The Hearse You Came in On (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries)

by Tim Cockey

  “Hey!” He was pointing down the block. “Look!” I looked. But I didn’t see anything unusual.

  The young policeman frowned, and then he shrugged.

  “Wow. Power of suggestion, I guess,” he said. “For just a second there I thought I did see Lou Bowman. Some guy came around the corner down there. You didn’t see him? He turned around and went back.”

  “He ducked back after he saw your car? Does that qualify as suspicious?”

  “Sure.” He looked over at me. “I’ve taken note.”

  I went back to the funeral home. You tell me, should I have felt safer now?

  I met Fred on his way out. “Those TVs are getting creepy,” he said to me.

  I agreed. Everything was.

  By late afternoon I was getting worried. No word from Kate. I had left several messages on her machine at her home by now as well as the several at the station.

  I called Julia. She answered on the fourth ring. She said that she had heard from her mother about the wake this evening for Edie and that she would see me there.

  “Can’t you talk now?” I asked.

  “I’m busy now, Hitch.”

  There was something in her tone. “Is he there again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you screwing again?”

  “That’s right, dear.”

  “As we speak?”

  “Practically.”

  “Am I almost part of a phone sex ménage à trois?”

  “You would be if you were invited,” Julia said sweetly.

  Click.

  I was restless. I called Hutch. He wasn’t in. I asked to be put through to his voicemail. I left the following message:

  “Hi, Hutch, Hitch here. I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve decided that I’m pissed off at you for your so-called friendly warning and for these innuendos about Kate. I’ve grown very fond of her and I think that you should wake up. The guy you’re trying to help put in the governor’s mansion is a bastard who takes advantage of people and who fools around behind his wife, who also happens to be a tramp. All this can be proven and you know it. Your insinuations about Kate have no basis in fact, and you know that, too. She’s not the one trying to play me like a fiddle. You are. You’re keeping company with sleaze, Hutch, and if you don’t watch out it’s going to start wearing off on you. If it already hasn’t. Oh, and I know why you’re so certain that I had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of Guy Fellows. It’s because you do know who is involved. You know all too well, don’t you? As if you were practically there yourself. You’ve picked a fine line of business, my friend. I hope you’re enjoying yourself. Hi to the wife.”

  It’s amazing what a forum somebody’s voicemail can be. It was a hell of a speech. I doubt I could have pulled it all together like that in person. So what if it was a sucker punch? Hutch deserved it. Enough already.

  As I sat there congratulating myself over my armchair heroics, the phone rang and I nearly jumped out of my armchair. I figured it was Hutch, calling me back to tell me how quickly I could go to hell.

  It was Kate.

  “Kate! Where are you?”

  “I’m at a pay phone.”

  “Come over.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to run down a few things. There’s someone I have to go see.”

  “Run them down over here. Or tell me where you are. I’ll come over and we can run them down together.”

  “I can’t. I’ll call you as soon as I can. But listen. I’ve got some information about Epoch Ltd. A picture is definitely developing, Hitch. It’s quite a picture.”

  “Tell.”

  “I need to do a little more digging. I’ll call you. I promise.”

  “Come on, Kate, give me something. Who’s in this picture? What did you find out about this Epoch thing? Christ. Give me something to chew on.”

  “Okay, Hitch. Here’s something you can chew on. Chew on Grace Kelly.”

  “Amanda Stuart?”

  “That’s right. Member in good standing of the board of directors of Epoch Ltd.”

  “But—”

  “Hitch, I’ve really got to go.”

  “No! Kate, I—”

  Goddamn click.

  I had to tuck that little piece of information in my pocket for later. I showered and shaved. I put on a pair of slightly wrinkled slacks, a denim shirt and a tie, and a sport coat that Aunt Billie once described as “seedy tweedy.” I popped next door and filled a plastic trash bag with flowers from the Jeff Simons collection. The march of the terra-cotta TVs had finally trickled out.

