Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) (35 page)

“Bo was sick?”

“Look, I told all this to the police already. Don’t go thinking you’re Columbo or something.”

“What did the police say about it?”

The bartender shrugged. “They figure whoever it was just said whatever he had to to get her running out of here. I guess a sick kid’ll usually do it.” Ed picked up the Kingman family photo.

“Who’s this guy?”

“Big Pappy.” I took a deep breath. “Helen was sleeping with him. He’s the reason she got killed.”

There, I had delivered the message. Well, practiced, at any rate.

“No. Not him. The other one. The squirrelly guy with the glasses.”

“That’s his son.”

“I’ve seen him.”

“Seen who?”

“The kid. He’s been in here.”

I struggled to get my own voice back. “In here? You’re sure?”

“That’s all I fucking do all day and night is stare at faces. This guy was in here. I’m positive. Like, I don’t know, a month or so ago.”

I tried to think, even though I had put a pretty good liquid barrier between me and my brain. But I tried.
Jeffrey
Kingman? At Sinbad’s?
Think.
What did the younger Kingman do for a living? Did I know? Was it something that would have required business travel? Sinbad’s Cave was too far from the airport for a person to drop in while waiting for a flight. They would have to be … No. The thought died before it took form. Jeffrey Kingman lived in Baltimore. Business travel or not, he wouldn’t be kicking up his heels at Sinbad’s low-life Cave. Not without a compelling reason. Ed was still looking at the photograph. He was also eyeing the pile of pills and colored glass.

“You’re not going to swallow that shit all of a sudden, are you?”

I ignored the question. “You remember seeing this guy? You’re absolutely positive it was him?”

“I remember.” The bartender picked up the picture of Helen and Bo again. “That’s him. He was in here fighting with Helen.”

This time I didn’t even speak. My face simply went slack. He went on, “Yeah, they were arguing up a fucking blue streak. Not at first, I mean. At first he was just sitting there in the back. Helen didn’t pay him any attention. None that I saw anyway. Next thing I know they’re off in some big deep conversation, then suddenly Helen’s showing him how good she can swear. And how good she can hit.”

This was the guy! This was the guy Gail had seen arguing with Helen! It didn’t make any sense. But this was
him
. Jeffrey Kingman.

“I was about to toss the guy out, but he left on his own. He was all pissed off. Helen was a fucking witch the rest of the night.”

“Did he come in again? Did you ever see the guy after that?”

“Nope. That was it.”

“You’re sure.”

“Believe me, I’d have remembered. Like I need that kind of shit going on in here?”

“Did Helen ever say anything about him?”

“Not to me she didn’t. I doubt to anyone else either. How well did you know Helen anyway?”

“Barely,” I said. Not at all. Never met her alive. Embalmed her. Buried her.

“Well, if you worked with her you knew just to give the damn girl her space. You know what I’m saying? She could be sweet one minute and then she could take your head off. Whatever this guy said or did to her, that was none of my business. As far as I was concerned he was just another asshole, and Helen had just had enough of assholes for one night.”

That was as far as Ed was concerned.

•••

I stumbled out of Sinbad’s Cave and crawled into the rear of the hearse. “Don’t you want to sit up front?” Sam asked. The gentle bouncer was clearly concerned about the condition of his employer. “Just drive,” I snarled, whacking my cane against the roof of the car. That’s the last I remember. Sam told me the rest. Forty minutes later the hearse pulled up in front of Sewell & Sons and Sam came around back and pulled open the rear door. If any of the neighbors were watching out their windows and expecting to see a coffin being pulled out, they were disappointed. Sam reached into the hearse but what he dragged out was the undertaker who had been lullabyed to sleep by the gentle rocking of the car’s chassis during the drive in from the airport, as well as by the bourbon that was currently taking up valuable space in his bloodstream.

Several hours later the ruby hearse pulled up in front of the Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall and out stepped a freshly showered fellow in a tuxedo and overcoat, pale as death, gripping a wooden cane and smiling gamely at all the pretty people who had paused to gape on their way inside the hall. Constance Bell was among them. She wasn’t even trying to keep her thousand gigawatt smile under wraps.

