The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  He had just gotten back from his visit to Vasa Korak and was fussing with a Google map on a police department computer, looking for places near Brewster where someone might raise coyotes without people knowing about it. Barton Wilcox’s farm would be such a place, though Barton wouldn’t do such a thing; being almost surrounded on three sides by Great Swamp it had the necessary privacy. Then Woody had called, and, among other things, he had told Bobby about his visit to the crematorium. “It’s an ugly place,” Woody said, “right at the edge of Arcadia in the middle of nowhere.”

  So Bobby started thinking about the Arcadia Management Area that bordered 95 for several miles north of Hope Valley. Arcadia was four times the size of Great Swamp—nearly ten miles from one end to the other and the surrounding area was far less populated. It was something to think about.

  These thoughts, however, were interrupted by Maud Lord’s phone call.

  The more frightened Maud had become, the more powerless she felt. “Do you remember me?” she asked.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lord, how could I forget you? Any new discoveries?”

  “I’m terrified, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  So Bobby decided to make a stop at Ocean Breezes.

  Maud Lord had a one-bedroom apartment in the annex, which contained sixteen small apartments behind the main building. It was attractive enough and furnished with the best of Maud’s own furniture. But it had a built-in drawback. As Maud said, “I’m only going in one direction.” She dreaded the day when she would be transferred to a single room. Even at ninety-five, she liked to think a few choices still lay ahead. It wasn’t a future full of opportunity, but at least she felt she had two or three options. Once sent to a single room, she would have no options left.

  As she waited for Bobby, she made coffee and set out a plate of butter cookies she had made herself. She brushed her hair, put on her blue cardigan and an emerald-and-diamond necklace. She might be ninety-five and terrified, but she also meant to do a little flirting.

  Shortly, Bobby gave a jazzy knock on her door and she called, “It’s open.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Lord, you look great. That’s a great necklace.” He wasn’t sure whether to shake her hand or kiss her cheek, but then he kissed her cheek. It was very soft. Maybe Maud Lord blushed. She stood next to her mission oak round pedestal table that her first husband had bought in 1935.

  They sat down and Maud poured coffee. Bobby took cream and sugar. Though his charm machine was turned up high, it was also finely tuned. His attention was mostly focused on her fear. She smiled with her mouth only. The rest of her face showed distress.

  “So?” asked Bobby, taking a cookie.

  “Too many people are dying here. I know it’s what they’re supposed to do, but this is a statistical mistake.”

  Bobby neither believed her nor disbelieved her, but perhaps he leaned toward belief. After all, he liked Maud Lord. “What cause does the supervisor give?”

  “She says it’s old age, but that’s not a cause. That’s just blather.”

  Maud Lord had lived in her little apartment for nearly ten years. She knew everyone who worked at Ocean Breezes, and she knew many of the residents. Even if she had never grown used to death’s persistent appetite, she had grown accustomed to its calendar—how many died in summer, how many in winter and so on.

  Maud Lord explained all this to Bobby. “Too many have died this month and too many died last month. Something’s wrong.”

  Every night, it seemed, an ambulance arrived and took someone away, sometimes it came more than once. You could tell if a person was alive or dead by whether the ambulance used the siren.

  “They go down that street out there,” said Maud, “and they always wake me up. Not only are too many dying, too many are dying at night. The other night three people died. One was Julie Fiore; we’d had dinner that evening, and she’d been the picture of health. And even though the others had been ill, they hadn’t actually been sinking. It seems unnatural.”

  It didn’t seem that way to Bobby, but then this wasn’t his area of expertise. Maud Lord, on the other hand, watched the departures like a hawk. After all, she was invested.

  “What night was that?” he asked.

  “Thursday night. I know it was Thursday, because police cars were rushing all over town and I didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

  When a resident died, a doctor came from the hospital to certify the death. Then, unless there were prior arrangements, the body was delivered to Brantley’s Funeral Home.

  “Is it one particular doctor?” asked Bobby.

  “I’ve been trying to remember his name all afternoon. It starts with a B.”

