“Death is not an end,” Pete McClandon declared loudly, in a deep baritone voice. “It is only a beginning. A sweet peaceful rest from the madness of life as a human being . . .”
I was glad to have my own purse with me. I had a pack of Salems stuck in the side, and if I could have ever used a cigarette, this was the time. Sitting in the back of the chapel had its advantages. I was nearly the first person out of the funeral home at the end of the service. There would be no procession to the cemetery. Calla was to be cremated. And with the casket closed, and no family to console, the long trip to say goodbye had already occurred.
The threat, then dullness, of the morning sky had changed once again, to a nonthreatening blue with a few strokes of feathery cirrus clouds dabbed on it here and there. I had hoped to see rain clouds in the distance as I exited Calla’s funeral. I had hoped that the world would show some grief and sadness. Lord knew we needed the rain, and there would be something to mark Calla’s passing left behind.
I scanned the parking lot, looking for my Studebaker. Jaeger was supposed to deliver it here once the tires had been repaired, or new ones put on. There weren’t many older Studebaker trucks in town, so my truck was usually easy to pick out of a crowd. But I didn’t see it anywhere.
I stepped aside, off the walk, and found a comfortable spot out of the sun under a tall cottonwood tree. The grass on the lawn of the funeral home had been meticulously cut. Each blade was the exact same height. It looked like carpet, brown stalks with green tips, life trying to hang on through the seasons, summer stubbornly refusing to give into autumn. The grass would go dormant for the winter, and, to my disappointment, I saw no weeds to identify from where I stood.
No matter where I went, I felt the tug of work. I should be working now, but that was just impossible. I had to be where I was at the moment. No matter what. Even if someone had tried to stop me.
I shivered at the thought. Could it have been Herbert who had slashed my tires and cut the phone line, all because he didn’t want me to be at the funeral? Did he know what was going to happen? Surely Duke had interrogated him before he’d arrested him, checked to see if Herbert had an alibi, could account for his time? Maybe he didn’t want me to see him arrested for the murder of my dear friend.
At the very least, it was an explanation for the incidents at the house this morning. But no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn’t quite accept the idea that Herbert was a killer, that he had sneaked onto my land and slashed my tires. Shep would have barked, would have alerted me, and he didn’t. The dog hadn’t done his job, and something about that simple fact bothered me to no end.
Nothing made sense to me at the moment. I dug into my purse and pulled out my pack of cigarettes, just as the crowd began to push out of the funeral home.
I spotted Delia Finch right away, head above the rest, nose to the air, dressed in an appropriate black dress and hat and in a hurry to get away from the funeral home. She almost marched to the sidewalk and headed straight toward the library. I wondered if she’d closed it for the funeral and deprived the taxpayers of the opportunity to borrow a book. It was a catty thought. But I couldn’t help it. I didn’t like that woman.
I lit my Salem and, as always, the menthol was a bit of a surprise to the back of my throat. I coughed and exhaled at the same time.
My head had dropped, and when I brought it back up I came face-to-face with the woman with the broken glasses. “Do you mind if I join you?” she said.
CHAPTER 36
I almost choked on the cigarette smoke again, but my lungs were free. I was glad to see the woman, though not under these circumstances. It would have been easy to think that she was just a figment of my imagination. But she stood before me as real as any other human being, and unlike every other time I had encountered her, this time she wasn’t alone. An unknown man stood next to her.
“I would like some company, thank you” I said, answering her question. Which was the truth. After bearing witness to such a dramatic funeral, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted Hank to lean on, to comfort me, but that, of course, was impossible right now.
The woman was dressed like everyone else, suited for mourning in deep shades of black and gray. A pill box hat sat on her perfectly coifed hair with the netted veil pulled up, so I could look her in the eye. Each stitch of her clothes seemed to be made just for her; the dress fit her like a glove, and she was surprisingly feminine for a woman twenty years my senior. I was immediately aware of the borrowed dress I was wearing; self-conscious and embarrassed.
