All the Pretty Hearses

by Mary Daheim

  “I know where he works,” Addison said calmly. “I also know that when he’s involved in a homicide, he comes to headquarters. Be a good sport and tell us where we’ll find him.”

  “I’ll have to check that out,” the officer said, his dark skin even darker. “Excuse me.” He walked quickly away from his post, went out through a side door, and disappeared.

  Renie and Judith had stopped glaring at each other. Instead, they were exchanging puzzled gazes. “Where . . .” They’d both spoken at the same time. Renie deferred to Judith. “Go ahead, coz. Maybe Addison knows the answer.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Addison said, pocketing his press credentials, “I do. Follow me.”

  He led the way back down the corridor from which he’d emerged and stopped in front of a door that was marked PRIVATE—SPD STAFF ONLY. He knocked twice. Judith and Renie exchanged puzzled glances again. Addison stood patiently for what seemed like a long time. Finally, the door opened a crack, but neither of the cousins could see anything from behind their escort.

  “Yes?” said a familiar voice.

  “Joe!” Judith shouted, clumsily trying to get around Addison.

  “Damn!” Joe exclaimed, opening the door wider.

  Judith practically fell into his arms. “Oh, Joe! I’m so—”

  “Stupid!” he snapped, pushing her out the door. Joe glowered at Addison. “Why in hell did you do such a thing, Kirby? Are you nuts? You know damned well I don’t want my wife mixed up in this.”

  Judith started to protest, but Addison retained his aplomb and responded to Joe. “She already is,” he said somberly. “Furthermore, I know the identity of your homicide victim.”

  Joe gaped at Addison, but recovered quickly. “You are nuts. How could you know if we don’t?”

  “Because,” Addison replied calmly, “of Mrs. Flynn’s insight.”

  Judith stared at Addison in disbelief, but kept her mouth shut. Renie, however, punched her cousin in the arm. “Nobody told me anything!” She shook her fist at Joe. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about who killed who—or do you want to be the next vic? Cut the crap and tell me where Bill is!”

  Joe had come out in the hall to stand chest to chest with Addison. “I’m not saying anything until this guy IDs the vic.”

  Addison shrugged. “No problem. The dead man is Zachary Conrad.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Joe stared incredulously at Addison. “Zachary Conrad? Who the hell is Zachary Conrad?”

  Woody Price appeared in the doorway. “I can tell you that, Joe,” he said, his usual composure strained. “I’ve never met him, but he’s the deputy superintendent of the city’s lighting department.” He offered Judith and Renie a tight smile. “Hello, there. I’m sorry you’ve been put through all this . . . mess.”

  “You’re sorry—” Renie began, but stopped when Woody held up a hand. “Never mind,” she mumbled, looking at her shoes.

  Another voice resonated from inside the room. “Have you got a Percocet with you? My neck’s freaking killing me!”

  “Bill!” Renie cried, her brown eyes lighting up. She lowered her head and charged toward the door.

  Woody stepped aside, realizing there was no stopping Renie short of wrestling her to the floor. He sighed as she rushed past him. “We’d better all sit down and talk about this vic.”

  By the time they got inside, Judith realized that this was no simple employee coffee room, but a luxurious lounge reserved for city VIPs and visitors—at taxpayers’ expense. The aubergine leather chairs and sofas, the oak cupboards with leaded-glass doors, and the plush burgundy carpeting gave off an aura of an exclusive men’s club. Indeed, the air smelled of cigars. It was no wonder. Bill and Uncle Al were smoking what looked to Judith like the Cuban variety. Two other cigars rested in ashtrays by the vacant chairs. Only Keith Delemetrios wasn’t smoking—instead, he held a large Italian deli sandwich in one hand and a big glass of dark ale in the other. Judith knew Guinness when she saw it.

  “Good grief!” she shrieked, whirling around to glare at Joe. “So this is what you’ve been doing the past few days? Drinking fine beer and eating fancy food? When do the hookers show up?”

  “Calm down,” Joe said, resorting to his usual mellow tones. “This isn’t what it seems. We need to refuel after a hard day’s work.”