  “Dr. Jonathan Balfour?”

  Maud Lord beamed. “You’re so clever. I knew I was right to call you.”

  “And he comes every time?”

  “Of course not, but he comes more than anyone else.”

  “Does Dr. Balfour have any particular friends on the staff?” asked Bobby. “Any woman friends.”

  Maud’s eyes gleamed. “There’s Margaret Hanna. She’s a nurse.”

  “Would she be on duty now?”

  Maud shook her head. “She only works at night.”

  • • •

  Detective Beth Lajoie hated rain. She hated the way drops ran down her neck. She hated getting her feet wet. Starting in 1998, she had done a five-year stint in the financial crimes unit and had helped arrest a guy who had socked away a million bucks of embezzled money so he could live in Brazil. Lajoie condemned the crime but admired the ambition. If she had that kind of money she would relocate to San Pedro de Atacama in the Atacama Desert, which was fifty times drier than Death Valley. That’s how much she hated rain.

  As Detective Lajoie ran from her car to the hospital’s emergency entrance, she held a newspaper over her head to keep her hair from getting wet. Almost as much as rain, she hated running. It put her in a powerful bad mood. Walking up to the triage desk, she knocked on it with a knuckle. “I need to find Dr. Balfour.”

  The young woman behind the desk looked startled, which was many people’s response to Detective Lajoie. “I’m not sure where he is right now.”

  Lajoie put her badge on the counter. “I don’t like the words I’m not sure. I want to know exactly where Balfour is. If you can’t tell me, find someone who can.”

  Within ten minutes it was determined that Dr. Balfour wasn’t in the building. No one could say where he had gone. Then it turned out that Detective Gazzola had come looking for Balfour half an hour earlier. The young woman at the triage desk passed on the news to the rude police lady.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Gazzola?”

  The young woman looked away. “You didn’t ask.”

  Sometimes Beth Lajoie’s smiles were more frightening than her frowns. “Have a really nice day,” she said.

  Dr. Jonathan Balfour lived on Ash Street, in a large apartment that was the bottom floor of a house with a green mansard roof. An ornately columned porch extended across the front of the building. Balfour’s condo had a side entrance. Lajoie rang the bell and knocked, waited, and knocked again. There was a small awning over the steps, but it wasn’t enough to keep her dry. Balfour’s windows were at least six feet tall. Lajoie peered through the closest into a living room that reminded her of a room in a museum—beautiful antiques, no clutter, and nothing out of place. Two tufted leather wingback chairs stood on either side of a fireplace with green and yellow tiles.

  “Nice shit,” said Detective Lajoie. She hurried back to the steps to wait. She was also expecting a call from a Manhattan South vice unit detective, who she had talked to about Maggie Kelly. The detective had called that morning to say he had got a line on where the girl was living. “I’ll send you a box of chocolates,” Lajoie had said.

  The detective had begged off. “My cholesterol’s all over the map.”

  Lajoie liked coincidence; she liked serendipity. She liked the occurrence of the absolutely unexpla
inable. But she didn’t believe any of it. What she liked most was what a teacher had said at the academy. He’d been quoting Louis Pasteur: “In the fields of observation chance favors only the prepared mind.” This principle had guided her during her years as a trooper. So she wasn’t surprised when the Manhattan detective called with the news that he’d picked up Maggie Kelly.

  “But she didn’t have any baby with her,” he said, “and she won’t talk.”

  Detective Lajoie thought for a moment. Although it was only four o’clock, the heavy clouds made it seem later. She hated thinking that the time would change next week. It would make her feel like she was living in Alaska. Not only was San Pedro de Atacama very dry, it was also very bright.

  “Tell her you know that Dr. Balfour delivered her baby. Jonathan Balfour.”

  “I’m on it.”

  As Lajoie waited, she wondered what it would be like to live in a place as nice as Dr. Balfour’s. Her own two-bedroom looked like a cheap Holiday Inn suite without the little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and skin lotion. Even if she bought a picture to hang on the wall, it always ended up an ugly picture. She lacked the gift; she knew she lacked it.

