by Tim Cockey
Lee pulled her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms. She was still looking past me at Pete.
“I’ve got to go bury someone,” I said to her.
Lee took a beat. Then she smiled. “Oh, right. That old excuse.”
The media was having a veritable field day. Kids in the candy shop. The Daily Cannon in particular was so rife with purple prose that its readers practically had to wear gloves in order to keep their fingers from getting stained. Fallon swore to me that even he had protested—to no avail—over The Cannon’s banner headline that ran the day after the shootings.
SUGAR POPS POP
“We have to sell papers, Hitch,” he said to me over the phone. “It’s a screaming match out there.”
Most of the news accounts had little to go on beyond the bare-bones facts of Sugar Larue Jenks having gunned down the executive director and the CEO of the ARK, one of whom happened to have been her father, the other her husband. Speculative pistols were being shot off in all directions. It wasn’t until two days after the killings that Nick Fallon bylined The Daily Cannon’s scoop, setting out the reasons and rhymes for Sugar Jenks’s bloody actions. Nick was greatly assisted in his efforts by a detailing from none other than Sugar herself. Owen Cutler had moved swiftly to secure Sugar’s release on bail, exerting his considerable influence as well as digging deep into his own pockets to come up with the sum set by the judge. The prosecutor protested, but Owen Cutler’s personal promise that he would keep a short leash on Sugar had carried the day. Nick Fallon had been tipped off that Cutler was planning to intervene on Sugar’s behalf, and when Cutler and Sugar arrived back at Cutler’s house after the hearing, Nick was camped out on the doorstep. So was I. Nick had urged me to be on hand. He wanted someone there who Sugar Jenks would recognize—and possibly trust—as he made his pitch for an exclusive interview. Cutler balked of course and attempted to get Sugar swiftly into the house, but with a tall undertaker blocking the door he failed. It was something of a long shot on Fallon’s part, though in truth he had little to lose. It paid off. I put the matter to Sugar, who took no time shaking free of Cutler’s grip and inviting us inside.
“I do not agree to this,” Cutler protested.
Sugar told him that was fine. We could go off to a coffee shop and talk.
“You can’t keep me from talking,” she said. “Maybe you think you can, but not anymore you can’t.”
“It’s the devil you know,” Fallon said to Cutler. “You might as well listen in. It’s tomorrow’s news.”
Cutler conceded. He held open the door and we filed in.
It was not a happy chronicle.
Sugar Larue Jenks sat at the Cutlers’ kitchen table and in her soft, nearly whispering voice detailed a lonely childhood in Kentucky. Her father, she said, had little time for her, consumed as he was with raising and training his champion racehorses. He was cold to her, she said, and he also had little time for his wife, who shared none of her husband’s passion for the caballos. Honey Larue—that’s right, you can’t make this stuff up—Honey Larue had a pair of outlets for her own loneliness. One of them was Kentucky mash. The other was her daughter. Sugar Larue grew up on a steady diet of bitter invective directed against her father.
“I never knew someone could hate another person so much,” Sugar whispered into Fallon’s tape recorder. “I felt sorry for Daddy.”
When she was thirteen, Sugar got involved with one of the horse trainers under her father’s employment. Ten years her senior, the trainer seduced the boss’s daughter in a horse trailer next to one of the ranch’s several riding rings. The affair was brief, ending the day Sugar Larue looked beyond the jolting shoulders of the trainer to see her father standing at the door of the trailer, arms crossed on his oval chest, a look of casual disdain on his elfin face. Crawford Larue never mentioned the incident, either to Sugar or to his wife. Nor did he fire the trainer. On the contrary, he promoted him, putting him in charge of one of Larue’s personal favorites of the stable. Larue had recently made his decision to run for the statehouse. Sugar fell into a heavy depression and remained in it throughout the campaign and after she and her parents had moved into the governor’s mansion. A year later, Crawford Larue was in federal prison and—the ranch sold—Sugar and her mother were living in a modest house in a Louisville suburb. The day that her husband was released from prison, Honey Larue drove her car into a lake. When divers reached it there was no indication that Honey had made any attempts to escape. Her seat and shoulder belts were still affixed and her hands were gripped tightly on the steering wheel.
Sugar had paused at this point in her story to get herself a glass of water. Cutler, who was standing off by the refrigerator the entire time, had not budged. When Sugar sat back down, she had again whispered, “I felt so sorry for Daddy.”
Crawford and Sugar moved to Washington, where Jack Barton had arranged for his old friend to take the reins of the Alliance for Reason and Kindness. By that point Sugar’s depression was chronic and she sought refuge in a variety of medications, few of which did little else but dull her already insensate senses. It was in such a state that she let out her very small whimper of protest the first evening that Jack Barton excused himself from cordials in Crawford’s den and made his way upstairs to Sugar’s bedroom.
Sugar would not—or could not—detail the number of encounters she had with Jack Barton over the next several years. Fallon had pressed gently, but Sugar frowned him off. “A lot,” she whispered. That her father was fully aware of what was going on was evident not only in Barton’s boldness, but in the abortions—three in all, she said—that Crawford Larue quietly arranged for his daughter.
