The Empty Hours (5 page)

Teddy
watched her husband as he drove, his big-knuckled hands on the wheel of the
car. She watched him not only because it gave her pleasure to watch him, but
also because he was speaking. And since she could not hear, since she had been
born a deaf mute, it was essential that she look at his mouth when he spoke. He
did not discuss the case at all. She knew that one of Claudia Davis’ checks
had been made out to the Fancher Funeral Home in Triangle Lake and she knew
that Carella wanted to talk to the proprietor of the place personally. She
further knew that this was very important or he wouldn’t be spending his Sunday
driving all the way upstate. But he had promised her he’d combine business with
pleasure. This was the pleasure part of the trip, and in deference to his
promise and his wife, he refrained from discussing the case, which was really
foremost in his mind. He talked, instead, about the scenery, and their plans
for the fall, and the way the twins were growing, and how pretty Teddy looked,
and how she’d better button that top button of her blouse before they got out
of the car, but he never once mentioned Claudia Davis until they were standing
in the office of the Fancher Funeral Home and looking into the gloomy eyes of
a man who called himself Barton Scoles.

Scoles
was tall and thin and he wore a black suit that he had probably worn to his own
confirmation back in 1912. He was so much the stereotype of a small-town undertaker
that Carella almost burst out laughing when he met him. Somehow, though, the
environment was not conducive to hilarity. There was a strange smell hovering
over the thick rugs and the papered walls and the hanging chandeliers. It was
a while before Carella recognized it as formaldehyde and then made the automatic
association and, curious for a man who had stared into the eyes of death so
often, suddenly felt like retching.

“Miss
Davis made out a check to you on July fifteenth,” Carella said. “Can you tell
me what it was for?”

“Sure
can,” Scoles said. “Had to wait a long time for that check. She give me only a
twenty-five dollar deposit. Usually take fifty, you know. I got stuck many a
time, believe me.”

“How do
you mean?” Carella asked.

“People.
You bury their dead, and then sometimes they don’t pay you for your work. This
business isn’t
all
fun, you know. Many’s the time I handled the whole funeral
and the service and the burial and all, and never did get paid. Makes you lose
your faith in human nature.”

“But
Miss Davis finally
did
pay you.”

“Oh,
sure. But I can tell you I was sweating that one out. I can tell you that.
After all, she was a strange gal from the city, has the funeral here, nobody
comes to it but her, sitting in the chapel out there and watching the body as
if someone’s going to steal it away, just her and the departed. I tell you,
Mr. Carella ... Is that your name?”

“Yes,
Carella.”

“I tell
you, it was kind of spooky. Lay there two days, she did, her cousin. And then
Miss Davis asked that we bury the girl right here in the local cemetery, so I
done that for her, too
— all on the strength of a twenty-five-dollar deposit. That’s
trust, Mr. Carella, with a capital T.”

“When
was this, Mr. Scoles?”

“The
girl drowned the first weekend in June,” Scoles said. “Had no business being
out on the lake so early, anyways. That water’s still icy cold in June. Don’t
really warm up none till the latter part July. She fell over the side of the
boat
— she was out there rowing, you know — and that icy water probably
froze her solid, or give her cramps or something, drowned her, anyways.” Scoles
shook his head. “Had no business being out on the lake so early.”

“Did
you see a death certificate?”

“Yep,
Dr. Donneli made it out. Cause of death was drowning, all right, no question
about it. We had an inquest, too, you know. The Tuesday after she drowned. They
said it was accidental.”

“You
said she was out rowing in a boat. Alone?”

“Yep.
Her cousin, Miss Davis, was on the shore watching. Jumped in when she fell
overboard, tried to reach her, but couldn’t make it in time. That water’s
plenty cold, believe me. Ain’t too warm even now, and here it is August
already.”

“But it
didn’t seem to affect Miss Davis, did it?”

“Well,
she was probably a strong swimmer. Been my experience most pretty girls are
strong girls, too. I’ll bet your wife here is a strong girl. She sure is a
pretty one.”

Scoles
smiled, and Teddy smiled, and squeezed Carella’s hand.

“About
the payment,” Carella said, “for the funeral and the burial. Do you have any
idea why it took Miss Davis so long to send her check?”

“Nope.
I wrote her twice. First time was just a friendly little reminder. Second time,
I made it a little stronger. Attorney friend of mine in town wrote it on his
stationery; that always impresses them. Didn’t get an answer either time.
Finally, right out of the blue, the check came, payment in full. Beats me.
Maybe she was affected by the death. Or maybe she’s always slow paying her
debts. I’m just happy the check came, that’s all. Sometimes the live ones can
give you more trouble than them who’s dead, believe me.”

They
strolled down to the lake together, Carella and his wife, and ate their picnic
lunch on its shores. Carella was strangely silent. Teddy dangled her bare feet
in the water. The water, as Scoles had promised, was very cold even though it
was August. On the way back from the lake Carella asked, “Honey, would you mind
if I make one more stop?”

Teddy
turned her eyes to him inquisitively.

“I want
to see the chief of police here.”

Teddy
frowned. The question was in her eyes, and he answered it immediately.

