The Corpse Will Keep

  The Corpse Will Keep

  Pat Capponi

  A DANA LEONI MYSTERY

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Dana, c’mon, ya gotta get up! It’s started again!”

  I pull the blanket over my head, but that does nothing to muffle Michael’s voice or the sound of his knuckles insistently rapping on wood.

  “Go away,” I mutter into my pillow, but that doesn’t work either.

  “Dana! I’m telling ya, Gerry’s gonna blow any second. Ya gotta open the office!”

  I groan, turn my face toward the door. “All right, all right, give me ten minutes. How many are down there?”

  “Five. So far. They woke him up, so ya gotta hurry ’fore he loses it all over them.”

  For a brief, selfish moment, I wonder if that’s the solution we’ve been looking for. Gerry can be a surly, snarly grizzly bear when poked and prodded out of hibernation. Catching sight of him lumbering toward them might be enough to drive those people away. To escape the guilt that comes after that thought, I throw off the covers and sprint to the kettle, plug it in, then dash back to fold the bed up into a couch, tossing the blanket over its cracked leather surface. The office is ready. Two more minutes to dress and brush my hair, pour boiling water and a teaspoon of coffee into a mug, then I can sink into my rocking chair and take a minute to breathe.

  My tiny attic-style windows are frost covered inside and out, and it’s cold enough to freeze a quart of milk. If I had milk. The rooming house is old, and so is the furnace. While the tenants downstairs sweat and complain about the heat, up here we wear socks to bed and shiver ourselves to sleep.

  As the first few sips of coffee penetrate my foggy brain, I realize we must have been on the news again last night. Every time they rehash the story of Mallick and the women we rescued from his basement, we have a new influx of “clients” seeking our help, which wouldn’t be so bad if they had actual cases we could investigate, actual paying cases. So far, it’s been nothing but a litany of sad stories, bizarre requests, and lonely people. Our lives have been disrupted, our patience stretched way past the breaking point.

  Delta Court was never meant to be a place for new beginnings. For some, like Michael, it was a half-step up from a hard life on the streets; for others, like Gerry, who spent most of his years in psychiatric hospitals, it was simply a place where social workers had marooned him when those same institutions were emptying out. Diamond came here, initially at least, to hide from himself and from his family after breaking down at university. Both he and Miss Semple carried a huge burden of shame, of failed expectations. Miss Semple, so lonely and isolated after the death of her husband, got caught up in the free seniors’ excursions to casinos, and, before she really understood what was happening to her, had lost all their life savings.

  It was Maryanne who had brought us together, in life and in her death at the hands of Mallick; Maryanne who’d made us stronger than we ever thought we could be. She helped me reclaim the life I’d almost lost in the wake of a brutal assault that had landed me in hospital, and left me so fearful I could hardly step outside.

  “Hey, Dana, ya decent yet?”

  Gerry. I unlock the door and swing it wide. I glare for the hundredth time at the copper plaque that announces “Dana Leoni, Private Detective” lives here, and prop the door open. It’s the signal he’s been waiting for.

  “All right, go on up, turn left at the top.” That’s Gerry’s growl. He’s been waiting at the second-floor landing with his charge. Those first few days, when we were all enjoying a surfeit of optimism, he’d bring them right to my door, but his legs and his lungs couldn’t handle it. He’s big, over 300 pounds, most of that weight in his enormous belly. I hear him sink with an “Ooof” into a chair he keeps propped against the wall on the landing. I try to work my mouth into some semblance of a welcoming smile.

  The man looks normal enough. Ski jacket, work pants, stub of a cigar clamped in his teeth. He thrusts out his hand, “Jack Stevens,” pumps mine up and down, all the while checking out the walls, the ceiling, the fixtures.

  “So what are you asking?”

  I perk up, and it isn’t just the caffeine kicking in. No one’s asked about our fees before. This could be the real thing.

