All the Pretty Hearses

by Mary Daheim

  “Then,” Jean said, sobering, “it’s a good thing Mr. Flynn doesn’t check your site either.”

  “No reason why he should,” Judith said. “I’ve never told him about it. And I don’t intend to. Which brings me to the present situation,” she went on, taking the offensive. “What do you really know about Walter Paine and the rest of his family?”

  “I haven’t talked to Walter since my wallet was stolen,” Jean replied. “I’ve been on the other side of the state, meeting people involved with the wild-horse situation. Why do you ask?”

  Judith took a deep breath. “Maybe you should ask him.”

  Jean’s face showed concern. “Has something happened to Walter?”

  “Not directly. But ask him, not me.”

  “You’re withholding information.”

  “Am I?” Judith shrugged. “Call him. Go see him. I assume you trust Walter.”

  “Yes,” Jean said. “I’ve worked with him off and on for five years. He has integrity.” She picked up her hobo bag. “You’ve got me worried.”

  “Join the club,” Judith said as they both stood up. “But you have to promise me something.”

  “What?” Jean asked, pausing halfway out of the living room.

  “That you’ll let me know what he says.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then I won’t tell you what I know—and it’s plenty.”

  Jean stopped just short of the front door. “How do I know you have any information I need?”

  “Because,” Judith said, “I’m FASTO. I may never read what’s on that site, but I can guess what’s there. You would never have come back to see me if you didn’t believe it.” She opened the door. “I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow.”

  Five minutes later, Judith was on the phone, eager to discuss Jean’s visit with Renie. But her cousin had qualms. “Hold it,” she said after the first few words. “I know I told you to call me, but after you left I remembered you mentioned a call from Joe at City Hall and his inability to tell you anything over the phone because he was afraid of eavesdroppers. At which end did he think somebody was listening in?”

  “I never found out,” Judith admitted. “His end, I assumed. On the other hand, it could’ve been here. I’m trying to recall who was here that night. It seems so long ago.” She went into the entry hall to check the guest register. “Oh—the Beard-Smythes,” she said before looking at the entries. “I’d like to forget them entirely.” She scanned the page for Thursday. “A middle-aged couple from Indianapolis, two sisters—one from Green Bay, the other from San Diego—the Kamloops, B.C., couple, and Jean Rogers.”

  “So the Kamloops duo is a repeat,” Renie murmured. “Maybe we should hang up.”

  Judith was reluctant. “I feel like you’re my lifeline. Keep talking. Anything, just so I don’t have to think. I’m beyond tired and I’m crabby.”

  “Oh, for . . . what shall I say? That Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince are coming down from the island tomorrow? That Bill wishes Joe would get out of jail so they could go steelheading? That I need to get my hair cut? I was actually trying to get some work done.”

  “Okay,” Judith said, “I’ll shut up.”

  “Fine. See you at Mass tomorrow.”

  “No, you won’t. I can’t face any SOTS. I’m going to St. Rita’s.”

  “Good thinking. Good night.”

  Feeling tired, glum, and ill at ease, Judith tried to focus on what she’d serve for breakfast in the morning. She’d keep it simple. Toast, eggs, sausage, bacon, fruit, and juice. Maybe she’d make regular toast and French toast. She scribbled some notes on the tablet she kept by the kitchen bulletin board. FT & RT, S&B, F&J, EGGS? Fried, scrambled, poached, whatever. She frowned at the letters. They reminded her of something. Another note, but not one she’d written. . .

  SF OR LA. That was what she’d seen on the slip of paper in Joe’s office. San Francisco or Los Angeles, she’d thought at the time. But why would Joe write down the initials for two cities? What if they stood for something else? Businesses? ARBS came to mind, along with SANECO. Both companies were known by acronyms. No help there. People, maybe. Was there anybody relevant to the current muddle of a mystery? She went over the Paine family members. None of them came close. Nor did any of the other recent newcomers in her life—not Jean Rogers or Cindy and Geoff Owens or Abe Burleson.

