. I’ve seen kids do some pretty stupid vicious things, but no matter. We probably can’t go back and prove a fifteen-year-old crime anyway.”

  Sean lifted his hands, still feeling shaky, resentful. They said that you couldn’t go home. He was a fool to have come here. Even the people he liked seemed compelled to thrust knives into him.

  “So… what’s this about?” he demanded.

  “I’ve got some bones I want you to look at.”

  “What?” he said incredulously.

  “Bones. They’re your specialty, right? Well, they were, before you became mister fame and fortune. Didn’t you work in forensic anthropology?”

  “Right, but—”

  “I know some folks up at the University of Florida who thought you were pretty special.”

  “Did you?” he inquired quietly, somewhat amused at last. “That’s nice to hear, but—”

  “I’d send them out—we send a lot of work like that to the folks at the Smithsonian, you know, or up to UF, but since you’re right here… I thought you might want to look at them for me and give me a few preliminary thoughts.”

  “Sure. Except that something tells me you’re expert enough yourself.”

  “I’d consider yours an outside expert opinion, which would make me happy. You know as well as I do that when we have almost nothing to go on, whatever we can learn is appreciated.”

  Indeed, he knew. That was what had most aroused his curiosity and his compassion in school—bones talked the longest. In his first criminology course, he had heard a guest lecturer give an eloquent speech regarding the dead— in today’s day and age, the dead could tell tales. Murderers were inventive; corpses could be dismembered, decomposed, soaked in acid, destroyed by the elements. But bone was strong, bone was man’s superstructure. Bone could be destroyed, but even burned bone could tell tales. There was nothing in the world so cruel as murder, the theft of life, and there was nothing in the world so heinous as a murderer walking away scot-free from his crime. The dead cried out for justice. Bones could cry the loudest and the longest.

  “Naturally, I have my own thoughts,” Gillespie said.

  “Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “No—I want you to look over the bones first.”

  He shrugged. He still liked Gillespie. So she’d knifed him a few times. Ricky would call her a broad with balls. And now his curiosity was truly piqued.

  “Fine. Lead the way.”

  Gillespie smiled.

  “Mom, Dad, Gramps!”

  Lori greeted her folks with fierce hugs; she was more gentle with her grandfather, but he sensed her care and gave her a bear hug when she would have pulled away.

  “Gramps—” she began softly.

  “I’m not dead yet!” he told her firmly, his eyes, the hazel from which she had inherited her own, shining with a golden sparkle.

  “Dad!” her mother said, appalled.

  “Now, Gloria, I don’t want my gran
ddaughter treating me like glass. Affection is something I certainly have the strength to stomach, and since she left a happy home in New York City to be with me, I want a good old, bone-crunching hug!”

  “Fine! I’ll crunch all your bones!” Lori laughed.

  “And I can crunch harder,” Brendan said, doing so.

  Her father, tall and lean, with thick snow-white hair and a handsomely aging face, was walking into the house, surveying the place. He looked at her with a smile.

  “Great.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “All kinds of problems, though,” her mother said worriedly, “you should have bought new.”

  “Mom, I like the old.”

  She was braced, ready for an argument, but then her mother smiled and nodded and ruffled her hair. “You’re right, it’s got plenty of character, and you always did want to go your own way. You’re doing it well, so I’m going to learn not to criticize.”

  Lori looked at her father with surprise. He shrugged. “Just goes to show, you can teach old dogs new tricks.”

  “James! Are you calling me an old dog?” her mother inquired in mock outrage.

  “Never, my darling, never!” her father protested quickly, slipping his arms around his wife’s waist and offering a look of baffled apology that sent Brendan into gales of laughter. Lori was bemused herself. She didn’t remember her parents getting along quite so well when she was young, nor had she realized that they could be so affectionate to one another.

  “Where’s that breakfast you promised?” her father demanded quickly.

  “Come in, come in, come in!” Brendan invited, and lead them all into the dining room.

  Brendan was a great help, fetching plates, pouring juice, replenishing coffee. Lori was delighted that her bacon, eggs, toast, and waffles came out so well, and that her homecoming was going so well. She’d dreaded this; maybe they had dreaded it, too. And then, inevitably, the conversation veered to the past, where it could not help but intrude upon the present.

  “Lori, did you hear that Sean Black was in town? He’s become some famous author—” her mother began.

  “Michael Shayne!” Brendan chimed in enthusiastically.

  Lori frowned, but Brendan didn’t notice. “Gramma, he came over last night. I couldn’t believe that Mom knew him—he’s my favorite, I mean my absolute favorite!”

  “Lori, should he be reading slasher books like that—” her mother began.

  Lori was about to defend her son’s reading habits, but she didn’t need to. Brendan could take care of himself. “Gramma, he doesn’t write slasher books. I learn so much reading his novels. They’re all about DNA and science and police procedure and medicine and all kinds of stuff. And what’s better than that, he writes about great people, and he makes you understand how people think and work and… well, you’re just going to have to read one of his books to understand!”

  “Well!” Gloria said. She looked at Lori, biting into her lower lip and asking softly, “So you’ve seen him—already?”

  The inference was there, of course, that she’d seen Sean Black before she’d even seen her parents.

  “Yeah,” she said, sipping her coffee, then looking up to realize that not only her mother but her father and Gramps were staring at her hard. She tried to sound casual. “Small world, isn’t it? Jan took us to supper in the Grove, and I ran right into him on my way to the bookshop to get the kids after we ate.”

  “Then he came here!” Brendan said with awe. “Can you believe that? Sean Black came here!”

  There was dead silence. Lori waited for something awful to happen. Like the roof caving in to bury them all so that they could keep staring at one another while encased in white plaster.

