Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) (47 page)

Ah … showbiz.

This whole snap, crackle, pop was taking place in the lobby area outside the auditorium of the High School for the Performing Arts, where Clarissa had arranged to stage her show. Air kisses were flying with the frequency of the evening’s invisible arrows. I wasn’t having me an especially bang-up time. Could you tell? And it wasn’t just the cheap wine. Part of it was my tooth, which had now begun to take on a personality all its own. And not one that I particularly liked. Khrushchev pounding his shoe at the U.N. comes to mind. But another big part of it was Clarissa. This was our third time going out together and the chemistry was still proving as so-so as on the first two shots. Even so, I had the sense that this was the evening where the mad blind plunge into the sack had now risen to the top of the docket. This was a big night for Clarissa, after all. God knows how much she had spent on the dress she was wearing, but elegance and glitter like that doesn’t come cheap. For my part, I had come through in my big bad tux and I looked like a goodly portion of a million bucks myself. A couple as sharp-looking as the two of us—on a night of no small importance to one of us—is not a couple who are expected to peak at a Gallo and Gouda gala in a high school lobby. There are rules about these things, and it was only a matter of whether Clarissa or I—more specifically, I—were going to break them or not.

When the time came for the toasts and the little speeches, I took the opportunity to duck outside for some air. It must have been nearing nine-thirty. Venus and her friends were blinking and twinkling brightly in the night’s blue veil. There was a pay phone near the corner. I stepped over to it and dug out a quarter. I dialed my number. After my own voice told me that I wasn’t in, I cupped my hands to the mouthpiece and yelled, “Alcatraz! Sit!” Without a spy on the premises, I’ll never know if my lowly hound dog actually does sit when I do this. I punched in the code to retrieve my messages. There was only one (besides the one I had just left). It was from Billie, telling me to call her. I had planned to do just that. And I did.

“Oh, Hitchcock, there you are. I’ve been trying to figure out how to find you.” Billie sounded agitated. Billie is hardly ever agitated. “That woman you left at the hospital …”

“Mary.”

“Yes. Mary. That’s her. She called here looking for you. It’s Shrimp Martin.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“He’s
what
!” I switched ears. “What do you mean he’s dead, Billie? He was fine when I left him. I mean, they told me he was fine. The doctor told me—”

Billie cut me off. “You’d better get down there, Hitchcock. According to— Apparently they had a little problem.”

“A little problem? I’ll say. The guy’s dead, for Christ’s sake. They had a
big
problem.”

“That’s not what I mean. According to this Mary, somebody went into Shrimp Martin’s room and killed him.”

“Billie, what are you talking about? Right there in the hospital?”

“That’s what the girl told me on the phone.”

“This is insane. Who the hell … Put Lucy on, will you?”

There was a pause.

“Hitchcock, Lucy’s not here.”

“Where is she? Did she go down to the hospital?”

“I don’t know where she is, dear. I was in the kitchen making vichyssoise and she slipped out. I thought she was still sleeping.”

I didn’t like this. “Billie, did Julia come by?”

“No, dear. I’m afraid I haven’t seen her.”

Didn’t like it at all. “When did Lucy leave?”

“It’s close to two hours now,” Billie said.

“And when did you say Mary called from the hospital?” I looked up at Venus. They say that the atmosphere on Venus is so thickly packed that light bends in ways we can barely imagine here on Earth. In theory, you can be looking straight ahead and staring at the back of your own head at the same time. That’s about what I felt I was doing right then.

Billie answered, “That was about an hour ago.”

I was halfway to Union Memorial before it occurred to me that I had forgotten to ask Billie about the gun Lucy had brought over. To see if it was still there on my desk.

I was three quarters of the way there before it hit me that I hadn’t even said good-bye to Clarissa.

A hand grabbed hold of my arm the moment I stepped off the elevator.

“You’re under arrest.”

I plucked the hand from my arm as if it were a dead rat (which reminded me). “What’s the charge?”

“Perfect attendance at all my murder scenes.” John Kruk gave me the sneer that for him passes for a smile. He might even have chuckled. Kruk gave an up-and-down to my tux.

