Chapter Eleven. The Body under The Billiards Table
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE BODY UNDER THE BILLIARDS TABLE
The scream feels like a delayed reaction, the fire alarm going off when the building has already burned to the ground. It’s loud enough that I could almost believe the noise was coming from me if it wasn’t for the handkerchief waving at the periphery of my vision.
“What have you done?” Bernie has her head thrown back, like she’s accusing the ceiling.
“Nothing,” Felix says. “We—he was—we found him there.”
“I don’t believe you,” she wails as the other residents hurry down the hall. “This was part of your disgusting game, wasn’t it?”
Mervyn arrives in time to hear the last part, and I’m relieved there’s a lawyer on the scene, because surely someone official will magically make sense of the impossible circumstances.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” my grandmother says so fervently that Mervyn puts a hand to his bow tie, flustered.
“I came to see how everyone was getting along,” he explains.
In the resounding silence that follows, his gaze travels to Grandma Lainey and then beyond, to where Bradley’s body lies unmoving under the pool table. I watch the shock play out on his face and wonder if I went that pale and rigid when it hit me what I was seeing.
“Bradley?”
I know Mervyn is asking, Is that Bradley? But for a second it sounds like he’s calling out with the expectation that Bradley will answer. It makes me shudder, like when your fingernail bends the wrong way.
“By God, I knew this place was evil! Bradley,” Bernie moans. “My sweet baby nephew! How could they do this to you?”
“You’ve had a terrible shock,” my grandmother says in a gentler tone than I’ve ever heard her use with Claude’s sister. “Why don’t you come sit down? This calls for a stiff drink.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you people. I don’t feel safe.” Bernie clenches both hands to her chest, staring at us as if we’re a pack of knife-wielding assassins.
“No one is out to—that is, no one wants to … you’re fine,” Grandma Lainey concludes after another unfortunate pause. She probably should have left the consolation to Mrs. A.
Bernie rounds on Mervyn. “Don’t just stand there. Do something!”
It sounds like she expects him to start making arrests. Mervyn clears his throat. “Has anyone checked on the, uh—”
“It’s Bradley,” his aunt wails. “The least you could do is call him by his name!”
Mr. Namura catches Mervyn’s eye and shakes his head, letting him know there’s no point attempting CPR. He must have taken a closer look while the rest of us were distracted by Bernie.
The lawyer’s eyes close briefly.
“I’ll call the police,” he says through a heavy sigh. “Why don’t the rest of you wait in the dining room?” Mervyn starts to close the door to the billiards room before checking himself. “We’d better not disturb the scene.”
Every one of us hears the word he didn’t say, lurking in the slight hesitation before scene. I’ve been so overwhelmed by the fact that someone I talked to a few days ago is … not alive, it hasn’t occurred to me until now that we might be looking at a crime.
Felix falls in beside me as we shuffle out of the room. “He’s not … you don’t think somebody did that? To him?”
It’s a small comfort to realize he’s in the same boat. For us, murder is fake—something you stage with props and makeup. A real death feels totally different. My grandmother’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
“I’m sure it was an accident.” Either she’s psychic, or we’re enough alike that Grandma Lainey can generally guess what’s going through my mind.
“It could have been his heart,” Mrs. A theorizes as we file into the dining room. “An undiagnosed congenital issue.”
Mr. Namura taps his bicep. “Steroids can cause cardiovascular damage.”
“What about cocaine?” Malia turns down the eagerness a few notches at Bernie’s glare. “Fentanyl,” she whispers. “In the drugs.”
With a huff of disgust, Claude’s sister moves to a table at the far end of the room.
It’s hard to say how much time passes after that, because I’m not really seeing the screen of my phone on the table in front of me.
The wail of sirens breaks through the fog, followed by the clank of equipment and squawking radios as emergency personnel flood the lobby.
I catch myself thinking, This is just like TV.
Except the people don’t talk as fast or have square jaws and blowouts.
At one point Grandma Lainey gets up, earning a sharp glance from Bernie. A few minutes later, my grandmother deposits two glasses of orange juice in front of me and Felix, staring at us until we gulp them down. The sugar helps, though I have to breathe through my nose until my stomach settles.
“You’ll be okay,” Grandma Lainey promises, plucking the glass from my unresisting fingers.
“But your feelings are entirely valid,” Mrs. A adds. “If you want to talk through anything.” To her credit, it doesn’t feel like fishing. “Death casts a long shadow.”
Several of my grandmother’s neighbors nod. Have all of them encountered dead bodies before? Under what circumstances? Maybe it’s one of those unavoidable grown-up experiences, like worrying about interest rates and cholesterol.
Before I can ask, Mervyn appears in the doorway with a man in a rumpled suit. I don’t know the technical definition of “middle-aged,” but I’d guess from the silver at his temples he’s somewhere between me and Felix and our grandparents, which probably qualifies.
“This is Detective Ortiz,” Mervyn informs us.
The energy in the room shifts at the word “detective.” The longtime residents are eyeing him with interest, like orcas getting ready to snack on a seal. Mr. Namura is already up and edging closer to the new arrival.
“Are you going to question us?” Malia asks with barely contained excitement.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m here as a courtesy to the family.” Detective Ortiz doesn’t quite smile, but his lips press together as he tips his head. Out of his line of sight, Mr. Namura copies the gesture, practicing it a few times until he gets it right, down to the hands in the pockets.
“I’m his family,” Bernie huffs, like she’s tired of waiting for them to acknowledge her.
