Revenge With a Twist (Three Mystery Shorts) Page 2

  It was Muller’s Funeral Home. Anticipating that his next heart attack might well be his last, Oscar Chump had apparently left detailed instructions, Herb Muller informed her, including a request that she, Adele Simpson, the twenty-four-year-old raven-haired cosmetician and sole proprietor of the Wessex Beauty Bar, be the one to do his hair and makeup.

  “But Mr. Muller,” Adele protested, “I’ve never, that is to say, I’ve always worked on...” she was about to say “living,” but when she caught sight of Louanne Winship’s aged and hawk-like image staring at her from across the room, she changed her mind and let the sentence trail away unfinished. Dead or alive, Oscar Chump would always be the most famous, the most charismatic and the most charming client she would ever have.

  And while it is true to say that no one was shedding as many tears as Oscar might have hoped for, the whole town was caught up in the celebrity of his death. An event for which Oscar Chump was extremely well prepared. It was a pity he wasn’t alive to see it, thought Adele, suppressing a giggle as she hung up the phone.

  “I find it extremely odd,” Miss Winship declared when Adele’s reflection reappeared in the mirror above her own, “sending him to Muller’s like that. He should have gone to Tracy’s. That’s where all the Chumps get laid out.”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes,” said Adele blithely. She unfastened the plastic cape from around Miss Winship’s neck and shoulders, and gave it a shake. “He’s going to end up in the ground no matter who lays him out.”

  “For heaven’s sakes, Adele!” Miss Winship stared at her in disbelief. “Oscar’s a fourth-generation Chump and an accomplished pianist. You can’t just send him anywhere. His family has farmed in Wessex County for over one hundred-and-fifty years.”

  “What’s wrong with Muller’s?”

  “It’s an upstart parlour with absolutely no pedigree,” sniffed Miss Winship. “Heaven knows how they stay in business.”

  Now Adele Simpson might not have known Oscar Chump as long as Miss Winship had – Louanne had been at school with Oscar – but she had seen significantly more of him in recent years and thought she might know him just a tiny bit better than Miss Winship. Adele had driven by the Chump place almost every day when she was boarding with her aunt and uncle and attending the Wentworth Beauty Academy in nearby Colville.

  Oscar had become quite the gadabout by then, spending ten months out of every twelve on the road, playing honky-tonk piano and hawking records out of the trunk of his old Buick. When he was away, the old farmhouse stood empty, its white clapboard siding and green trim standing foursquare to the wind and looking sad. Occasionally, someone would hear Oscar’s name on the radio and talk would start up about asking him to play at the band shell in the park, but Oscar always said no. By the time he got home, he said, all he wanted to do was stay there and let the world come to his door.

  Which was exactly how Adele finally met him.

  It was a Saturday night. Adele had just finished giving her Aunt Ida a home permanent and was at the sink, feeling a little sorry for herself. The day had been a real scorcher and the windows in the house were all wide open. Honky-tonk filled the air, and gales of laughter drifted across the fields taunting her with their happy sounds. “That Oscar,” as everybody referred to him, was having a party.

  Adele wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep. Around midnight, her uncle had come stomping down the stairs in his bare feet, his dressing gown flapping behind him. He was hot, he was irritated, and he was threatening to call the police.

  Adele saw her chance and offered to go next door. If she asked nicely, she told her uncle, maybe they’d tone it down. Or even better, she said to herself, ask her in. But ten minutes later, when she hammered on the front door of the Chump house wearing a crisp white blouse and a fresh coat of buzz-buzz pink on her lips, whoever answered it took one look at her and slammed the door shut in her face.

  Not one to give up easily, Adele rapped even harder the second time.

  The blonde who answered was a knock out.

  ***

  When the bell above the shop door jangled, Adele broke free of the past. It was another one of Oscar’s contemporaries…Mrs. Millicent Denomme, uncharacteristically early for her weekly wash-and-set, and so full of excitement her tiny jowls were quivering to beat the band.

