by Tim Cockey
“A little dead bird told me.”
“I’m very sorry about that. That was stupid of me. It was reckless. I was… a little rattled that day.”
“Impersonating a soon-to-be suicide can shake a person up. Or at least so I’m told. I’ve never done it.”
“You’re angry with me.”
Well where should we deliver the new car, Johnny? “Yeah, I think you could say I’m a little out of sorts, Miss—” I double-checked the nameplate on her desk. “Miss Zabriskie. Or if I turn this around will it say something else?”
“No. That’s it. Kate Zabriskie. I’ll show you my driver’s license if you’d like.”
“I’ll believe you,” I said. “Again.”
She made a tent of her fingers and brought it to her lips. She was staring hard again. Right through me. More accurately, she was staring at me the way a person does at a half-finished puzzle. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Would you mind not staring at me that way?” I asked.
She blinked, snapping out of it. “I’m sorry. I was … I was just thinking.”
“Well how about just talking? I mean, I hate to say that I think you owe me an explanation, but etc., etc., you owe me an explanation.”
“You’re right. I do.”
“So what’s this all about? Why did you tell me that you were Carolyn James? Why did you ask about funeral arrangements? How did you know that she was going to kill herself? What exactly is—”
I cut myself off. I’ve heard that intelligence can be measured by the time required for synaptic sparks to flare between two seemingly random thoughts. I suddenly felt very synaptically challenged.
“Carolyn James didn’t kill herself,” I said. “Did she?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you knew she was going to be dead. Unless you run a damned good psychic hotline in your spare time the only way you could know something like that is by knowing that she was going to be killed.”
“Are you suggesting that I killed Carolyn?”
I didn’t much care for the poker face that came with that question. But it was the right question.
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” I said cautiously. “But you might be on to something.”
Detective Zabriskie lowered her finger tent. Her face softened. So did her voice.
“I was trying to save Carolyn James, Mr. Sewell.”
“From killing herself?”
“From being killed.”
“Somebody wanted to kill her?”
She nodded. When she spoke, there was no mistaking the sadness in her voice. “They didn’t get their chance. Carolyn took care of the problem for them.”
The detective redirected her gaze to a water spot up on the ceiling vaguely in the shape of South America. Or inverted Africa. Outside the window directly behind Kate Zabriskie’s head a flashing neon sign with burlesque letters reading: “She Feels Guilty” was being hoisted into view. I blinked and it was gone.
I cut into her reverie. “Are you going to explain any of this to me?”
“It’s complicated,” she said.
I laughed out loud at that. I couldn’t help it. Detective Zabriskie went cold on me.
“I said it was complicated, I didn’t say it was funny.”
“I know it’s not funny. Two people I never knew are dead and Napoleon down the hall there has dragged me down here so that he can stick a few pins into me. So I know it’s not really funny. That weird stunt you pulled on me, that wasn’t funny. But now you’re saying it’s complicated. That’s worth a definite chuckle. It had sure as hell better be complicated, Detective. What I’d like is for you to uncomplicate it for me.”
“Wouldn’t you rather just drop it?”
“What do you mean, ‘drop it’? You mean, drop it drop it?”
“I mean forget about it. Let it go. Chalk it up as a peculiar week. A funny week if you prefer. I’m suggesting that you just file this away as someone else’s business, Mr. Sewell, and go on about your life.”
I shook my head slowly. “Can’t do that, Detective.”
“You should.”
“Let’s say I’m uncommonly curious.”
“Let’s say you’re unwisely curious.”
“Okay, doc, let’s say that. That’s fine. But unwise or not, I’m still curious. And you still owe me an explanation.”
“I am trying to keep you from getting involved in something unpleasant,” she said tersely.
“Then you should have thought of that before you sashayed into my place of business under the assumed name of a soon-to-be-dead person and asked me to bury you.”
“I know I should have, damn it. I was having a bad day. Do you know what that is?”
“I think I’ve read about them.”
