A Minister's Ghost: A Fever Devilin Mystery

by Phillip DePoy

  “They’ve only been married a year,” I reminded him.

  “A whole year,” he said, shaking his head. “And still no baby.”

  “Maybe they’re waiting until she’s done with college.”

  The porch was dry and solid. Donny folded the umbrella, careful to keep it away from me, and shook it hard, ridding it of water.

  “Maybe.” He leaned the umbrella against the wall. “I reckon you come to look at your friend Miss Lucinda’s nieces.”

  “Yes.”

  “You helping out Sheriff Needle like you always do?” He was speaking uncharacteristically softly, something I felt he had learned in mortuarial school.

  “Soft of,” I conceded. “But I have to tell you, I’m not looking forward to seeing the bodies. Lucinda was very close to those girls, and I knew them slightly myself.”

  “Oh,” he said, opening the door for me, “don’t worry about that. We took care of everything.”

  We entered the quiet of the funeral parlor itself. The hallway was immaculate. Polished golden floors glistened in every direction. The room to our left was gleaming, a perfect Victorian sitting room. The staircase that led to the office upstairs had been given new black-and-white tapestry-like carpeting depicting, as far as I could tell, scenes from Shakespeare. The banister had been polished to a mirror’s perfection. In front of us the spotless hallway was lined with old photographs framed in thick antique gold.

  I didn’t know what I’d expected, but the last time I had been inside the boys’ own house, there had been dead, gutted animals in the kitchen, flies everywhere, and a stench that could have been used as a military weapon. The funeral parlor was, on the other hand, cleaner than I’d ever seen it, still as a church, and softly lit, like an early sunrise.

  “You boys surely have done a nice job with the place,” I said, trying to keep the amazement in my voice to a reasonable level.

  “We take our work very serious, Dr. Devilin,” he said sweetly. “I know you remember what we was like in the old days, but we’re all grown-up now.”

  The old days were barely more than a year before, but sometimes a great change engenders a rip in time. Donny did seem to have matured by a decade.

  “I see—” I began.

  “Come on back,” he interrupted. “I think you’ll be pleased with our efforts.”

  Our efforts. I could barely contain myself.

  The room at the end of the hall was lit by candles, outside light through a stained-glass window, and a snapping blaze from the small fireplace at the far end. The effect was soothing until I thought about what I might see in the two coffins on skirted tables at the center of the room.

  “We worked all night,” Donny whispered, “all three of us, getting them ready in case someone came this morning.”

  I slowed my walk. Donny obliged by moving away a step or two, surely another trick learned from his recent schooling.

  The two chocolate-colored coffins rested side by side. The lids were open. The skirts around the tables were black, and in the soft light the coffins appeared to be floating on shadows.

  I allowed a glance to creep over the rim of the one closest to me. My eyes were amazed; my heart was broken.

  Rory lay sleeping, dressed in a white gown, one hand resting at her neck. She was made up for her high school prom: hair perfect, cheeks blushing, lips an immaculate natural gloss. I had the sensation that I could wake her if I took that hand.

  I turned to Donny. “My God.”

  “Yeah,” he said, a glimmer of the rougher boy I knew, “but I wouldn’t get too much closer if I was you. We had to put a lot of that face together.”

  “Put it together?”

  “Putty mostly,” he offered. “Some of it’s wired plaster. What we got in here last night? You wouldn’t have recognized it.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “That was unprofessional.”

  “You certainly did work quickly.” I tried to pry my eyes away from the caskets, with no success.

  “The family.” He shrugged. “They were in a hurry. We even had a sort of hassle with the new coroner. He seems to think there was more to all this than a train wreck. But in the end he let us do our work.”

  “What’s his name? The new coroner, I mean.”

  “Millroy.”

  “He thought this wasn’t an accident?”

  “I don’t know what he thought,” Donny said softly. “Our first obligation is to the family.”

  “Right.” I’d have to check in with our new coroner.

  Donny folded his arms.

  “I can’t get clear in my head,” he began, “if you’re here to pay respects, or you’re doing an investigation.”

  “Right,” I answered, looking down at my wet tennis shoes. “I can’t get that straight either. Just trying to find out what happened to these girls.”

  “They got hit by a train,” he said before he could stop himself.

  “I know,” I said steadily, “but Lucy thinks there was something else. And now you tell me this Millroy has doubts.”

  “Well,” Donny said, almost to himself, “it’s not unusual, you know. I’ve found that lots and lots of folks come in here thinking that.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “That there must be some other explanation for the …” He groped for words.

  “Death of a loved one,” I ventured.

  “Exactly.” He folded his arms. “It’s not good enough to know it was a heart attack that killed your husband, you want to know what caused the heart attack. I don’t see how that matters once you’re dead. Dead is dead, ’scuse me for saying so.”

  “No,” I confirmed. “You’re right. But what Lucy can’t believe is that the girls wouldn’t move the car when they heard the train coming.”

  “Maybe the car stalled,” he said simply.

  “Why didn’t they get out, then?”

  “That’s a point,” he conceded. “Why didn’t they?”