  “It depends,” I hedge. My computer course in private investigation hasn’t dealt with fee scales yet; I’m only three weeks into it.

  “I know you want out. Caught it on the news.”

  What?

  “’Course, it’s the land I’m interested in, I’d knock down the building. It’s falling apart anyway.”

  I get rid of him quickly. People hear what they want to hear, though how he’s managed to mangle the story so badly is beyond me. Not to mention how offended my landlord would be. Knock it down?

  At first, I think it’s Gerry coming next up the rest of the stairs—very few people can make each step shudder in protest like that—but the man looming in the doorway is a stranger to me, a very large stranger who has to angle his body sideways to enter the room. “Hi,” he mumbles, moving past me to almost collapse in my rocking chair. His breathing is laboured and ragged, the poor man. Those stairs can be a killer.

  “Hi, yourself. How can I help you?”

  Miss Semple, looking a bit frazzled herself, pops her head through the doorway to offer tea to our “guest.” It would be her contribution, she said, back when we were enthusiastic about the future, something to help make people more comfortable. Not one cup of tea has ever made it into this office.

  “Don’t like tea. Ya got coffee?”

  Miss Semple looks at me, knowing about my stash of Taster’s Choice. I nod, a bit ungraciously, and she busies herself with my kettle. My visitor stares at his feet while the kettle boils. He seems to have all the time in the world.

  “Sugar?”

  “Double double.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no milk. Can you drink it black?”

  “No.” We might have broken his heart, he sounds so utterly disappointed. “Nothin’ then.”

  Miss Semple retreats to her room, across the hall from mine. I wish I could go with her, but instead I ask him what he needs from us.

  “My cheque never come. Comes every month, my cheque, my drug card, I take the cheque to the bank, I take my drug card to the drugstore, I pick up my meds, and I pay my rent. Every month. This month, same envelope, but I opened it: no cheque. No drug card. So maybe someone stole it. I need you to find it.” He has a nice face, unlined, no blemishes, but his eyes are vague and watery.

  “My name’s Dana…”

  “I know that.”

  “Okay.” I was hoping to get his name, but that’s all right. “Did you keep the envelope?”

  “Yep.”

  One huge meaty hand comes out of his jacket and jabs the air near me. I take the envelope and look inside. There’s a paper in there. I pull it out and skim the notice. I’ve seen a number of these over the past months.

  “Did you see this?” I wave the notice around.

  “Yep. It’s not my cheque.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “Can’t.”

  “This is from the government. They say you haven’t kept your appointment with your worker, and you have
n’t answered any of their letters. They’re holding your cheque till they hear from you.”

  “But I need to pay my rent. My landlord, he’s not patient, he tells me that all the time. ‘I’m not a patient man, Howie,’ he tells me. ‘Make sure you bring your rent on time.’”

  “Okay, Howie, this is what you need to do. Do you know the drop-in centre up on Queen?” I work relief there, it’s how I manage to pay my own rent. He nods. “Okay. I need you to go there today—this afternoon between one and five o’clock—and talk to Pete. He’ll call the office for you, get it all straightened out. Will you do that?”

  “You can’t help?”

  “I am helping, Howie. I’m sending you to the right place and the right person. Pete is a good guy. I’ll write you a note to give him. Will you go?”

  “I already came here. Now I have to go there.” He sighs heavily. “All right, then. If I have to.”

  “You’re welcome.” I find a piece of paper and scribble a note to Pete, explaining Howie’s predicament, and hand it to him. He’s not eager to go, just stares at the paper I’ve given him, but then lumbers to his feet and heads back downstairs.

  I recognize our third petitioner. She’s the crossing guard with the very active whistle who works up by the elementary school a few blocks west of us. She’s hard to miss—her frenetic blowing starts as soon as her foot hits the street, cars or not, and keeps blasting long bursts of noise all the way across as the children cover their ears and run. Oddly enough, her voice, which I’ve never heard before, matches the whistle in volume and intensity. She doesn’t bother with names or niceties, just plunks down on the couch, her Day-Glo vest flapping around her, and lets it all hang out.

