Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (7 page)

“A contact wound to the right temporal region—and no doubt an exit wound on the left. The standard service sidearm is a nine-millimeter, and as they say around these parts, you just can’t keep that chicken in the henhouse.”

She glared at him hard but said nothing.

“The sheriff’s department was satisfied that this was a suicide?”

“Yes, but—”

“And the medical examiner’s office—what did they say?”

She looked at the floor. “The coroner said nothing looked suspicious to him either.”

“Maybe the autopsy will turn up something.”

“There won’t be an autopsy.”

Nick raised one eyebrow. “No autopsy was ordered?”

“No.”

“In cases of unattended death—as in the case of a suicide—an autopsy is usually ordered to verify cause of death. Things must have looked pretty straightforward.”

Kathryn had nothing to say in response.

“This dear friend of yours—I assume we’re talking about a male? He was about your age, thirty to thirty-five? Caucasian?”

“That’s right. How did you—”

“Three-quarters of all suicides are by white males. Two-thirds of them are by gunshot, generally to the head. That fits too. He did it outside, probably standing up—men usually do. Women like the comforts of home and almost always lie down. He used his own gun, which was still in his hand. And there was no note, was there? Nothing to explain his motive or timing?”

She shook her head.

He let out a sigh. “You just can’t get men to write, can you?” He paused a full measure for dramatic effect. “So, Mrs. Guilford. What can I do for you?”

Kathryn’s face was red and hot. “I knew Jimmy since we were kids together here in Holcum County. We grew up together, like a brother and sister. I knew him better than his parents, better than his own sister—better than anyone. He would not, he could not have
done this to himself. I don’t care what the sheriff or the coroner says, they’re wrong about this—and I have to know what happened.”

Nick took a deep breath. “Let me see if I understand you. The sheriff’s department, drawing on its considerable experience in homicide investigation, closed this investigation almost before it opened. And the county coroner, representing all of the forensic knowledge of the North Carolina State medical examiner’s system, verified the cause of death without even a second look. But you’re convinced they’re both wrong—because you have this feeling.”

It was fortunate at this moment that the door behind Kathryn opened and Dr. Tedesco stepped into the room, providing a momentary respite from the tension. He was startled to see Kathryn again but said nothing. He stepped quietly to the side, pretending to resume his duties, and waited for the conversation to resume.

“I have to know,” Kathryn repeated, barely containing her anger. “The sheriff won’t help me—he thinks I’m wasting my time. The coroner can’t help me either. Since he already signed the death certificate, the body is no longer under his authority. I could hire a private investigator, but not in a town the size of Rayford—and even if I found one, I’m not sure he’d know what to look for. I’m out of options, Dr. Polchak—and I’m out of time. The body is being moved right now to a funeral home, and from there it will be turned over to the immediate family. Soon it will be too late to do anything.”

Nick said nothing for a long time.

“You’d be helping the authorities,” she added.

“I have a long history of helping the authorities,” he said. “Trust me, it isn’t always welcome.”

“Then you’d be helping me.”

“I just can’t look into every mysterious death that comes along—and to be frank, Mrs. Guilford, this one hardly sounds mysterious.”

Kathryn paused. “What about money? Are you motivated by money?”

“Money?”

She leaned forward and stared directly into his imposing spectacles. “I will pay you twenty thousand dollars to look into this for me.”

There was an audible gasp from behind Kathryn. Dr. Tedesco did his very best to contain himself, but bits of words and phrases still tittered out: “Twenty thousand … oh my, I … twenty thousand?”

“This is why Teddy never plays poker,” said Dr. Polchak.

“I know more about you than you think,” Kathryn said. “I know that you’re a forensic entomologist, and that there are very few of you around. I know that it’s almost impossible to make a living at it. I know that most of you are employed by museums and universities, and that means you depend on departmental funding and research grants to survive. In other words,” she said, adding her own pause for emphasis, “I know you need that money so bad you can taste it.”

Nick slowly smiled. “And you said this visit wasn’t about money.”

“I said this visit wasn’t about banking. What would this really require of you, Dr. Polchak? One look at a body? A trip to a funeral home? A little work right here in your own laboratory? Twenty thousand dollars buys a lot of bug food.”

From behind them Teddy conducted an elaborate pantomime of hair-pulling, eye-rolling, and desperate pleading. Nick ignored him.

“I don’t want to waste your money, Mrs. Guilford. Don’t misunderstand me, I want your money—but I don’t want to waste it. I feel I should tell you that there’s a very good chance I’ll come up with nothing at all.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

Nick sat silently for a full minute. “Plus expenses,” he said at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Twenty thousand dollars plus expenses.”

“What sort of expenses?”

“Travel, if necessary. Meals. Supplies. Valium for Teddy. I don’t know what else … expenses.”

“Done.” She extended her hand, and as Nick cautiously reached for it she added, “There is one small condition, Dr. Polchak, and this is not negotiable. I want to work with you. I want to be there every step of the way.”

Nick pulled back, and Teddy buried his face in his hands.

“That’s entirely out of the question.”

“It’s not negotiable,” Kathryn repeated. “I’m not a fool, Dr. Polchak. Twenty thousand dollars is a great deal of money. What am I supposed to think if you report back in two weeks and say, ‘Sorry, I found nothing’? I want to see what you do. I want to know that nothing was overlooked. I want to know that if we find nothing, it won’t be because we didn’t look hard enough. I want to know.”

After another full minute, Nick spoke again. “The investigation will take a full week, perhaps two. And if what you say is true—if the body is already on its way to a funeral home—then we have to begin immediately. That means right now.”

Kathryn extended her hand again. As Nick took it, he said, “I have one condition of my own, Mrs. Guilford. If you’re going to work with me, it has to be—as you said—every step of the way.”