Here, Sugar corrected herself. She had told most of her story to the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on Nick Fallon’s tape recorder. But now she looked up. She looked across the room at Owen Cutler. The poor girl was incapable of getting off a withering stare. There was too much pain in her eyes to pull it off. But she tried.
“They tried one more time,” she said hoarsely. “I ran away. I . . . I couldn’t do it again. I was killing too many babies. I couldn’t do it anymore.”
Sugar had been scheduled for another appointment with her doctor. Instead she went to the bus station and took the first bus out. The bus took her to Florida, where she stayed a while before moving on to California. She had withdrawn some money from her savings account and as that ran out she took a series of jobs waiting tables.
Tears appeared in Sugar’s large black eyes and they flowed unimpeded down her cheeks.
“But I . . . I was no good. I was scared. And I was sick all the time. I’ve never taken care of myself before. I didn’t have anyone to protect me. It was . . . I was lonely.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she closed her eyes.
“I couldn’t live out there.”
Crawford Larue had the resources—and he used them—to locate his daughter and to bring her back home. Sugar was too far along at that point to safely abort the child, so she carried the baby to term, never once leaving the house until it was time for the baby to be born. Sugar told us that she has almost no memory of that stretch of time. The child was delivered by cesarean. A baby girl. Sugar never saw her.
“You stole my baby,” Sugar said, pointing a trembling finger at Owen Cutler. “You told me she was dead.” She turned to Fallon and sniffed back her tears.
“They made it so I would never have a baby again. They never asked me, they just did it.” She took a deep breath and held it. The tears welled up again in her eyes.
“And that’s when I died.”
Crawford and Virginia Larue had never intended to adopt a baby. Leastwise, not for themselves. Fallon had been right about that. Neither of them was interested in raising a child. The baby was intended for Sugar. For Mr. and Mrs. Jenks. A little bambino all their own. Ginny Larue swore she knew nothing of her stepdaughter’s wretched past. I was inclined to believe her. She told the autho
rities that she was in fact aware that Crawford was on the lookout for a child to “present” to his daughter and her husband. Ginny knew that Sugar was unable to conceive a child on her own, although she insisted she was in the dark as to the reasons. Owen Cutler admitted that Larue had initially told him that he wanted the lawyer to “fetch Sugar’s baby back.” This was what Cutler had told Mike during their conversation on Gellman’s deck. Cindy Lehigh had not heard this part, or if she had, had not understood what Cutler was saying. Of course Cutler steered Larue away from such a ludicrous notion. There were, he assured him, plenty of babies out there.
And, of course, he was right.
The day of Mike Gellman’s wake, state senator Mickey Talbot was indicted for influence peddling in the matter of the half-finished sports arena on Route 50. Senator Talbot pleaded not guilty, even though the evidence against him—as spelled out in the indictment—looked pretty damning. Another indictment in the case—that of Michael P. Gellman—never saw the light of day.
Pete got me on the phone.
“Mickey Talbot,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Talbot. Ring any bells?”
It did. A large gong. “Bud Talbot. Annapolis police.”
“First cousins.”
“Acting police chief Talbot,” I said. “This is the fellow not too terribly interested in making waves for Mike Gellman?”
“It’s called vested interest.”
“I’m not the lawyer here, Pete. But isn’t that also called obstruction of justice?”
“Hey, you know what? I think you’re right, Hitch.”
“We don’t want him getting away with that, do we?” I asked.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Hey, you know what? I think you’re right, Hitch.”
Pete said he had to go. He said he had a call to make.
At Mike’s wake that night, Libby told me that she was trying very hard not to blame herself for her husband’s suicide. Mike had been well into his bottle of Johnnie Walker by the time I had dropped Libby off at the house and was already in a deep misery when she came through the front door. He knew his arrest was coming. And he knew what that meant to his career.
“But I made it deeper,” Libby acknowledged to me at the wake. “I know it. I hammered away at him. As far as I was concerned Mike was as responsible as anyone else for Sophie’s death. Not that he wasn’t already feeling that himself. He definitely was.”
We were standing in front of Mike’s casket. A framed photograph of Mike sat atop it. Libby picked up the photo and looked at it.
“I didn’t do it, Hitch,” she said to me. “I didn’t forgive him. I know it’s what you’re supposed to do, but I just couldn’t do it.” She set the photo back down. She placed a hand on the casket. Tears were forming in her eyes. “I still can’t.”
The service for Mike Gellman was held the next day at St. Luke’s Church on Charles Street. Sam and I got the casket to the church before anyone had shown up. We set it in place and distributed the flower arrangements. Sam was trying to sort out where to put one of the larger ones when the first guest arrived. He came slowly down the aisle and went directly up to the casket and placed his hand on it. He stood a long moment, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking nearly imperceptibly as he quietly wept. Our eyes met when he finally turned away. Owen Cutler began to say something, then apparently changed his mind. He stepped over to the front pew and parked himself all the way down at the end. He dropped his hands into his lap, his chin to his chest. He did not look up as the others began to arrive.