  “This place looks like a nightmare,” Billie commented as I stuffed my trash bag with flowers. She was right. Depending on how you looked at it, the flowers sprouting from the terra-cotta TVs looked either like antennas for the TVs or like they were simply sprouting right out of the dead newsman’s head.

  I finished filling my bag with flowers, got Billie’s reassurance that she could handle things on her own for a while, kissed her on the top of the head, shouldered my bag and headed off to the harbor. I noticed as I left that my police guard was gone. I guess Kruk couldn’t push through overtime for the guy. I kept close to the buildings as I picked up my pace.

  CHAPTER 35

  I held up my trash bag. Sally planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.

  “Flowers! Oh, Hitchcock, perfect!” She took the bag from me and emptied it right there on the floor. “Edie would have loved it.”

  To no one’s great surprise, Sally proved herself a great hostess for a wake. Word of the demise of both Edie and the dinghy had spread quickly, as had word that drinks were on the house. The place filled up in no time. Sally kept the drinks flowing. Some of the Oyster regulars had taken stabs at sprucing themselves up for the occasion. Al the video guy and Bookstore Bill were there, each sporting ties. Bow for Bill; string for Al. They stood over by Edie—on opposite sides of the coffin—arguing. Generally speaking, shirttails were tucked in and lipstick made a strong showing and an authentic sense of bonhomie worked its way around the room. A woman came into the bar about an hour after I had arrived. She was dressed completely in black, all the way to the veil, which covered her face. Appropriate though it was, the outfit stood in stark contrast to the more loose-goosey garb of Edie’s bereaved revelers. The woman came directly over to me and snarled.

  “I bought this special. You said this was a wake. This looks pretty damn casual to me.”

  It was Carol.

  “You look great,” I said.

  Carol raised the veil so that I could see her face. “Call me the Black Widow.” She winked, then lowered the veil again and slid onto a stool with the liquid ease of a person who had been doing this over half her life.

  Sally had sent word to the Cat’s Eye Pub over on Thames Street that she was holding an old-fashioned wake; she had managed to pry loose from the place a young fiddler and a leathery-skinned cuss who played a mean pennywhistle. The pennywhistler wore a black eye patch. If you watched closely, you could see when he would switch it every so often from one eye to the other. Sally herself got the dancing started. She hiked up her big skirt and began a sort of square dance and clogging combination that threatened to topple the guest of honor. At one point in the middle of the dancing, Frank stepped slowly from behind the bar and went over to Edie. He solemnly raised a glass to her. I won’t swear to it, but unless the man happened to have gotten a piece of dust in his eye at that exact moment, I believe the little glisten I saw there was an actual tear.

  In the midst of all of this dancing and carrying on, Julia arrived. She stood at the door and looked over the crowd. She was dressed in a white jumpsuit with a lime green scarf and she was drop-dead gorgeous as usual. Lots of stuff on the eyes. Lots of lipstick. She caught my eye across the room and blew me a Marilyn Monroe-style kiss. And then Peter Morgan stepped through the door behind her.

  He took in the entire scene with a single glance. No question about it, the son of a son of a millionaire was slumming. Guys like
Peter Morgan don’t frequent places like the Screaming Oyster. Morgan was dressed in a linen suit and five-thousand-dollar loafers and he looked great.

  Julia and her millionaire headed over to the bar. I watched as Julia spoke to her father, who bobbed his head a few times then reached out across the bar and shook hands with Morgan. Morgan gave him one of those two-handed clasps. I felt the grrrrrrr rising up in me. I hate those handshakes. The millionaire signaled Frank for a bottle of champagne.

  I had been in a conversation with Tony Marino, who had been telling me about deep-sea fishing off the Orkney Islands in Scotland’s North Sea. Of course Tony had never been deep-sea fishing off the Orkney Islands in Scotland’s North Sea. He was just recycling a monologue he had once heard in a bar in Inverness. And Tony is no Jack London. I couldn’t really feel the spray. I wasn’t straining to haul in the nets. I wasn’t bone cold and longing for home. When Tony saw Julia over at the far end of the bar glancing in our direction, he shut down his North Sea documentary. “Go to her,” he keened softly to me. Poor man. He really does hold the franchise on lost love.