“Well, look what the hearse dragged in.” Constance slipped her arm through mine. “Let me help you.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Honey, you look as handsome as an international spy who’s been dropped off a cliff. Now come on.”

Inside, we checked our coats and went directly to the bar. “Coffee,” I murmured, “I need a serious tango with some caffeine.”

“And what have we been celebrating?” Constance asked as we took our coffees back into the lobby. The burble of unintelligible conversation in the large curved room was—surprisingly—soothing.

“No celebration,” I said. “More like mourning.”

“Thus the hearse. I see. Nice touch.”

Constance’s dress was a long indigo number. A large, beaten brass ornament adorned her chest. I don’t know what you call a necklace when it comes down like that, like a shield. Whatever you call it, this one was adorned with all sorts of garnets and must have weighed close to a pound. The lawyer’s cornrowed coil contained a few specks of a reddish confetti. An aroma of vanilla and nutmeg seemed to be traveling with her as well.

We went inside when the chimes sounded and found our seats. The governor was in attendance, along with his wife. They were seated in one of the boxes, nearly over our heads. I waved my cane and got the First Lady’s attention. She tugged on her husband’s sleeve and pointed me out to him. They both waved.

Constance was impressed. “You know the governor?”

“Nah, not really. For a hundred bucks if you call in advance they’ll set up the little waving routine for you.”

Constance rolled her eyes. “Whenever you decide to finally give a straight answer to something, I hope you’ll alert the press.”

“I met the governor and his wife last year during the campaign. They dropped in for a funeral.”

“That’s better.”

“I also helped to throw the election his way, but that’s another story.”

The lights dimmed before Constance could field that one, and the big band came out and cooked up some Bach, Brahms and Beethoven. It was a B-concert. I missed the name of the conductor, but he was a short little fellow, shaped roughly like a snowman, with a pink bald head bordered by long streams of thin white hair that jerked and danced as the man bounced around on his padded box. The band was hot, especially the strings. The soloist was a rope-armed Asian woman, who truly beat the hell out of her fiddle. She seemed intent on punishing the damn thing. The program said that she picked up her first violin when she was two. She was twenty-two now. This seemed to be a troubled relationship. By contrast, there was a guy on the xylophone who was having the time of his life. Happy as a clam. He literally lifted off the ground as he peppered away with his mallets. Love taps every single one.

At the intermission I took Constance over to meet the governor and his wife. I was already learning that if you play it right, you can use the fact that you’re using a cane to your advantage, especially in a crowd. Constance and I plowed easily through the gathering sycophants and went directly up to Governor Davis and his wife, Beth. As I made the introductions, I noted that Beth Davis was still as bashful and unpretentious as when I had met the two, during her husband’s spirited romp to Annapolis. The governor was his customarily charming self, with just the slightest touch of patronization in his great-to-see-you countenance, but overall he was a good guy. Politically he didn’t seem to be sinking the Ship of State; that was a good thing. When he discovered that Constance was a lawyer, he beat me soundly on the arm.

“I hope our boy here isn’t in some sort of trouble. He seems to have a nose for it.” He indicated my cane. “What happened?”

“I fought the car, and the car won.” I turned to Beth Davis. “I’ll never play the piano again.”

“A loss for the world of music,” the governor said, laughing. He was looking at Constance. “That’s a lovely necklace you’re wearing, Miss Bell.”

“Thank you, Governor.”

“What firm did you say you were with?”

Constance named the firm. I watched the governor process the name in seconds. His expression darkened.

“Stern and Fenwick. Miss Bell, I’m so sorry about Mr. Fenwick. Tragic. Truly tragic.” He turned to his wife. “You know the one I mean, Beth. That lawyer and his wife who were killed in their own home?” The First Couple shared such a sad look, you’d have thought they felt personally responsible.

“I’m very sorry,” Beth Davis said to Constance. And she meant it. One hundred percent.

I wished the governor and his wife happy holidays. “The fruitcake is in the mail,” I said to Beth Davis, just to watch her blush one more time. Constance and I made way for the others waiting, with decreasing patience, to get in some face time.

“Nice people,” Constance said as we snagged another coffee for me. “Why are they in politics?”

I shrugged. “He wants to save the world, and she loves her husband. It’s almost quaint.”