The woman dug into her purse and pulled out a gold cigarette case. In an orchestrated move that looked like it had been rehearsed a million times, the man produced a shiny silver Zippo lighter, as if by prestidigitation, and rolled the tiny wheel against the flint, producing a steady flame for her.
Before she put the cigarette to the flame, the woman said, “This is my husband, Claude. Professor Claude Tutweiler.” There was no pride in the woman’s voice. It was just a matter-of-fact statement.
I extended my hand to the man, who looked to have the same seamstress or tailor as the woman. His suit looked perfect on him, too, like an extra set of black wool skin had been formed over his entire body. Starting with the man, my mind began to count the number of clothing items in my sight that were black. Deep in the recesses of consciousness a list formed:
Ascot instead of a tie
Belt with three holes left to fill
Black shirt instead of white
Fedora (this man would never wear a trilby) with an adorning black feather (fake? Or a crow’s feather?)
Trousers, double-pleated and cuffed
Umbrella with a smooth black handle and wear marks just starting to show
Wingtip shoes (no galoshes), highly polished
Wool overcoat with black buttons made of wood and painted
I had to take a deep breath and close my eyes for a brief second to make the listing stop. Sometimes, my inclination to organize bordered on madness, and I knew the truth was that I couldn’t stop it any more than I could stop breathing. Along with the list, the index in my mind had a new main entry: Tutweiler, Claude.
“Are you all right?” the woman said.
I opened my eyes to find them both gazing at me with genuine concern. “Yes, well, as much as I can be.” I feigned a quick smile. It was all I could muster. “I’m still in a bit of shock and disbelief,” I said, not sure why I felt comfortable enough to say so.
The man relaxed with a nod. “It was quite an event, unexpected and saddening.” He had a sharp jaw, a Roman nose, and the deepest blue eyes I think I had ever seen. He was a strikingly handsome man, and in appearance perhaps a little younger than the woman, though there were flecks of gray in his perfectly trimmed hair, white wall tires around the ears under the comfortably placed Fedora. He also wore a mustache that was as brown and perfectly edged as a whisk broom. The two of them complimented each other in a planned, paired kind of way, but there were differences between them that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tutweiler,” I said to the man.
He winced. I’m sure he was accustomed to being called “Professor.”
“And you,” he said, without a change in expression. His voice could have melted butter. His accent was flat, almost distant, not noticeable. I was certain that he hadn’t been born or raised in North Dakota. “Miss?”
“I’m Marjorie Trumaine,” I said to Professor Tutweiler, then turned my attention to the woman. “I never caught your name?”
“I’m Nina. Nina Tutweiler, the professor’s wife.” She gazed up at him with pride, or something else, I couldn’t be sure, but when she looked back at me I searched for judgment or superiority and felt none. I was relieved. She made no offer to shake hands or touch me physically in any way. For some reason, I wasn’t surprised.
“It’s nice to finally have a name to put with a face,” I said to Nina Tutweiler.
Before she coul
d say anything, her husband said, “Oh, she must be the one who dusted you off from that nasty fall.”
“I was terribly unstable that day,” Nina said. She took a drag off her cigarette and looked away.
I had nearly forgotten my own cigarette, transfixed by the Tutweilers as I was. I tapped off a long ash and watched it dissipate in the wind before it hit the ground. I thought of Calla being reduced to nothing more than ash and grit, and a lump formed immediately in my throat.
“I would like to properly repay you for your kindness,” Nina said. “There was no announcement of a gathering after the funeral like there normally is.”
“Everyone was convinced that Calla had committed the gravest of sins, that she wasn’t worthy of respectable treatment,” I said with an uncontrollable sneer.
“They were wrong,” Claude said. “But you both knew that, didn’t you?”
Nina sighed and cast an uncomfortable look at Claude. “Would you care to stop by our home for some tea and cookies? Some company on this dreary day would be grand,” she said. “It’s not a buffet, but Calla spoke highly of you to me. You were her local celebrity. She was proud of you.”