  Uncle Al expelled a puff of smoke. “Take a seat, doll. I’ll give even odds you’ll like the pastrami. You, too, Runt,” he said to Renie, using his childhood nickname for her. “That fruit salad’s pretty swell, too.”

  Renie, who had been trying to keep Bill from grabbing her purse, ignored her uncle. “I don’t have any Percocet, you moron! I’m here to post bail for you and Uncle Fidel over there. What’s going on?” She spotted a plate of pastrami and snatched up two slices. “Furthermore, I’m starving! You know how grumpy I get when that happens.”

  Bill looked unfazed. “Got any weird pop? They don’t have my favorite flavors here—not even Beriberi Berry.”

  “Ladies,” Woody said, sounding tense, “please have a seat. As long as you’re here . . .” He paused, trying to ignore Joe’s expression of displeasure. “I suppose we should try to explain . . . something.”

  The long cherrywood table could seat at least a dozen people. Delemetrios put down his sandwich and rose to fetch two elegant matching chairs that were sitting by the paneled wall. Addison got one for himself. Still fuming, Judith sat down. Renie snatched another slice of pastrami before taking a seat between her husband and her cousin.

  “Got an IcyHot compress?” Bill murmured to his wife.

  Renie shot him a dirty look and somehow managed to spew a bit of pastrami on her Lefty O’Doul’s sweatshirt. “Dwillluklakafrekinurth?” she said with her mouth full.

  “You look like a freaking mess,” Bill retorted, brushing the residue off the tipsy leprechaun on Renie’s bosom. “As usual. Hold it!” he cried, backing away and holding up his hands as his wife continued to chew lustily. “Don’t get any of that stuff on me!”

  Woody had also sat down. He cleared his throat after a surreptitious glance at Judith and Joe, who were both staring straight ahead. “Mr. Kirby,” Woody finally said, “how can you be sure the victim is Zachary Conrad?”

  Addison, who was sitting next to Woody, grimaced. “I have a confession to make. Before I came here I went to the morgue on a hunch.” His expression was self-deprecating. “We reporters get hunches, and often they’re correct. Or at least they lead us in the right direction. Anyway, I took one look at the vic and recognized Conrad. I’ve interviewed him a few times over the past five, six years.”

  Joe leaned forward, green eyes narrowed. “So how did my wife lead you to this so-called hunch?”

  Addison wasn’t put off by the question. “Innocently, as a matter of fact. Zachary Conrad was supposedly at the B&B tonight. He’s related by marriage to the Paine family, who were taking part in the parish auction item that your wife donated. The alleged Mr. and Mrs. Zachary Conrad arrived late. Mrs. Conrad announced at once that Mr. Conrad was sick.” He turned to Judith. “I wasn’t there. Would you mind telling the others what happened next?”

  Judith hesitated, certain that Joe was giving her the evil eye. “Zachary—or whoever he was—could hardly walk. I told Hannah—Mrs. Conrad, Norma Paine’s older daughter—that her husband should be in a real bed, but she insisted on leaving him in the parlor on the settee. He’s quite tall and obviously was uncomfortable. Hannah declined, saying she needed a drink and he could stay put. After she went into the living room, I tried to get him settled into a better position, but it wasn’t easy. Then—” She stopped, her gaze fixed on Addison. “You had to tell me something . . . important, and I left the parlor to deal with the . . . latest problem. The next thing I knew, Hannah came out to the kitchen and told me they were leaving after all. And they did. I saw them out.”

  Joe’s
already rubicund complexion had turned very red. He shook a finger at Judith. “Are you telling me that none of the other Paines realized this wasn’t Hannah’s husband?”

  “They didn’t see him,” Judith replied. “Nobody did, not even Addison. Paulina Paine came downstairs and spoke to Hannah but didn’t come in the parlor.” She paused for a brief moment before going on the offensive. “Excuse me,” she continued, looking first at Woody and then at Delemetrios, “don’t either of you know Zachary Conrad? He’s a big wheel with the lighting department.”

  Woody looked faintly embarrassed. “I know the name, that’s all. As you’re aware, the lighting department is in a separate building. I’ve never met the man. I’ve never had reason to.” He looked at his subordinate. “What about you, Del?”

  The young detective shook his head. “I haven’t been on the force that long and I’ve never even been in the lighting department. Gosh, it’s two, three blocks away.”