  “Okay, I told her,” said the detective.

  “And?”

  “Scared the holy shit out of her.”

  “Book her. I’ll get busy with extradition.”

  “For selling her baby?”

  “You got it.”

  • • •

  Woody arrived at Balfour’s condo on Ash Street just as Detective Lajoie was pulling out of the driveway in her Mazda 6. “He’s not home!” she shouted.

  Parking at the curb, Woody walked over to Lajoie’s open window.

  “You’ll get soaked,” she said. “Get inside.”

  He climbed in and they talked. She told him about Maggie Kelly, while he told her about Bobby’s discoveries about coyotes.

  “We’re going to nail their pricks to the floor!” said Lajoie happily.

  “Maybe.” He was often surprised by Lajoie’s language, especially when she was dressed like a grade-school teacher.

  “Any chance of putting out an APB on Balfour?”

  “I’ll ask Brotman,” said Woody, “but I doubt it. We still have nothing concrete.”

  “What about a search warrant for his condo?”

  “That might be possible. What d’you think we’d find?”

  “With luck a skull mask.”

  Woody doubted Balfour would be that sloppy.

  “Any news about Carl Krause?” asked Lajoie.

  “Not a word.”

  “He’s probably in Mexico by now.”

  “Why Mexico?”

  “The cool cucumbers go to Canada. The nutjobs head south. It’s always like that. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Woody hadn’t. Once back in his truck, he called Captain Brotman. He was willing to go for the search warrant, but not the APB. “After all, he’s a doctor,” he said. There was a moment of silence. Both Brotman and Woody knew that being a doctor didn’t mean squat.

  “Look,” said Brotman, “if we can’t find him by tomorrow, then I’ll go with the APB.” He agreed, however, to alert various police departments in South County.

  Brotman went on to tell Woody about Bingo’s conversation with a Massachusetts state police detective, Frank Schnell, about body brokers. “Some of these cadavers come from funeral homes. We’ve no idea if Hartmann was interested in this and the primary investigator’s out of the country, but there might be a link with Hamilton Brantley. I’ve tried to call Bingo, but he’s not answering. You know where he is?”

  Woody didn’t.

  After hanging up, Woody tried Bingo without success. This bothered him. In the past ten years Woody had grown increasingly dependent on cell phones. Bingo, Lajoie, Bobby Anderson, and others could be pursuing answers to a hundred questions, but their phones linked them together. They would check in with one another and share information, even Lajoie who was maddeningly independent. Together they formed one connected intelligence, or that’s how it functioned at its best. Being unable to reach Bingo gave Woody an unsettled feeling.

  He’d had gone to Balfour’s condo because of a call from Bobby about his conversation with Maud Lord. Were more people dying at Ocean Breezes than usual? Woody started his truck. Maybe he should talk to Brantley again.

  A wake was being held for Frances Crenner, mother of Jack Crenner, owner of Crenner Millwork. Both sides of the street were lined with cars. A policeman directed traffic. Groups of umbrellas climbed and descended the steps. On one side of the long front porch, four or five men were smoking. Woody was hesitant to bother Brantley, but then he parked his truck back by the carriage house and walked around to the front. He wore a long dark raincoat, but he had no cap and his short hair was plastered to his scalp.

  A middle-aged man by the front steps approached him. Woody found him familiar, but no name came to mind. He didn’t look friendly.

  “You’re Woody Potter, right? The state cop? When’re you going to stop farting around and catch whoever’s driving us crazy, these witches or whoever? The only guy who’s shown any balls is Mackie McNamara, and you threw him in jail.”

  It took a moment to recall that McNamara was one of the men who had tossed bricks through Sister Asherah’s windows. Half a dozen responses went through Woody’s head, and all could get him in trouble.

  “We’re doing all we can,” he said at last.

  “Yeah? Well, it’s not enough. Why’n’t you put somebody in jail?”

