A Trouble of Fools

by Linda Barnes

  I gulped a deep breath, and started up the front walk. I’d walked over a mile already, from Park Street Station. My shoes pinched. My skirt felt heavy. My stockings chafed. I should have worn a hat. My hair looks out of place at funerals. Most of the old ladies had their heads covered with black lace mantillas.

  The air in the foyer was pleasantly cool. I felt the slightest pressure tugging my right elbow. Then my left elbow was gently pushed and I was shunted neatly aside, one large goon at each side.

  Tweedledee said, “Family only, miss.”

  Tweedledum said, “We’ll express your condolences.”

  I tried to shake them off. They held on. I said, “Yeah. What name’ll you give?”

  The grip on my arms tightened. I dropped my bouquet. I hoped one of them would reach for it, but they were professionals. They left it lying on the tile, one droopy iris bent double.

  The inner doors were half glass. Through them I could see a narrow reception hall with deep red flocked wallpaper, oak wainscoting, a crystal chandelier. A gilded mirror over a fireplace reflected marble statues and groups of softly chatting mourners. An ornate sideboard held a cut-glass vase of lilies. I thought I could see the back of Sam’s head. He’d gotten a haicut. The back of his neck was pale.

  “Tell Sam Gianelli—” I began.

  “Family only, miss,” Tweedledee said firmly. “You don’t want to make a scene.”

  “Big family,” I muttered.

  The tall man turned his head. It was Sam, his face as fixed as the marble bust on the mantelpiece. Through the glass door, he looked as if he existed in a different world, a sad, formal place where no one smiled. A portly man patted his shoulder, shook his hand. Sam stared at me over the fat man’s head. He couldn’t have missed me. His lips parted slightly, then pressed themselves together in a thin line. He swallowed. He didn’t look away. He didn’t look down. He looked right through me.

  I closed my eyes, just for an instant. When I opened them he was gone.

  I turned to the goon on my right. “Will you give Mrs. Flaherty the flowers?” I asked. My voice was shaky, but I think he heard me.

  A third man elbowed his way out of the reception hall, grabbed the bouquet, and shoved it in my arms. They turned me around, and gave me a dignified version of the bum’s rush out the door.

  I stood blinking on the portico, one hand touching a cool pillar, more for reassurance than support. I was aware of a low rumble of voices, raised eyebrows.

  I left the damn flowers on the hearse.

  Chapter 36

  The hurly-burly died down after a while, in spite of Herald headlines the likes of BLACK MASK KILLER ON THE LOOSE. About a week after Flaherty’s funeral, somebody got a hot tip, and came around to question Gloria. She says her largest brother answered the doorbell chewing on a hunk of raw meat. I don’t believe a word of it, but whatever happened, nothing ever got into print concerning the Old Geezers’ conspiracy.

  I talked to reporters at first, on the grounds that publicity couldn’t hurt business. I got tired of the game before the press did. After a while, I started letting the parakeet answer the phone.

  First, I took the bug out of the receiver. I gave it to Mooney as a keepsake of his encounter with the FBI. Mooney didn’t do too badly in the papers either, and the Deputy Superintendent declared himself indebted for the entertainment value of the early part of the evening. And while the unexpected killing may have given Mooney a couple of sleepless nights, it didn’t bother the department as a whole. I mean, what’s one more drug pusher? Flaherty’s death was back-page news, except for the spectacular manner of his going. Nobody mourns a dead drug pusher long—except his family.

  Six days after the bus station fiasco, the earthly remains of Eugene Devens were pulled from the harbor, near the spot where they’d found his cab abandoned, not far from the bus terminal. One of the local goons talked.

  All the Old Geezers came to his funeral. And a lot of unknown men paid their respects as well. At the wake, I kept wondering: Which one killed Jackie Flaherty? Which of the faces crowded into O’Brien’s Funeral Home had I last seen masked by a black hood?

  About the money … Margaret Devens was not only serious about not wanting it back, she was even more determined that the Old Geezers and the IRA should never know it existed. She didn’t want to donate it to the church. There was no charity she wished to endow in Eugene’s memory. She wanted to forget about it.

