Good question, Dale. The picture, assuming it wasn’t a Photoshopped fake, was a bomb designed to blow up the investigation into everything that had happened over the past two weeks. Arne would come under intense scrutiny, not just over the photo but also in connection with Marty’s death, not to mention Peter’s and Dewey’s. At the least, Arne would be fatally compromised, and he and possibly his entire department would be forced out of the investigation.
I’d be in for more trouble as well. Dale’s decision to contact me before anyone else meant that I was once again linked to the Serenader’s handiwork. The usual suspicions were sure to follow.
“Just leave everything where it is,” I told Dale. “I’ll call Jim Meyers and let him deal with it.”
Before I tapped in the Pineland Police Department’s number on my cell, I took a few shots of the photo showing Arne and Jill and sent everything up to the cloud. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have my own copies of the photo, just in case. Arne was quite possibly a criminal in uniform, Jim Meyers had his own agenda and I didn’t trust the two Jasons. Better safe than sorry.
Dale went over to a small desk in the corner of the room and sat down. I was surprised to see him pull out a pack of Marlboro Lights. He fired one up and took in a long draw of smoke.
“I didn’t know you smoked, Dale.”
“I don’t,” he said. “But sometimes—”
Dale offered me a cigarette and I took it.
“I don’t smoke, either,” I said, and enjoyed my first hit of tobacco in twenty years.
Jim Meyers and two of his finest arrived at the funeral home just after eight. When Jim saw the photo in Marty’s casket, he could barely contain his glee. He despised Arne, who had once called him “Dumbo Jim” to his face, and now sweet revenge perfumed the air.
“Oh my, look who got caught with his hand on the titties,” Jim said. “So, do we know who the bimbo is?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but the tattoo should make her easy to identify.”
“Yeah, right. Probably one of the party girls from the casino.”
“Could be,” I acknowledged. Like Arne, I’d never been dazzled by Jim’s intellect, and he didn’t seem to be making the connection that had occurred to me when it came to identifying the woman. I saw no reason to give him a hint.
Dale, who’d been working himself into a panic, now piped up: “Chief, we’ve got a funeral scheduled here in two hours and people will expect to see, you know, the casket and Marty.”
“Sorry, but you’ll have to postpone the funeral. Tomorrow should be fine. ”
“Well, it’s very late for that and I’m not sure—”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll have to spend some time here, go over everything with a fine tooth comb and, you know, all of that.”
“Shit,” Dale said—the first time I’d ever heard him utter that word—before he went upstairs to work on rescheduling the services.
Meanwhile, Jim managed to locate the police department’s only evidence technician, who was no doubt enjoying a peaceful breakfast, and dragged the poor guy in to look for fingerprints or other evidence on the photo. Jim also called Jason Braddock at the BCA, but I didn’t catch their conversation. Then Jim interviewed Dale and me, separately, but there wasn’t much we could tell him.
“Jesus, I’m a nervous wreck,” Dale said after we were finally cut loose. He grabbed his Marlboros and headed out for a smoke.
“You’ll be all right,” I said. “They don’t suspect you of anything. I’m the one who’s in the muck.”
Once we got outside, Dale offered me a smoke but I turned it down. “One was enough,” I said, knowing that what I really wanted was a drink. Maybe several.
I went straight to the courthouse after leaving Dale and got out the Lorrimer file, just to be certain. I took a good look at the autopsy photos and saw that Jill Lorrimer had tattoos on her ankles, her upper arms and beneath her chest, where a winged woman cast her eyes toward heaven. Arne, on the other hand, appeared to be heading in the opposite direction.
I called Cassandra from my office and told her about the incriminating photo in Marty’s casket. She thought it was hilarious.
“Nice to see the sheriff has some shit of his own to deal with,” she said. “Who knew there could be a sex scandal in Pineland?”
“You’d be surprised what goes on here,” I said, “but sex may be the least of Arne’s problems at the moment. What about Earl Bradley’s daughter? Have you talked to her yet?”
“No, but I’ve got her work number. She’s a drug counselor. Her office told me she’s on some of kind of retreat and isn’t taking any messages. She’ll be back late Friday. I’ll try to catch her then.”
“Okay, but stay down in the cities for the time being, all right? There’s nothing you can do here.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re accomplishing a whole lot either.”
“Not true. I’m keeping the Serenader busy. Too bad I don’t know who he is. I’d love to have a chat with him.”
“Maybe you already have,” Cassandra said before she disconnected, “and you just don’t know it.”
That night, I poured a shot of Jack, downed it, and was reaching for another round of solace when Camus came up and gave me a disapproving look. Camus is the moral arbiter of our household, and I sometimes think he was put on Earth for no other purpose than to keep me from doing really stupid things. With a few exceptions, among them my pointless binge on the night Peter disappeared, I’ve carefully rationed my drinking under my loyal companion’s watchful blue eyes.
Now, he was staring at me, and I knew what he’d be saying if he could talk. Don’t be a fool, Zweifel. Don’t be a fool. As always, Camus was right. I put Jack back on the shelf and went into the bedroom. I felt very tired. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. Camus came up beside me. I stroked his head and then he rolled over for the inevitable belly rub. After a while, we both fell asleep.