  Uncle Al blew a couple of smoke rings and chuckled. “Typical. When it comes to City Hall, the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand’s doing—except putting both hands in the citizenry’s pockets. I’ll lay down a couple of Franklins that my niece will figure this out before the rest of you do. Any takers?”

  “No,” Woody said firmly. “I mean . . .” He rubbed at his graying walrus mustache and avoided Joe’s angry look. “We’ve got enough loose ends to deal with as it is. This case is very complicated. We should stay focused.” He turned his soulful dark eyes on Addison. “I don’t understand how Judith—Mrs. Flynn—led you—however unknowingly—to the conclusion that the real Zachary Conrad was the homicide victim?”

  Addison’s shrewd gaze met Woody’s. “I know Zachary Conrad. I interviewed him in recent months. He was hale, if not exactly hearty. He’s a big guy, former basketball player, was in the pro—”

  “Slower than a hippo,” Uncle Al muttered in disgust. “Hands like hams. Prone to useless fouls. He was a bum.”

  “Uh . . . yes,” Woody said. “I . . . I prefer baseball. I don’t remember Zachary Conrad.”

  “You’re lucky,” Uncle Al said. “If he’d played for me, I’d have cut him the first time he put one of those big, clumsy feet on the hardwood.”

  Woody nodded slightly. “He sounds . . . terrible. Go on, Kirby.”

  “Not as terrible as my neck,” Bill said, turning his head every which way.

  Renie scowled at her husband. “Stop that, Mr. Bobble-Head! You’re driving me crazy.”

  “You are crazy,” Bill shot back, still turning his head.

  “Please,” Woody begged, “could we stick to the subject? Kirby?”

  Addison nodded assent. “Zachary was big, not only tall, but close to two-forty when I last saw him. When Judith—Mrs. Flynn—said he was ill and described him as rail thin, my first reaction was that he must be suffering from some terrible disease. Then it occurred to me that maybe the man in the parlor wasn’t Zachary Conrad.” He paused. “I can’t exactly say why this occurred to me. I’ve already told you I can’t reveal my sources. But that’s the reason I wanted to see the body. The corpse was Zachary Conrad.”

  Woody glanced at Joe. “You never knew Conrad either?”

  “No,” he said with a touch of regret. “I don’t recognize the name. He may’ve been promoted after I retired.”

  Uncle Al shrugged, stretched his long arms, and yawned. “Are we done here? This old sport has to get up tomorrow to head for the track. Florida’s on Eastern Standard Time.”

  “We’re not,” Woody said. “I’d like you and Kirby to stick around. Bill, you can go home with your wife. Can you give Judith a ride?”

  “Yes,” Bill replied. “Let’s not do this again, Woody. Couldn’t you just have asked Uncle Al to come down on his free time? I don’t like staying up this late either.”

  Woody’s expression was typically stolid. “We have to do things our way. We’ve been trying to talk to Mr. Grover all week, but he’s been out of town. We received word that he was at the basketball game. We let him drive his own car down here. It’s not our fault that he was your ride, Bill. I already explained that.”

  Bill snorted, but didn’t say anything more to Woody. He grabbed Renie’s arm, virtually dragging her from the chair. “Boppin’!”

  The Joneses headed for the door. Judith didn’t budge. Bill kept going, but Renie turned around to look at her cousin. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “No,” Judith said.

  Renie shrugged. “Okay. G’night.” She and Bill made their exit.

  An uneasy silence settled over the room’s plush surroundings. Only Uncle Al seemed not to notice. He puffed his cigar and blew smoke rings. Del squirmed in his chair; Woody flipped through his notebook; Addison checked his cell phone; Judith sat as if she were carved in marble.

  It was Joe who broke the silence. “I knew,” he said quietly to Judith, “I couldn’t keep you out of this. I’d blame Kirby, but I can’t. One way or the other, you were bound to get mixed up in a murder case, especially if it involved me.”

  “Put your ego aside,” Judith snapped. “You knew from the very start I was involved. Your stupid phone call about the missing gun gave that away. What did you expect me to find in that open safe?”

  Joe stared at Judith. “What do you mean, ‘open safe’?”

