by P. N. Elrod
“Can we expect you to be staying with us much longer?” He was not overly enthused, even less so at the affirmative answer. It’s bad for business when guests get themselves murdered. Escott bade him good night and locked the door. Reluctantly, I faded back into reality. The aches returned, but they weren’t as sharp as before.
Escott dropped onto his bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. For the first time I noticed the blue circles under his eyes and the general slow-down of his movements. He’d been up most of the night because of the storm, and then spent the day fending off the police and waiting for me to wake up, either as myself or as a brain-damaged responsibility he didn’t need. The last twenty-four hours had sucked the energy from him.
“Sorry about all this,” I said lamely.
He considered my own forlorn form, shrugged, and accepted the apology. “We’re both tired. Tell me, was that show pure temper, or had you a purpose in alienating the man?”
“It was temper, but I had some idea it was the only way to reach him, to get him to see her through our eyes.”
“There are subtler ways of doing it,” he pointed out.
“I’m not so good at that.”
“Evidently.”
“What now?”
“Some rest. I want to give Barrett a chance to cool down.”
“What’s to keep him from skipping town between now and tomorrow?”
“That is not too likely, as it would be an admission of guilt and leave Emily and Laura undefended. I believe the man has a streak of honor in him.”
“Or he could skip with both women and we never hear of them again.” He shook his head. “I don’t read that off him at all.”
“That streak of honor?”
“Exactly. I believe once he realizes the truth for himself, he will want to do the right thing. He only needs the time to think it all over.”
“You figure he’ll talk to Laura?”
He had a look in his eye that made me feel cold inside and out. “I am absolutely counting on it.”
“I’ll go out to the estate tomorrow and see what’s happened.”
“May I come along?”
“Yeah. I might need you to scrape me off the pavement again.”
We’d planned to leave for the Franchers first thing at sunset, but he wasn’t in the room when I woke up. It looked like the start of another disastrous evening.
I quickly dressed and stepped out to look for him, but being officially dead put a hell of a crimp into things. Walking up to the desk clerk to ask a simple question would only put the man into hysterics. While I dithered in the hall someone behind me said psst.
“This way,” he whispered.
The top of Escott’s head was just disappearing down the backstairs. He’d gotten the car back and had left it in the gravel lot with the motor running. We piled in and he ground the gears to get us moving again.
“Glove box,” he said, before I could ask what was going on. His eyes were fever bright and there was a new tenseness to his body.
I opened the box and thankfully resumed ownership of my wallet, watch, and other junk. “This isn’t the road to the Franchers’.”
“I know, but something’s happened.” His lips had thinned to a single grim line and there was a brick wall behind his eyes.
“What?”
He tossed a folded paper in my lap. “The story’s there. Emily Francher died today.”
And he didn’t say anything while I gaped first at him and then at the paper headline. The words swam. I couldn’t make any sense of them. “What happened exactly?”
“I don’t know, I’ve only just found out. There was some kind of an accident early this afternoon—a fall down some stairs.”
“Shit. Where are we going?”
“The funeral parlor. For obvious reasons I daren’t make myself too noticeable there, but you can get inside for a quick look.”
“I’m not sure I want to. What am I looking for?”
“Any sign of Emily Francher’s resuscitation or resurrection, or whatever you call it.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“No need to be blasphemous, I only want your opinion on her condition.”
Maybe he thought I was some kind of a vampire expert, which was true in a way, but I was not overconfident. “What if she has changed?”
“Then she might require assistance from someone who’s been through it before. You said your own experience left you in quite a state of shock.”
That was for damn sure. The night I had woken up dead, it took a hit-and-run murder attempt with a Ford to finally jolt my mind back into full working order. “What if Barrett shows up?”
“Tell him the truth of why you’re there.”
“And maybe ask if he’s spoken to Laura yet?”
“I’ll leave that to your discretion.”
He dropped me in the street behind the parlor and promised to swing back again in fifteen minutes.
They’d replaced the window Escott had worked on with his glass cutter, but I had no trouble slithering through the cracks between the sash and the sill, emerging out of the air onto the sanitized floor of the morgue. I recognized the place with an uneasy twinge and was thankful it was empty. The adjoining office was also unoccupied, but not the whole building. Voices were coming from somewhere out front and I followed the sounds, tracing them through a bare linoleum hall.
Two wide doors opened onto a plusher room filled to the ceiling with the ultimate in vampiric clichés. They were stacked three high, and the ones on the bottom were tilted slightly with the lids up so that you could appreciate the linings. I counted nearly two dozen coffins, each with different styling, details, and prices.
I’d had no idea so much choice was available, from a simple native pine to a mirror-polished ebony with gold-plated handles. The one with scenes from the Sistine Chapel painted all over it with porcelain angels trimming the corners seemed overdone, but to each his own. I wanted none of it, preferring my cramped and homely trunk to such a constant and forceful reminder of death. The sight of a child-sized coffin and a tiny baby casket in a corner raised a sudden lump in my throat and I knew I had to get out of there.