  T.C. waltzed off with the loot after all.

  I made Margaret take the difference between the insurance settlement and the damage to her house, and enough to cover Eugene’s burial. She couldn’t have been left too hard up because she bought one of Roz’s tamer paintings for two hundred bucks.

  To celebrate, Roz dyed her hair fright-wig white.

  After figuring my time and expenses, I deposited my fee, plus a bonus, in my checking account. I made a donation to the Animal Rescue League in T.C.’s name. I treated myself to two sets of GHS guitar strings, a new Chris Smither album, and an old Lightnin’ Hopkins one. I gave a goodly sum to the YWCA, anonymously. Otherwise, they hound you for life.

  I consider the rest Paolina’s college fund.

  I hope “Mr. Andrews” is still out there somewhere, searching for Thomas C. Carlyle.

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  Coming to bookstores everywhere April 2013

  “Linda Barnes has for long been one of the most skilled and artful writers of the crime novel”.—Michael Connelly

  In The Perfect Ghost, a stunning breakout novel from the beloved author of the Carlotta Carlyle mystery series, ashy, agoraphobic ghost writer must complete a celebrity biography on her own after the suspicious death of partner

  PART ONE

  Doubt thou the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the sun doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar;

  But never doubt I love.

  Hamlet, Act II, scene 2

  William Shakespeare

  Dennis Port Police Department

  One Arrow Point Way

  Dennis Port, MA 02639

  911 TRANSCRIPT, 3/22/1_, IN REGARD TO CASE FILE #11-

  0897TRANSCRIBED INTO TYPEWRITTEN FORM BY G. HENRY, 3/24/1_.

  Dispatch: Nine-one-one. Can I help you?

  A: I dunno. Yeah, look, um, I heard a noise, like a crash, I thought, but then I figure maybe it’s just thunder or something, but then I’m looking out the window, and I think somebody must a driven off the road here.

  Dispatch: What’s your address, sir?

  A: I’m over on Willow Crest, by the pond.

  Dispatch: What number is that, sir?

  A: I’m at 8725, but it’s not real near the crash, if that’s what it is. I can barely see what looks like a fire. There’s like a flickering, outta the window, ya know? Could be it was thunder, and lightning struck over near the pond, but you know how the road turns right near there, kinda sharp? Heard there was an accident down there two years back, maybe three, fellow ran his car into the pond, so no fire, but I’m thinking this time maybe the guy wasn’t so lucky.

  Dispatch: Can I have your name, please?

  A: Are you sending somebody out?

  Dispatch: Yes, sir, I am.

  A: You tell ’em to hurry, okay? I’d go out there myself, but my knees aren’t so good. I fell last fall, wrenched my back, and I don’t want to do that again.

  Dispatch: No, sir, please just stay on the line. I’ll have somebody there as soon as possible.

  A: Good, because if I go out and fall down again, my daughter will hand me my head in a bucket, but I hate to just sit here thinking maybe somebody could use my help.

  Dispatch: You’re helping by calling it in, sir. Can I have your name, please?

  A: Thought you’d already have it.

  Dispatch: You’re calling from a cell phone, right?

  A: Hey, could be it’s nothing at all. I can’t see real good from here, not down that far.

  Dispatch: Sir, a
re you still there? Sir?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Teddy, you would have been proud of me.

  I left home on my own, and not just to pace up and down Bay State Road like a restless feline either. I made arrangements online, but I physically climbed into a puke-stinking cab, pinched my nose during the ride to South Station, and raced on board the 9:50 Acela. I almost bailed at New Haven because I was terrified, because my Old Haven no longer existed, because it sounded so damned hopeful: “Five minutes to New Haven, exit on your right.” I squeezed my eyelids shut and resisted the impulse to flee. Instead, I thought about you. I conjured you. I imagined talking to you, telling you about the strangers on the train.

  There was a snooty woman, tall, imperious, cradling a full-length fur, patting her mink absentmindedly, as if it were a friendly dog. Two teen lovers, a Celtic cross tattooed on her neck, a too-big-to-be-a-diamond stud in his right ear, entertained their fellow passengers by crawling into each other’s laps. A bald man with a hawk nose trumpeted his importance into his iPhone.