I was standing off near a side exit in the front of the church when Mike’s parents and Libby entered the church and made their way down the aisle. The parents both looked as if their entire understanding of how our lovely world ticks had been completely obliterated. Their son had been destined for big things. Coming to grips with the squalid facts surrounding his taking of his own life . . . that adjustment would take a while. The three went up to the casket and stood staring at it. I could tell them from years of experience . . . caskets give off no answers. They are smooth and blunt and silent. Stare a hundred holes through them if you like; they give back nothing.
As they turned from the casket to take their seats, Libby saw me standing off to the side. She said something to her in-laws, then crossed over to me. Instinctively I held both of her hands within mine. It always surprises me when I do this. I hate appearing unctuous, but unless you’re on guard for it it’s one of those automatic things that you do as an undertaker. Libby’s eyes were free of tears. Her skin was pink. She seemed the picture of health.
“We’re leaving this evening,” she said. “As soon as I can get away from all of this I’m picking up the kids and we’re getting out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to California. It’s as far away as I can get. I know I can’t escape all this, but it’ll at least give us a little space. I’m going back to my maiden name. The children will take it, too. If we stay here we’re just a freak show. Especially Lily. I couldn’t bear that.”
“I understand,” I said. “I think it makes sense.”
Libby looked up at me. “So do I say good-bye to you here or at the cemetery? It seems kind of gruesome either way.”
“Say it now.”
She did. She squeezed my hands and then released them. She held my gaze for just a fraction, then she turned without another word and walked past the casket and into the pew where Mike’s parents were sitting. Mike’s father had slid partway down the pew and was talking quietly with Owen Cutler. Libby sat a moment with her eyes closed, her head bowed in prayer, then she straightened and leaned over slowly, resting her head against her mother-in-law’s shoulder.
Several minutes later the priest stood up and began the show. I know it by heart. I stepped outside into the sun.
The stoop outside the funeral home was getting crowded. Along with Aunt Billie and Darryl Sandusky there was a newcomer. As I approached, the newcomer chased some wispy blonde hair from her face.
“Hey, stranger.”
“Praise be,” I said. “I could sure use a little faith right about now.”
“Hey, man,” Darryl said. “You think that’s funny or something?”
“What’s in that mug?” I asked the kid.
Darryl poked his nose into the mug he was holding. He sneered up at me.
“Coffee.”
I turned to my aunt. “Billie? You’re caffeinating this monster? If you don’t stop soon someone is going to bring you up on charges.”
You pretty much expect a kid like Darryl Sandusky to stick his tongue out at you. It’s slightly disconcerting when he is joined by your dear old auntie.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said to Faith. “This is bad company you’re keeping.”
Faith accompanied me back to my place, where I changed out of my funeral duds and into something a little more comfortable. My timing was off, for no sooner had I changed into something more comfortable than I stepped into the front room to see that Faith had changed as well . . . only she had nothing comfortable to change into so she had changed into nothing at all. It’s all very complicated. I then swiftly changed out of something more comfortable and into the same nothing that my guest had achieved, all of which paved the way for making the next hour and ten minutes extraordinarily more comfortable than . . . well, it was a nice way to shake off the gloom of the day, let’s just leave it at that. Faith was a wonderful panacea. A restorative. A credit to her name.
Alcatraz was bundling his belongings into a bandanna, which he was ready to attach to a bamboo pole, so Faith and I returned ourselves to the “something comfortable” state and took the neglected canus out for his stroll. The first crisp taste of autumn was in the air. In another few weeks we’d be getting whatever version of leaf changing this year was going to bring. Faith and I walked on air down to the harbo
r. The cat that Alcatraz never catches came flying out from behind the Oyster and took off down the street. Alcatraz bounded hopelessly after it, woofing outrageously. I explained to Faith that the dog never catches the cat.
“He seems to enjoy the chase,” Faith remarked.
I agreed. “Yes. He seems to.”
We could still hear Alcatraz’s baying off in the distance. Out in the harbor a tug sounded. It was difficult making out where the dog faded out and the tug took over. In a few seconds, both had stopped. Faith looped her arm around my elbow.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she said.
It was. No question. Diamonds were dancing all along the water. The sky was a rich blue. The air was clear.
Faith abruptly withdrew her arm. “Race you to the end of the pier!” And she took off. I hesitated, watching her run. She was all loose limbs, her hair kicking left and right. Very pretty girl, I thought. Which of course I already knew. With no warning, my chest contracted—it was almost painful—and a deep sigh, nearly audible, ran through me. A seagull off to my left let out a pair of cries, swooping into the wake of Faith’s laughter. I sent the signals down to my legs and I took off running.
eBook Info
Title:Murder in the Hearse Degree
Creator:Tim Cockey
Publisher:PUBLISHER
Identifier:1-4013-9731-X
Format:Mobipocket Reader 4.3 build 363
Language:en-us