Better Homes and Corpses Read Online Free

Jillian.
    She gave a consenting nod.
    “Ms. Spenser has a condition we call post-traumatic stressdisorder, or PTSD. She has no memory of the morning her mother was killed.”
    That one knocked me for a loop.
    Jillian turned her head toward the wall.
    “Is it permanent?” I asked.
    “Not usually. Those afflicted with PTSD can suffer mental flashbacks and re-experience painful circumstances in the form of intrusive dreams or disturbing memories.”
    “Was it caused by being hit on the head?”
    “Her contusion may have contributed to the condition. In some life-threatening situations, the only way an individual can cope is by going into survival mode. The body goes into shock and the patient tries to forget the traumatic event. The result can be emotional numbness and event-related amnesia.”
    No one prompted me to go into the gory details of the other morning, so I kept my mouth shut. I was just about to get up and leave when a skeletally thin woman with Restylane-injected lips and neon-orange spiky hair burst into the room.
    “Darling, where are you? Mummy’s here.”
    She wore a pink threadbare Chanel suit. Completing her ensemble were patent leather shoes adorned with tarnished interlocking
C
s. She had to be in her sixties but appeared to be trying hard for an earlier decade. She scanned the library, turned, and, without a word, clip-clopped across the marble foyer.
    I was dying to know whose “mummy” she was. I was thrilled when Jillian nodded toward the doorway and explained, “Frances Prescott Hughes, Adam’s mother. Her fifth husband left a few years back for parts unknown after stealing funds from an Internet start-up. And she hated Mother.”
    From what I knew from the press, Caroline Spenser could be a real uppity society maven and cutthroat collector. Was that reason enough to kill her? Why had Adam’s mother hated Caroline? It didn’t seem the right time to ask.
    As Mrs. Arnold went around the room collecting teacups, I grabbed my chance. I went to Jillian and gave her hand a light squeeze. “Please call if you need anything.”
    Jillian clasped my wrist and there was an awkward silence. “Do you have to leave? Can you come back soon? I need you.”
    Mrs. Arnold cleared her throat and pushed me aside. “All Jillian
needs
is her rest. You’re upsetting her.”
    Jillian gave me a mournful look.
    “Sure, Jillian. I’ll be back soon.”
    I waited for Doc on a concrete bench near a huge pond that emptied into the Atlantic. I considered texting him but knew he wasn’t tech-savvy when it came to cell phones and other newfangled gadgets.
Damn.
Doc would be pissed I never turned on the tape recorder.
    Lilies of the valley and crocuses were trying to break through the frozen soil. Spring, a time of new beginnings.
    For Jillian’s sake, I sure as hell hoped so.
    *   *   *
    On the ride back to Montauk, I said, “Isn’t amnesia pretty rare? The only time I’ve seen it is in soap operas or Lifetime movies.”
    “From what you’ve told me, Dr. Greene seems to know what he’s talking about. Many veterans from the Iraq War suffer from PTSD. It’s a real condition, but fortunately, or unfortunately, the memory loss is usually temporary.”
    Doc drove his early model Buick Park Avenue twenty miles below the speed limit on the two-lane highway. In the side-view mirror a mile-long trail of cars snaked behind us.
    “Why would someone murder Caroline Spenser and leave Jillian with just a bump on the head? Maybe the killer heard my car and didn’t have time to finish her off?”
    “I got some info from my fishing buddy, who just happens to be on the case. The murder weapon seems to be something unusual. Long, double-edged, and rusty. Caroline Spenser also had a hematoma on the back of her head.”
    “Did Jillian have any other injuries?”
    Cars were passing us, ignoring the double yellow line. A few flipped Doc the bird. Doc didn’t notice. “No, and there wasn’t any sign of forced entry. I