  Something makes people want to confide in me, no matter how hard I stare at my book. I wish I knew what it was so I could change it. When the businessman abandoned his cell and adjusted the knot in his tie, I had the feeling he was going to start complaining at me, like I was his secretary or his wife, and then just in time I remembered the quiet car. Really, Teddy, it was like you whispered in my ear, Em, go sit in the quiet car. I shot to my feet as though the engineer had electrified my seat, lurched down the aisle, and found a place among the blessed book-readers and stretched-out sleepers where I collapsed and breathed until the pulse stopped throbbing in my ears.

  I considered swallowing a Xanax, but as I stared out the graytinted window at the passing shoreline, I got a better idea: I could pretend there were thick glass windows between me and the crowds, a bulletproof tunnel running straight to Henniman’s. I could keep myself mentally separate, isolated and alone. I could figuratively stay on the train and lock everyone else outside, and I wouldn’t open the door for anyone but Jonathan.

  When an elderly woman peered at me over her rimless reading glasses and smiled encouragingly, I let my face go blank, willing her to turn away, to not mistake me for some friend’s college-bound daughter in need of a comforting pat. I must have looked desperate, stricken, agonized in spite of my careful preparation. You can’t imagine how much time I spent modeling outfits in the mirror, changing my mind about this scarf, that pocket book, these pants, this sweater, before winding up in a sophisticated version of what you called my uniform: ink-black jeans and a wheat-colored edition of my usual V-necked T-shirt. At the last minute I added a black suit jacket because everyone in Manhattan wears one. Simple gold jewelry: a necklace and a ring.

  All those wasted hours and I still screwed up the shoes. I made a mistake and chose the heels you once jokingly termed my “power shoes.” At the time, I figured I’d take a cab from Penn Station to Henniman’s.

  But I was early. When have I not been early? I roamed the station for eighteen minutes, but they kept making scary announcements over the PA. Watch for suspicious persons, abandoned parcels, don’t leave your luggage unattended. The lights were bright and hot, and the air reeked of rotting pizza with a hint of urine underneath. A seedy-looking man focused hollow eyes on my pocketbook, sizing me up for a mugging, so I made the snap decision to walk. I visualized a dot on a map: me. The dot would slide smoothly from Penn Station to the meeting with Jonathan.

  I erected my imaginary tunnel and under its protective shell sped crosstown to Fifth Avenue, silently reciting sonnets to counter the boom-and-thud construction noise, the screeching traffic. Shakespearean iambs moved my feet, and the map-dot made steady progress until I reached the corner of Fifth. There, despite the simplicity of the directions, I halted, confused. Right or left? Shaken, I almost panicked. My breathing shifted into second gear, but I knew the numbered cross streets would inform me if I erred. I turned right, which proved correct, and then I simply had to scoot down to the Twenties, which would have been fine except for the shoes.

  Never look like you need the money when you go in for a loan. That’s what I thought when I tried them on in front of the mirror. New and expensive, practically unworn, they seemed glamorous and carefree, but how can you look carefree if your toes are getting squeezed in a vise?

  I was hopelessly early. Twenty-two minutes. So I detoured, backtracking up Fifth, bypassing the library because the stairs seemed too steep a challenge, taking refuge in Saks, pushing through the revolving door, thinking I could stand there motionless without attracting notice, flexing my toes and inhaling the overly perfumed cosmetics counter air.

  I checked myself in the mirror over the Guerlain counter, and really, I could have been someone else, any one of the young professional women in their late twenties who milled about the store. I looked unruffled, as serene as a Madonna in a painting.

  I didn’t want to be early, Teddy. Early seems so desperate. And that couch in the glass reception cage? It would have been like trying to relax on the rack while the hooded torturers elbowed one another and rubbed their sweaty palms together in anticipatory glee. I was picturing their evil grins when a frozen-faced sales lady showed her teeth and asked if she could help me.