She slammed her hands down on her desk. “Why are you being so sarcastic?”
“Why are you being so secretive?”
“I’m a cop! It’s part of my job!”
“I thought your job was to serve and protect.”
The next thing I knew, the woman was on her feet. She snatched up a staple gun from her desk and threw it against the wall. Her face was flashing crimson. A light on her telephone lit up and she picked up the receiver. “No. No problem. Thanks.” She slammed the phone down and glared over at me. I kept my trap shut. After all, somewhere in this office this woman had a gun. Kate Zabriskie waited a good ten seconds, maybe more then she measured out her words.
“It is my job, Mr. Sewell. That’s exactly what it is. And I did a rotten job of protecting Carolyn James, okay? And I don’t feel very good about it. Okay? In fact, I feel horrible about it. So now I am trying to protect you and you’re not letting me.”
“I’m not in any danger.”
“That’s true. You’re not. So how about we keep it that way? How about you let me serve and protect?”
We squared off for another ten seconds of silence. She spoke first.
“Are you going to back out of this, Mr. Sewell?”
“No.”
She let out a most unhappy sigh. “Then we need to talk.”
I spread my hands. “Voilà.”
“Not here. I would prefer that we take our conversation out of this building. Can you meet me …” She consulted a desk calendar. “Tomorrow night? Say, six?”
“Six.”
“How about we meet at the Museum of Art? Behind Hopkins. They stay open late on Mondays.”
“This is to be a cultural date?”
She looked at me coolly. “This is not to be any sort of a date, Mr. Sewell. You’re insisting on an explanation. That’s what you’ll get. Do you know the Cone Collection?”
I nodded.
“Why don’t you meet me there. By the big Matisse. The big blue one.”
“The big blue Matisse. Six o’clock.”
As I got up from my chair a thought occurred to me. “Does Detective Kruk know about your coming to the funeral home?”
Her face was expressionless. “Let’s talk about this later.”
I headed for the door. She stopped me with a question.
“Did you tell him?”
I stopped and turned back around. “I didn’t know it was you. Remember?”
She had once more made a tent of her fingers. “But did you mention anything about a woman posing as Carolyn James?”
I pulled open the door.
“Let’s talk about this later.”
“Hitch!”
I hadn’t even reached the sidewalk. I turned at the sound of my name. A man in a snappy trench coat, open and flapping, was bounding down the steps toward me. Big smile on his face. It was Joel Hutchinson.
We pounded each other’s shoulders and swapped a hearty handshake, then each took a step back to assess the ravages of the years.
“You look like hell!”
“You look worse!”
We pounded each other’s shoulders again.
“What brings you here,” H
utch asked. “Are you finally fessing up to the bull in the bowling alley?”
“Hey, that was you. I only helped you squeeze him into the service elevator, if you recall. Thank you, Mr. Broken Toe.”
“I deny everything!”
“Christ, Hutch, you never denied anything.”
“Well I’ve changed all that, buddy boy. Now I deny everything. I’m in politics.”
I gave him another punch on the shoulder. We men love this sort of pummeling. “Aw, that’s a tough break, Hutch. Is there anything I can do to help you out?”
“Very funny, Sewell. Very funny. So how the hell are you doing? I hear you’re burying dead people now?”
“They’re the best kind, ha-ha.”
“And you got married, right? An artist or some such?”
“Extended road test,” I said. “We called it quits after a year. How about you? Does the woman exist who can break the back of the mighty Joel Hutchinson?”
“You’ll never guess, but she does.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Her name is Christy. She’s got me beaten down, Hitch, and I love it. A mortgage, a couple of cars, two point five children and a golden retriever named Max. It’s Have a Nice Day Sweetie and Honey I’m Home. Leave it to goddamn Beaver.”
“We’re living in an age of miracles, Hutch. That’s what I’ve been hearing.”
He laughed. “It must be.”
