Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries)

by Tim Cockey

  “I never expected him to get so incensed. Yes, I am a fiercely protective mother lion, as you put it. And Jeffrey is a fiercely loyal son. Loyal to his mother anyway. Jeffrey has always been at war with his father. Richard could make himself very easy to hate. Trust me on that. Jeffrey was somewhat like his uncle in that regard. Except that Jeffrey has a lot more fire in him than Daniel. A lot more anger. I told him what Daniel had told me, and he went … well, berserk. I tried to rein him in but he was absolutely furious with his father. Jeffrey has known in the past about some of his father’s little affairs. But it was the idea that Richard would actually leave me this time, that he would do that to me, throw it in my face, make such a public mess. That’s what Jeffrey could not abide. I wouldn’t tell him the name of the woman. I wasn’t sure what he would do. But he got it out of his uncle easily enough. Jeffrey told me that he tracked the woman down and demanded that she abort that child and that she have nothing else whatever to do with his father. I gather she laughed in his face.”

  “In fact, she slapped his face.”

  Ann Kingman raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Jeffrey didn’t tell me that.”

  “Did he tell you that he planned to have her killed?” Ann said nothing. “I don’t know about you, but that seems to me to be an awfully drastic reaction to a little slap.”

  “Please don’t be cute, Mr. Sewell.”

  “So he did tell you.”

  “I have had no discussion with my son on the matter.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  “Frankly I don’t care what you believe. It happens to be the truth.”

  “Tell me this much. When Helen appeared at your husband’s wake, did you know who she was?”

  “Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone else when that happened. I didn’t know for a fact that this was the woman. I had never seen her. I had no idea what she looked like. But I did know her name: Helen. And there it was, on that damned little name tag of hers. It was disgusting. The whole damned thing is disgusting.”

  “But, of course, Jeffrey had seen her. He had gone out to the place where she worked and tried to strong-arm her for you. Are you trying to say that you didn’t ask your son if this was the woman who your husband had been planning to leave you for?”

  “I didn’t have to. One look at Jeffrey’s face and I knew.”

  “But you didn’t say anything to him?”

  “For one thing, Jeffrey wasn’t in the car with us coming home. He was following in his own car. I rode with Joan and the children. Lord … that one started to get hysterical. Joan. I thought I was going to have to smack her. Her children are in the car, for god’s sake, and she’s shrieking, ‘Who was that woman! What’s going on here?’ I think I told you, Joan was daddy’s little girl.”

  “You did.”

  “Yes. Well, she didn’t take too terribly kindly to this … person ruining her daddy’s wake. I finally had to yell at her to shut her up. I told her that this woman had nothing to do with us and that was the end of it.”

  “She believed you?”

  “She settled down. We agreed that the smart thing was to call our lawyer. Joan was concerned anyway when Michael hadn’t made an appearance at Richard’s wake. That surprised me as well. It turns out he was in some sort of accident on the way there. The roads were horrible, if you recall.”

  “So you phoned him?”

  “Joan did on her cell phone. Michael was at Mercy Hospital. He got to the house not long after we did. Jeffrey was a mess by then. Michael had us all gather here, in the living room. Minus Joan’s children, of course. He sat right where I’m sitting now. He said that the smartest and the safest thing to do at the moment was to remain completely silent on the matter of that woman. He made no implications. Michael was a smart young man. He simply said that we clearly had an unusual situation here, and for the time being, as our lawyer and a concerned family friend, he insisted that we not discuss the matter, not even amongst each other. On that point he was adamant. He reminded us that there was the likelihood of a trial somewhere down the road. He said it quite plainly. ‘You cannot testify to something that you did not hear.’ ”

  “He was telling you that the persons responsible for Helen’s murder were right in this room.”

  “Michael was setting the agenda. He implored us not to discuss the matter. And I took his counsel. As have the rest of my family. Believe that or not.”

  I was shaking my head. “Ann … You’re asking me to believe that because your lawyer told you to stick a gag order on this thing, that you didn’t discuss it with your family?”