The opposite set of doors led to a wide hall, this one with a white-and-gold carpet leading to the main chapel, or whatever it was. The walls were presently devoid of religious symbols, though I’d noticed a number of crosses, crucifixes, and even a Star of David leaning against a wall in the office. They were ready for all comers.
The voices originated from this room, where a man and woman were setting up folding chairs in neat rows. They were careful to stagger them so everyone would see the show up front. The line of chairs closest to the speaker’s podium were fancier and non-folding. Painted white, with gold velvet upholstery, they were obviously reserved for the family. On a low, gold-draped platform left of the podium was a coffin.
The two people, apparently husband and wife and owners of the business, were busy discussing personal economics. I’d expected them to be quiet or reverent or something as they worked, but life goes on, even for funeral directors.
Clatter.
“I don’t see how another dime will really hurt us,” said the wife. “It’s only one more dime a week.”
Clack-clatter.
The man shook his head. “That makes for five-twenty a year on top of what she already charges. You’ve got to look at the whole picture.”
“Four-eighty at the most, dear. There are no lessons on the holidays.”
“It’s still four-eighty.”
“But think of the savings later, when she can play piano during the services. Then we won’t have to hire Mrs. Johnson to do the music. This is actually a kind of investment. Besides, the extra business we’ve just gotten more than covers the expense for . . .”
Clatter-squeak.
The last chair finally went up and they left by a different door, still talking. I slipped across the room.
Escott had jumped the gun on things. The
body in the casket wasn’t Emily Francher, but John Henry Banks.
Sometimes they look like they’re asleep, but sleeping people usually have some kind of an expression. Banks looked the way he was—dead. They’d cleaned him up and there was no visible sign of injury, but he wasn’t going to smile or exclaim over a generous tip ever again. The responsibility stabbed at me as it had at Escott, and I was torn between sorrow for Banks and anger at the person who’d killed him.
I paid what poor respects I could and left before the man and woman returned.
Escott rolled up and I got in. He found my report a disappointment, but got us moving in the right direction, toward the Francher estate.
“I expect that she left very clear and specific instructions concerning the disposal of her remains,” he said.
“You can make book on it. I want to know exactly what happened and to see how Barrett is taking all this.”
“Yes, and Laura as well.”
I had some very private plans for Laura and saw no reason to tell him anything about them yet. “You don’t figure Emily’s death to be from natural causes?” He could tell that I didn’t.
“I’ve no hard data yet to incline my opinion one way or another, whether it was an accident, act of God, or murder. However, it does look very odd, especially coming right after our interview with Barrett last night.”
The town faded behind us and the trees drew right up to the road and closed overhead. Escott made the correct turning to take us to the Francher house.
“He might have questioned Laura,” I said.
“Which is something else I need to know about.”
“He may try to protect her.”
“Protect her?”
“Not everyone is as justice minded as you, Charles. Like it or not, those two have become his family. A man will usually try to protect his family no matter what they’ve done. I’m just saying this as a warning. Barrett’s got a hell of a temper and it could . . . could get away from him.”
“As it has with you?”
I nodded, staring at the rush of gray shadows outside the window.
“Is that why you wanted to stop me last night?”
“Yeah, something like that. All I could see then was one big messy can of worms being dumped out.”
“And what do you see now?”
“John Henry Banks lying in a box forty years too soon.”
Escott drove quickly and absently, with most of his concentration directed inward and not at the road. He almost passed the gate by except for my warning.
Mayfair was just inside sitting on a camp stool, ready to handle the incoming traffic. He had orders that only officials of the law and family were allowed in, but Escott’s investigator’s license placed him nominally in the former category. That and a generous tip persuaded the Cerberus in baggy pants to let us through, and he even parted with some minimal information.
“She died from a fall down the stair in the front hall,” Escort repeated, slamming his door and shifting gears. “One of the maids found her and thought it was a faint until she saw the blood. Dr. Evans was called out and he brought in Chief Curtis.”
“Why the cops?”
“Mayfair didn’t know.”
“So maybe it wasn’t an accident. Are they still here?”
“Left hours ago, but the relatives from Newport have arrived in force.”
“How much inheritance do you figure is involved?”
He gave out with a short, cheerless laugh. “You and I think along similar lines. I’ve no idea, but it is bound to be quite a lot. I’d give a lot for a look at her will and how she may have allowed for things in the event of her return.”
Cars were parked haphazardly along the drive and on the grass, and the garage exit was choked. Almost every light in the house was on, and faces appeared at the windows to inspect the latest arrivals.
A different maid let us in. She’d left off the white starched collar and cuffs of her uniform and wore unrelieved black. Her round mouth was crushed and her eyes were red lined and puffy from her own grief. I recognized her as one of the two women who shared rooms over the garage. She didn’t bother to get our names, taking it for granted that Mayfair had kept out the undesirables.