  I stepped down the bar and greeted the lovebirds.

  “Evening, folks. Can I show you to your table?”

  “Good evening, Hitch,” said Julia. “I believe you’ve met Peter.”

  His hand was already out. “Peter Morgan,” he announced.

  “Frank Sinatra,” I said.

  We shook. One handed. Good. Julia was eyeing me carefully.

  “You’re dead, you know,” Morgan said, gracing my tomfoolery.

  “I know. One minute I’m a boozing misogynist from Hoboken, and the next…” I snapped my fingers. “I’m crooning with angels.”

  Morgan chuckled. “I actually met the man once. Down in Bermuda. If you can believe this, he was out in the driveway washing his own car. Mercedes 280 L.”

  “Gosh, Frank sure was a man of the people, wasn’t he?”

  Julia’s radar caught that one immediately. She moved in to cut me off.

  “Peter’s not a man of the people, Hitch. He’s a millionaire. Despite the burden of his riches though, he’s a good person.”

  “I never said a thing,” I said.

  “You’re a local dog on home turf, my sweet. And I do believe you’ve been drinking. I stand ready to kick your tailbone if I have to.”

  Peter Morgan was taking in this ping-pong match with an amused expression. With altogether too much charm, he said to Julia, while looking at me, “I’ll kick him if I have to, dear.”

  “I’m bigger than you are,” I reminded him. Smiling.

  “You boys are so cute.” Julia turned to Morgan. “Peter, I’m going to tell Hitchcock our news.”

  “By all means.”

  Julia turned to me. A rare blush came over her cheeks. “Hitch, Peter and I are getting married.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I’m going to be rich.”

  Morgan had worked the cork out of the bottle.

  “Will you join us in a toast?” He signaled to Frank. “Another glass?” I believe he might even have snapped his fingers. Watch out, I thought. That ain’t no hired help there; that’s your future papa-in-law. As Morgan reached for the glass I was able to catch Julia’s eye. I rolled mine. She launched a blazing comet with hers. It was a “be nice” comet. It crashed and burned just past my shoulder.

  Morgan handed me a glass of bubbly and we three lifted our glasses. If Morgan said “To us,” I wasn’t sure what I’d do. Luckily he didn’t. He proved smoother than that.

  “To Julia Finney. God’s gift to a few very fortunate men.”

  Wow. I could maybe quibble about his definition of “few,” but for conciseness, compliment and fake humility it was a gem of a little toast. Julia blushed again as we clinked glasses and sipped. I knew she was annoyed that she was blushing in front of me. It was a rare moment of fluster for Lady J.

  We sipped. We took the tickle of the bursting bubbles. It’s a funny thing about champagne. Not everyone knows this, but champagne’s origins are as a flop, a dud, a failed harvest of the white grapes of the Champagne region and an instantly acknowledged inferior step-cousin of the esteemed French wine family. The original champagne was a bona fide disappointment—all that snap and sizzle—and had been gladly turned over to the undiscerning palates of the peasant class. Chalk it up to the great masters of spin that the soda pop of wines would come to be elevated to the ranks of the Rolls-Royce.

  Julia and Peter Morgan were downright goo-goo eyed. Quite a turnaround. Just a week ago these two lovebirds had choked on their tunes in gay Paree. I was dying to know how he had won her back. I started my inquiry so subtly as to be almost completely oblique.

  “Did you know that champagne was originally considered an embarrassing flop and was relegated as swill for the lower classes?”

  “It was a failed harvest,” Morgan said.

  “I’m the one who told you that,” Julia reminded me.

  Okay then, time to throw off the cloak of subtlety.

  “How did you win her back, Peter?” I asked. “Julia told me your behavior in Paris repulsed her beyond imagination.”

  “He exaggerates,” Julia said.

  Morgan answered me frankly. “I had a lot on my mind during that trip. I behaved like an ass.”

  “Do you always behave like an ass when you have a lot on your mind?” I asked.

  Julia said, “Hitch, you’re sounding like the ass right now.”