  “I did discuss it with Daniel. Once. That’s true.”

  “But not with Jeffrey? Not with your daughter?”

  “Joan and I could not pass two words in a week and neither would be the sadder.”

  “But Jeffrey, Ann. No disrespect here, but this guy’s a mama’s boy. Right?”

  “I told Jeffrey that I was going to obey Michael’s request, and that I wanted him to do so as well.”

  “And the obedient boy clammed up.”

  “I would appreciate your not running down my son in my own house, Mr. Sewell.”

  “But you suspected him of being involved in Helen’s murder. Come on now. This is ridiculous.”

  “Mr. Sewell.” She sighed. “Of course I did. It took me a little while to put it together that Jeffrey must have requested Michael’s help in finding someone who would … do that. It wasn’t until Michael was killed that I figured that part out. I was in a bit of a daze right after the funeral.” She picked up her brandy glass. “I deliberately put myself in one, if you must know. It’s been easier that way.”

  “Sorry to be the one to sober you up.”

  “Don’t be.”

  I wasn’t touching any more of the woman’s brandy tonight. The order had now been given, and the fatigue troops were firing away. Ann Kingman could see that I was struggling to stay alert.

  “I’ve been worried about Jeffrey ever since Michael was murdered. I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “Why haven’t you just asked your son?”

  “I have. I asked him to tell me what he knew about this girl’s murder. He said he knew nothing.”

  “He lied to you.”

  “He’s protecting me.”

  “Fiercely loyal little cub.”

  “Jeffrey’s not a cub, Mr. Sewell.”

  “He’s guilty of murder. I don’t really care what you call him.”

  Ann Kingman picked up the pistol and bounced it in her palm, as if testing its weight.

  “You weren’t supposed to say that.”

  “You’re loyal. But you’re not stupid. You don’t think the police are going to piece this together?”

  “You came over in the middle of the night. Stinking of brandy.” She smiled when she said that. “You’ve come around several times since the funeral. Neighbors spotted you out at the park just a few days ago. You were here earlier today. In your hearse. Don’t think that didn’t draw some attention. Perhaps I had a sense that you were stalking me for some reason? Then tonight you forced your way in. A woman has the right to defend herself.”

  “You’ve been reading too many cheap mysteries.”

  “I told you, I can’t sleep.”

  Sleep. The very sound of the word was acting as a narcotic. Ann Kingman was growing blurry. Even the light that was catching the silver pistol, as she bounced the little gun in her hand, was blurring. I was dropping off. I suppose this might sound peculiar to some people. Not to me. I’m a person who regularly falls asleep in the dentist’s chair. Maybe it’s a denial response, who knows. Whatever the case, the full-scale assault was on, and the last thing I remember was blinking slowly and leadenly, the woman in front of me with the pistol fading out more and more with each slow blink … until finally … she was gone.

  CHAPTER 25

  The cushions on the Kingmans’ couch had slipcovers on them, somewhat like envelopes wi
th flaps, held in place with large plastic buttons. I awoke with my cheek pressed into one of these buttons. I was alone in the living room. It was daylight. A light snow was falling outside. I rolled to an upright position. I picked up the high school photo of Jeffrey Kingman from the nearby end table and squinted at the sliver of my reflection afforded by the gold frame. The plastic button had left a perfect impression of itself on my cheek. I tilted the frame to have a look at my morning hair and my whiskers. I was lovely to look at, no two ways around it.

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee came into the room, followed by Ann Kingman. She was out of her robe now and was dressed in slacks and a sweater. There was no pistol in sight.

  “Good morning.” She sounded pleasant enough.

  “You didn’t shoot me.”

  “That’s correct. Would you care for some coffee?”