“Agreed.”

“Mrs. Guilford,” he said, smiling, “you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

The interior of Dr. Polchak’s crumbling Dodge Dart was even worse than Kathryn had imagined. The brittle vinyl seats were split apart in sharp ridges, and the dashboard was a canyon of cracked ravines and gullies with rivers of dusty foam flowing beneath. Above her head the roof liner draped and sagged. Below, the floorboard was pockmarked with rust holes that allowed her a more than adequate view of the pavement streaking by beneath her feet. She sat rigidly, legs apart, straddling the cratered floorboard as if it were an open bomb-bay door.

“Watch your skirt,” Nick said with a sideways glance. “I’d rather you didn’t get that sodium azide powder all over my upholstery.”

“What upholstery?”

“I like to take care of my car. For example, I try to keep beech trees out of my engine.” He glanced at her again. “Care to tell me what happened back there?”

“No.” She pointed up ahead. “Schroeder’s is on the left at the next corner. If you don’t mind, park on the street.”

“There are hundreds of unexplained traffic fatalities every year,” Nick said. “No heart attack, no stroke—for some reason the driver just swerved off the road. Some experts—like me—think the answer may be insects. A bug flies in the window, the driver panics, there’s an accident.” He looked at Kathryn. “Entomophobia is one of the more common irrational fears, Mrs. Guilford.”

Kathryn glared straight ahead. “You’re just a bushel full of interesting information, aren’t you?”

Nick stopped the car and pulled up on the emergency brake, which moved without a sound. “I don’t think it’s actually attached to anything,” he said. He turned to the backseat, grabbed a large canvas knapsack and then paused, eyeing the two black-and-gold hats resting side-by-side in the rear window.

“This one,” he said, pulling it on tight. “I think this might be a job for a pirate.”

Great, Kathryn thought. Just the final fashion touch he needed.

“No offense”—she looked him over quickly—“but I wish you had changed.”

“I wish I had a dollar for every time a woman told me that.”

Schroeder’s Funeral Home was a landmark in the town of Rayford. For decades it had been known as the Lampiers’ Home, the largest private residence in Holcum County. It was still remembered that way by most of the older residents of Rayford. With its white beveled siding, long black shutters, and green-and-white canvas awnings, it had the perfect image for its current function. Mr. Schroeder simply added the embellishments of his trade: the chapel, the garage, and the tonguelike porte-cochere that jutted out above the circular asphalt driveway.

Kathryn hesitated at the tall black door. “Do me a favor—let me do the talking.”

Nick shrugged. “It’s your money.”

As Kathryn stepped through the doorway, a wave of frigid air engulfed her. As sweltering as her morning had been, the air felt much too cold. She shivered—not simply because of the abrupt change in temperature but because of the total change of environment. Everything around her was suddenly dark, cold, heavy, and silent. She had the eerie sensation that she had just stepped on an unmarked grave.

The ancient red oak flooring creaked and groaned as they stepped into the center of the high, arching atrium. The walls were lined with dark cherry paneling that disappeared into the darkness above. Directly ahead, a wide doorway opened into a small chapel lined with short pews. On the far wall a Gothic stained-glass window sent streams of multicolored light to meet them. To their left, a smaller doorway opened into an office.

“Remarkable.” Nick’s voice shattered the silence. “It’s amazing the trappings that your species attaches to a simple biological function like death.”

A moment later the figure of Mr. Schroeder appeared in the office doorway. His hands were folded in front of him as he walked, and the floor made no sound, as if he had somehow learned to become a part of the stillness around him. He wore a dark suit with a black-and-silver tie, and a white carnation glowed from his left lapel. His silver hair was combed neatly back, and his face seemed to be frozen in an expression of permanent compassion, deep sorrow, and profound concern.

“Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn!” he said in a half-whisper, taking both of her hands in his. “How good it is to see you again. I don’t believe we’ve had a visit from you since … why, since we had the privilege of caring for your mother.”

“I assume you mean since her mother died,” Nick said, running his hand admiringly over the cherry paneling.

Mr. Schroeder cringed slightly at the sound of the forbidden word, taking note for the first time of the bizarrely clad stranger beside Kathryn. Whatever his thoughts, his expression never faltered; Mr. Schroeder had long ago learned that constant politeness, tolerance, and patience were vital assets in his profession. After all, in a town the size of Rayford, almost everyone was an eventual customer.

“And who might this be?” he smiled warmly to Kathryn.

“Mr. Schroeder, I’d very much like you to meet Dr. Nicholas Polchak.”

Nick smiled broadly, folded his hands in front of him, and cocked his head slightly to one side. Mr. Schroeder didn’t seem to notice, but the mimicry didn’t escape Kathryn. She shot him an angry glare.

“It is an honor, Doctor,” Mr. Schroeder said warmly and then turned to Kathryn again. “Tell me, does your visit today concern Andrew? Has there finally been some resolution to the situation? I do hope so, for your sake.”

Kathryn winced slightly and looked at the floor. “No, Mr. Schroeder. Nothing has changed. His body has never been recovered. This is not about Andy.”

“Ah,” he said, sighing deeply, “perhaps one day.” There was an appropriate moment of silence—Mr. Schroeder’s stock-in-trade—and then he smiled at both of them again. “Well then, how can we be of service to you today?”

“Mr. Schroeder, I understand that you are receiving the body of Jimmy McAllister.”

Mr. Schroeder looked suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow. “Oh yes, a very sad affair, very sad. We were happy to make our facility available to the sheriff’s department until the immediate family can make their wishes known regarding the final disposition.”

“Mr. Schroeder, please—may I see him?”

At this, Mr. Schroeder uttered a deep moan and closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Kathryn thought he looked exactly like the ghost of Jacob Marley; she saw Nick turn away to disguise a smile.