thirty

Charlotte flipped a light switch. On the other side of the room, a desk lamp with a Tiffany shade came on. The orange and green of the shade made for a dim light, but it illuminated the room enough to maneuver. The lamp sat on a beast of a desk made of dark cherry wood. Three large floor-to-ceiling windows were behind the desk, each with its own set of drapes. The drapes were pulled. The room smelled musty.

“Vince’s office,” Charlotte said, sotto voce.

The sound in the room was a constant, low-level whirring, intermittently interrupted by a ratcheting clack that would go on for some time. Francine recognized it as the noise they’d heard from the hall. It came from a strange-looking machine sitting on a short table to one side of the desk. Charlotte advanced toward it.

Close-up, the strange machine was a black rectangular box with open sides. It was taller than it was long, maybe three feet high and two feet across. Francine estimated its depth to be about a foot and a half. A thin mechanical arm came out from the back, bent over into the open top, and moved around the internal space of the box. It spun some kind of plastic material that it extruded. It seemed to be creating an object. The bottom of the machine reminded Francine of the laser printer they had at home. That was when it hit her.

“It’s a 3-D printer.”

“You know that for sure?” Charlotte asked, examining the device up close.

“No, but what else could it be?”

She continued to stare at it. “I suppose you’re right. How does it work?”

“My understanding is you have to feed a digital blueprint of the object you want to copy into its memory. Then the arm spits out a plastic string as it re-creates the shape of the object it’s supposed to duplicate.”

“If this is a 3-D printer,” Charlotte said, “That would explain a lot.”

“About where the sheath was made for the Vietnam-era knife that killed Camille?”

Charlotte nodded. “That and a lot more. Let’s hope it still has the knife loaded into its memory.”

The two women watched the mechanical arm continue its journey across the internal space in the box. creating something they didn’t yet recognize. “What is it making, do you think?” Francine asked.

“No idea,” Charlotte answered. “But we’ve seen all we need to see. Let’s get out of here.”

“Here meaning this room?”

“And the funeral home.”

“What about Eric?” Francine asked.

“We can question him tomorrow. I think we should let Jud know we’ve located a 3-D printer. Maybe he can do something.”

The women crept out of the room, turning off the light before they opened the door into the brightly lit hallway.

Charlotte took a couple of steps out and stopped abruptly. Francine bumped into her from behind, propelling her forward. Charlotte stopped inches from an apron-clad Myra Papadopoulos, who was leaned against the wall opposite Vince’s office, watching them, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Hi Myra,” Charlotte said, as though there were nothing suspicious about her behavior. She backed up so she and Francine were standing side by side. “Francine and I were looking for a restroom, and that one was already occupied.” She gestured to the women’s room down the hall toward the entryway.

“Ya’ll could have tried the public restrooms outside the parlor. We provide those for the convenience of our funeral guests.” Myra unfolded her arms. Unlike Cass, who projected feminine strength, Myra projected power. Her body was sturdy, and she stared at them with unplucked eyebrows and black eyes that glared threateningly. Her accent, while still Indiana-rural, had gotten a little more refined from her role as a funeral home director’s wife.

“We should have thought of that,” said Charlotte, snapping her fingers at Francine.

“But actually,” Francine chimed in, “we were looking for the kitchen, which is why we were back here. We’re helping Mary Ruth cater tomorrow’s bereavement dinner for Camille Ledfelter, and we thought we’d check out the kitchen ahead of time.”

“Mary Ruth came earlier,” Myra said.

Charlotte thought quickly. “She sent us to double check refrigerator space.”

Myra didn’t look convinced. “Well, I suspect you’ve been to enough funeral dinners here to know where the kitchen is.”

Francine smiled. “Down the hall on the right?”

Myra gave a little bow and gestured for them to go first.

Charlotte led the way, turning in the entryway. Francine’s mind was already throwing up red flags. They knew Myra, like Cass, was familiar with guns, and it would be prudent to assume she was carrying under that apron. As soon as they were in the kitchen, she took in as much of the surroundings as she could with a glance.

The kitchen was serviceable but cramped. It had been modernized with new appliances that only served to take up more space. The stove, refrigerator, and pantry were to the right. To the left of the sink was a long row of cabinets attached to the wall. In front of it was a table with six chairs around it. At it sat Vince Papadopoulos, helping himself to food set out for the family of the deceased to eat. He was the only other one in the room.

“I found some visitors in the hall.” Myra said. “Were you expecting company?”

Vince used his fork to split a small meatball in half. He looked up. “No, but let’s be welcoming. Make yourselves at home, ladies. Have a seat.” He put the half meatball in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

Charlotte didn’t sit, though. She picked up a plate and began to put food on it.

“What are you doing?” Vince asked her.

“You said to make ourselves at home. This is what I do at home.”