“I was referring to his father,” the detective explains.
She presses a hand to her heart. “I was about to call him. That poor man!”
Detective Ortiz acknowledges this with another nod. “He’s been notified.”
Mr. Namura raises his hand. “I notice you’re not wearing a hat.”
“No,” the detective confirms. “I generally don’t. Especially indoors.”
“What happens now?” Bernie demands, hurrying across the room. “Because these people are guilty as sin. It could have been any one of them. Or all of them!” She flings an arm in our general direction.
“What does she think this is, Murder on the Orient Express?” Malia asks my grandmother in her outside voice. “It’s not like he was stabbed twenty times.” After a thoughtful pause, she turns to Detective Ortiz. “Or was he?”
The orange juice in my belly threatens to make a reappearance.
Felix touches my arm. “No blood,” he says, too low for anyone but me to hear.
Right. I exhale as reason returns. The signs of violence would have been impossible to miss, even from across the room.
“We have no reason to believe Mr. Odell’s death was anything but an accident. As I’m sure you know, he suffered from a number of severe allergies.”
“Of course I knew that,” Bernie snaps. “I’m his aunt.” I frown at her, wondering why it sounds slightly off.
“Did he have a reaction to something?” Mr. Gutierrez asks.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” the detective replies.
“They probably haven’t established the cause of death,” Mrs. A points out, and the other residents make noises of agreement.
“Do you suppose they’ll do an autopsy?” Malia wonders out loud.
Mervyn pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly wishing his clients would stop sounding quite so knowledgeable about homicide.
“You see what I’m talking about?” Bernie demands of Detective Ortiz.
“I’ll keep you apprised of any developments,” he says to the room at large.
“Mr. Preszler has my contact information.” Mervyn nods, and the two men depart.
In the corner, Mr. Namura is working on the farewell chin thrust that will undoubtedly be the cornerstone of his next performance as a brooding detective.
If there is a next time. It’s hard to imagine playing at murder right now.
“This isn’t over.” Bernie addresses all of us at once, though she’s mostly looking at my grandmother. She starts to leave, turning back at the last second. “I’m going upstairs and locking my door. And my windows! No one’s getting in there.”
“Silver linings,” Grandma Lainey mutters.
“None of you better follow me!”
“We all live upstairs,” Mrs. A reminds her. “But we could count to a hundred first if it makes you feel better.”
The other woman’s face twists like she has something rude to say, until my grandmother holds up a single finger. “One.”
That sends Bernie hustling out of the room.
Grandma Lainey turns to Felix and me. “How are you holding up?”
Felix checks to see if I want to answer first before shrugging. “Okay, I guess?”
“Same.” I’m too tired to come up with a better response.
My grandmother nods her approval. “Good. Because we still have to call your mother.”
My mother and I don’t always see the world the same way, but we get along okay—especially compared to her relationship with Grandma Lainey.
It’s all tangled up for Mom: my grandmother and Florida and her past. She finds the entire state tacky, overheated, and crawling with bugs, and she’s never seen the charm in Grandma Lainey’s unconventional lifestyle.
That includes her taste in hobbies. Killing Me Softly is one of the many subjects consigned to the vault of We Shall Never Speak of This Again, as my grandmother calls it.
She visualizes it as a battered steamer trunk wrapped in heavy iron chains with bilious green gas seeping out of the cracks.
My mom’s version is probably a beige filing cabinet with neatly tabbed manila folders lined up in alphabetical order.
Does my no-nonsense mom wish her mother would pursue a less gruesome recreational activity, like bird watching or bingo? Sure. But the last time they discussed it, Grandma Lainey said (loudly, in the middle of Red Lobster), “Loosen up. You never liked it when I talked about sex, either.”
It’s possible that’s part of the reason Bernie rubs my grandmother the wrong way.
Her complaints sound enough like my mom’s that it must be like pressing on a bruise.
I try to stay out of the middle when my mother and her mother have a blowup, or better yet, run interference before it gets to that point.
There’s no question that I’m the one who needs to make this call, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it. I delay as long as possible, but after my third glass of water, Grandma Lainey passes me the handset for her landline.
“Time to bite the bullet,” she says. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”
In the end, the call goes surprisingly well.
Or maybe it’s not a total surprise, given that my mother isn’t the type to get hysterical. She would consider that undisciplined, like not folding your clothes as soon as you take them out of the dryer.
It may also have something to do with the fact that I gloss over the details.
As soon as I tell her someone died in Grandma Lainey’s building, Mom jumps to the conclusion that it was one of the permanent residents.
There’s a pause where she digests the information, and I could easily correct her but I just …
don’t. And my mother doesn’t ask who it was or how they passed away, either because that would be in poor taste, or she isn’t personally invested in the lives (or deaths) of Grandma Lainey’s neighbors.
Mom isn’t coldhearted. Everyone has their triggers, and hers are things like clutter and overdue paperwork and realizing her whole menu plan for the week is going to be thrown off because she’s out of this one dried spice and would never dream of going rogue and substituting a different one.
Physical stuff—sickness and bodily fluids and so forth—doesn’t bother her as much, so it makes sense death would fall under that general umbrella.
Maybe that’s what comes from poking around in people’s mouths all day, or maybe she works at an orthodontist because she’s not easily grossed out.
For now, I’m relieved Mom takes the news in stride instead of jumping straight to “You’re coming home!
” or “Put your grandmother on the phone,” which is typically my cue to take cover.
And that means I get to stay, despite the events of the day.