“Oh,” Claude said, “she’s the indexer.”
“Yes,” Nina answered. “Calla had all of her books on a special shelf. And she kept a list of all of the questions Marjorie had ever asked of her. The indexes were a part of her legacy, of something that would last on in this world long after she had departed it. You were special to her, Marjorie, but surely you knew that.”
The lump in my throat vanished, and my face flushed red. “I never knew Calla kept a list.”
“She made lots of lists. You and she were more alike than you may know,” Nina said.
“How did you know her so well?” I asked bluntly. It was a question that came out of nowhere, except from my own discomfort. I hadn’t known Nina Tutweiler existed until she had fallen down the library steps.
“That would be my doing,” Claude interjected.
“He’s an English professor at the college,” Nina said. “He and Calla shared a passion. Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I was pulled into her orbit because of Claude, of course.” She smiled over at her husband, who, oddly, was staring past me. “The Victorians were never my favorites, but after spending time with Calla I came to appreciate the Brownings’ poetry and their life together.”
“Dear Nina is a little more of a dramatist. She’s always been quite taken with Shakespeare.”
Nina dropped her cigarette on the ground and smashed the orange coal at the end of it with the toe of her black high-heeled shoe. “To die, to sleep—To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come . . .”
“Shall I reciprocate a little more from your beloved Hamlet?” Claude said.
“Not here,” Nina answered, narrowly. She looked at me. “Claude likes to battle with my memory of verses and sonnets. He finds it entertaining. His memory is much better than mine for holding onto things.”
I had no idea what was being discussed. A gust of wind pushed its way around us, bringing with it the noise of departing vehicles, of people vacating the premises as quickly and dutifully as possible. Along with those noises came voices and footsteps descending upon us.
“Well, look at this,” a familiar voice said from behind me.
I turned around to face Betty Walsh, alone and without an escort, of course. Jaeger was seeing to my truck. Though I had expected to see her with her parents, if I saw her at all.
Betty pushed her way in between the Tutweilers and me, continuing her intrusion—which was how I felt about it. I hoped I’d be able to keep my mouth shut. “It’s Professor Tutweiler and Mrs. Trumaine,” Betty went on, as she came to a stop. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“We just met,” I said coldly.
Betty was about the only person I’d seen since arriving at the funeral home who wasn’t wearing black. She was dressed head to toe in a deep maroon front-pleated dress with a scoop neck and shirred skirt. The trim was acetate satin and glinted in the sunlight. She wore a simple sweater, about two shades darker than her dress, probably to keep herself warm.
I had already created a memory index for Betty. One that included an unmade bed and a Candy Striper’s uniform. I was about to add ill-mannered and brash to the index, as well.
“I just love Professor Tutweiler’s class,” Betty said, then looked at Nina. “Oh, you must be his wife.”
“I am,” Nina said. “Nina Tutweiler.” She extended her hand to Betty, who responded in kind and smiled as Nina stared her in the eyes. “I’m so glad you’re in Claude’s class. He needs enthusiastic students like you.”
“Thank you,” Betty said, withdrawing from Nina. “Well, that was a big surprise in there, wasn’t it, Mrs. Trumaine? I can’t wait to tell Jaeger all about it. It’s a shame he had to miss this.” She stared at me with penetrating eyes, and I looked away, uncomfortable.
The wind subsided, then picked up again, whistling as it went. We all grabbed our skirts, an automatic response that was lost on Claude.
When I looked back at Betty, I could see Claude Tutweiler staring at her. He looked like he had just stepped barefoot on a bee and was trying not to show any pain. It was an unsuccessful attempt at hiding his discomfort.
“Well,” Betty said, “I just wanted to say hello. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Tutweiler. I best be off. I have a shift at the hospital this afternoon.” She paused and looked at me. “I’ll check on Hank as soon as I get there.”
“I’ll be there shortly,” I said.
