The Hearse You Came in On (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries)

by Tim Cockey

  “That’s exactly what I mean. With lots of small talk in between. I know it’s make-believe, but I am exhausted with reality. I just need a time-out.”

  “I’m probably not your best bet then,” I warned her. “You’ve got me crawling with questions.”

  “I know. I understand. It’s just… Hitch, I’m in some very hot water. There are some bad things taking place. I really don’t want you to get involved.”

  “What kind of hot water?”

  She made her appeal. “A regular little date? Please? Like two boring people with simple boring problems? Just this one night? I promise to ruin your life just as swiftly as I can later. But not tonight.”

  “Such an offer.”

  “You know what I mean. No cops and robbers. I guess I’m really not as cut out for this job as I thought I was. Or as I once was. I want a perfectly pedestrian evening. Will you be my dull guy?”

  It was such an oddly appealing appeal.

  “Okay, lady, you’ve got it. Just this once. As dull as they come. Now snap up your snapper, before it gets cold.”

  We ate our fish. We talked a bit more about some of the paintings. I told her about Julia’s work and how she had become a darling in the local art scene, as well as a big hit in Scandinavia.

  “That’s peculiar,” Kate observed.

  I shrugged. “France has got Jerry Lewis. Scandinavia’s taken on my ex-wife.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Kate said. “I’ll bet there were more than a few sprained necks after that party the other night.”

  “Julia’s okay,” I agreed. “She’s just not a horse you put a saddle on, that’s all.”

  “So you don’t think she’d marry Peter Morgan? If he asked, that is.”

  “Oh, he’s already asked. And I don’t know. Julia is a glutton for experiences. I’d imagine getting married to a multimillionaire could have its allure.”

  Kate made a face. “You mean there are women who marry men just for their money?”

  “I know, you’re shocked.”

  We rattled on this way for a while. Kate said she wanted boring. You can’t get much more boring than chitchat about the ex, now can you?

  We swapped innocuous tales of youth. I told Kate about my parents, about their salad days as local TV celebrities. She told me about summer vacations to western Maryland, camping at Deep Creek Lake. I told her about the time I got knocked out by a foul ball at a baseball game and how for the first several minutes after I came to I thought my name was Ralph.

  Dessert was good. A choice of three thousand pies. I paid the bill. Kate said, “Thank you, Ralph.” Our dull date was going just ducky.

  We went to the Inner Harbor and rented a paddle-boat, which is a molded plastic boat that among other things is not designed for the comfort of anyone who is six foot three. I listened to my knees as they moved up and down next to my ears. I felt like a gigantic grasshopper. The late summer sunset had finally concluded, but the glow from the shops and restaurants of the Harbor Place pavilions kept the night sky bleached with sufficient light that none of us out there in our paddleboats risked colliding with one another. After an hour of this, Captain Kate and I came ashore and strolled along the boat piers beneath Federal Hill and laughed at some of the names that people gave to their boats. Kate got a particular kick out of E.S. Crow. She asked me what I thought would be a good name for a boat if she owned it.

  “That’s easy,” I said. “Zabriskie Punt.”

  We climbed Federal Hill and sat on the cannons that were aimed at the harbor. I told her about my having been conceived at the Flag House. I pointed across the harbor, to the east. “Just over there. Near the Shot Tower.” I looked over at her. “Maybe I’ll take you there sometime.”

  Kate slipped off her cannon and came over to mine. In the near darkness, her face was a pearl white heart, bordered by the swirls of her black hair.

  “Thanks for the date, Hitch,” she said softly.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  We kissed. A five-second kiss, that’s all. I had to lean over from my cannon perch. Kate grazed my cheek with the back of her fingers.

  “You’d probably be smart to forget all about me right now,” she said in a near whisper. “I mean it.”

  “I know you do,” I answered. “But I’m afraid I’m really, really stupid.”

  Someone somewhere far off let off a firecracker. Kate’s face was still aimed up at me. “Well then kiss me again, stupid.” Just like in the movies.