  Mrs. Denomme quickly scanned the tiny salon, her eyes lighting up when she saw Miss Winship sitting in front of the mirror turning her head from side to side as she examined her new, tightly wound curls. “Louanne!” Mrs. Denomme exclaimed. “I am so glad I found you.”

  With one regal arch of her brow, Miss Winship took in her friend’s high colour and dishevelled appearance and said, “I assume you’ve heard about Oscar?”

  “I certainly have,” enthused Mrs. Denomme. “Isn’t it tragic?”

  “I would hardly describe Oscar’s death as a tragedy, Millicent,” said Miss Winship. “He was sixty-one-years-old, unmarried and he had a reputation for fast living. His passing was untimely, perhaps,” she conceded, “but certainly not a tragedy.”

  Undeterred, Mrs. Denomme, whose husband was the Chief of Police for Wessex County, set her shopping down on the floor next to the front counter and prepared to wait.

  “I’m almost finished, Mrs. Denomme,” said Adele. She reached for a can of hair spray. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Millicent Denomme scurried across the room and plunked her fat little fanny into the chair next to Miss Winship. She took a white handkerchief from the depths of her purse and dabbed at the perspiration on her neck and forehead and under her chin, then she reopened her purse, tucked her damp handkerchief back inside, and quickly snapped the bag shut again.

  Adele sprayed on.

  “Do pay attention, Adele!” Miss Winship batted at the cloud of perfumed air slowly enveloping her silver grey curls. “I am not heading into a windstorm.”

  “Sorry!” Adele recapped the hair spray and put it away. Mrs. Denomme was her last appointment of the day and she was anxious to get on. Unfortunately, Miss Winship seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “You are obviously bursting at the seams to tell me something, Millicent,” she said to her friend. A little unkindly, Adele thought, as she began to tidy up her station. “What is it?”

  “Well,” said Millicent. She leaned forward, straining the buttons of her summer frock until they threatened to pop open. “You do know that Oscar’s going to Muller’s?”

  “I most certainly do,” said Miss Winship. “In fact, Adele and I were discussing that very subject before you arrived. Weren’t we, Adele?” Miss Winship cast a shrewd glance in Adele’s direction. “Was that not Herb Muller you were speaking with on the telephone?”

  Adele had been sorting through the plastic curlers arranging them by size and colour and she was in no mood to play games. “If you must know,” she said, “I’m doing Mr. Chump’s hair and makeup.” She spied a couple of curlers on the floor and bent over to retrieve them. “And I have to be at Muller’s by six.”

  “How terribly exciting!” breathed Millicent. “Can I come and watch?”

  “Millicent, do control yourself,” snapped Louanne. “Preparing the dead isn’t a social occasion.”

  Mrs. Denomme’s bottom lip began to quiver. “Then why is Caroline Pettit running around town delivering letters?”

  Miss Winship frowned. “I fail to see what that has to do with Oscar’s choice of funeral parlour,” she declared. “What else did you learn?”

  But Mrs. Denomme ignored her. She was already occupied, telling Adele that Caroline Pettit was Eugene Shouldice’s personal secretary. “And,” she explained with a triumphant look in Louanne Winship’s direction, “Eugene Shouldice is Oscar Chump’s lawyer.”

  “Do get on with it, Millicent.”

  “There’s no need to be rude, Louanne. Adele’s much younger than we are. She might not know everyone in town.”

  “Of course, she does. She’s a haird
resser.”

  Adele took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten. After six years in the business, she had come to realize that there was nothing more ill-mannered than an elderly spinster or a suddenly liberated widow. Apparently Mrs. Denomme thought so as well.

  It took a lot of prodding before the plump little woman came round and confessed that, while she hadn’t asked Caroline directly to whom the envelopes were addressed, she had seen her come out of the bank manager’s office and earlier, when she’d been at the drug store to pick up a bottle of witch hazel for old Mrs. Nettle who she looked in on from time to time, she’d overheard the new girl tell Mr. Asselstine that an envelope had arrived from a Mr. Shouldice and she was to bring it to his attention immediately.