As the second half of the program was about to begin, Constance asked, “So when do I get the sordid details of your accident?”

I answered, “It’s nothing. Dead body on the doorstep. I’ve been trying to figure out how it got there. Seems to piss a few people off.”

Constance leaned sideways and whispered, “I think I’ve got some answers for you.”

I blurted, “You?”

Someone in the row behind hushed me. I turned to Constance, but she was holding a finger to her lips. As the lights dimmed, she let that damn smile escape.

I tapped my toe for fifty minutes, suffered through an insufferable encore of a Christmas music medley that was not nearly so cute as they must have thought it was. Then I used my cane to high advantage in order to get Constance and myself out of there.

“Where should we go?” Constance asked. I had released Sam for the evening. He had to bounce at one of his clubs. Constance had a car.

“You’re looking too gorgeous just to stuff into the back of some smoky bar.”

“The Belvedere is close by,” she suggested.

Recent memories. Not all good. “Pass,” I said.

We settled on Henry’s Bookstore and Café on Charles Street. Books in the front, double-decker café in the back. Constance found a parking spot directly in front. There was a new Anne Tyler out in time for Christmas. An entire table had been devoted to it, she being a local girl and all. Constance stopped at the table and picked up a copy of the book. “No other writer alive passes the first-page test better than Anne Tyler.” She turned to the first page and began to read aloud. When she reached the end of the page she snapped the book closed.

“Hey. At least finish the paragraph,” I said.

“See what I mean? You want more. Every single time. Here. I’ll buy this for you. Merry Christmas.”

Constance paid for the book, then we took a table upstairs. It’s a little more private up there, especially in the back. I asked for a big plate of calamari. Constance ordered a white wine. I was sick of coffee at that point. I asked about the available merlots. Our waiter launched into an assessment of the several choices. The words that are used to describe wines are almost always the same ones we use to describe personalities. This always gets me; I’m not choosing a friend, just a drink. I cut the waiter off. “Just pick one out for me, please. One that has a strong jaw.” The fellow bowed slightly, and left.

“What’s a strong jaw?” Constance asked. “I’ve never heard of that.”

I hooked my cane on the edge of the table. “It’s nothing. It’s something Julia cooked up once just to have fun. Nine out of ten waiters will simply nod when you say it as if they know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Her white and my strong-jawed red arrived a minute later. We shared a holiday toast. I set my glass down and pointed a finger-pistol at Constance.

“Okay. Spill it.”

Constance pursed her lips, then set her wineglass off to the side and leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table.

“This body on your doorstep you referred to. It was left there the night of the blizzard.”

“It was.”

“During a wake, as I understand it.”

“Right again.”

“You are familiar with the name Michael Fenwick?” Constance asked.

“Sure. He was your colleague. You work for his daddy’s firm.”

“Did you know that Richard Kingman retained our firm to handle his family’s affairs?”

I told her that I didn’t. Or hadn’t.

“Apparently Michael was a family friend. A few months ago, Michael asked me to handle a change of will that Richard Kingman was requesting. I met with him. With Kingman. He came into the office.”

“What were the changes?”

“Well of course I’m not legally allowed to reveal that sort of information. It’s privileged.”

“Of course. I suppose only under the threat of say, bodily danger or a deep red wine being tossed on your snappy clothes, you might be able to justify having spilled such privileged beans. Something like that?”

“Something like that.”

“See this cane?”

“Richard Kingman wanted to add a beneficiary. This is what I thought you might find interesting.”

“Let me guess. One Helen Waggoner.”

Constance looked disappointed. “There goes my punch line. Yes. Helen Waggoner. How did you know?”

“Call it a lucky guess.”

“Well then, what do you say you pick me some lottery numbers?”

I took up my glass and gave the wine a swirl. “So, Richard Kingman stuck Helen in his will. Our little Sinbad’s waitress really did find herself a gravy train this time, didn’t she. His goddamn will. Constance, I’m beginning to fear my eventual midlife crisis like crazy. This guy meets a pretty young waitress and decides that she is his new lease on life. He buys her a car. They get a baby going together. He carves out a spot for her in his will and everything. At least you can say the guy had no trouble with commitment. So then tell me, did he slice his wife out of the will? Was he
that
much of a prick?”