  I did. This one lasted fifteen seconds. But only half as long as the next one, which brought me down off my cannon so that I could wrap my arms around her.

  “I’ve never kissed a cop before,” I confessed.

  “I’ve never kissed an undertaker.”

  “A night of firsts,” I observed.

  Kate leaned forward and gave my earlobe a tiny nibble. Her whispered response was an observation that the night was still young.

  “If we hurry, there’ll be time for seconds.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Men’s shirts were made for women. No two ways around it. It doesn’t work the other way around. An otherwise naked man stepping into a bedroom wearing some lady’s dress and carrying two mugs of coffee just doesn’t play the same as a woman holding the two mugs, wearing an oversized men’s button-up shirt (partially buttoned) and not a stitch of anything else. Call it a cliché of a man’s fantasy if you want to, I don’t really care. I’m human. Male human. And as I scooted up on the pillows to make way for Kate Zabriskie, I couldn’t decide what to compliment her on first, the aroma of the coffee or the spectacular way she looked in my shirt. I opted to try for both.

  “You look as good as that coffee smells.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the women who bring coffee to your lazy ass in bed.”

  “I probably would, you’re right. But with them I might just be trying to score points. With you I absolutely mean it. You look good enough to drink.”

  She handed me a mug. “Start with this.”

  We sipped. Kate brought her coffee mug up to her chin and let the steam rise up into her face. She smiled at me through the mist.

  “You’ve got a sappy look on your face, Mr. Sewell.”

  “I’m a postcoital sentimentalist. I’m tempted to lock the doors and preserve this moment forever.”

  “Sweet thought. I could really wrap you around my finger, couldn’t I?”

  I reached out and tapped her on the calf. “I’d prefer these.”

  “Don’t go getting the wrong impression of me, just because I kiss on the first date.”

  “It’s not the kiss that’s giving me this impression,” I said.

  “It’s all your fault anyway,” Kate said.

  “How so?”

  “The cannon. You sitting up on that cannon. Very provocative.”

  “Indeed.”

  Kate leaned over and set her coffee mug down on the floor. “Hmmm, that sappy sentimental look is gone already. Is that it for the postcoital whatever-it-was?”

  “Sentimentalism.”

  “Is it over?”

  “Yes. I feel a definite precoital rumbling coming on,” I said.

  “A rumbling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure it’s not your stomach? I could feed you.”

  I set my coffee mug down too. “I believe you could.”

  “Shall I tell you what’s on the menu?”

  “I believe I’ve already peeked.”

  “Okay then.” Kate licked a fake pen and poised it above a fake order pad.

  “Fire away.”

  I woke back up in the late morning. A stray curlicue of Kate’s hair was tickling my nose, and my right arm—trapped beneath her shoulders—was asleep and tingling. I had to go to the bathroom. Badly. I cautiously stretched my left leg, then had to freeze instantly as the calf threatened to cramp. My elbow itched. The trapped one. Kate was snoring ever so lightly. I was face-to-face with a tiny mole on the back of
her neck that I hadn’t noticed before. It looked like a ladybug. There was a small puckered scar on her left shoulder. I didn’t much care for the wallpaper in her bedroom. I was starving now, for real. I spotted my shirt on the floor. A large coffee stain was settling into the fibers.

  Perfect once can never be perfect again. Our evening’s sex and our morning’s banter were already being dipped in sepia. Ready soon for framing and remembering when. Right now, though, I had to pee.

  I sneezed and my leg cramped.

  “Ow!”

  Kate jerked awake as I lunged to grab hold of my calf. My dead arm flopped aimlessly and thwacked her on the back.

  “Hey! What are you doing!”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jesus!”

  If anyone happens to have a stopwatch handy I’d be curious to know how long it took for the old honeymoon to be over.

  “I’ve got to pee,” Kate and I announced at the exact same time. We locked eyes, waiting for the other to say, “You first.” I finally said it.

  “Thank you,” Kate said. Though it wasn’t much of a thank-you. She kicked over the other coffee mug on her way to the bathroom. “Ow!” She glared at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing.” She limped off to the bathroom, giving my shirt a hard look as she passed it.