  “I don’t know, but that’s not unusual. I tried to tell her: four hundred people a year are killed just like this. It happens.”

  “Uh-huh,” he allowed, “but when it happens to someone you know, you want more than that.”

  I looked up at Donny.

  “You have grown up,” I said softly.

  “Thanks, Doc.” He offered me a curt nod, still trying his best to play the part of the funeral parlor director.

  I glanced back at the coffins, took a quick look at Tess. She was even more beautiful than I remembered, dressed in white too, and holding a small bouquet of dried lavender.

  “Can we go somewhere else?” I asked quickly. “I don’t think I can stay in here.”

  “Of course,” Donny responded immediately. “Let’s go back to the parlor.”

  I don’t remember walking back toward the front of the house, I may have had my eyes closed some of the way. I just remember finding myself seated in a soft leather chair, close to another fireplace. Donny was on the sofa opposite me, a practiced look of sympathy on his face.

  “You boys did a great job with the bodies,” I said, collecting myself and struggling toward objectivity, an investigator’s persona.

  “We only had time to do the faces,” he corrected. “The rest of the bodies is still a great mess. Sorry.”

  “They were in pretty bad shape when they came in, I suppose.” I leaned forward.

  “Are you sure you want to hear about it?” he asked gently.

  “I’m really wondering about a few things that maybe you can help me with. For example, did the girls have keys on them, or were any keys brought in?”

  “Keys?”

  “Car keys, house keys, a key ring,” I prompted.

  “Nope. We put all the little effects together in a little basket, like an Easter basket. No keys at all. Why?”

  “Just a nagging detail, probably. What effects were there?” I wondered. “I mean, what did you put in their basket?”

 
; “Wallets,” he began, rolling his eyes upward, trying to remember, “a pack of Tic Tacs, some change. Not much.”

  “How about a personal CD player?”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “Sure, now that you bring it up. Rory sort of had on headphones, and the CD player was in her coat pocket.”

  “Really? Is it still here? Could I see it?”

  “It’s in back.” He stood. “I think we put the headphones down in her coat pocket with the player.”

  I followed him out the room and down the hall to another room at the back of the house. This one was gray, more clinical, lit by fluorescents, and antiseptic smelling. The two chrome tables in the center had drainage holes at the sloped bottom edge. I tried not to stare at them.

  A rolling clothes rack was against one wall. Donny went to it, found a fluffy blue coat. It was at least 50 percent stained a rust color that I wished I hadn’t seen. He fished in one pocket and produced a miraculously unharmed CD player the size of a bread plate.

  “Here it is,” he said, holding it up, headphones trailing behind, dangling toward the floor.

  “Is there anything in it?” I didn’t want to touch it.

  He popped it open. “Yup.” He took out the shiny disc. “Tonka Toys. By somebody called Jane-Jane.”

  “Ever heard of her?”

  “Nope.” He held out the CD.

  “Do you have a player? I’d rather not put on those headphones.”

  “I understand,” he said, nodding. “We like to have soothing music playing when we have visitors. It’s in the other room.”

  He put the player back in the stained blue coat and headed for the viewing room. I followed, steeling myself against the sweet sight of the girls, hoping to keep my eyes averted.

  The room’s dim light was, indeed, comforting, and the crackle of the fire was reassuring.

  Donny went to a small hutch in the corner of the room, opened it to reveal a hidden stereo system. He turned it on and put in the CD.

  An explosion of petulant blaring filled the room, an adolescent girl’s anger.

  “Okay,” I told him over the din.

  He touched a button and the room fell mercifully quiet again.

  “Loud,” Donny said.

  “Could I use a telephone here?”

  “Office upstairs,” he answered. “You want this?” He held out the CD.

  “Better put it back in the player in Rory’s coat,” I said. “You wouldn’t know if Rory was driving, would you?”

  “No.” He started back to the other room.

  “The office is the first room at the top of the stairs, right?”

  “Exactly,” he confirmed. “You can go on up. I’ll let you have your privacy. You calling Sheriff Needle?”

  “Right.” I turned to give him a smile. “Were you always this bright?”

  “No,” was all Donny said before he disappeared into the overlit room.

  I headed along the hallway and up the stairs. The banister was so polished I was afraid to put my hand on it, I didn’t want to smudge the finish.

  Directly at the top of the stairs was a door that opened into a room with floor-to-ceiling windows in the outside wall. The other three walls were completely occupied by dark-stained oak bookshelves. There were few books still in evidence, but plenty of papers, stacks and stacks, neatly arranged. Ages ago when the funeral parlor had been a private home, the room would have been a library. Even darkly overcast, there was enough light through the windows for me to see the huge oak desk, top well organized, and the phone close to the far corner.

  I walked slowly in, letting my eyes adjust to the lower light, rounded the desk and picked up the phone, dialed Skid’s number by heart. I was surprised to hear him answer. He rarely did that since he’d been elected sheriff.

  “Sheriff’s office,” he said tersely.

  “Skid, it’s Fever,” I told him quickly. “I’m at the funeral parlor. Have you seen what the Deveroe boys did with the bodies?”

  “No.” He was in no mood.