  The newspaper was still on the counter. Judith picked it up to put in the recycling bin. A headline about Mayor Larry Appel’s plan to fix the city’s potholed streets caught her eye. She frowned. LA—for Larry Appel? The mayor was no whiz kid, but his reputation for honesty had never been questioned. He’d gotten elected because of his integrity, replacing the incumbent, who’d appointed unqualified friends and relatives to city jobs.

  Judith wondered if she was going down a blind alley. It was almost eleven-thirty. She chucked the newspaper into the bin under the sink before turning off the computer. Just as she was about to shut it down, an e-mail notice popped up from Keith Delemetrios. Judith went to the message site and clicked on the detective’s name.

  A man named Sidney Foxe is coming to see you in the next fifteen minutes. Let him in. He’ll offer you as much assistance as he’ll require from you. Joe.

  Sidney Foxe. SF, Judith thought, her heart suddenly racing. Before turning off the computer, she checked the other messages that had come in earlier. Hurriedly, she deleted the e-mails from catalog companies and stores, saving only three reservation requests. She printed them out, but would wait until morning to deal with the would-be guests. At least Joe had figured out a way to reach her without being overheard. Judith wondered why neither of them had thought of e-mail before. She considered responding, but that might be risky since he’d contacted her from the police department. Maybe she should get a cell phone that would text. The world moved so fast and she was so slow at keeping up with the maelstrom of new technology.

  Judith had just finished her kitchen tasks when she heard the doorbell. Wiping her hands on a towel, she hurried to the entry hall. When she looked through the peephole, she couldn’t see anyone on the porch. The only activity in the wet, dark cul-de-sac was a set of red taillights turning onto the cross street. The wind had come up, blowing the camellia bush against the house and making the Rankerses’ porch chimes jangle like broken glass. Bracing herself, she opened the door. To her astonishment, a man in a wheelchair was seated a few feet away.

  “I’m Sidney Foxe,” he said in a vaguely familiar voice. “I believe you’re expecting me?”

  Judith tried not to gape. For the third time in the past few hours, she was startled by the sight of an unexpected visitor. Unlike Abe Burleson, who was a stranger, but like Jean Rogers, whom she’d recognized after the initial shock, the newcomer was known to her, not as Sidney Foxe, but as Zachary Conrad.

  “Come in,” she said, holding the storm door so that her guest could maneuver inside. “I assume you came by cab?”

  “A cabulance,” Sidney replied. Like Gertrude, he had a motorized scooter chair. “The parlor again?”

  “No,” she said. “The living room. There’s more space. Come by the window seat. I’ll sit there. May I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I dined just a short time ago.”

  “You seem to have recovered from your illness,” Judith said, indicating he should sit by the bay window.

  Sidney stopped the wheelchair. “I’d overexerted myself by trying to walk too much.” He gazed at the view of the bay, though it was blurred by the heavy rain. “A nasty night. Snow’s in the air.”

  “It’s January,” Judith remarked absently, moving some of the pillows and cushions before sitting down. “I have to admit I’m anxious to hear your story. I did find out you weren’t Zachary Conrad.”

  Sidney smiled, revealing uneven and slightly discolored teeth. “It’s not a happy st
ory.”

  “That doesn’t bother me. I’ve heard plenty of sad stories.”

  “I’ve been homeless,” Sidney said. “Do you know any homeless people’s stories?”

  “I do,” Judith replied, thinking back to a homeless man who had become a murder victim.

  If Sidney was surprised by her response, he didn’t show it. “I’m an engineer with a degree from MIT. That sounds impressive, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it does,” Judith allowed. She tried to ignore the wind blowing down the chimney and battering the shrubs outside the bay window. “Apparently it didn’t spare you from hard times.”

  “True.” Sidney folded his hands in his lap. He was dressed in a suit and tie under a black raincoat. The clothes looked worn, but of decent quality. “I’m not totally paralyzed, by the way.”

  “I assumed that,” Judith said, feeling a draft through the window. “Otherwise, you couldn’t have walked at all when you were here last night posing as Zachary Conrad.”