Vince eyed her with a great deal of suspicion.

Francine watched Charlotte concentrate on the desserts. There was a banana cream pie, a peanut butter pie with meringue, and a cherry pie. Charlotte took larger pieces of the banana and peanut butter and a smaller piece of the cherry. She picked up a fork and napkin and sat down.

Francine was stunned at her nonchalance. Doesn’t she feel the danger? She was about to reassess the situation when Myra jammed something hard and metallic into her back.

She didn’t need to rethink anything.

“Help yourself to some food like your friend has,” Myra said, her voice mixed with faux hospitality. “Then sit down. You’re going to be here a while.”

It struck Francine that Myra sounded much like her sister Cass had in the graveyard when she’d threatened them with a shotgun. “I think I’ll pass on the food.”

“Too bad,” Charlotte said. “It looks like a pretty good spread.” She used a dessert fork to spear a bite of the cherry pie. She chewed it thoughtfully. “This is canned pie filling, though.”

Myra ignored her and focused on Francine. “Where’s Jonathan?”

“He didn’t come,” Francine said. Too late she realized she should have made them think he was there. It might have distracted them for a while. She tried to cover. “But he knows we’re here. If we’re not home soon, he’ll come looking for us.”

Myra jerked her thumb toward the front of the house. “He might be in with the funeral crowd. Start there and then check the rest of the house.”

“You sure you want me to leave you here alone with them?”

Myra pulled the gun out of the folds of her skirt. She trained it on Charlotte now. “I don’t think they’re likely to try anything.”

Vince wiped his mouth, making sure he’d cleaned any food off his mustache. He gave a quick laugh and left.

Francine wondered how much time they had before Vince came back. Myra took the seat Vince had vacated, which was next to her. She sat just out of Francine’s reach.

“So,” Charlotte said, almost as if she was having a regular conversation with Myra, “you asked us about Jonathan. You want to tell us where Eric is?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Charlotte. We know you don’t know anything about what’s going on. You’re only trying to goad me into revealing information.”

“We know about Jacqueline Consulting,” she answered, matter-of-factly.

Myra seemed curious but as of yet, still unconcerned. “What do you know?”

“Enough.”

Myra studied her. “Meaning you know nothing.”

Francine wasn’t sure where to take this from here. She didn’t know much, but she wasn’t sure about Charlotte. Charlotte had guessed something back in the car. She wasn’t sure convincing Myra they had insight was a good idea, but they needed to keep her talking.

Charlotte finished up the small piece of cherry pie. “We know that Jacqueline Carter died on November 22nd, the same day John F. Kennedy died.”

Myra’s eyes registered a controlled alarm. “Who’s Jacqueline Carter?”

“Jacqueline Carter is the reason your sister divorced Fuzzy,” Charlotte answered.

Myra thought a moment. “And you think there’s a connection to Jackie Kennedy?”

Now it was Charlotte’s turn, and she took her time like they were playing chess. “Did I say there was?” she said eventually, keeping her tone nonchalant. “Maybe it’s more important that Jack is Eric’s middle name. Can I get some tea or something to go with the rest of the pie?”

Myra’s expression tightened. Francine presumed Charlotte had struck gold with the last one. Myra gripped the gun and pointed it at Charlotte.

“The tea?” Charlotte asked. “Can I get some tea?”

“We don’t have any.” Myra said it through clenched teeth.

“How about coffee then?” She pointed to the two insulated coffee carafes sitting in the middle of the table.

This seemed to fluster Myra. She looked from the carafes to Charlotte and back again.

Charlotte took a small bite of the banana cream pie and her face lit up. “Francine, this is wonderful. I know you love bananas. You would really enjoy this pie.”

There was some kind of code going on here that Francine didn’t understand. She liked bananas okay, but didn’t love them. “How is the peanut butter pie?” Francine asked, trying to decode whatever message Charlotte was sending. Maybe the whole purpose was to unsettle Myra.

Charlotte sampled the other piece. “Delicious, but it’s rich. We’ll need coffee or tea to cut the sweetness.” She looked at Myra for approval.

“No,” Myra said. “No coffee or tea.”

Charlotte let out an exasperated breath. “Really, Myra? I thought you were supposed to be hospitable.”

She waved the gun at Francine. “You get the coffee. I don’t trust her.”

“Okay.” Francine got up. She lifted a Styrofoam cup from the small tower of them on the table. She faced Myra as she lifted the carafe and poured coffee into the cup. She handed the cup to Charlotte.

“Thanks. You should pour one for yourself so that you can try the pie too.”

“No more pie is getting cut!” Myra announced. “I want you both seated.”

“Fine. No pie,” Francine said. She poured herself a coffee. “Want one?” she asked their host.

Myra was getting more and more anxious. “No. Now sit down.”