“To
find out whether or not there were any witnesses to that drowning.
Besides
Claudia
Davis, I mean. From the way Scoles was talking, I get the impression that lake
was pretty deserted in June.”

* * * *

The chief of police was a short
man with a pot belly and big feet. He kept his feet propped up on his desk all
the while he spoke to Carella. Carella watched him and wondered why everybody
in this damned town seemed to be on vacation from an MGM movie. A row of rifles
in a locked rack was behind the chief’s desk. A host of WANTED fliers covered a
bulletin board to the right of the rack. The chief had a hole in the sole of
his left shoe.

“Yep,”
he said, “there was a witness, all right.”

Carella
felt a pang of disappointment. “Who?” he asked.

“Fellow
fishing at the lake. Saw the whole thing. Testified before the coroner’s jury.”

“What’d
he say?”

“Said
he was fishing there when Josie Thompson took the boat out. Said Claudia Davis
stayed behind, on the shore. Said Miss Thompson fell overboard and went under
like a stone. Said Miss Davis jumped in the water and began swimming toward
her. Didn’t make it in time. That’s what he said.”

“What
else did he say?”

“Well,
he drove Miss Davis back to town in her car. 1960 Caddy convertible, I believe.
She could hardly speak. She was sobbing and mumbling and wringing her hands,
oh, in a hell of a mess. Why, we had to get the whole story out of that fishing
fellow. Wasn’t until the next day that Miss Davis could make any kind of sense.”

“When
did you hold the inquest?”

“Tuesday.
Day before they buried the cousin. Coroner did the dissection on Monday. We got
authorization from Miss Davis, Penal Law 2213, next of kin being charged by law
with the duty of burial may authorize dissection for the sole purpose of
ascertaining the cause of death.”

“And
the coroner reported the cause of death as drowning?”

“That’s
right. Said so right before the jury.”

“Why’d
you have an inquest? Did you suspect something more than accidental drowning?”

“Not
necessarily. But that fellow who was fishing, well,
he
was from the
city, too, you know. And for all we knew, him and Miss Davis could have been in
this together, you know, shoved the cousin over the side of the boat, and then
faked up a whole story, you know. They both coulda been lying in their teeth.”

“Were
they?”

“Not so
we could tell. You never seen anybody so grief-stricken as Miss Davis was when
the fishing fellow drove her into town. Girl would have to be a hell of an actress
to behave that way. Calmed down the next day, but you shoulda seen her when it happened.
And at the inquest it was plain this fishing fellow had never met her before
that day at the lake. Convinced the jury he had no prior knowledge of or
connection with either of the two girls. Convinced me, too, for that matter.”

“What’s
his name?” Carella asked. “This fishing fellow.”

“Courtenoy.”

“What
did you say?”

“Courtenoy.
Sidney Courtenoy.”

“Thanks,”
Carella answered, and he rose suddenly. “Come on, Teddy. I want to get back to
the city.”

Courtenoy
lived in a one-family clapboard house in Riverhead. He was rolling up the door
of his garage when Carella and Meyer pulled into his driveway early Monday
morning. He turned to look at the car curiously, one hand on the rising garage
door. The door stopped, halfway up, halfway down. Carella stepped into the
driveway.

“Mr.
Courtenoy?” he asked.

“Yes?”
He stared at Carella, puzzlement on his face, the puzzlement that is always
there when a perfect stranger addresses you by name. Courtenoy was a man in his
late forties, wearing a cap and a badly fitted sports jacket and dark flannel
slacks in the month of August. His hair was graying at the temples. He looked
tired, very tired, and his weariness had nothing whatever to do with the fact
that it was only seven o’clock in the morning. A lunch box was at his feet
where he had apparently put it when he began rolling up the garage door. The
car in the garage was a 1953 Ford.

“We’re
police officers,” Carella said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“I’d
like to see your badge,” Courtenoy said. Carella showed it to him. Courtenoy
nodded as if he had performed a precautionary public duty. “What are your questions?”
he said. “I’m on my way to work. Is this about that damn building permit again?”

“What
building permit?”

“For
extending the garage. I’m buying my son a little jalopy, don’t want to leave it
out on the street. Been having a hell of a time getting a building permit. Can
you imagine that? All I want to do is add another twelve feet to the garage.
You’d think I was trying to build a city park or something. Is that what this
is about?”

From
inside the house a woman’s voice called, “Who is it, Sid?”

“Nothing,
nothing,” Courtenoy said impatiently. “Nobody. Never mind, Bett.” He looked at
Carella. “My wife. You married?”

“Yes,
sir, I’m married,” Carella said.

“Then
you know,” Courtenoy said cryptically. “What are your questions?”

“Ever see
this before?” Carella asked. He handed a photostated copy of the check to
Courtenoy, who looked at it briefly and handed it back.

“Sure.”

“Want
to explain it, Mr. Courtenoy?”

“Explain
what?”

“Explain
why Claudia Davis sent you a check for a hundred and twenty dollars.”

“As
recompense,” Courtenoy said unhesitatingly.

“Oh,
recompense, huh?” Meyer said. “For what, Mr. Courtenoy? For a little
cock-and-bull story?”