Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  “Haldeman’s definitely has a file on Stringer. I saw the receptionist pull it up on her computer, then when I was with the office manager she looked at something on her screen, too.”

  “They probably have a client database. We should probably use one, but I don’t know what Judy would do if she couldn’t color code the paper files.”

  “Did you talk to her while I was at Haldeman’s?”

  “No. But I spoke to Gil. He found out Joyce owns the Detroit house, the cousin’s house and a third home that’s here in Birmingham somewhere in the ‘burbs. I’ve got the address and I’d like to take a look at it before you drop me off at the motel so you can make your hot date with Elsbeth.” Charlie pronounced the woman’s name with a snooty tone. “Who names their kid Elsbeth? Her mother must have watched too much Masterpiece Theatre.”

  “What’s Masterpiece Theatre?” Don asked, gulping down the last piece of ham steak and reaching for his pie.

  “A show that’s on PBS when you’re watching the hockey game.”

  “Whatever,” Don said. “Damn, this pie is delicious. What say we get a couple of meals to go for tonight’s dinner? We can put them in your fridge.”

  “Best idea you’ve had all day, partner,” Charlie said between mouthfuls of cobbler.

  Chapter 9

  Grant was able to sell the Anderson widow a $20,000 full service funeral. That included flowers, a private visitation room with a flute and harp, three limos, and the latest thing in the funeral business: a 3-minute video made up of photos of the loved one. Grant made notes on a small pad. He would get a kickback on the flowers, music, the third limo, and the video.

  He used the intercom on his desk to summon his sister. The door opened slowly and Grace sidled into the room. “Have the Andersons left?”

  “I saw them drive away on the camera,” Grace said.

  “What were the policemen talking to you about?”

  Grace looked confused, then her eyes sharpened. She looked at Grant and then at the folders on his desk. “The pretty lady and the white man. Right Grant?” she asked, nodding.

  “Yes, Grace.”

  “They said they will find out who killed Paulie.”

  “Did they ask you any questions?”

  “The lady asked me if I saw Paulie.” Grace crossed her arms closely against her chest as if shielding herself.

  “But you told her no, right?”

  “Right, Grant.”

  “Did they ask about Daddy?”

  “No, Grant. Did Daddy call?”

  “No. We’ll see Daddy and Mama tonight. We’re all going out for supper.”

  “Oh good. I’m going to have chicken fingers, hash browns and broccoli.”

  “That sounds good. One more thing, Grace. Did the lady ask you about Miss Joyce?”

  Grant knew Grace was thinking about supper at the restaurant with their parents.

  “Did you hear what I asked, Grace? Did the policewoman ask about Miss Joyce?”

  “No, Grant. Do you want me to file that folder?”

  Grant stared at Grace. She looked at him for a second, then away. He loved his sister but resented being saddled with her at the mortuary. “You can start a file for the Andersons. I’ll give you the paperwork to file, tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Grant. Okay, I’ll go to my desk.” Grace edged out of the office in the same shy way she’d entered.

  Grant spun his chair to face the window and put his feet on top of the bookcase. Today was perfect weather for a funeral, cloudy with no rain nor bright sun. Many people equated drab, wet weather with a funeral but rain made it difficult to hear the words spoken at graveside and grievers streaked mud into the parlor and onto the limousine carpets. They also lost a half-dozen umbrellas each time they presided over a rainy service.

  Grant turned to his desk, reached into his suit jacket draped over the chair and found the pink message slip he’d used to take notes when Smith called three weeks ago. He looked at the number on the paper. Smith said he’d gotten Grant’s name from an associate, but didn’t say who, and when Smith proposed an exchange of cash for information Grant might hear in his daily routine, initially Grant said “no.” It sounded like a prank or a scam. Smith mentioned in particular being notified about pending government investigations. But it was the final thing Smith said that made Grant keep the man’s number. He’d pay to know if anyone asked about Joyce Stringer. He dialed the number.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, is this Mr. Smith?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Grant Freeman, the third. In Birmingham? Alabama?”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Freeman. Good to hear from you. Have you reconsidered my offer?”