“I was just out for a jog,” I said as I surveyed the scene. The intensive care ward was like a department store on Christmas Eve. People were going in all directions, yelling to be heard above the din, arms waving, urgent gesturing. If there was any order here, I was missing it. Uniformed police were milling about. Notebooks were at the ready. Questions were being asked. Some mild flirting with the nurses was going on.

Kruk rubbed a hand over his thick neck. “Let’s hear it, Mr. Sewell. What do you know and when did you know it?”

“I thought those questions were reserved for the president.”

John Kruk is largely banter-proof. He shifted on his flat feet and gave me his bored look. “I’m waiting.”

“Who told you that I had any involvement in this whatsoever?” I asked. “Can’t a man in a tuxedo just show up in a hospital on a Saturday night and not get harassed by the local constabulary?”

“Are you saying you don’t have any involvement?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just curious how it is you’re not surprised to see me.”

Kruk consulted his notebook. “You phoned in the nine-one-one at approximately three o’clock.”

“Yes sir, that sounds about right.”

“Where were you when you made the call?”

“In my office.”

“You didn’t call from the victim’s house?”

“From Shrimp’s?”

“That’s right.”

“No sir.”

“According to EMS personnel, someone was milling around outside the victim’s home when they arrived. That’s why I ask.”

“Wasn’t me. I was milling around a funeral home.”

Kruk consulted his notebook. “So after arriving at the hospital, you passed the victim off to a Mary Childs late this afternoon.”

“Ah, so it was good old Mary who gave me up.”

“Miss Childs said that you knew who shot Mr. Martin.” He gave me his whammy-eye. He’s got a real winner.

“Miss Childs doesn’t like me,” I said. “We got off on the wrong foot. She’d say anything.”

“Are you saying that she lied?”

“Well, no. I’m just saying the girl doesn’t like me.”

“So you withheld information about a shooting for … what do we have, going on ten hours now? Do you mind if I ask where you have been all this time?”

I thought about describing the dance performance to him, but that would have been cruel. And most certainly unusual. “I had a prior engagement.” When he frowned at me, I added, “A hot date.” Now I was giving false and misleading information. See how slippery the slope can be?

We were blocking the elevators. Sick people were trying to get off and on. A large hulking man was pushing a gurney. He was wearing a paper shower cap on his head. Anywhere but in here the guy would have looked like a wuss. Kruk and I drifted over to the waiting area. A woman and someone I took to be her daughter were huddled together on the plastic chairs. They looked confused and scared. A black kid in massive jeans and a do-rag was sitting across from them, frowning at his fists. He and Kruk shared a little staring contest as we carried past him and over to the window.

“I think he likes you,” I said to the detective.

Kruk ignored me. Years of practice. The stocky detective squared off in front of me. “Let’s start at the beginning.” He pulled out his notebook. “I want a name, Mr. Sewell.”

“You don’t like Kruk?” Now
I
was in a staring contest. Which I lost immediately. “Lucy Taylor,” I said.

He wrote it down. “Relationship?”

“Old friend.”

“Old?”

“As in ‘long time.’ ”

“How old is this Miss Taylor?”

“Around thirty. Thirty-one?”

“And her relationship with the victim?”

“Lady friend.” Kruk scribbled something down. I added, “They met in March.”

“And how well would you say you know Miss Taylor?”

“Pretty well.”

Kruk asked again, “How well do you know Miss Taylor?”

“How do I answer a question like that?”

“You start with the truth and you end with the truth. Very simple.”

“I know Lucy pretty well,” I said.

He grunted. “Intimately?”

“Nothing like that. We grew up together. Lucy is like a sister to me.” Kruk scribbled something in his notebook. I craned my neck to see if he had actually written “like a sister,” but I couldn’t make sense of his hieroglyphics.

Kruk asked, “Is there any reason why you would hold back from calling the authorities about this other than simple loyalty to an old friend?” He looked up at me. “Don’t give me a glib one here.”

“Reasons like what?” I said.

“I don’t supply answers for people, Mr. Sewell. Do you need to hear the question again?”