  “Great work. They look wonderful. The girls. And sad, you know.”

  “Fever,” he broke in, “I’m kind of busy.”

  “So I went to the scene of the accident,” I hurried on before he could continue, “and found two CD cases that belonged to the girls, as well as a lipstick, Coke cans, and hairbrush that may have been theirs. Then I went to Eppie’s and saw the wreck, and I have a few really fast questions.”

  “You found some things you think were in the car with the girls?”

  “They were down the tracks from the crossing, about fifty feet or more, off to the side, under the bushes,” I said. “No one would have seen them in the dark last night. I wouldn’t have seen them except for luck. But here are my questions: Do you know who was driving last night?”

  “What?”

  “Which girl was driving,” I repeated, “do you know?”

  “Tess. Why?” His voice had relinquished a touch of its frost.

  “And Rory was wearing headphones at the time of the accident,” I went on, “listening to a CD.”

  “The headphones weren’t on Rory’s head, exactly,” Skid sighed, “but that doesn’t mean anything, given the circumstances of the accident. They were attached to a portable player in her coat pocket, so it’s a good bet she was listening to it, yes.”

  “Did you hear the music?”

  “Did I listen to the CD?” He bristled. “No.”

  “It was loud,” was all I told him. “My last question is, did you or somebody last night take the car keys, the keys to the Volkswagen?”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “They weren’t in the ignition,” he said slowly.

  “Right, and no one found them last night?”

  I heard him shuffling papers on his desk.

  “No.” He seemed to be thinking.

  “Okay, that’s all I needed,” I said briskly. “I’ll give you a ring tonight.”

  “Fever, damn it,” Skid said, a small taste of his real voice creeping into his words, “that’s not all. What’s on your mind? What are you doing?”

  “I’m just collecting at the moment,” I said honestly, “trying not to come to any conclusions. But it is strange that the keys are missing, don’t you think?”

  “It’s strange that I didn’t notice it,” he said ruefully.

  “I’m going to talk to the girls’ parents in a while,” I said softer, “and before you tell me to leave them alone, I’ll promise not to pester them long. I only have a few questions. You should really come and take a look at what the brothers did over here at the funeral home. It’s remarkable.”

  “You’re going to call me tonight.” It wasn’t a question.

  “After I talk to the parents,” I agreed, “and give the Palace a call.”

  “The movie house?” He was irritated again. “What do you want with that?”

  “Do you know what movie the girls saw?” I asked slowly.

  “No.”

  “What time it let out?” I shot back, picking up speed.

  “No.”

  “Do you know if the girls met dates there last night?” I concluded.

  “Fever—,” he began hotly.

  “That’s why I’m calling them, Skid,” I answered defensively. “Why are you so weird about all this? What’s the matter with you?”

  For a moment I thought he might have hung up. Then I heard him sigh.

  “Being sheriff is a lot different from being deputy,” he told me, all his steam gone. “There are things about this situation that I can’t tell you; it’s more complicated than you think.”

  “What are you saying?” I rested myself on the corner of the desk.

  “I’m saying there’s more to this whole mess than just a train wreck,” he said stonily.

  “Just a train wreck?” I shot back.

  “I can’t talk to you about it, Fever.” There was iron in his words. “You’re not a policeman, you’re an ex—college professor. Lea
ve it be. I won’t be responsible for what happens if you don’t do what I say. I mean it.”

  “All right,” I answered slowly through tight lips. “I’m going to talk to the girls’ parents for Lucy’s sake, and then I’ll stay out of it.”

  More silence ensued.

  “I wish I could believe that,” he said at last. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Bye.”

  He hung up.

  It wasn’t much of a fight, but it was the worst communication Skidmore and I’d had since we were in high school. We never fought. Something was really bothering him.

  What was all that about not being responsible for what would happen if I didn’t leave the investigation alone? I thought as I sat there on the desk. Was he threatening me? Am I in some sort of danger? The train wreck wasn’t the only thing that happened last night, that’s clear.

  The only effect any of my thoughts had at the time was to convince me to step up the investigation.

  I looked around for a phone book, ended up calling information for the number of the Palace movie theater.

  The phone rang a while before someone answered.

  “Palace.”

  “Hello,” I began, “This is Dr. Devilin calling. I have a few questions about the movie last night. Did you work?”

  “Last night?” the teenaged boy said. “Uh-huh, I work every night. What is it you want to know?”

  “What’s your position there?”

  “Position?” he grunted. “I do everything: sell tickets, work concession, clean up. It’s just me and Chester.”

  “The projectionist?” I guessed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So what movie was playing last night?”

  “Vertigo,”he said in a bored voice. “Hitchcock.”

  “You’re not a fan.”

  “It’s almost as stupid as Psycho,” he complained. “If you want good Hitchcock, you have to go back to The Lady Vanishes, in my opinion, or The Thirty-nine Steps. Before he went Hollywood.”

  “You’re a student of film,” I said, doing my best to take him seriously.

  “I’m going to make films,” he said plainly.

  “Really? I think that’s great.” I took a different tack with him. “I’ve made a few films myself. Just documentaries.”