  And people wonder why I live by myself.

  The sky had disappeared as thick purple-gray clouds sank into place. A cool breeze lifted the white curtains of Kate’s living room windows and held them there as a rumble sounded outside. This was followed immediately by an abrupt crack… and then the steady shoosh of rain began.

  Kate and I were dressed. Separate showers and a sheepish late breakfast behind us, we were back on balance. I had offered to leave, but Kate was insistent.

  “Please stay. We have to talk.”

  I phoned Aunt Billie to see if there were any dead people I had to deal with. Nope. I phoned Gil Vance and got his answering machine. A fake Bette Davis implied that Gil’s current indisposition was the result of some sort of naughty distraction and asked the caller to please leave a message, “after the god… damn… beep.” I told Bette to tell Gil that I had been in a plane crash in the Andes mountains but that the donkeys were on the way and I should be back for tomorrow’s rehearsal, but would miss today’s.

  “What was that about?” Kate asked.

  “I’m in a community theater production of Our Town. I’m playing the Stage Manager. I just got out of having to memorize my lines, so they won’t really need me much for rehearsals anyway.”

  “You’re an actor? An actor and an undertaker?”

  “I play the harmonica too. I’m a Renaissance man.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  The rain continued to come down in sheets and buckets and cats and dogs. It was a real mess out there. Kate had turned on a single lamp, next to the couch. The room took on a buttery glow. All very comforting.

  She tuned the radio to a classical station, but kept the volume down low. We could still hear the rain as well as the steady drip drip drip of the overflow from a clogged rainspout just above the window. I stretched out on the couch and was flipping through a magazine about tropical islands. Kate was fidgety. Finally, I lowered the magazine and asked her if she wanted to talk about last night. She threw me a warm smile.

  “There’s no need.”

  “Do you want to talk about when we got up?”

  “There’s definitely no need for that.”

  “Okay. Well, if you do want to talk about anything, you can reach me here in Tahiti.”

  I returned to my magazine. More blue water. More white sand. More ads for rum. A violin piece was playing on the radio. Urgent yet smooth. The rain continued. I turned a page.

  “Hitch. I need to talk.”

  Kate had gotten to her feet. She stepped over to the window, looked out at the rain, then stepped right back to her chair and dropped into it. I eased over to a sitting position, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table.

  “I need to tell you what’s going on,” Kate said. She fidgeted with a hangnail. “You want to know, right?”

  “I have to know. I have one foot in and one foot out and I’m running out of feet.”

  Kate said nothing. And then, quietly, she started to cry. She didn’t sob; tears simply started down her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding her hand up to silence me. “Wait. Just hold on a minute.” I did, and in another few seconds she was able to turn off the faucets. A low rumble of thunder sounded as Kate sniffed away the last of her tears.

  “I’m supposed to feel better after that,” she said.

  “Do you?”

  She stood up again. “No. I still feel like shit.” But she sounded better. She stepped over to her bookcase. There were maybe a dozen or so VCR tapes lined up on one of the shelves. She pulled one down.

  “Are you ready to get caught up in something very unpleasant and very dangerous?”

  I got a glimpse of the title on the video box. “I think you’re overestimating the power of Pinocchi.” I said. “It gets pretty dicey in the whale sequence, but it all works out in the end.”

  “It’s not Pinocchio”, she said flatly. “I just keep it in the box.”

  She slid the tape into her VCR and picked up the remote.

  “Okay. Sit back. But don’t enjoy the show.”

  She hit the remote. The TV screen flickered a few times, then went to static. Kate hit the mute button.

  “No audio?” I asked.

  “There is. But I can’t bear to listen.”

  The static disappeared abruptly. I was looking at a video image of a bedroom. It was clearly an amateur video. The date and time were burned into the lower left of the screen, the digital numbers clicking off second by second.

  “It’s a bed,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Very subtle. The way it’s just sitting there.”

  “Shut up.”