  “Maybe. But I have a couple of questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you involved in criminal activity?”

  “Of course not. I deal in information. My clients are legitimate businessmen paying for research that furthers their goals.”

  “But you mentioned federal investigations? I can’t do anything illegal. I’m not a criminal.”

  “I understand that, Grant. Can I call you Grant?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I know. You’re being cautious. Let me explain. Government or political inquiries into local industries, even individuals, can provide valuable insights into the business climate of a community. That’s the kind of information I’m looking for. It’s not unusual for my clients to pay for both formal and informal research before they invest in any enterprise.”

  “I see.”

  “I told you I got your name from an associate who speaks highly of you and your father. He says you’re both well known in Birmingham, and my clients are exploring the feasibility of doing a great deal of business in the region.”

  “Well, my father is better connected to the business community than I am.”

  “That may be, but we’re more interested in the activities of a younger demographic.”

  Grant pondered Smith’s words. He thought the man was a bit of a fast talker. Probably a lawyer. “I see. What kind of money are we talking about?”

  “Well, my clients run multimillion dollar businesses. So up to ten thousand dollars isn’t out of the realm, if the information is useful to them.”

  Ten thousand dollars. I could sure use that kind of money. It beats the nickel and dime money I make when I take a piece of our contractor fees. “How would the payments work?”

  “You give me an account number at a financial institution of your choice, and I wire the money to the account.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “That simple.”

  “Okay, Mr. Smith. I called because I heard something today. Two police detectives came by and asked about Joyce Stringer.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “They pretended to be interested in her brother’s funeral and said they’re trying to find his killers, but then they asked about Joyce. When was the last time I saw her, or spoke to her.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth. I haven’t seen Joyce since Paulie’s funeral. Is she working on a start-up here? Is that why you’re interested in her?”

  “You’re a smart young man. If she’s been making inquiries about locations or looking for potential investors, we’d like to know about it. See if you can find out more. Maybe your father has heard something.”

  “Okay, but I’d like to leave Dad out of this. I’ll do some snooping.”

  “For your trouble, I can wire you five-hundred dollars as a goodwill gesture. Just call me with the account information.”

  “I can give you that now,” Grant said, before ending the call.

  He turned his chair and elevated his feet on the windowsill, revisiting the entire conversation with Smith. Nothing illegal, just passing on information he might pick up around town. He could do that. Talk to some of the guys he knew from the gym, have lunch at the City Club a few times and put out some feele
rs. Karen might even have insider information. She was always talking about the people she met at the courthouse and the judges she knew. He was giddy with excitement. “Five hundred dollars now, ten thousand dollars later. Man, this can give me the cash I need to get out of the dead-people business.”

  “Was you talking to yourself, Grant?”

  He spun around to find Grace staring into space in front of his desk. “Damn, Grace. You scared me. Stop sneaking around, will you? Didn’t I tell you to always knock before you come in?”

  Grace stepped back and looked as if she might cry. She pulled her sweater tight around her, fastening her eyes on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Grant. I forgot.” She swayed in place and let out a tiny groan.

  Grant shifted in his seat, ran his hand through the thinning hair at his crown and tried to squash his irritation. “What is it? What is it you want?”

  “It’s three o’clock. You said to tell you.”

  “Okay, Grace. Okay, thank you. I’m going down to the prep room. We’re expecting a delivery from the morgue at three-fifteen. At five o’clock we’ll close up and I’ll drive you home.”

  “So we can go to supper, Grant?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m going to have chicken fingers and hash browns,” Grace said with anticipation.

  “I know. That sounds good.”