33
Most funerals in Pineland are still of the traditional dust-to-dust religious variety, tolling the gloomy bell of life’s brevity while offering the distant prospect of resurrection. But “celebrations of life” are becoming more common, the idea being that no matter how measly or misguided your existence, you deserve a cheery sendoff at a hope-filled gathering designed to dispel the grim likelihood of oblivion. Marty managed to get both treatments. Reverend Ronnie and his flock prayed over Marty at a Wednesday night service at the Call of God Church. I skipped that prayer fest, but I was on hand at Swaboda’s Thursday morning for Marty’s delayed final goodbye.
Dale greeted me at the door. “How you doing? Have those two guys from the BCA talked to you yet about the photo?”
They had, the day before at my office, and the Jasons were intrigued when I identified the woman in the photo as Jill Lorrimer. They were now seriously entertaining the possibility Arne had murdered Marty to cover his own crimes
“Yes, we had a lovely time,” I told Dale. “I hear they had a much longer talk with Arne last night.”
“Geez, I bet he had some explaining to do.”
“Knowing Arne, I’m sure he had a wonderful fable all ready to go. We’ll see. How about you? Did the Jasons pay you a visit?”
“They interviewed me yesterday morning. It wasn’t too bad. I think they understand I was just an innocent bystander.”
In my experience bystanding doesn’t always equate with innocence, but no matter, because Dale quickly morphed into his official bereavement mode. “So sad about Marty, isn’t it? He was such a sparkplug. Who would want to kill him like that?”
“Don’t know,” I said, truthfully, then offered up a cliché of my own, “Time will tell.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to get this business behind me,” Dale said. “I’m heading to Las Vegas for a convention next week. I can’t wait. Four days of sun and showgirls. Jus
t hope nobody else dies before I leave.”
“Won’t you have to handle Peter’s funeral pretty soon?”
“Not that I know of. I’m not even sure who’ll take charge of the body when the time comes.”
“Maybe all of his bankers,” I said. “They like to stay close to their money.”
A couple of hundred people showed up for the service, jamming into the large circular room that forms the heart of the funeral home. Family and friends clustered near the casket. Every business owner in town, Ken Michaels among them, was on hand, as were all five members of the Pineland City Council. I spotted Ed Boudreau, who was chatting with Kat Berglund and Tommy Redmond. The Tattler would no doubt have much to report about Marty’s demise in the next edition. Reverend Ronnie was in the crowd as well, appearing to be in a much less celebratory mood than everyone else. Vern arrived on the late side and made a point of ignoring me. My beloved assistant, Doug, also made a last-minute appearance.
Arne, of course, was a no-show. Although the photo deposited in Marty’s coffin was in theory a closely held piece of evidence, word of it had quickly spread. My guess was that one of Arne’s disgruntled deputies, and there were several, had leaked the titillating information. People in Pineland are as interested in sex as everyone else, but they’re still religious enough to think it’s a dirty business, and the news that Arne had been caught cavorting with a half-naked woman at Peter’s mansion was a thoroughly delicious morsel of gossip.
Law enforcement was not absent from the scene, however. Jim Meyers, in one of his used-car salesman suits, roamed the room with his usual officiousness. The Jasons were also on hand, presumably looking for clues. I could only wish them luck.
As I sat in the back row, scanning the crowd, I wondered if the Serenader was in the room. I strongly suspected he was. Whatever else he might be, the Serenader was one of ours. He moved so easily and confidently through town that he simply couldn’t be a stranger. He was someone we’d say hello to on the street, someone we thought we knew but who was in fact hidden behind the mask of his life. And if he really was Cassandra’s brother, moving to the sounds of his own disturbing music, I feared our troubles were far from over.
There was a makeshift dais up front, and next to it Marty lay in his coffin, minus the fetching photo of Arne. Marty was nicely embalmed but still looked convincingly dead. Mayor Mary Jane Bakken served as master of ceremonies. The service lasted ninety minutes, about eighty-five more than mine will require. Amid bursts of inspirational music, friends and colleagues rose one after another to extoll Marty’s virtues, many of which I had somehow failed to detect during his lifetime. As the tributes droned on, I was struck by the fact that Marty’s wife, Doris, chose not to speak. Instead, she sat quietly in the first row next to her two teenage sons.
I suspected the boys had been closer to Marty than Doris was, and the younger one’s shoulders heaved in grief as a recorded version of Warren Zevon’s “Keep Me in Your Heart” injected a genuine note of sadness into the proceedings. Doris did her best to comfort him, but if she shed any tears, I didn’t see them. Marty’s infidelities, I assumed, had driven a giant wedge between them, and maybe she was all out of tears for him by the time he died.
I joined the line of well-wishers after the services, and when I reached Doris to offer condolences, she smiled and said, “It’s so good to see you, Paul. It’s been awhile.”
“It has,” I agreed. “I think the last time we talked was when we were doing Pinafore.”
“Wasn’t that great fun?”
“It was.” Doris had played Mrs. Cripps in the production, and her lovely contralto was the best voice in the cast.