  “It wasn’t locked.”

  “I locked it myself. I figured you’d pick it like you did with Dan, and find the other gun.”

  “You mean the Glock or the Beretta?”

  “Neither of those. I mean the other Smith & Wesson, the one that was used to shoot . . . this Conrad guy. Somebody had to substitute a similar weapon for mine. I should have noticed, but I almost never have to use my weapon on a damned surveillance.”

  “Oh my God!” Judith exclaimed. “Then somebody came into our house and . . .”

  Joe sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Not necessarily. I looked into the safe Monday to find some of the tax information we’ll need. I never would have left it unlocked. Who had access before I left the house that morning?”

  “Nobody,” Judith said. “I mean . . . nobody but the guests and Phyliss and Mother.”

  For the first time, Joe showed a glint of humor. “That’s it—your mother set me up.”

  “Hey,” Uncle Al snapped, “don’t talk that way about my sister-in-law. She’s a good sport. Damned good cardplayer, too. And when we played baseball up at the cabin, Gert could catch a ball with her knees.”

  Joe winced. “Sorry. I don’t want to think about that last part.”

  “How,” Judith said, equally eager to change the subject, “are you sure the gun wasn’t taken before you started the surveillance?”

  “Good point.” Joe fiddled with his cigar, tapping off ash and examining the tip to see if it was still lighted. “I guess I don’t.”

  “That’s it,” Uncle Al declared, standing up to his full six-foot-four height. “If we’re going out in left field, I’m calling the game on account of pain. I’ve got bad basketball knees and I’m going home. I’ve given you plenty already, but I’m no rat. You know where to find me—window seven by the Jockey Club bar.” He grabbed his leather jacket and didn’t break stride when he patted Judith’s back as he headed for the door.

  Woody shook his head. “We can’t make him stay here. But we still need more of his help.” He got to his feet. “I think we should all take a” —he cringed as Judith accidentally knocked over a half-filled Guinness glass—“break.”

  “Oops!” Judith exclaimed. The glass had broken when it struck the pewter platter of deli meats. Dark ale trickled toward the table’s edge. She grabbed a linen napkin to mop up the liquid before it overflowed onto the plush carpet. “Sorry,” she murmured, making sure the pieces of glass were all collected into a little pile on a dirty plate.

  “That’s okay,” Woo
dy said wearily. “Maybe Del and I should check our notes. Or something.” He glanced at Addison, who looked as if he’d like to hide under the table. “Why don’t you join us, Kirby? Maybe we can compare some of our information?”

  “Glad to,” Addison said, almost upending his chair in his effort to stand up.

  The policemen and the reporter made their hurried way out of the room. Joe gazed at the paneled ceiling. Judith folded her hands in her lap. The elegant room struck her as a stage setting, more suited to a drawing room farce than a homicide investigation.

  “What is this?” she suddenly asked, though the question was more to herself than to Joe.

  After a pause, he answered anyway. “This room? It’s the previous mayor’s idea of class. Sid Fahlman thought it’d impress big shots to move their companies here. Or not move them out of town. Larry Appel can’t make up his mind whether to keep it. Of course he has to find his mind before he can decide anything.”

  Slowly, Judith turned to her husband. “Your color’s better. I thought you were going to stroke out on me.”

  “Oh . . .” He picked up her hand. “I’d rather stroke you—all over.”

  She was surprised that it wasn’t easy to smile at him. But she did. “All of this can’t be easy for you.”

  “Or you either.” His green eyes narrowed. “Unless, of course, Addison Kirby’s been an adequate replacement.”

  “Oh, Joe!” She laughed, equally surprised to find that this was easy. “He’s a nice guy and I trust him. But he’s not you. Nobody is.”

  Joe leaned forward so that their foreheads touched. “I’d like to say it’s been worth it. But it’s not.” He pulled her closer and kissed her softly on the lips. With obvious reluctance, he leaned back in the chair. “They plan to announce tomorrow that I’m a suspect in the murder of whoever the hell that guy in the morgue is.”

  “Oh no! Why? You can’t let them do that. It’ll ruin your reputation. Are they crazy?”

  Joe shrugged. “You’d prefer they arrested Uncle Al? Or Bill?”