  Grace exited the office in a single pirouette and tip-toe motion. Grant grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, opened the closet and stepped in. He removed his slacks and dress shirt, carefully fastening the shirt’s top button and adjusting the arms on the hanger. He hung his tie across the shirt and dropped his cufflinks in the breast pocket of the coat.

  He slipped into blue scrubs and sneakers and enjoyed his image in the mirror, then glanced at the wall safe at the back of the closet. His father had always been stingy with his affection, especially with his wife and son. When he was a boy, his mother had eased his jealousy by telling him his father was an important man who had to give his attention to his business, and to his daughter, who needed him more. But when he’d graduated mortuary school and become a full partner in Freeman Funeral Home, Grant decided to find his own answers to his father’s continued distance and secretiveness.

  He had full access to every part of the business except the wall safe, and when he asked about its contents, his father dismissed his question with a mention of memorabilia from the early days of the business. “Nothing of significance, son. Besides, I lost the combination long ago,” his father had said. It had cost Grant four hundred dollars out of his own pocket—no receipt for his father to find—to have a locksmith open the safe. His father’s deceit of almost forty years was verified in letters, photographs, receipts for travel and hotel rooms, and other mementos.

  Grant glanced at the safe again, remembering his mother sitting home alone, on days and nights that would fill a calendar, as his father contrived work appointments. He thought about his own decision to give up his dreams of becoming a doctor, to take up his father’s career—just to please him. His father had emptied the safe two months ago, and Grant had emptied himself of loyalty. His father’s shortfall of affection no longer mattered. All he wanted was to be free of the burden and moniker of “the Third” that kept him lifeless, like the bodies he embalmed.

  Chapter 10

  The suburban house owned by Joyce Stringer was southeast of Birmingham’s central city in a community called Forest Park. The area was impressive, economic leaps and bounds from North Birmingham. The streets and sidewalks were wide, mature trees near the curbs added shade to the neighborhood and houses of all styles and sizes had expansive, well-kept lawns and deep driveways. There were few pedestrians, but a couple of women pushed baby strollers and the mail carrier was making his rounds.

  “Nice houses,” Don said.

  “The one we’re looking for should be on the left side of the street toward the end of the block. The number is 719. There it is.” Charlie pointed.

  The house was a white bungalow with pale blue shutters and a matching front door. A burgundy Acura was in the driveway. Don slowed, but did not stop. At the end of the block, he made a three-point turn and passed the house again. Charlie took a couple of photographs with the phone Judy had bought for her. The postman noticed their slow driving and the U-turn and paused to look at the pair. Don continued down the block to connect to the 31 highway.

  “You get a picture?”

  “I think so. I’ve only used the camera one time when Judy tutored me. I’ll have to call her so she can walk me through how to transfer the photo to my laptop.”

  “Uh-oh. We’ve got company,” Don said, looking in his rearview mirror.

  Charlie turned to see a blue flashing light and Don pulled over to the curb. Two uniformed officers exited the patrol car and approached the Chrysler, one on each side. The officer on the passenger side remained at the rear of the car, while the other tapped on the driver window, which Don rolled down.

  “Do you live in this neighborhood?” the policeman asked. He wore dark glasses and kept both hands on his belt.

  “No. There’s an address we were trying to find,” Don answered.

  “What address?”

  Charlie looked down at her notebook. “719 Poplar Alley.”

  “That’s in the next block,” the officer said angling to get a better look into the vehicle. This here a rental car?”

  “Yes. We’re from out of town. On an investigation,” Don decided to reveal more information.

  “Investigation?”

  “Yes, we’re private. From Detroit. Looking for a missing person.” Don spoke with the terse cadence of Sgt. Joe Friday from Dragnet.

  Don flipped open his wallet and held it up to reveal his PI license on one side and driver’s license on the other. The officer took the wallet and studied it.

  “I spoke to Lieutenant Walker in Central City about our case yesterday,” Don said, to form a connection.

  The officer’s expression and demeanor remained unchanged.