  “Well,” her mother said.

  “Sean? Came to your house?” her father said.

  “Why?” Gramps asked.

  “Well, he just stopped by to see if I was okay—” Lori hedged.

  “Why?” Gramps repeated.

  “Because their old friend was so horribly murdered, of course!” her mother said.

  Lori almost spit coffee all over.

  “Yeah, can you imagine, he comes back into town, and his old flame’s best friend is butchered,” her father said, shaking his head.

  “Mom?” Brendan murmured.

  “Dad,” Lori protested.

  “Oh, God, sorry, it’s just that these things upset me so much,” her father murmured. He was a retired stockbroker, one of the social elite, past commodore of the yacht club, and friend to many an attorney—yet passionate in his argument that criminals walked far too freely, criminal rights were far too often set above victim rights, and that most of the fellows making his friends rich should be “fried.” He was an avid proponent of Florida’s electric chair, known as “Old Sparky.” There had been a major debate set in motion recently when a condemned man caught fire in the electric chair. Those against capital punishment had labeled the electric chair dangerous and inhumane. Lori’s father had been quick to point out the fact that the chair was supposed to be damned dangerous, lethal actually, and that criminals should realize that there were dangerous consequences to crime.

  “Mom, a friend of yours was killed?” Brendan asked, looking a little pale.

  “Someone I went to school with, someone I hadn’t seen in years,” Lori said.

  Brendan looked at his grandfather. “What was she to Sean Black?” he demanded.

  Lori gritted her teeth together, wary of the answer.

  “I’m really sorry, Brendan,” her father said. “I shouldn’t have spoken so freely with you here…” He paused, looking at Lori.

  “We lost another friend when we were in school,” Lori said, staring back at her parents. “The girl that Sean was dating at the time. She… drowned.”

  “I guess the cops wanted somebody to be responsible,” her mother said. “They tried to accuse Sean of the crime. They let him go. Unfortunately, this second girl was one of her best friends at the time.”

  “Wow,” Brendan said. “Poor Sean.”

  Lori frowned, watching her mother. She’d always been down on Sean Black. Now, amazingly, it almost sounded as if she was defending him. Lori just wanted the matter put to rest for the moment.

  “Things like this are always scary, and they warn us to be very careful,” she said, rising. “Dad, more coffee? Gramps?”

  “Sure. Hey, young lady, how are the designs going?”

  “Great. Want to see some sketches?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes, yes, of course!” her mother said happily.

  Lori had to drag her portfolio out of the pile of stuff still stacked upstairs, but she was glad to do so, and pleased when her family showed more than filial duty in their responses to her work. After, when she was putting things away, she found that her mother had followed her up to her room,

  “It really is a cute place,” Gloria told her, smiling awkwardly as Lori looked at her.

  “Thanks, I like it.”

  “And we’re close.”

  “Yep.”

  “Think you’re going to like being close to us?”

  “Well, of… of course.”

  Her mother was an attractive woman, slim, petite, much smaller than Lori herself. She wore her hair stylishly short, and her makeup was always perfect. At fifty-six she remained energetic, had gone for a laser peel once, and exercised with discipline. “Sweetheart, I’m happy you’re home. I’m going to try not to be a pest… but it’s hard to be a parent and not a pest. I’m going to respect your opinions, and I’m going to try really hard to respect your privacy. Of course,” she hesitated, vexed, biting her lower lip. “Of course, with such a horrible murderer out there, it isn’t going to be easy. And now with Sean back…”

  “Mom, I’m sorry that you never liked Sean. But he’s not a murderer.”

  Her mother looked startled. Then she smiled suddenly. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant at all. I was wrong about Sean. Dead wrong. O
h, God, what a choice of words.”

  Lori hesitated, hands on her hips.

  “Mom, what are you saying?”

  Her mother shrugged. “Oh, dear, it’s so hard these days… I mean, people just so seldom stay together, and young people just don’t see the things that will matter later in life. When you’re very young and in love, you don’t worry about things like money, career, religion—love itself is so overwhelming. But then, being broke can be downright ugly, and living in poverty can be demeaning and humiliating and miserable and… I admit, I was just so afraid of that boy’s family because I had friends who fell in love and had babies with no-good men and went on welfare and wound up hating their beer-guzzling husbands. One was even a wife beater. And Shelly—that was my friend’s name—couldn’t leave the louse. She always had a black eye, he was abusive to their kids… but she got into this trap and couldn’t leave him. I always knew that Brad would make a good living, and so I guess I wanted you to be with him, and I was horrible about Sean. Well, I was wrong about him. It’s not where or what a man comes from that’s important, but what he is himself. I’m sorry that we didn’t fight harder for him. I’m sorry he wound up the one accused, and that we were all so willing to crucify him. I’d like to tell him so, if I ever get the chance.”

  Lori was stunned. So stunned that she just stood there as her mother shrugged and turned away. Gloria started down the stairs.

  “Mom!”

  Her mother waited.

  Lori hurried to her, and hugged her fiercely. Gloria hugged her back.

  Soon after, her folks left.

  And despite the fact that Sean was in town and a friend had just been brutally murdered, it didn’t seem so terrible to have come home.

  “A young woman, an adult, early twenties, I’d say,” Sean thoughtfully said aloud to Gillespie, who was watching him as he carefully looked over the display of human bones, which didn’t quite complete the human body. She’d been approximately five feet six in life, and at some point suffered a fracture to her right tibia. “It’s difficult to diagnose cause of death, especially with the skull missing, but I can tell you that the head was severed from the body—before or after death, I don’t know.” He stepped back and looked at Gillespie without asking the obvious—where had the bones been found and under what circumstances?