  “Mr. Purvis at the bank and Mr. Asselstine at the drug store.” Miss Winship pursed her lips. “Now this is interesting.”

  It certainly was, thought Adele. She’d seen the envelope in Mrs. Denomme’s purse.

  “You don’t suppose it has anything to do with Oscar’s gambling habits, do you?” she asked mischievously. “All those poker parties behind the green door.”

  Miss Winship went white. She scooped up her handbag and hurried towards the cash register.

  “That’ll be four dollars,” called Adele after her. Louanne barely paused. She plunked her money down on the counter and yanked open the door. The bell jangled in alarm.

  Adele reached for a fresh towel. “Something special to mark the occasion I should think,” she said turning to smile at her next client. “Don’t you, Mrs. Denomme?”

  ***

  It should be said at this point that gossip, for gossip’s sake, held little or no interest for Miss Louanne Winship. After twenty years of keeping house for her widowed father and another dozen looking after her older brother with whom she now shared ownership of Winship House, she considered herself more of a social anthropologist. A kind of Margaret Mead who, instead of travelling halfway around the world, had to look no further than her own backyard for subject material. Unfortunately, Louanne’s backyard was often all she saw. And heaven help any errant blossoms or scraggly stems that should appear in her garden.

  Take Oscar, for example. He might have been a Chump, but he was a smarmy little runt. Preferring to hang about with that buffoon Millicent had married. Even as children they’d been as thick as thieves.

  Of course, Oscar always had shown a surprising lack of loyalty. An only child, he’d been expected to take over the family farm, but he had gone “away.” Oh, he’d kept up the old farmhouse, repairing the gutters and giving the door a fresh coat of green paint every few years, but the fields lay fallow and his mother’s prize-winning dahlias ran wild in the back garden. How his mother must have regretted buying that old upright, thought Louanne for the umpteenth time that day, as she turned the corner and briskly walked down the shady street where all the houses had wide verandas and oceans of rhododendrons.

  She had intended to ask Charles what he thought about Oscar’s arrangements, but as soon as she walked in the house, he quickly beat a retreat to his study, shutting the door, and announcing that he did not wish to be disturbed until dinnertime.

  It wasn’t the first time her brother had been morose in recent months. Louanne went through to the kitchen and set her parcels on the table. She’d learned not to press Charles too hard a long time ago. Best make him a good meal. Spring lamb, new potatoes and asparagus. That would cheer him up. But first, she’d go into the garden and spent a few minutes pulling weeds. Pulling weeds always made Louanne feel better. It helped settle her mind and keep her thoughts away from her brother’s gambling debts and the bits of jewellery missing from the late Mrs. Winship’s dressing room. There would be time enough for that later.

  ***

  On the other side of town, Herb Muller stood in the vestibule and anxiously watched the clock.

  He was a small man with moist hands and a pink scalp. If he’d had any hair left beyond the small fringe around his ears, he might well have lost it during the last few hours. Oscar Chump’s funeral was taking its toll on Herb Muller. But he held fast to the knowledge that, when it was over, his position in the county would no longer be in jeopardy. Thanks to Oscar.

  At precisely six o’clock, the outside door opened and in walked Adele looking very professional in her navy-blue suit and little pillbox hat.

  Mr. Muller moved forward to receive her. “May I?” he asked. He indicated the makeup case Adele carried with her.

  “Of course,” said Adele.

  “I am so glad you’re here,” he said in the hushed tones of his profession as she passed him her case. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Where is he?” asked Adele.

  “Mr. Chump is resting in the Burlington room,” said Mr. Muller. He stepped aside so that Adele could precede him down the plushly carpeted hallway.

  “It’s lovely,” said Adele as she entered the high-ceilinged room and noted the green and white striped Queen Anne chairs and the heavy damask curtains lining the walls.