  The inside of my head felt as messed up and gone-to-hell as the outside looked. A hot cup of joe seemed like just the glue to start putting the pieces back together. I followed Ann Kingman into the kitchen. It was large and clean and modern and had a little breakfast nook—an add-on—jutting out into the backyard. We took our coffee there, on a linoleum table, surrounded on three sides by ceiling to floor glass. The coffee traveled all the way to my toes. It was so good I could have kissed the chef, except that she had been holding a gun on me just several hours previous. I held the mug just under my chin and took in the steam.

  “How are you feeling? You dropped off like a rock.”

  “I had a long day yesterday,” I said. “I’m coming back to life. What time is it, anyway?”

  “A little past ten.”

  I had no clue if I was supposed to be somewhere or not. My head wasn’t up to speed yet for that sort of thing. I took another few sips of coffee and looked out at the snow coming down. It was a real snowfall, not just a passing flurry. It was sticking. I heard a little voice within me praying that Bonnie had called for snow in her last forecast. The poor woman needed a break. I was feeling very paternal toward Bonnie Nash. Which suggested to me that I was adjusting to the new distance that I gathered had started to grow between us. Sometimes you can just feel these things. I was feeling it.

  “I’ve phoned Jeffrey,” Ann Kingman said, interrupting my reverie. “I told him you were making some accusations and I needed him right away. He should be here any minute.”

  “Was that such a wise thing to do?”

  “You said it yourself last night. If you’ve figured it out, the police can’t be far behind. I want to stay out ahead of this thing.”

  I didn’t quite like the sound of that. “What exactly does that mean?”

  Ann Kingman was looking up at the snow falling and melting on the glass overhead. She aimed her answer in its direction. “I don’t want my son to go to jail. It seems so … It serves no purpose.”

  “A woman was killed,” I reminded her.

  “Jeffrey didn’t shoot her.”

  “He’s responsible.”

  She quit her snowflakes and looked over at me. It wasn’t a friendly look. “I said this to you already last night. Ultimately, Richard is responsible. He started this whole mess in the first place. Richard is now dead. So is Michael. And Sheila, poor girl. That’s three deaths for one. What practical purpose does it serve to drag Jeffrey into this? Or to throw him in jail?”

  “The law isn’t about ‘practical purposes,’ ” I said. “People who go around arranging murders are supposed to be hauled in for it.”

  “Please. My son doesn’t ‘go around arranging murders.’ You can rest assured that he won’t do something like this again.”

  “Am I supposed to tell that to Helen Waggoner’s sister? The boy is sorry? His mother promises he won’t do this sort of thing ever again?”

  “I don’t know a thing about any sister. It’s none of my concern what you tell her so long as you leave Jeffrey’s name out of it. Tell her that the man who arranged for her sister’s murder is dead. That is the truth. What more does she want for crying out loud?”

  I set down my mug and glared at her. “Mrs. Kingman. Ann. Lady. I don’t like you very much.”

  “I’ll survive your disdain, I’m sure.”

  She got up and took my mug over to the counter to freshen it. Impeccable hostess skills. Shabby values.

  “Since you chose not to shoot me—for which, by the way, I am eternally grateful—what do you propose to do about me? I’m a blabbermouth, I’m telling you that right now.”

  “We’ll talk about that once Jeffrey gets here. It’s his decision ultimately, after all.”

  “Correction. It’s mine.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  We did. Call me crazy, but I just didn’t see the Kingman clan deciding that the best course of action here was to follow one extremely ill-considered homicide with another. I felt safe enough. Besides, I was bushed.