  Woody moved past him to the front steps. Wasn’t his concern understandable? Why should he get so angry? “I can only say what I just said. We’re doing what we can.”

  “Yeah, well, bullshit!”

  Woody paused with his back to the man and considered turning around. Through the door in the hall, he saw Brantley talking to Jack Crenner. Brantley’s forehead was wrinkled with concern. Woody opened the door.

  Woody guessed Brantley was sorry to see him, but the funeral director gave no sign of it. His dark blue suit was most likely different from the one that he had worn earlier at the crematorium. He probably had a closet full of blue suits. His silver hair combed back over his head appeared stuck in place with glue.

  “You’re drenched,” whispered Brantley. “Let me get you a towel.”

  “I’m okay.” Woody took off his raincoat.

  “You’ll catch your death.” Brantley took Woody’s coat and then led him to the cloakroom. “Any sign of Carl?”

  About fifty people were in the large room to the right of the hall. Woody saw the casket at the far back on a dais wrapped with a dark maroon fabric. The front half of the lid was open. “I’m told he’s fled to Mexico.”

  Brantley looked doubtful. “Well, I hope they catch him as soon as possible.” He paused as a tall woman came up to him. She was about forty-five, with short black hair, and wore a dark green dress. She moved lightly, like a dancer. Woody thought she was quite beautiful. She said something in Brantley’s ear and kissed his cheek. Giving Woody a smile, she ascended the wide staircase.

  “Is that your wife?” said Woody. “She’s very attractive.”

  “Jenny’s my queen. She’s known the Crenners all her life, and she wanted to give her condolences to the family.”

  “Queen of the Burn Palace,” said Woody, without giving it much thought.

  Brantley’s face turned ugly with anger. It was more of a spasm than an expression. The next moment his face returned to affable blankness. “Jenny has little to do with that part of my life. She rarely comes over here. What can I help you with this time, Detective?”

  Woody made his way toward the casket. Brantley’s reaction surprised him, and he had to digest it. Most of the people in the room were elderly and talked quietly to one another. Brantley followed him.

  “When someone dies at Ocean Breezes,” asked Woody, “is he brought over here?”

  “He or she might easily go someplace else. After all, we
don’t have a monopoly. Still, we’re the only funeral home in Brewster.”

  “What happens if a person leaves his body to a medical school?”

  “If someone dies unexpectedly and the person is an organ donor, the body goes to the hospital. If the entire body is going to a university, then it often comes here first. At times the family wants a service. Or the body will go directly to the responsible facility and the family holds a memorial service at a later date. Each case can be different. And of course it all has to be approved by the medical examiner’s office.”

  Mrs. Crenner lay in her casket with her hands folded across her breast and a rosary wound around her finger. She wore a dark dress and must have been in her mid-eighties when she died. Rouge and makeup combined to make her look the picture of health. The bottom half of the casket was closed.

  “Did you put shoes on her?” asked Woody.

  “Good grief, how can you ask such a thing?”

  Woody shrugged. “Shoes, socks, she could be naked from the waist down. How would anybody know?”

  “What an awful idea. I don’t find that a bit funny.”

  Woody turned away from the casket. Brantley seemed seriously indignant.

  “So you work with Dr. Balfour at Ocean Breezes?”

  “Sometimes. We work with a number of doctors.”

  “I thought he did most of the work over there.”

  “I believe he’s often on call at night, but I’m the wrong one to ask. As I say, we work with a number of doctors.”

  “I’ve heard an unusual number of men and women have died at Ocean Breezes this month.” They were walking back out toward the hall. Brantley nodded to people he knew. One man he patted on the shoulder, with another he shook hands.

  “That’s something you should ask Ocean Breezes about, or City Hall, for that matter.”

  “Don’t you keep records?”

  “Of course we do, but some of the deceased went to other establishments or to the hospital if they are body donors.”

  “What’s your relationship with body brokers?”

  “Are you serious?” asked Brantley, indignantly. “All that goes through the hospital. We’re too small a place to deal with it, although at times a body will come to us after a body broker has done his . . . whatever.”