“Do you suppose you could come by the house tomorrow?” she asked. “I have something I want to talk about with you.”
“Sure, but if it has to do with Marty’s death, keep in mind I’m no longer involved in the investigation.”
“I heard that. But I’d still like to talk tomorrow.”
“I’d be happy to do that. How about around ten?”
“That would be great,” Doris said. “See you then.”
As the mourners began to disperse, the Reverend Ronnie came up for a talk. As usual, he was a vision in white, which I thought was odd. Everyone else had opted for the standard mourning attire.
He must have read my mind because he said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I don’t wear black at funerals. The answer is simple. Marty is now among the angels and while I mourn his passing I also know he has ascended to a better place. Marty was very much a man of God in his own way.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, “but I’ll take your word for it.”
“It’s true. Of course, you wouldn’t know it by what just went on. I didn’t feel God’s presence here today.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, neither did I.”
“Ha, the atheist speaks! One day, you’ll see the light, I promise you. But that can wait. I have something to tell you. I had a long talk with Marty the day he died. We met at the church office late in the afternoon. Marty was carrying a terrible burden, as you’re well aware. He told me about his conversation with you.”
“Did he say what this burden was?”
“He told me he’d witnessed a serious crime at Peter’s mansion but was afraid to report it because the sheriff had threatened him.”
“And he actually used the word ‘witnessed’?” Marty hadn’t admitted as much in his talk with me.
“Yes.”
“Did he go into any detail as to who committed the crime and what it was?”
“No, Marty was vague about that. I’m not sure why. But he did want to know if failing to report what he’d seen was a sin in the eyes of God.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him it was. We are all our brothers’ keepers, are we not? God expects us—indeed, demands of us—that we do what is right. So I told Marty in no uncertain terms he should go to the authorities—someone other than the sheriff, obviously—and make a report. He was wrestling with it, trying to find the right path, and after we talked for an hour or so, he finally told me he’d do it.”
“You mean, report what he’d seen at Peter’s mansion?”
“Yes. I told him he’d made the right choice and that God would reward him. And then, a few hours later, he was murdered. I have to admit I’m a little concerned with my own safety now. If someone killed Marty because of what he knew, then—”
“You’re thinking you might be next. Have you told the authorities about your talk with Marty?”
“No, but I suppose I should.”
I gave him Jason Braddock’s phone number. “Call him right away,” I said. “He—”
“So, you doing a little conversion work, reverend?” Tommy Redmond said, inviting himself into the conversation. He’d come up behind me, looking as always for a scoop. “I know for a fact Mr. Zweifel here is a godless fellow. Isn’t that right, Paulie?”
“The godless, let it be known, sometimes do God’s work,” Reverend Ronnie said. “It is one of the wonders of the world. I must be going. Have a good day, Mr. Redmond. You, too, Mr. Zweifel, and thanks for your help.”
“There’s a hypocrite if I ever saw one,” Tommy said once Reverend Ronnie was out of earshot. “I hear he’s getting quite a bit of action from some of the ladies in his congregation, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, good for him. Action of any kind is always welcome in Pineland. Is there something I can do for you, Tommy?”
“Yeah, why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on here? I’m hearing some very interesting things about our beloved sheriff. Too bad about Marty, by the way. Any idea who shot him?”
“Tommy, you should direct your questions to the BCA, not me.”
“Do you really think those BCA assholes will tell me anything? Not a chance. Come on, Paulie,
help me out here.”
“My lips are sealed,” I said, “especially when it comes to that old case involving Jill Lorrimer and what Marty might have seen at Peter’s mansion. I really couldn’t tell you a thing about it.”
A cold rain was falling when I got outside. I took refuge in my Prius, started the engine, turned the heat up at full blast, and suddenly felt very tired. There was work to do at the office but I wasn’t up for it. I drove home, entertained Camus for a while, then took a nap. I had a dream that took me back to Paradise Consolidated High School, where I was about to fail a math test because I’d inconveniently neglected to study for it. Oddly, music played in the background as I stared hopelessly at the test sheet, lost amid differential equations. I heard voices, too. I guess you could say the dream was an omen.
I awoke to a ringing telephone. Arne wanted to chat. He was still sheriff—the compromising photo with Jill Lorrimer wasn’t evidence of a crime—but Vern and the county board had “persuaded” him to take an immediate leave of absence.
“You arranged all of this all, didn’t you?” he said in a slurred voice. He sounded drunk and angry, not a good combination.
“Little early in the day to be drinking, isn’t it? And, no, I didn’t arrange anything. You jumped into a pile of shit all on your own.”
“Fuck you, Zweifel. Fuck you. You’re not going to get away with it. I know where you got that picture.”
“Really? Tell me then.” I wondered who’d snapped the photo of Arne with Jill Lorrimer on his lap. I had an idea but no proof.
“I’m not telling you shit, Zweifel. But you just watch yourself. Your day is coming.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you making threats?”
“I don’t make threats, you fucker. I am the threat.”
He hung up before I could say anything else. Arne is the most dangerous man I know, and now he’d put a target on my back. It was not a good feeling.
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