  Jesus, Teddy, the days I waited for someone to say that. The years. Can I help you? And when exactly was it that “Can I help you?” started to mean “Can I sell you something?” When was the last time anyone genuinely wanted to help me? Help as in aid, as in succor, as in give sustenance?

  I could have moved into scarves or hats or shoes. Shoes would have been best. I could have sat in a cushy chair, removed those awful blister makers, and wriggled my achy toes. But I felt forced outside into the cold.

  I joined the downtown parade, marching behind a man in a leather blazer chatting loudly into his cell. Each cross street thundered with traffic, pedestrian and automotive. Plunging into intersections, I felt like a darting chipmunk under the carriage of an eighteen-wheeler. I wondered if the leather blazer-clad man was talking to his wife or his lover, if the woman was telling him she loved him or hated him, if he’d continue the rest of the day in lock step or if something he learned during that particular conversation would shatter and spin him around, alter his life and change his path. Irrevocably, the way mine had changed.

  I walked right past the Flatiron Building, herded by the press of pedestrians, afraid to stop for fear of getting trampled. Where were all these purposeful souls headed? Were they late, afraid that if they paused and lifted their eyes to the murky sky, they’d stop, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty, dismount their painted carousel horses, collapse on the bare pavement, and howl?

  I worked my way to a corner and turned left onto a calmer cross street. I stepped into an alcove and watched the slow drip of water off an awning. My clothes felt too tight. I needed to pee. I should have used the restroom at Saks. It was time to meet Jonathan. I back tracked and opened the door, signed my name on the list. The guard glanced at my wavering signature with an expressionless face. I added the time in the provided space, and he nodded me toward the elevators.

  I was one of twenty waiting in the lobby. I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze into the first elevator, and the second took its own sweet time. I pressed my lips together and thought, Relax, nobody cares if you’re a little late, but my body didn’t hear me. I looked for the stairs, but I didn’t have time for twelve flights. It would have to be the box.

  The elevator stopped at every floor. Pause for the doors to part, wait for strangers to shuffle in and out. Wait, wait, wait for the doors to close again, then hover, hang, while the mechanism debated whether to rise or drop. During the slow-motion endurance test, I ran through the upcoming scene: You’ll see Jonathan, you’ll shake hands. I wiped a damp palm on the thigh of my pants. You’ll see him, you’ll shake hands.

  The new receptionist looked like a replica of the old receptionist: young, remote, plastic. I gave my name, and she invited
me to take a seat on the agony couch. I stood by the bookshelf instead, pretending to read the titles of upcoming releases.

  The latest as-told-to T. E. Blakemore, front and center, was well displayed. The cover credit, long sought, was no more than our hard-won due, and it took an effort to keep my hands from paging to the inside back flap and staring at your photograph. You were such a splendid public face for us. So charming and witty, so quick with a clever remark. I didn’t need to open the book to see you. Remember? Such a bitterly cold day, and I wanted the frozen Charles River in the background? I wanted that glint in your eye, that devil-may-care smile, tousled hair, craggy face. The wind snatched your hat off.

  “Em? Are you okay?”

  Jonathan, starched white shirt, navy suit pants belted too high, tie slightly off center, stood in front of me and I had no idea how long he’d been there. He looked exactly like the editor he was, the indoor pallor, the wire-rimmed glasses, the narrow, stooped shoulders. His right arm was extended as though he’d stuck it out for a handshake and gotten no response.

  “Bring us some water, please,” he ordered the receptionist. “We’ll be in my office.” He placed a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me down the hallway. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  I told him I was all right.

  “You did faint,” he said accusingly. “Once.”

  I concentrated on the rush of air entering and leaving my nostrils. It started, anyway, the rapid heartbeat, the sudden feeling of suffocation. The mind knows no end of dread, and if it does, the body takes over.

  But, Teddy, I didn’t faint.

  I didn’t handle it perfectly. Jonathan asked if I needed a paper bag to breathe into, so I was far from perfect, but I perched on a chair and composed myself and asked Jonathan how he was doing.

  He admitted he was fine while gazing at me as though I might detonate my bomb-vest. The door burst open, and the receptionist thrust two bottles of Poland Spring into his outstretched hands.