  “Yes.” Sidney stared at his thin hands. “I had a good job for years with Northeast Utilities in Hartford, Connecticut. I got married, had two children, a boy and a girl. One night we were coming back from my son’s hockey game. There was black ice on the road. I missed a turn and crashed into a utility pole. Ironic, eh?”

  Judith hated to ask the obvious, but did. “What happened?”

  “My wife and children were killed. Outright, not even a scream. I was seriously injured. I couldn’t work for over a year. I lost my job. I lost my whole world.” Sidney related the events as if by rote, staring past Judith into the rain-spattered window, as if he could see each horror unfolding like a slide show. “All I had was the memory of something I couldn’t see—six feet of black ice. And the sound of those power lines snapping, snapping, snapping.” He shook his head, as if the noise was still beating on his brain like a death knell.

  Judith started to say something comforting, but for once nothing came to her. It was just as well. Sidney had taken up his tale again. “After many months in hospitals and rehabilitation centers, I made a partial recovery,” he continued, speaking more naturally. “I had no close family in New England, but my wife had a nephew attending college here. I thought he might be a source of comfort. He wasn’t. He didn’t have time for a crippled uncle he hardly knew. That was six years ago.”

  “He had no relatives in the area?”

  Sidney shook his head. “He’d moved here from Los Angeles. His own family was a quarrelsome bunch. He was diligent about his studies. I was an unwanted distraction.”

  “The young can be selfish,” Judith murmured.

  “Indeed.” Sidney took a deep breath. “I ran out of money very quickly. That’s when I became homeless, living under the freeway at night, spending my days on the streets. One late Sunday afternoon I was sitting on the sidewalk by the football stadium. The game was just letting out. Hardly anybody noticed me. They were talking about the home team’s victory. Then an older man stopped to ask when I’d last eaten. I told him I wasn’t sure. He offered to take me to dinner. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. He was a big fellow, and despite his age, he was strong. He got me on my feet and half carried me to a nearby café. I told him my story. He listened and promised to get me a job with the city. He had connections. His name was Al Grover.”

  “Uncle Al!” Judith gasped. “I’ve heard that story. But it was about a doctor, not an engineer.”

  The hint of a smile touched Sidney’s lips. “I suspect there’ve been hapless doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs who’ve crossed his path.”

  “Yes,” Judith agreed. “Uncle Al’s generous. Did he get you a job?”

  Sidney nodded. “He tried to get me on with the lighting department, but they didn’t have any openings. I met Zachary Conrad then.” He paused. “A true bureaucrat. I didn’t like him. I don’t think he liked me either. I had, at the time, what some might call an ‘attitude.’ ” Sidney cleared his throat. “I had lost my respect for other human beings, despite your uncle’s kindness.”

  “Understandable,” Judith remarked, moving a bit to get out of the window’s draft. “Did Uncle Al find other work for you?”

  “Yes, with the health department. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” His reproachful expression indicated that Judith was pressuring him. “I literally bumped into Conrad’s wife on my way out of his office, being crippled. Hannah Conrad was supposed to have lunch with her husband, but he’d canceled. Too busy, he’d told her. She was angry. She berated me for my clumsiness before she realized I was handicapped. In her ire, she suddenly took my arm and said she would take me to lunch instead. And she did. During that meal, I discovered she was crippled, too—not on the outside, but the inside. An overbearing mother and a domineering husband had destroyed her self-confidence. We became lovers that very afternoon. That was two years ago. Three weeks later, I became an inspector for the health department.”

  Pieces were beginning to fall into place, but Judith didn’t want to further rush Sidney. “You must’ve been relieved.”

  “I suppose I was,” Sidney said vaguely. “It was not, of course, my forte. There was no challenge. Checking for past-due dates on food and making sure kitchen help wore hairnets was unsatisfying work. I wanted more. I have a curious mind. By chance, I came across my nephew, who was also working for the city. He’s a police detective. You may know him. His name is Keith Delemetrios.”

  Judith tried to hide her surprise. “Really? Yes, I’ve met him.”