  “People are evil! I don’t understand why God allows them on the earth! He said he loved me! That’s what he said! But he whores around with her! They’ll burn in Hell, both of them! You find her for me! You tell her! God will get her!”

  I rush to close the door, hoping against hope that Sister Jane isn’t in the house, but not before I hear Gerry groan from the very depths of his battered soul, “Oh no, not another religious nut.” I don’t blame him. We’ve only just quelled one holy war, one that pitted Sister Jane against Gerry. All this God talk might stir it right up again.

  Sister Jane. Self-appointed prophet of doom.

  Our landlord at Delta Court is usually careful in his selection of tenants, though not always lucky. His relatives, who help him manage the place, are a little less wary, and sometimes they move too fast, in far too much of a hurry to fill a bed. These occasional missteps mean we are forced to co-exist with hard-core druggies, ladies of the night and their shifty-eyed customers, petty thieves, and individuals further round the bend than it is wise to travel. Sister Jane is in the latter category. She has a religious mania that just won’t quit.

  Of course, not everyone who acts crazy is crazy—that was one of my earliest lessons in this neighbourhood. When Sister Jane first arrived, she didn’t invite pity or calls for an urgent mental health assessment. She was simply mean, a bully, someone who enjoyed scaring people. It gave her a power and a pulpit that life itself had denied her. She banged on every door in the house with her urgent message of salvation. She’d put her sallow face really close to yours, and spittle would fly from between missing front teeth, the words and her breath battering her listener:

  “Do you know Jesus? Have you been saved? Will you be born again in his blood? He’s waiting for your answer and time’s running out. Is all your sinning, and lying, and fornication, is it worth an eternity in Hell?”

  She would take over the common room whenever she found it empty, and read her Bible out loud. She seemed stuck on Revelations. It was peculiar, but I’d hear her smacking her lips like she was eating tasty Kentucky Fried Chicken pieces instead of mouthing her way through the most gory passages. Or she’d pluck the two remaining strings of her battered guitar and in her high, straining voice, somewhat like a cat in heat—and indeed, our poor confused cat came looking for his paramour—sing about damnation. Sister Jane was so over the top that I failed to recognize the effect she was having, especially on Gerry. He started to have nightmares. He didn’t tell anyone about the nights he woke up sweating, certain he could feel the flames tasting his skin. He got dark crescents under his eyes, and stopped his daytime napping altogether. It wasn’t until we were playing cribbage in the common room one afternoon that I realized how troubled he was. He used to wipe the table with us, but now he couldn’t even seem to work up a good insult about our game. His hands were trembling and he kept yawning hugely.

  “Gerry, is everything all right? You seem so tired,” Miss Semple said, watching him try to place the little yellow peg into the hole on the board.

  He just grunted.

  “I don’t mean to pry, Gerry, it’s just you’re not your usual self.”

  “So who the hell am I, then?” he snapped, mashing the peg into the board with one meaty fist. Then he seemed shocked at his own rudeness. “Sorry, sorry, Miss Semple. It’s just, I’m really…Can I ask you a question? You go to church, right? I mean, almost every day, you’re down at your mission?”

  “Yes, the church and the mission are all in the same building.” She was curious then and so was I. The cribbage board was forgotten as we leaned toward one another, making a tight circle with our heads.

  “So you’re pretty close, you and Him?”

  “You could say that.”

  Even though it was fairly cold in the room, there were beads of sweat on his broad forehead. He glowered down at the table.