We continued sparring in this fashion awhile longer. I knew Joel Hutchinson from college, Frostburg State, a small gray institution of higher education and advanced beer swilling tucked away in the mountains of western Maryland. Every college has its wild man and Hutch had been ours. Hutch was always up for anything. And he was also brilliant, so his escapades rarely hurt his academic standing. Hutch was one of those guys that you figured would end up either dead, in prison, or conducting the business of his vast empire from a beach somewhere on his very own island. I was a little disappointed to hear that he was now a political flack.
Hutch told me that he was the campaign manager for Alan Stuart, who was Baltimore’s police commissioner. The current governor of Maryland was fading into the political sunset, and I had heard rumors that the city’s top cop had been considering a run. Hutch confirmed it.
“Alan’s announcing tomorrow for the governor’s race.”
Alan Stuart was a no-nonsense hard-nosed type, a solid law-and-order man. That’s about all I knew. Now I knew that Joel Hutchinson was going to be coordinating his campaign for governor. He’d either win by a landslide or explode in a scandal. Hutch was no middle-grounder, and my bet was that his candidate wasn’t either.
“Look,” Hutch said, “we’ll have to get together sometime. Though to be honest, I don’t know when. This campaign will be sucking me under, I’m sure.”
“Maybe I’ll come in and lick some envelopes for you,” I said.
Hutch laughed. “I might take you up on that.” He double-pumped my arm. “By the way. What are you doing here anyway?”
“Oh. Nothing.” I told him in briefest form that I had recently had some contact with a fellow who had been found murdered in his home this morning. You know, that sort of thing. Hutch nodded thoughtfully.
“That wouldn’t be Guy Fellows, would it?”
“Well, yes. It would be him exactly. How did you know that?”
“Just a guess. I was inside just now and I caught some of the talk. It’s my job to be nosy. Tennis guy right? Mr. Joe Stud?”
“That’s the one.”
“And so what’s your connection again?”
“None really. I mean, I didn’t know him. He showed for a funeral yesterday. We had a little argument. The guy was a hothead. Anyway, the police wanted to hear my version of it. Fellows wasn’t talking. Obviously.”
Hutch completely missed my joke. He pulled an electronic thingy from his coat pocket and flipped it open. I prepared to be beamed up, but it didn’t happen. “Look, Hitch. Are you free tomorrow? I’d really love to catch up.” He poked a few tiny keys and pursed his lips as he scanned his thingy. “How about ten-thirty?”
I had no thingy to consult so I rubbed my chin. “Fine.”
“You’re free?”
“If no one dies, yes.”
He gave me a queer look, then got it. “I get it. You’re a regular Bob Hope. So look, do you know Sammy’s? Little coffee shop, just north of the courthouse?”
“I’m sure I can find it.”
“Meet me there at ten-thirty. We can catch up some more. Then I’ll take you to a bona fide political rally. Do you think you can stand the excitement?”
“I’ll get to bed early.”
Hutch slammed me on the shoulder. “Tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow.” I slammed him back.
Hutch headed off down the sidewalk. As he moved, he pulled a little black phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Hutch was all up-to-date, that’s for sure. He was well into a conversation by the time he had crossed the street and vanished around the corner.
So I had two appointments for tomorrow. Sammy’s and the big blue Matisse.
I wondered for a moment if I should pop back into the police station and ask Detective Kruk if they had chosen a funeral home to handle the arrangements for Guy Fellows. But I decided that might look to be in poor taste.
CHAPTER 9
Trouble was brewing in Our Town. It was coming in the form of a triangle, that most time-honored chestnut of romantic bliss and woe. In this case, however, the thing was twisting into something more closely resembling a rhombus.