Emily had a lot of relatives. Some of them might have been there out of genuine concern, but none were readily apparent. A lot of booze was flowing, so it was starting to resemble an impromptu wake.
“You see Barrett?” I asked him.
“No. Do you see Laura?”
“Nope. Let’s split up.”
“Right.”
Escort melted away into the crowd and I lost sight of even his tall, distinctive form in a few seconds. The big front hall didn’t look so big anymore; it was literally a case of all the world and his wife showing up. I started to push my way through a sudden opening when a thin, hard-faced woman with gingery hair focused her sharp eyes on me and came over.
“Are you family?” she demanded sweetly.
“No. Friend.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here,” she quickly said. “It’s family only until the funeral.”
“How are you related?”
“Poor Emily was my cousin.”
“Second or third and only by marriage,” an eavesdropper put in helpfully, and got a drawn-daggers look for his trouble.
“We were very close years ago,” she defended smoothly to me. “And that makes up for a lot.”
“But never as much as you hope,” added the heckler.
She turned her back on him to face me. “Anyway, you’ll have to go. It’s family only, as I said. The maid will show you out.” She waited expectantly with her hands neatly folded and her chin up and I struggled not to laugh in her face. Someone else did, loudly, and was immediately shushed. This made us the brief center of attention and my reluctant hostess went very pink, but held her ground.
Someone else latched on to my arm and I thought for a second that I really was about to be evicted.
“Why, Cousin Jules! I haven’t seen you since the war, how you’ve grown!” A younger woman in dark blue tugged hard and led me from the scene.
“Yeah . . . it’s been a while,” I loudly agreed.
Once out of immediate earshot she said, “Don’t mind her, Abigail is just your average inheritance vulture like the rest of us. Her trouble is that she pretends so hard she isn’t.”
“Thanks, Mrs., Miss . . .”
“Clarice Francher, Miss.” We shook hands. “I’m a vulture as well, but then I’m more honest about it.”
“How’s that?”
“I admit that I never liked Cousin Violet and hardly knew Emily. I’m here for appearance’ sake and so I can hear what people are saying about me behind my back.”
She was a pretty woman in her middle twenties with intelligent eyes and a nicely rounded-out figure. She gave me a once-over as well and seemed to like what she saw.
“And who are you, Mr. . . .”
“Jack F-flynn,” I stumbled out, mindful that John R. Fleming was officially dead and had to stay that way for the time being. She picked up on the hesitation, so I changed the subject. “Look, I only just heard about this, can you tell me exactly what happened to Emily?”
Her big eyes had narrowed. “Are you a reporter?”
“No, only a friend.”
“Whose?” She was evidently aware of Emily’s hermitlike life.
“Emily’s secretary.”
This got me a second and much harder look. “Really? So the mystery man has a friend?”
I glimpsed Abigail from the corner of one eye, straining to catch every word. “Acquaintance might be more accurate.” Someone else caught Abigail’s attention and she darted off to harp at them.
“Might it?”
“Yeah, we’ve got some business dealings in common. Now, about the accident—”
“Maybe you should talk to Mr. Barrett.”
“I’d be glad to. Where is he?”
She shrugged. �
��Around, I suppose. I haven’t seen him.”
“I understand the police were called out here.”
“Yes, they were, but it was just routine.”
“Where did it happen?”
Clarice rolled her eyes, but with a hint of a smile. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“It’s what makes me so charming.”
The smile became more pronounced. “All right. As I heard it, one of the maids found her at the foot of the stairs here in the entry hall. They called the doctor, but she was already dead—cracked her skull on all that marble. The doctor called in the police to look things over, but they didn’t find anything funny. I think it was for show more than anything else. They probably wanted Laura to know they were on the job.”
“Where is Laura? How is she?”
“Who knows? That tame dragon, Mrs. Mayfair, has been guarding her all day.”
“When did it happen?”
“Sometime before two, because that’s when the maid crossed the hall and found her. Good thing she did, or poor Emily might still be lying there.”
“Where is she now?”
“They’ve put her in one of the side parlors.” She nodded her head in the general direction.
“Would you mind taking me there, Miss Francher?”
“There’re dozens of Miss Franchers here, you’d better call me Clarice.” Somehow, despite her friendly smile, she made it sound like a threat. She linked her arm in mine again and we worked slowly through the hall. I got a look at the spot at the foot of the stairs and kept my eyes peeled for Barrett. The spot told me nothing, but the knot of people near it were entertaining and Clarice stopped to listen. Abigail was in the center of things, being her own sweet self.
“If you ask me, the little brat pushed her.” She was obviously more candid and open with her opinions within the family.
“No one’s asking you, Abby.”
“Then you should. You don’t know her, the stuck-up little bitch.”
“Careful, Abby.”
“What’s the use? You know we’re not getting anything from this because of her. If only cousin Violet were alive.”
“We still wouldn’t get anything, Emily’s the one who got all of Cousin Roger’s money.”
“And she’ll have left it to Laura or that man. He’s nothing more than a gigolo, a fortune hunter.”