  “I’m only trying to look out for the future welfare of my past wife.” I turned to Morgan. “You understand.”

  Julia chuckled. “Hitch, I’m surprised to see you pissing on trees this way. I must say, I’m flattered.”

  Morgan spoke up. “Julia is just the sort of person I need to remind me not to act like an ass.” He tapped his glass of effervescent peasant swill against hers. “She helps me keep my perspective.”

  “Funny, I had always found her to have just the opposite effect.” Since I was in interview mode I turned to the lady herself and put the question to her. “And you, what do you hope to get out of this union?”

  “All of his money, his great big estate. And his gold-plated weenie.”

  I hung my head. “Alas, I could offer her only tin.”

  I could see that Peter Morgan was only pretending to be fully amused by all of this. It is an undeniable truth that people get fidgety when their fiancées and their exes banter openly about sex. The three of us moved the conversation around a little bit. Julia wanted to know what happened to the dinghy. I gave them the abbreviated version. I left out the part about a murderous ex-police detective having been seconds away from inflicting serious personal harm on my person as a result of my helping to burst the bubble by which he was being funneled five thousand dollars a month—now, eight thousand—from an organization that included on its board of directors a woman who just happened to be the twin sister of the only man in the room who could truthfully call himself a millionaire. It would have been such a mouthful. Instead I simply told them about Edie’s bottle toss and how the whole thing came crashing down on her. Morgan wanted to know if Frank and Sally were going to be liable.

  “Edie was a friend,” Julia explained to the rich man. “Friends don’t sue friends.”

  “Especially when they’re dead,” I added.

  Julia ran her finger around Morgan’s champagne glass. “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re too litigious, Peter. That’s one of the things I’m planning to change about you.”

  Morgan chuckled. “Women always want to change something about their men.”

  “Julia never wanted to change anything about me,” I bragged. “I was perfect.”

  “Then why did you two divorce?”

  I deferred to Julia. “You tell him.”

  “I was more perfect,” she said.

  A certain nausea was beginning to set in. It wasn’t jealousy. It’s just that the three of us were becoming altogether too smug. Too chummy. I grabbed hold of the wheel of our conversatio
n and yanked it abruptly in a new direction.

  “Your sister is married to Alan Stuart, isn’t she?” I said.

  Morgan looked momentarily perplexed. But he recovered quickly. “That’s right.”

  “Twin sister, right?”

  “Right again.”

  “Which of you came out first?”

  “Amanda did. By five and a half minutes.”

  “Five and a half minutes. What were you doing all that time?”

  Morgan smirked. “Packing.”

  That was a good one. Though I’m sure he had used it before.

  “You don’t look that much alike,” I observed.

  “Brother-sister twins don’t necessarily. We’re not identical. Different eggs.”

  Julia groaned. “I hate reproductive conversations.”

  I asked, “How long have your sister and Stuart been married?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Let me think. Eleven? Maybe ten years?”

  “She married young.”

  “I guess. I think she was twenty. Is twenty young?”

  Julia answered that one. “It’s getting younger every year.”

  “And they’ve never had kids?”

  “Amanda and Alan? No they haven’t. Amanda can’t have children. She’s got something screwed up and the doctors told her just to forget about it.”

  “Did Stuart know about that condition when he married her?”

  Julia was looking at me like I was nuts. “Don’t answer, Peter,” she said.

  Morgan ignored her. “I don’t think he knew,” he said flatly. He wasn’t bothering now to disguise his growing displeasure of either the topic or his sister’s selfish lack of candor. I couldn’t be sure.

  “That wasn’t very nice of her,” I said.

  “If you know Amanda, you get used to that.”

  “I don’t know Amanda.” Though I’ve seen her freckle-free bum.

  “She’s the evil twin,” Morgan said. He laughed, though it was a flat and unconvincing laugh. Julia was flashing me eye signals like crazy now, but I purposely kept away from them. And she knew I was doing it.

  I pressed. “I saw your sister a week or so ago, out at the Baltimore Country Club.” Then I embellished. “She was playing tennis.”