  “Oh? What do you think of him?”

  Judith sensed she had to be careful. “As a person or a detective?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “He seems conscientious about his job,” Judith said truthfully. “I know almost nothing about him except that.”

  “He’s driven,” Sidney said simply.

  “You mean to seek justice?”

  “Yes. You could put it that way.”

  Judith caught something in Sidney’s dark eyes that disturbed her. “That’s all I can say. Could I ask you about your job?”

  “Why? It’s very boring.”

  “Were you sent to ARBS a week or two ago?”

  Sidney laughed, a rather unpleasant sound. “Of course I was. That’s how I was reinjured.”

  “It was termed an accident,” Judith said, involuntarily moving farther away from her visitor on the window seat, draft or not. “Do you own the condo on Lake Concord?”

  “No, no,” Sidney replied, scooting a bit closer to Judith. “That’s Hannah’s pied-à-terre for our romantic rendezvous. She sometimes lends it to other family members when they need . . . to get away.”

  “I’m confused,” Judith admitted. “I know that Zachary Conrad was there in a wheelchair and that he was shot to death. Can you explain how that happened? It makes no sense.”

  Sidney’s smile was quirky. “You are too impatient. Of course I can explain. Zachary was a bureaucrat, but a conscientious one. He’d heard rumors of an investigation in the police department. When I had my accident—and I don’t consider it an accident, but a deliberate attempt to keep me from investigating what was going on at ARBS regarding some of their meat products. In any event, Hannah told me he couldn’t understand why the police didn’t investigate my mishap. I was able to get around with a cane and sometimes, on bad days, crutches.” He caressed the arm of his wheelchair. “But this was a setback. I couldn’t stay in my apartment. There’s no elevator and I’m on the second floor. Hannah suggested I move into the condo. Zachary knew it was a retreat of sorts for family members, but he had his suspicions about his wife. He wanted to be a hero in her eyes and those of the police department. He was also ambitious, having sat in the same job for too long. Hannah told me all this and I spoke to Keith—Del, he likes to be called—to ask about the lack of a police investigation. He insisted he wasn’t fully informed, but it
had something to do with a former chief before his time. Like most young people, if it hadn’t happened to him, it hadn’t happened.”

  “I understand,” Judith said, “but why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because,” Sidney said, “it’s all your fault.” He smiled. “That,” he went on, standing up, “is why I’m going to kill you.”

  Chapter Twenty-­two

  Judith froze on the window seat. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Sidney had taken a lethal-looking hunting knife out from under his raincoat and released the blade.

  “I have great upper-body strength,” he said calmly. “You may scream, but I will slit your throat so fast that anyone who hears you will find only your corpse.”

  Judith shook her head, trying to find her voice. “Why?” The single word was a whisper, so soft that she wasn’t sure she’d actually said it.

  He stood only a foot away from where Judith sat. She’d forgotten how tall he was. “You ruined my life. The accident was your fault.”

  “No.” Again, she didn’t know if she’d spoken out loud.

  “Yes. You meddled in police affairs. You besmirched my father’s reputation.”

  “Your . . . ?” This must be a nightmare. Nothing makes sense. I don’t know anybody named Foxe. This man is insane. And I’ve got to wake up.

  “I changed my name when I moved here,” Sidney said, the light from the lamp on the cherrywood table glinting off of the steel blade. “Foxe is so close to his name, so clever of me. You recall Lloyd Volpe?”

  Judith gasped. The Silver Fox—Volpe, vulpine, foxlike. “I never . . .”

  The Grandfather clock in the corner of the room struck midnight. The deep sound startled Sidney. He grimaced, clapped his free hand to his ear, and turned, just enough to lose his balance. Judith flung herself at him, heedless of her artificial hip, oblivious to what damage she might do to her own body, desperate to save her life.

  He fell against the wheelchair, crumpling in pain. The knife was still in his hand. Judith was lying halfway on top of him, but she couldn’t reach his arm. If only he lacked the strength to use his weapon, she might be able to stand.