“I’m sure you will,” Betty replied, then turned and flittered away, disappearing into the parking lot full of departing mourners.
“A first-year, Claude?” Nina said snidely, digging into her purse for something.
“Too early to tell if she’s talented or not,” Claude said, looking away from the direction where Betty had gone.
“I bet it is,” Nina said. She pulled out a piece of paper and offered it to me.
I took it. It was a business card with her name and address on it.
“Please come by for tea this afternoon, if you can,” Nina said. “I’m aware of the situation with your husband. I hope everything will work out the best it can for you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I avoided acknowledging it. “I’ll try to come by. It’s very nice of both of you.” I didn’t want to burden them with my worries about Hank. Not after a funeral. Not ever, really.
“It would be our pleasure,” Claude said. “Any friend of Calla’s is a friend of ours.”
CHAPTER 37
I had never been so glad to see the Studebaker. The parking lot was nearly empty, and I hadn’t been standing alone long. I should have been happy with myself, smugly satisfied that I had been right all along. Calla Eltmore had been murdered. Murdered by Herbert Frakes, according to the Stark County Sheriff’s Department. But I wasn’t smug at all. I was bewildered.
I still couldn’t bring myself to believe that Herbert had killed Calla any more than that Calla had killed herself. It felt like I was right back where I started, adrift in a confusing nightmare that made no sense at all, with no choice but to leave the situation to the authorities. I had to trust that Duke Parsons knew what he was doing. He had to have had evidence and motive to have arrested Herbert in the first place. He had been investigating the suicide the whole time I was questioning it.
Jaeger pulled the truck up to the curb, and Lester pulled in right behind him in the Harvester. A tag team of help and courtesy that lightened my heart.
“I hope you weren’t waitin’ long, Mrs. Trumaine,” Jaeger said, as he slid out from the driver’s seat. He left the engine running and the door open. His knuckles were still marred by grease, and I could smell his sweat as he stopped in front of me. I felt bad. He had done so much for me and Hank that I knew I would never be able to repay him. I didn’t even know where to start.
“No, I haven’t been waiting long. I was talking to a nice couple and that made the time pass.”
“Must have been a light funeral,” Jaeger said, looking around. Lester remained in the truck. He sat watching us, smoking a nonfiltered Lucky Strike. A pack of the cigarettes sat on top of the dash, just within reach.
“The room was packed. Betty was there,” I said.
“I expect she was.” Jaeger’s left eye winced, and, had I not known him as well as I did, I would have missed the expression of discomfort.
“Is everything all right?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Yes, well, no, it’s not. Are you two having troubles?” I couldn’t help myself.
Jaeger sighed. “It’s just that she’s always got one thing to do after another. One minute she’s working at the Rexall, then she’s off to class at the college, then it’s on to piano lessons, candy striping, or something else. Sometimes, I just wish she had time to walk the fields with me, you know? Get lost on the land and listen to the meadowlarks sing. I just wish she’d slow down a bit, that’s all. One day she wants to spend the rest of her life with me, and the next day she won’t answer the phone. We’ve broke up so many times I’ve lost count.”
“She doesn’t seem interested in the farm?” I said.
“She was, but she gets bored fast.”
“And that worries you?”
“Come winter and the hard times, yeah, it worries me. Both of them always come. You know that, Mrs. Trumaine.”
It was clear that Jaeger had doubts about Betty being a good farmer’s wife. I was standing before him in his mother’s best dress, and that must have made him relax enough to open up to me. I was glad to listen.
Jaeger wasn’t going to change, be anything other than what he was—a lover of the land, of the weather, of the seasons—a farmer until the day he died. And I didn’t suspect that Betty Walsh was going to change, either. A child might focus her. I’d seen that happen before, but that was a huge risk, and one I wouldn’t ever suggest to Jaeger. Only he could figure out whether she was the person for him to marry. I wasn’t surprised at his doubt, though. I’d had mine for a little while.
See Also Deception Page 16