  It occurred to me that almost lost in all of this was the actual triggerman himself. I was nearly positive that it was the fellow Misty had described for me, the fellow she knew only as “Bob.” It appeared that this Bob character had swung by The Kitten Club either right before or right after killing Helen and had kicked old Popeye around the office for one reason or another. Michael Fenwick had also hustled his way down to the strip joint at some point later that same evening and had similarly pitched a fit with the club owner. A good lawyer will fight for his client. A foolhardy—and overly loyal—one will go too far, fight too much. This appeared to be the cut of young Fenwick’s cloth. As for the fear that Ann Kingman had stated about her son’s safety, especially in light of Fenwick’s murder, it dawned on me that she had little to worry about. My guess was that Jeffrey Kingman had several layers buffering him from the ubiquitous Bob. There was Michael Fenwick, and there was Popeye. Both dead now. Both unable to give out Jeffrey’s name to the hired killer, presuming that he had even wanted it anyway. Which I had to doubt. I had a hunch that Popeye himself had never known the identity of the man who asked Fenwick to go out and hire a killer for him. Of course that did nothing to explain how it was that Bob decided to dump his cargo off on the front steps of my funeral home. I still had to work on that. But Jeffrey Kingman was—it would seem—practically in the clear. He could walk right past hit man Bob and neither of the two would even be aware of just how much blood they shared. I decided not to share this theory with Ann Kingman. If she thought her son was in danger of being knocked off by Bob, so be it. Let the woman shake.

  A half hour passed, and Jeffrey didn’t show. His mother’s face could have passed for a clock. With each passing minute that her son didn’t show, her expression darkened and the lines around her eyes and her mouth grew deeper. We fell out of conversation and sat waiting. The wind had picked up and shifted the snowfall into a slant. The snow was coming down harder now, the flakes larger and more wet. They were hitting the glass of the breakfast nook with the occasional splat, and breaking into icy bits which slid slowly down the glass. Ann Kingman was getting worried. Maybe her son wasn’t as dutiful as she had thought. Maybe he had panicked. Maybe he was heading for the hills.

  We both jumped when the phone rang. Ann jumped higher than I. It had been forty minutes since she had told me that Jeffrey would be here “any minute.” She got to the phone before the second ring.

  “Hello? … Yes it is.”

  I happened to glance out at the backyard before looking over at the counter where Ann Kingman was standing with the receiver to her ear. Two things hit me at exactly the same time. One was that the woman’s skin had gone every bit as white as the snow that was covering her spacious backyard. The other thing that hit me was that she was holding the phone just the way that a person might who was holding a gun to their head and about to pull the trigger. It must have been her expression more than the actual pose that triggered the image. She was standing there in a silent scream. Eyes wide, mouth open, no sound coming out. I stood up. She turned her head, letting the arm holding the receiver drop to her waist.
<
br />   “It’s Jeffrey,” she said to the large kitchen. “He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 26

  I never actually saw what remained of the car that my parents had been driving on their way to the hospital when they met—squarely—with the unsuspecting beer truck at the intersection of Broadway and Eastern Avenue. Certainly I wasn’t present when they were pulled from the wreckage and rushed up the street to Hopkins, where they were pronounced dead, dead and forevermore, dead. I was never given the choice. I had just been dropped off at Aunt Billie’s and ugly Uncle Stu’s after a family outing at the B&O Railroad Roundhouse Museum over on Eutaw Street. My mother had started cramping in the middle of a laughing fit that was brought on by a little prank she and I had just pulled inside one of the vintage trains in the huge roundhouse. Dropping me off on the way to the hospital had been a last minute decision so I could tell my aunt and uncle that the big moment had arrived. We were to hop in a cab and join up with my father at the hospital. Ugly Uncle Stu had already purchased a box of pink cigars and a box of blue ones. That was how I told them that my mother had gone into labor. I rushed up to their apartment and grabbed up the two boxes from the sideboard by the front door. “Guess what!” Later on, there were some who would try to placate me by telling me how lucky I had been not to have been in the car when it veered—for reasons no one who knew would live to explain—into the path of the oncoming beer truck. This little logistical tidbit was supposed to make me feel better, but, of course, it didn’t even come close. I had a little logistical tidbit that I could throw right back at them. If my parents hadn’t taken the time to drop me off in the first place, we’d have all been safely through the intersection of Broadway and Eastern a full five minutes before the fateful beer truck even appeared on the scene. Looked at through that lens, dropping me off to deliver the good news set the stage for the onset, just a few short minutes later, of the worst news of my life.