Free The Cluttered Corpse by Mary Jane Maffini Page B

dragged off to a combined family dinner and baby propaganda session. In which case her Saturday night would be spent in a lower circle of hell than mine. Although not quite as low as Sally’s.
    I called Sally.
    â€œCan I help? Do laundry? Let you rest? Pick up a new DVD?”
    â€œThanks, Charlotte, but you’d better stay away.”
    Fine. Maybe Sunday would be the new Saturday. Meanwhile, I had stuff to do.
    First I researched stalkers. After all, what did I know about this phenomenon? After prowling on the Web for a while, I was more worried than ever about the connection between stalking and violence. I took some comfort in a description of a type of stalker with poor social skills and sometimes limited intelligence who selected targets, hoping to form a relationship. Apparently, this type had, in addition to inappropriate behavior, a short attention span and could move on quickly when things didn’t work out. Which they wouldn’t. Tony and Kevin might fit that profile, I thought, although it wasn’t clear which one thought he’d win Emmy Lou’s heart by making faces in her bedroom window.
    Of course, I’m not a psychologist and you can’t trust everything you read online. I knew that I needed to talk to people who actually worked in the field. Pepper wouldn’t want to hear from me again, and anyway, she was aware and stepping up patrols. I called an acquaintance who was a social worker and another woman who was the administrator at a shelter to see if they could offer advice. Voice mail again. Naturally on the weekend.
    I made a note to ask my librarian friend, Ramona, to do a literature search for me when the library opened on Monday. Why hadn’t I done that earlier in the day when she would have been in the reference department? I gave myself a mental kick.
    It was now nearing seven and I had nothing better to do than work. Of course, I’d caught up on that the night before. But there was one thing I could do. I put aside my concerns about Kevin and Tony and gave some serious thought to Emmy Lou’s organization problem. I decided to draw up a plan. Plans are my best thing. Normally I would have had one ready by now, but normal seemed to have flown out the window.
    Once I had a commitment from her, we’d need to sort and pack up the plush multitudes before reorganizing her space to display the special ones and set up some kind of storage for the overflow. Then there would be the dreaded decision about which, if any, to discard. I reminded myself to bring man-size tissues.
    Emmy Lou was a busy executive, and I had only one pair of hands. Emmy Lou would make the decisions. I would coach. Someone would have to pick up the bins and haul off the surplus to the Goodwill and the local shelter. We’d probably need to consider installing custom shelves, display cases, or a more complex storage system. I would suggest my friend, Gary Gigantes, a carpenter who was as reasonable and unflappable as he was meticulous. Margaret and I always said, too bad he was married. I in turn would point out that he was also fifty-eight years old. Margaret would merely shrug.
    Emmy Lou and I would sort out who would do what when we agreed to go ahead. Meanwhile, I called the perfect ally for the sort, pack, and move portion: Lilith Carisse.
    To my amazement, she answered her cell phone.
    â€œIt’s Charlotte. Are you free?” I said.
    â€œFinished my shift at the nursing home.”
    â€œI have a little job for you.”
    Lilith is putting herself through college by working a variety of jobs, some odder than others. She solved her rent problem when she moved in with our friend Rose Skipowski. Now Rose has live-in care with Lilith, and Lilith has a whole floor to herself and all the cookies she could ever eat. Jack’s last foster dog, Schopenhauer, has found a permanent home with one disabled dog lover and one lively young dog walker. Win-win.
    â€œWhatcha