  At the far end of the room stood the most gorgeous coffin Adele had ever seen. It was flanked by two huge sprays of gladioli, and as she moved towards it, Adele picked up the heady scent of lilies and gardenia and, she wrinkled her nose, an undercurrent of air freshener.

  The lid of the coffin was closed. Adele ran her fingertips over the smooth mahogany of its surface.

  “Mr. Chump spared no expense,” whispered the funeral director, “including payment for your services.” He set Adele’s case down on a nearby table. “But you do understand I will need you to come back again in the morning.”

  Adele nodded. “Just make sure you have lots of cold cream and tissue.”

  “Are you ready?”

  Mr. Muller reached for the handle and lifted the lid.

  “Oh, dear,” said Adele. She leaned forward for a closer look. “He does look a little pale, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, he is dead,” said Mr. Muller.

  “How long have I got?” asked Adele, her eyes fixed firmly on Oscar’s face.

  Mr. Muller glanced at his wrist watch. “Forty-five minutes.” He hesitated. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  “Absolutely,” said Adele. She was already thinking about which foundation she should use when Herb Muller drew the curtains behind her and left the room.

  ***

  Feeling quite smug, having both steamed the asparagus to perfection and come up with a theory to explain why Oscar would have his lawyer sending out letters within hours of his death, Louanne pulled on her rubber gloves.

  Dinner had been a quiet affair. Other than a brief acknowledgement of Oscar Chump’s untimely passing, Charles had deftly steered the conversation away from any further discussion. They talked about the weather. It was humid. They discussed their late father’s investments and how they were faring. And they reminisced about the good old days when a penny was worth a penny and a haircut really did cost two bits.

  Their mother had always said he was like a jack-in-the-box. She had cosseted Charles as a child and now her daughter was expected to do the same.

  With the last dish dried and put away, Louanne went in search of her brother. She had the evening all planned. They would have dessert and coffee and perhaps sit outside until dusk. The days were so long at this time of the year, it was a shame to stay inside.

  The study door was closed. “Charles,” she called tapping on the door with her knuckles. “Are you in there?” Receiving no answer, she peeked into the living room. It, too, was empty. Perhaps he was upstairs. She headed up the staircase, sighing over the worn threads of the carpet, and called his name.

  As she walked down the hallway, she thought she heard a door close downstairs. She stopped and listened. The front door opened and then closed again. Moving quickly to the window overlooking the street, Louanne was just in time to see her brother scurry down the front walk towards his car. He carried a small duffle bag at his side. Wherever was he going? It wa
sn’t his bridge night. And Oscar was dead, so he wouldn’t be playing poker either.

  Feeling most put out, Louanne retraced her steps downstairs. She had reached the lower landing and was turning towards the kitchen, which was at the back of the house, when she noticed a long white envelope on the floor of the vestibule.

  It hadn’t been there when she’d come in earlier. She would have seen it.

  Assuming Charles must have dropped it in his rush to leave the house, Louanne bent down to pick it up, fully intending to return the letter to the desk in Charles’ study. Until she saw the return address. Shouldice & Shouldice. Attorneys At Law.

  The envelope was open at one end.

  With shaking fingers, Louanne slid the letter from its envelope and unfolded the heavy white paper.

  “My dear Charles,” it began in a handwriting Miss Winship had not seen for many, many years, “by the time you read this letter, I will have passed on and there will be no more parties behind the green door.

  I have, however, been planning my final performance for quite some time. I suggest you attend should you wish to discharge your debts before my estate is settled.

  Seven-thirty p.m., Muller’s Funeral Home, the evening following my demise.”

  It was simply signed, “Oscar.”

  For a moment, Louanne was tremendously relieved. A little matter of a gambling debt was precisely what she had concluded was behind the mysterious letters. After all hadn’t Asselstine’s raised their prices recently? And that unsavoury bank manager, Mr. Purvis, he was out-of-town more often than not these days. At least, Charles knew where his responsibilities lay.

  It was at that point that Luanne spotted the post script scrawled across the bottom of the page…

  “Do dress accordingly, Charles. It’s ladies only, I’m afraid.”