  Movement. The camera suddenly moved, a jerky pan to the left. Two people were coming into the room, a man and a woman. The woman had her head down, an arm on the man’s shoulder for support as she hopped on one foot, pulling the shoe off the other foot. The man was looking directly at the camera. He certainly seemed aware that it was there and that someone was recording the scene. He ran his fingers quickly through his boyish mop.

  “Guy Fellows,” I said. “Who’s the woman?”

  “Watch.”

  The camera panned shakily back to the original position, centering on the bed. I still couldn’t make out the woman’s face as she and Fellows reached the bed. His back was in the way. They kissed. The woman’s arms came around, one arm across Fellows’s back, the other at an angle, her fingers splaying out over the back of his head. Apparently he was unbuttoning his shirt, for suddenly he held it open and the woman helped to pull it off of him, never breaking the kiss. Then she dug her fingernails into his shoulder.

  “God,” Kate muttered in disgust.

  The camera started to zoom in, until the back of Guy Fellows practically filled the screen.

  “The cameraman stinks,” I said.

  “It’s not a man,” Kate said. “It’s Carolyn James.”

  Guy Fellows’s big head tilted to the right and he went in for a taste of the woman’s neck. She had thrown back her head, as if to show him her throat. As it happened, it made for a pretty nifty first shot of her face. Ready for her close-up. Lips parted and eyes closed, she reacted to whatever it was that Fellows was doing to her neck—reacted warmly—and then she opened her eyes. She was looking in the direction of the camera.

  “She doesn’t know she’s being filmed,” I said.

  Kate verified. “No, sir, she does not.”

  Kate stood up abruptly. “I’ll be back in a minute. I really don’t want to see this again. You can turn it off when you’ve seen enough. If you watch the whole thing, I’ll understand. I did the first time. It’s a very sexy train wreck.”

&nb
sp; She touched me lightly on the shoulder as she crossed in front of me and went into the bedroom. I settled in to watch the grim show. No surprises really. I’ll simply tell you that the appetite for sex between the two folks on the video was very highly pitched. The camera was unable to capture all of it in precise detail as occasionally the contortions of limbs left nothing but a flank or a thigh centered on the screen. But in zooming back, the woman’s face—more often than Guy’s—came back into view and each time it held an expression that can best be described as one of exquisite pain. I was tempted to unmute the TV, but I pretty much knew what sort of noises I would hear, and I didn’t want Kate, waiting it out in her bedroom, to hear them.

  After about ten minutes, I hit the pause button. The image froze. The woman was on top of Guy. Her cello-shaped torso was centered on the screen.

  “I’ve paused it!” I called out.

  Kate appeared in the doorway.

  “How much longer does it go on?” I asked.

  “This episode? Maybe another five minutes.”

  “There are more?”

  “Oh yes. There are a half dozen on that tape alone.”

  “You mean there’s another tape?”

  “Allegedly.”

  “Same stuff?”

  “Same stuff.”

  “I don’t know, that seems like overkill to me,” I said.

  “It seems like it to me, too.” Kate paused. “Are you going to watch any more?”

  “No. I think I’ve figured out the major themes. Boy meets girl. Screws her ten ways to Sunday. The end.”

  “Do you recognize ‘the girl’?”

  “Oh yes. I recognize her. She gets more close-ups than Dan Rather.”

  “That was the point, of course. She had to be recognizable.”

  I centered my thumb over the pause button of the remote and began to punch it. Onscreen, the woman’s torso jerked a little and then moved a tiny bit with each subsequent click of the frame. Her head had been tossing side to side before I paused the image. It continued now, in the halting fashion. I click-click-clicked until she came to the apex of her head toss. The hair was held motionless in midair, like Kate’s curtains when the storm had begun. The profile was sharp: the small nose, the high cheeks, the subtle look of the fox in her heavy-lidded eyes. It occurred to me that the last time I had seen this face had also been on TV. It had tossed a peeved look at the camera. This time, though, there was nothing peevish about the expression on the face of the police commissioner’s wife. Amanda Stuart was having her groove thing shaken by the Baltimore Country Club’s tennis pro. He was apparently shaking it good and Mrs. Stuart was loving every second of it.