Francine sat. Her best friend half stood. Myra leaned forward in her chair, training the gun on Charlotte. “Easy, now. What are you doing?”

“You said we couldn’t cut any more pie, so I’m passing the rest of mine to Francine so she can try it.”

Myra was suspicious, but she nodded anyway. Charlotte reached across the table holding the plate containing a large piece of banana cream pie and a larger piece of peanut butter pie, each with one small bite out of them.

Myra watched the pie plate carefully. She was seated close enough to Francine that it went nearly in front of her nose. As it crossed, Charlotte flicked the plate with her wrist and the pies slapped Myra in the face. Charlotte followed through with the plate, smacking her nose with it. The plate came off and Myra’s eyes were covered with cream and meringue.

Francine hadn’t known this would happen, but she took advantage of it. She jumped Myra, grabbed the gun away from her and knocked her to the floor. Myra fell backward in the chair, her mouth full of creamy substances.

Charlotte grabbed a dish towel and threw it to Francine. “Stuff it in her mouth before she decides to scream.”

By this time Myra was thrashing around, her thick arms trying to strike Francine in the face. Francine leaned on the overturned chair to control the flailing arms, but she couldn’t stuff the towel in her mouth at the same time. Charlotte was almost in place to do it for Francine when Myra let out a scream.

“Damn,” Francine said. She pushed the chair into Myra’s throat, producing enough of a choke hold that the scream died abruptly. Charlotte shoved the towel in, and the two of them wrestled her into a sitting position back in the chair as Francine held the woman’s hands behind her back.

“Can you find me something to tie her hands with?” Francine asked.

Charlotte looked around but didn’t see anything. She searched the drawers and the cabinets under the countertops. “How about this?” She pulled out a ball of twine. It looked like the kind of thing to tie turkey legs together before roasting the bird on Thanksgiving.

“It’s worth a try.”

Myra struggled but Francine held tight to her arms.

Charlotte hurried over with the twine and a pair of scissors. She cut some rope and tied her hands together as best she could. It was messy looking, but it held.

Francine examined the handiwork. “I think it may be worth double tying this.” She snipped another piece and did a neater job.

“Well, sure, now that I’ve already tied them together it’s easier to do,” Charlotte said.

“I was about to say that.”

“We’ve got to find someplace to stash her. Vince’ll be back any minute.”

They looked around. The only place big enough for Myra to fit was the pantry. Charlotte opened the door. It was full of food staples.

“The restroom!” Francine said.

She peeked out into the hall. It was deserted. Francine whispered a thank you to the heavens, gripped Myra’s upper arms, and dragged her down the hall.

She immediately began kicking. Francine put a hand to Myra’s throat and looked her in the eyes. “I will not hesitate to squeeze if necessary. Understand?” She hoped Myra was sufficiently scared because she wasn’t sure she could actually choke the woman.

Myra’s eyes bulged and she stopped fighting. Charlotte maneuvered around her in the hall and opened the door to the women’s restroom. Francine was relieved to find no one in it. She pushed her in, and Charlotte hit the lock on the inside doorknob before she pushed it shut.

“That won’t hold her too long,” Francine said, wiping her brow. She was sweating from the exertion and the excitement. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What for?”

The women heard a new voice and froze. The voice sounded a lot like Myra’s.

“Cass,” Charlotte said without turning around.

Francine felt the barrel of Cass’s shotgun jab her in the back. Involuntarily, her hands went up. Charlotte noticed it and followed suit.

Cass double-jabbed Francine. “Move. Now.”

“If you shoot me right here, Charlotte will scream before you can do her in with a second bullet. Witnesses back in the parlor will come in and see you. They’ll testify that you were here, were seen going down the hall, and there will be all kinds of messy evidence that you killed us.”

Charlotte chafed. “Speak for yourself, Francine. I don’t want to be ‘messy evidence.’”

“She might have the gun, but she really doesn’t have a choice,” Francine said. Surely Cass can’t do anything without jeopardizing herself. There’s no way for her to get away if she makes good on her threat.

But she didn’t like gambling with their lives. She tried to figure out the next move. Trying to overpower Cass would only get the two of them shot. That would happen instinctively. Plus, she knew taking Cass down wouldn’t be as easy as it had been with Myra. They had no props. They needed a miracle.

Muffled noises came from the women’s restroom.

“What’s going on in there?” Cass asked.

Did she not see us stuff Myra in there?

“Constipation,” Charlotte answered quickly. “I feel for the woman.”

More thumping and banging came from inside. “She’s got it bad,” Cass said.

The door flew open, and Myra lurched out, her hands still tied behind her back, her face still covered with whipped cream and meringue. She slammed into Cass, taking them both down.

Cass’s shotgun clattered down the hall toward the parlor.