“No sir. And the answer is also no, sir. Lucy was scheduled to show up at the funeral home to drop off a dress. Her grandmother died two days ago. We’re handling the funeral. Just before she arrived, I got a phone call from Shrimp Martin. Shrimp was rambling. I had no idea why he was calling. In fact, I still don’t quite understand it. But anyway, Lucy came in while I was on the phone to Shrimp. Shrimp told me that Lucy had shot him. Then it seems he passed out. Lucy proceeded to put a pistol on my desk and then pretty much went into shock. I didn’t call the police because it didn’t occur to me to call the police. I’m sorry. I called nine-one-one. I took Lucy up to my aunt’s apartment, then I came here. Shrimp was worked on and then stabilized. The crisis was over, I thought. I phoned Shrimp’s sister. Her lovely little housemate came here and took over the vigil. I proceeded to my hot date. The end.”

“So your whereabouts the past few hours can be verified.”

“I was at a dance program, Detective. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

“Why do you suppose Mr. Martin called you?”

“I told you, I have no idea. We weren’t close friends at all.”

He tapped his pencil against his notepad. “Here’s a thought, if he knew that Miss Taylor was heading over to your place, maybe he was calling you to warn you.”

“Warn me of what?”

“That she had a gun.”

“So what if she had a gun? Lucy wasn’t going to shoot
me
. Lucy likes me. I’m her friend.”

“And according to you, this guy was her boyfriend.”

“Look, Detective, this is your area of expertise, not mine. But don’t girlfriends shoot boyfriends all the time? And vice versa? Isn’t that half of what keeps you in business?”

“I’m just trying to look at all the possibilities here,” Kruk said.

“Well, I think you can scratch off the one that says Lucy was gunning for me. Lucy would never hurt me. We’re friends. I told you, the first thing she did was hand the gun over.”

“And where is that gun right now, Mr. Sewell?”

I wasn’t proud of my answer. “I don’t know. Last I saw, it was on the desk in my office.” I figured he would ask me more about the gun, but he didn’t.

“Okay. You said that Miss Taylor was due over at your place to drop off a dress. When had that been arranged?”

“Lucy called about an hour before she showed up. Said she was bringing the dress by.”

“How did she sound?”

“She sounded fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine. Normal. Regular Lucy. There was nothing in her voice that suggested maybe she’d be plugging Shrimp with a bullet in the very near future.”

“Sad. Upset. Angry. Distant. Confused?”

“You want me to pick one?”

“Only if you detected one in your conversation with Miss Taylor.”

“Sad.”

“Sad.”

“Lucy had been close with her grandmother. Losing her was tough.”

He was scribbling something down in his notebook when his attention was snagged by one of the uniformed cops who was over by the elevators. He was gesturing to Kruk with a cell phone. “Excuse me.” Kruk went over to the cop and took the cell phone from him. I saw Shrimp Martin’s sister wading through the crowd. Thankfully, not in my direction. I don’t mean to sound crass, but it’s my livelihood to deal with the recently bereaved. I really don’t mind avoiding it when I’m off the clock. Mary Ann Martin blubbering against my chest simply wasn’t my idea of a nice way to cap off the night. I could tell she was a blubberer. It was written all over her.

Kruk handed the phone back to his minion. The EMS worker I had spoken with earlier was being escorted over to Kruk. Kruk signaled me over. When I got to within about five feet of them the detective held out his hand, signaling me to stop. He turned to the EMS worker.

“Have you seen this man before?”

“Yeah. Right after I got here. He was asking me about the guy who was shot.”

“Is this the person you told me about who was outside the victim’s home? Who was asking questions?”

“Nah, I told you, that guy had one of those flattops.”

“You’re sure? This man’s hair might have just been—”

“Hey,” I interrupted. “Leading the witness.”

“This isn’t a courtroom, Mr. Sewell.”

“Doesn’t matter. I told you already, I called from my office. I was nowhere near Shrimp’s.”

Kruk dismissed the EMS worker. “I just took a phone call from one of my men, down at your place, Mr. Sewell. I sent a squad car over there the moment your name cropped up.” He snapped his notebook closed. I remembered this now about Kruk. He had all the moves down pat. “You didn’t tell me that Lucy Taylor was no longer at your aunt’s,” he said. He didn’t sound happy saying it.

“I was getting to that.”

I could see that Kruk didn’t care for my answer. “I asked my man to look in your office, to see if the gun was there. It wasn’t.”

“Somehow that’s what I suspected.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know …” I let off a large sigh. “I guess I figured Lucy took it with her when she left.”