3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse Read Free Page A

three-foot-tall, two-dimensional rendition of David . Sure enough, Lyndella had recreated Michelangelo’s masterpiece, down to every anatomical detail, completely in dryer lint and minus any censoring of a certain body part. “I don’t know whether I’m impressed or horrified.”
    Thank goodness Lucille couldn’t see these from the vantage point of her wheelchair. I’d never hear the end of it.
    “Picasso had his Blue Period,” said Shirley. “And Lyndella has her Blue Period.” She indicated the polymer figurines. I took a closer look. Many were reproductions of ancient fertility gods, complete with oversized members.
    “I think she creates these just to drive me crazy,” said Shirley. “And this lint kick of hers? Heaven knows where she came up with that, but she insisted the laundry save every scrap of dryer lint for her. She spent weeks sorting and bagging colors, then months working on those—” She paused for a moment to clear her throat. “Pictures. Thankfully, she became bored with lint after awhile and moved on to smaller pursuits.”
    I examined the rest of the lint paintings, half a dozen in all and each replicas of some of the most graphically anatomical and erotic art of the ancient world, including a series of paintings from the bath houses of Pompeii.
    “As you can see, Lyndella doesn’t do anything in moderation,” continued Shirley. “She’s our very own X-rated Martha Stewart.”
    “With a personality to match,” muttered Lucille.
    My mother-in-law knew who Martha Stewart was? Lucille considered television too low-brow a form of entertainment for someone of her intellect. Did she secretly indulge a daytime TV addiction when no one else was home? Maybe I should ask Zack to set up a granny cam to catch the hypocrite in action, considering how she mocked what I did for a living.
    Shelving that idea to explore later, I pulled out my camera and started capturing Lyndella’s handiwork.
    Shirley stepped between the camera lens and a quilted wall hanging I’d focused on. “What are you doing?”
    I quickly explained my idea of a feature article for American Woman .
    “Absolutely not,” she said.
    “Don’t worry. I won’t use any of the racier pieces.”
    “You won’t use any of them. Period. I don’t want my facility looking like Kitsch Central. You’ll irreparably harm my reputation.”
    Her facility? Her reputation? If Lyndella and some of the other residents agreed to an interview, I didn’t see where Shirley Hallstead had any veto power. I was about to tell her so when the door swung open.
    An extremely thin girl in her late teens shuffled into the room. She kept her head down, watching her feet as she methodically placed one in front of the other, as if making a concerted effort to keep from tripping herself. Her Minnie Mouse print scrubs hung over a nearly skeletal frame that screamed anorexia.
    “About time you got here,” said Shirley.
    The girl mumbled a nearly inaudible apology, something to do with a Mrs. Grafton and a missing shoe, but she stopped mid-excuse when Shirley grabbed her by one thin arm and spun her around to face Lucille.
    “This is Reggie Koltzner. She’s one of our aides and will be taking you on a tour of the facility.”
    “I don’t need a tour,” said Lucille. “I told you I’m not staying.”
    “Your doctors say otherwise.” Shirley again addressed Reggie, ignoring Lucille’s very loud harrumph of protest. “When you’re done with the tour, take her to physical therapy. She’s got a ten o’clock appointment with Alvarez. Don’t be late.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Reggie pulled on the wheelchair handles, but Lucille didn’t budge.
    Shirley shook her head and sighed loudly. “The brake, Reggie?”
    Reggie bent and fumbled with the brake release, then wheeled a very pissed Lucille from the room.
    “Damn vo-techs,” said Shirley. “Can you believe this is what they’re turning out? Our tax dollars at work.”
    If she expected a nod of