  “You carrying a weapon?”

  “Yes,” Don said. “My concealed weapon permit is the next card over.”

  The officer nodded to his partner, who moved up to the passenger window. While the first cop perused Don’s wallet, the other, his hand on the butt of his gun, perused Charlie.

  “You were on the job.” The man used the familiarity of a fellow police officer.

  “Yes.”

  “She an investigator, too?”

  “Yes,” Don said.

  “Are you carrying a weapon, ma’am?”

  “No,” Charlie said, making sure to keep her hands visible on her lap.

  “Someone reported a suspicious car in the area,” the patrolman stated. “There were a couple of break-ins last month and the residents here don’t take kindly to people casing their houses.”

  There was a bit of a Southern enunciation on the words “residents,” “kindly” and “casing.”

  “We’re here only because we got a lead that our missing person could be associated with that address, officer,” Charlie offered.

  She saw her image reflected squarely in the man’s dark glasses but he said nothing. He returned Don’s wallet and nodded to his partner, who turned away from the passenger window.

  “Will you be coming back?”

  “Only if our lead pans out,” Don answered.

  The partners drove in silence for a few blocks, Charlie thinking about the reputation of the Jim Crow South not that long ago and the dangers Birmingham’s black citizens faced from white police officers during that time, especially in places where they didn’t belong.

  “Things are different now, Mack,” Don said reading her mind.

  “Then why are my hands still shaking, partner?”

  A horn sound startled them both. Charlie fumbled through her pockets looking for her mobile phone. Judy was calling. She had assigned each of them special ring tones and Judy’s was the cava
lry bugle charge which blared through the car.

  “Darn it, where’s the phone? I had it to take the picture.”

  “Is it under the seat?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot, I’m sitting on it.” Charlie flipped open the phone as the cavalry sounded its final charge.

  “Damn, I missed her.”

  “I should have had the bugle ring,” Don complained.

  “Not that again, Don. You already lost that fight.”

  The song “Kung Fu Fighting” was Charlie’s ring. Gil’s calls sounded a mariachi band and Don’s calls played “The Beer Barrel Polka.” Nothing subtle about Judy. She answered the phone on the second ring and Charlie touched the speaker button.

  “What’s shaking in Alabama?”

  “Not much. We just had a little run-in with the Birmingham police but nothing to worry about,” Charlie said, sharing a look with Don. “You called?”

  “I wanted to make sure you got the telephone logs I faxed this morning.”

  “Yes. I got them. Thanks. Anything else?”

  “Well, I found out Paul also had a cell phone. I got a few pages of those records too, but it’s basically calls to the same numbers. One of the incoming numbers was a mobile in the name of Joyce Stringer but that number and Paul’s are both disconnected.”

  “Okay. Judy, I can’t remember how to get the picture on my phone onto my laptop. Can you walk me through it when I get back to the motel?”

  “Sure. You got anything else for me?”

  “Yes. My phone should ring the bugle charge, not yours, Novak,” Don hollered.

  In the silence that followed, Charlie imagined Judy thinking of a dozen ways to slam dunk in reply. Before Judy approached the basket, she blocked the shot.

  “I have another assignment for you,” Charlie said, referring to her notebook. “Can you check out the ownership for a 2004 Acura? Burgundy. Alabama plates 02G133B.”

  “Let me read that back,” Judy said. Zero, two, G as in Gotcha, one, three, three, B as in Bugle. I’ll call you back as soon as I have something.”

  Judy disconnected before Don could say a word.

  Chapter 11

  Charlie spent the rest of the afternoon writing on three-inch, color Post-it notes. For each track of the investigation there were two sets of notes, red notes with questions and green with facts, data and assumptions. Charlie let out a deep sigh, realizing she had more notes for Paul Stringer than for Joyce. Somehow he’d become a central figure in this case and she had an inkling that answering the questions about Paul would lead her to Joyce.