It should come as no surprise that my ex-wife was in the middle of it. Young Michael Goldfarb, the nice Jewish boy who was playing George Gibbs, was smitten. Michael had been in several Gypsy productions already. Anyone familiar with Michael’s earnest but hopelessly wooden acting style could have spotted the depth of his infatuation immediately upon observing his first read-through of the play’s soda fountain scene. The soda fountain scene is the falling-in-love scene and Michael Goldfarb aced it. Or at least he oozed it. Julia sat center stage in Pocahontas braids, her elbows on a sawhorse representing the soda fountain counter, sucking air through a straw while Michael Goldfarb melted all over her. Julia had steadfastly refused to make eye contact with the smitten boy, which only served to stoke his fires. The more disinterestedly Julia cast her black eyes where Michael wasn’t looking, the more eagerly he had bobbed and weaved in his attempts to trap her gaze. The result was a very peculiar dance between the two, effusive versus elusive. It absolutely shot the scene all to hell. It’s not supposed to be about lust. But of course our Zen director did nothing about it. And why should he? He was in love as well. Not with Julia, but with Julia’s erstwhile Romeo.
“He’s marvelous, isn’t he?” Gil whispered breathlessly from his director’s station in the ninth row. “Have you ever seen someone emote so?”
The answer was yes, and he was sitting in the director’s station in the ninth row in near ecstasy.
To complete our unhappy rhombus, it was becoming apparent that Libby Maslin, the medical transcriptionist who was playing the part of George Gibbs’s mother had also crossed the line and was panting over the young man who was portraying her son. Ah, theater. Where hormones come to play.
“What has he got that I ain’t got,” I asked Julia during a break in rehearsal. Her answer was extraordinarily direct.
“His virginity.”
“What? How do you know that?”
Julia leveled me with a look. “Trust me on this. I know them when I see them.”
“Well, he’s certainly eager to lose it.”
She sighed. “I know. He is.”
“Jules, you look sad. I would have thought you go for this sort of thing. In fact I know you go for this sort of thing.”
“I just can’t right now, Hitch.” She was clearly frustrated. “I know it sounds ass-backwards, but I just don’t have the energy or the time to sit up on the pedestal while Michael Goldfarb ad
ores the living hell out of me. Do you have any idea how much whimpering at my feet that poor boy would subject himself to if I took his silly cherry? Flowers and phone calls and bad poems and sweet little gestures every five minutes.”
“I never did any of that.”
“No. You’re a much more practical romantic.”
“If that makes any sense.”
“It doesn’t. But that’s what you are. Or at least you were. I think there might be a new you emerging. I haven’t decided.”
Libby Maslin was crossing the stage just then holding a paper cup in each hand. She found Gil and Michael seated on the lip of the stage, no doubt discussing Michael’s subtext. Libby stood there like a faithful hound until Michael finally noticed her. She handed him one of the paper cups. Gil gave her a look like a sour prune.
“I’m staying out of all that,” Julia said. “I’m too old for it. Frankly, I wish I had said no to Gil in the first place.”
“We’re ego gluttons, Julia. Admit it.”
“I know. But I can’t understand why sex doesn’t take care of that.”
“It’s too private. Too one-on-one. You need the adoring crowd. Speaking of which.”
Michael Goldfarb had left his little confab with Gil Vance and was approaching us. He stopped in front of Julia. He said nothing. He just stood there looking at her. If I say it was creepy, I’m saying the truth. Julia turned to me and made a shoulder-shrugging face. She looked preposterously sexy in those double braids.
“I could lead this one over a cliff.” To Michael she said, smiling brightly, “Michael? Hello, dear. Would you like to follow me over a cliff?”
He didn’t say no, he didn’t say yes. Out from behind his back came a box of chocolates.
“They’re kosher,” he said.
Julia’s eyebrows ascended. “Meaning?”
“They’ve been blessed by a rabbi.”
Julia opened the box and held it out to me. “Do you want one, Hitch? They’ve been blessed by a rabbi.”
I picked a chocolate out of the box and turned it around in my hands. Somewhere out there a rabbi actually blesses boxes of chocolates. It’s almost too much. What a big beautiful world. Sometimes.
I rolled out of bed, walked Alcatraz around and around the block, then headed downtown.