  “It’s that damn woman. I swear, she’s done something to me, some voodoo. I’m afraid to close my eyes, I start to feel all hot and sweaty, and it’s like something’s breathing down my neck, something real bad, you know? She goes on and on about being born again, I don’t even know what the hell that means, or how a person gets saved. Miss Semple, you know God, and Jesus, and all that crap—is what she’s saying true? Am I going to Hell?” It was easy to forget sometimes that Gerry had been locked up as a child, committed to an institution, that he knew very little about many things we all took for granted, and I guess religion was one of those things.

  I didn’t envy Miss Semple at that moment. She was touched by his distress; anyone would have been. He was so big and yet so vulnerable. She patted his hand where it lay on the card table.

  “Sister Jane is a very confused woman. Her God is all about punishment and retribution. I feel sorry for her, really. Gerry, you’re a good, kind, brave person. All you have to know is that God loves you and wants you to try to be the best person you can be. That’s all.”

  Gerry’s face was really red, and he was trying not to cry. It seemed hard for him to speak, but he took a deep, shuddering breath and asked, “Will you, could you, you know, talk to your God about me? Tell Him not to believe what she’s saying?”

  “I’ll tell Him, Gerry. Don’t you worry. In the meantime, I think I have something that will make you feel better. I’ll be right back.”

  As we watched her leave, Gerry looked at me ruefully. “You’re not gonna laugh at me, are you? And you’re not gonna tell Michael that she got to me, okay? He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

  “I promise.”

  “You got an opinion about all this God stuff?”

  I paused, choosing my words carefully.

  “I don’t know, I think I’m still trying to work that out. But Sister Jane is not the person to learn from, that I know for sure. She’s too full of hate, for one thing. Something is missing in her makeup, Gerry, something you have in spades.”

  Uncomfortable with all this seriousness, Gerry breaks the tension. “What’s that? Fat? You gonna make a fat joke?”

  “She has no heart, Gerry. Just meanness. You gotta feel sorry for her, really. Must be awful being her.”

  He thought about that, his head lowered. “How much longer do you think she’s gonna stay here?”

  “I don’t know. I wish she�
��d leave too. But there can’t be that many places for her to go. Who else would put up with her?”

  At that moment, Miss Semple walked in with her hands behind her back. We looked at her curiously, and she smiled her little smile, telling Gerry to close his eyes for a moment, which he did without protest.

  She draped something over his neck, I couldn’t see what until she moved to the side. Gerry opened his eyes, looked down at his broad expanse of chest, and there, lying resplendently against his heavily stained yellow T-shirt, was a large silver cross.

  “I had to use a strong twine; the old chain wouldn’t have fit you. It was my husband’s, and his father’s before him, and he was about half your size, Gerry. It looks lovely, doesn’t it? It will help protect you from those bad dreams.”

  Gerry’s grubby fingers touched the cross so tentatively, then caressed the metal; his mouth opened but no words came out. He knew how great a gift this was, how much Miss Semple had loved her husband, how much she still missed him. Both he and Miss Semple had tears in their eyes. Gerry stood up, ignoring his chair as it fell behind him, and opened his arms to Miss Semple.

  He slept like a baby after that. Sister Jane seemed to realize she’d lost her power over him, and stopped bringing doom and gloom into the common room, but it was a fragile peace, one that could be broken by this sobbing, screaming crossing guard now seated on my couch.

  “…I’m a Christian woman! A good woman! I go to church every day! I pray that God will punish them! Wipe them from the earth! People are so horrible!”

  “Um, your boyfriend is fooling around?”

  There’s a vein standing out on her forehead, thick and blue and throbbing. Oh, Miss Semple, now’s the time for tea. And sedatives. But she wisely stays in her room across the hall, so instead I get a roll of toilet paper from my tiny bathroom—Kleenex is a luxury I can’t afford—and hand it to her; she unwinds a great gob of paper and blows noisily into it. I pat her knee, murmur consoling nothings as she struggles to get the words out.

  “He said we’d get married. I never would have slept with him if I didn’t believe him. But he never came home last night, I couldn’t find him, and I know he’s out with that whore!”