“That’s what Maggie and I are hoping you’ll be able to find out.”
CHAPTER 36
Joan felt sick to her stomach.
She had been famished, devouring the food he brought her earlier. Perhaps she had made herself sick, eating too fast. She had even been embarrassed. Here he was holding her captive, possibly hoping to slice out her thyroid at any moment, and she couldn’t wait to wolf down the cheese sandwich and potato chips. But she had always taken solace in food. Why would a time like this be any different?
Her wrists and ankles burned from a night of trying to pull and twist out of the restraints. Her throat felt raw and her voice had gone hoarse from her yells and screams for help. Where was she that no one could hear her? And if Sonny didn’t kill her, would anyone ever find her? No one was probably even looking for her. How pathetic was that? But true. There was no one in her life who would miss her if she disappeared. No one who would notice. All that hard work, losing weight and making herself look good, and for what? When it came right down to it she was still alone.
All along that had been her greatest fear, that she would lose all the weight and still not be happy. Oh, she certainly tried. Over and over again she tried, expecting happiness to arrive with the next man she met. And now she met plenty of men, each time hoping this one would somehow make her feel special, complete. And each time they left her feeling more empty and miserable.
It was something that Dr. P. had warned her about. That she could make a wonderful-looking package who would attract men just like she had always desired, but that someone would still be miserable on the inside.
Damn! She hated when Dr. P. was right, because yes, she was still miserable, but now she no longer had the extra weight to blame. Before, she could fall back on that excuse. If she couldn’t attract a man, it was because of her weight. If she had no friends, it was because of her weight. If she wasn’t a successful artist it was because no one wanted a contract with a fat artist.
She had transferred her tendency to find comfort from food to trying to find it in men. Maybe she could try explaining that to Sonny the next time he stopped by. Would that stop him from trying to slice out her hormone deficiency?
Oh, God! What had she done?
Suddenly her stomach felt as if she were being sliced in two. She tried to curl up to stop the pain but the restraints wouldn’t let her. This pain was not from eating too fast. Could it be food poisoning? Had the mayonnaise in the sandwich gone bad? Now every muscle in her body tensed as she cringed against the cramp that turned her stomach inside out. What was happening to her? She had never felt like this before.
Finally the pain eased. She began to relax. Maybe it was from the panic. Maybe she just needed to stay calm. But not a minute later, her entire body braced itself for a second wave of cramps. And that’s when she knew Sonny had poisoned her.
CHAPTER 37
Maggie let Jacob Marley lead her to his office, down the hallway to the rear of the funeral home. Each time he attempted to place his hand on the small of her back she found a way to make him remove it, either by turning toward him or simply stopping short. She recognized the tactic as a leveling tool, a way for him to gain the upper hand. She couldn’t help thinking that it was probably an occupational hazard. Maybe it worked with his clients, not the dead ones, of course, but the ones who would be vulnerable and making the spending decisions.
Now she watched as he offered his office’s guest chair while he took a seat on the front corner of his desk where he would tower over her. That was when Maggie decided there was something about Jacob Marley she didn’t like. What was worse, there was something about him she didn’t trust.
She remained standing, pretending to be interested in the black-and-white photos that took up one wall, photos of a small boy, presumably young Jacob, an only child, with his mother and father.
“What is it that I can help you with, Maggie? You don’t mind if I call you Maggie, do you?”
“Actually, when it’s official business I prefer Agent O’Dell, thank you.”
“Official business.” He attempted a laugh, but it ended up sounding like a nervous cough. “That sounds serious.”
Before she could bring up Joan Begley, he asked, “Is this about Steve Earlman?”
She had forgotten about the town butcher and only now realized Marley and Marley may have been the funeral home that hadn’t managed to bury him. Or at least, not keep him buried. She leaned against the wall, studying Mr. Jacob Marley. She guessed him to be in his early thirties, a plain-looking man with a weak chin and narrow eyes, but in the expensive black suit and sitting high on the corner of his desk, he looked in control and poised. And he was concerned about Steve Earlman.
“I know it hasn’t been released,” he continued, “but rumor is that Steve’s body showed up in one of those barrels. It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what you’re here to check on, right?”
He was fidgeting, swinging one foot. Marley didn’t look like the type of man who allowed himself to perspire, and yet if she wasn’t mistaken, there were beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. Now Maggie was curious. What exactly was Jacob Marley worried about?
“I really can’t go into any details,” she told him. “But if that were true, what explanation could there be for something like that happening?”
Maggie still believed the killer had access to the body before it made it out to the graveyard. Perhaps he had sneaked into the funeral home after hours. Had there been a break-in that Marley failed to report? Was that what had him worried?
“We buried him in a vault,” he said, then quickly added, “the family requested a vault. You can see for yourself.” He picked up a folder from his desk, handing it to her.
It was Steve Earlman’s file with copies of his funeral arrangements and an itemized invoice. Marley had pulled it. He had been waiting for this visit. He was worried about something and it wasn’t poor Steve Earl-man’s corpse.
She flipped through the file, not sure what she should be looking for. The charges looked standard. No extravagances stood out. And yes, there was a charge of $850 for a vault, not just a vault but something called a “Monticello vault.”
“Our vaults are sealed tight,” he continued. “They’re guaranteed against cracking or seepage.”
“Really? Has anyone ever complained?”
“Excuse me?”
“Has anyone ever asked for their money back?”
He stared at her then finally laughed, this time a loud, hearty, rehearsed one. “Oh, goodness, no. But that’s a good one, Maggie.”
“Agent O’Dell.”
“Excuse me?”
“I really would prefer if you called me Agent O’Dell, Mr. Marley.”
“Oh, sure, of course.”
Maggie searched the rest of the documents in Steve Earlman’s file.
“Actually, I was curious about another client of yours. I understand you worked with Joan Begley to make arrangements for her grandmother’s funeral. Is that right?”
“Joan Begley?”
This seemed to throw him off completely.
“Yes, of course, I worked with Joan last week. We finished the last of the paperwork on Saturday. Was there a problem?”
Jacob Marley seemed more surprised than concerned this time.
