Grave Misgivings

by Kristen Houghton

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 86

  “So?”

  “The problem is that the daughter insists incriminating evidence, sexually explicit pictures of her dad and this woman, were buried along with her father. She claims that the pics will identify this…dominatrix. The daughter’s words refer to her as a ‘perverted whore’. The will was worded so as to keep the identity of the woman secret but the daughter claims that an assistant funeral director told her that right before the coffin was closed, a woman came in and placed some photos in her father’s jacket pocket. She only left after having watched the coffin lid being tightly secured. Daughter wants him dug up and the photos examined. Says she feels his sexual activities or relationship with said woman may have contributed to his death. Anyway, that’s all I know. I’m just there to give an opinion on exhuming the body if there’s enough evidence to do so.”

  “Well, good luck with this one. Sounds interesting to say the least.” Our food arrives and we put conversation on hold for a while. Enzo is an epicurean artist and his food presentation has to be admired. Then the delight of actually eating it begins.

  Over coffee and a chocolate shell filled with ripe raspberries, I tell Giles about my Jennifer Brooks-Warren case and all the strain this impending death sentence is putting on her. He agrees that the stress of it all can cause her to become disoriented and depressed. “She shouldn’t be taking any heavy sedatives, Cate. Mild ones can do the trick just as well. Depression and heavy medication are a dangerous combination. While the mind and body aren’t made to withstand unremitting stress levels for long periods of time, they’re also not made to tolerate prolonged strong sedation.”

  I tell him about my plan to get her and her fiancé out of the condo for a night and he thinks that’s a good idea. “Provided she’s well protected, and from what you tell me she will be, this will have a beneficial effect on her state of mind.”

  I have an idea. “Want to come along with us to the restaurant? I mean you are a doctor, maybe it would be a good idea for you to come. You once told me that in med school, you were fascinated by the study of the effects of drugs on people suffering from depression. Check out her mood and all. I believe her fiancé’s doctor saw her once and prescribed some sedatives. I’ve suggested having him or another doctor come to examine her in her home, but Edward, the fiancé, says she won’t let anyone come to see her. As long as she has her sedatives she feels she doesn’t need to see a doctor. How about it, Giles?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, just spoons the rich concoction of chocolate and raspberries into his mouth and contemplates what I’m saying. I’ve always known Giles to choose his words carefully and answer with honesty. Maybe I am asking too much of him. After all there is an element of danger in the restaurant outing. Every one of us, with the exception of Jennifer and Edward, will be armed. I don’t think Giles even owns a gun, let alone would know how to fire one accurately. He’ll probably say no.

  But his answer surprises me. “It would be a good medical experience, that’s for certain. Drugs and depression can lead to something lethal. I hope her fiancé is monitoring her doses. She shouldn’t have them in her possession; I’d be concerned about an overdose, accidental or otherwise.” He sips his coffee and his look of concern for someone he doesn’t even know touches me deeply. “All right, Catherine, sure, I’ll come. You said Wednesday, right? Six?”

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 87

  “Yes, six on the dot. Come early, though, parking’s a bitch.” I tell him who’ll be there and look to see if the mention of Will’s name brings a reaction but except for a small smile, he says nothing. I tentatively broach the topic of Giles and Felicia.

  “How’s Felicia? She really helped me that night.”

  “She was happy to do so. Have you called to thank her?”

  I look around the restaurant before I answer. “Um, well, no. I have been meaning to, really, I have, it’s just that I’ve been so busy with this current case and several smaller ones. You know how it is. And seriously I’m...”

  Giles grabs my hand across the table and smiles. “Jealous? And that’s okay, Cate. Jealousy is a very human emotion. God knows I’ve had that feeling concerning you and Will.”

  “Will? You’re jealous of Will?” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised but I am. Giles always seems so easygoing and laid-back. The kind of person who just understands what is and what isn’t possible and goes with the flow of life. But I did hurt him; I know that.

  “I was jealous of Will for a while, a long while I have to say. When you and I were together I knew you still had some very strong feelings for him. And we were together for almost two years, Catherine. When you got back together with him, believe me, the jealousy was there. The irony is that Will and I could be friends if we’d met at another time and if it weren’t for the fact that we both…well, you know. But, Cate, it is what it is. I’m not jealous anymore.” He smiles again and squeezes my hand. “Not so much anyway. And I can take you out as a friend, a very well-loved friend and make myself be content with that. I do want you in my life.” Over my protest he picks up the check lying on the table and hands the cash, plus a generous tip, to the server.

  As we walk outside, still holding hands, Giles turns and says, “You’ve no reason to be jealous of Felicia, Catherine. She’s a lovely woman, warm and intelligent, but we aren’t seeing each other officially. Right now it’s just a few comfortable dinners and social gatherings. Neither of us is ready for a commitment.” Warm and intelligent; I feel a nasty prick of the green-eyed monster. I am such a bitch.

  Back outside my office building we hand the large lunch to an anxiously waiting Bo. He examines it then holds it close to his chest as if someone might take it away from him. Life on the streets. Before he leaves to bring the food back to where he and his friend Hey hide from people and the elements, he tugs on my sleeve.

  “Hey, hey listen. That lady, that doughnut lady. She was cryin’, I saw her. She was cryin’ when she was walkin’ down the street. I like her. Maybe somebody kicked her or somethin’? Maybe she lost a puppy? You better check it out. That’s what you do, right? Yeah, you do that, yeah. She was cryin’. She always gives me doughnuts! I like doughnuts. I hope she don’t go to Mexico or Alaska. No, not Alaska. She’s nice, that doughnut lady. Yeah, she’s nice. ’Bye.” And he quickly disappears down the street toward the rat-hole he calls home.

  The “doughnut lady” Bo’s telling me about is Myrtle. Inside my office I see Myrtle sitting at her desk with red, swollen but dry eyes and a look that warns me not to ask questions.

  Chapter 19

  “CATE HARLOW,” I say distractedly as I’m checking my e-mail and instant messages. Myrtle went to the bank so I picked up the phone. I should have let it go to voice mail but there’s something about an unanswered phone that gets to me. I know people who always let their calls go to voice mail and I can never understand why. Maybe that’s the PI in me, who knows for sure? There are times when I want to say to complete strangers, “Answer the God-damned phone! It might be important!”

  There’s a pause on the end of the caller and I say, “Hello? This is Cate Harlow. Who’s calling?”

  “Um, yes, hello. Is this Ms. Harlow, the private investigator?” The voice sounds strangely familiar.

  “You got it. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Konrad Jasinski. You gave me your card.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Jasinski, I give my card to a lot of people. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Of course, yes, I’m Konrad Jasinski.” Pause. “Luca Memorial Services? Do you remember me?”

  Jasinski? Oh right. He wrote his name down on a piece of paper, which I stuck in Jennifer’s file. I check my caller ID. It is the weirdo funeral guy. Even over the phone he gives me the creeps.

  “Yes, Mr. Jasinski, I remember you. What did you want to tell me?”

  “Oh, that’s splendid. I had hoped you would remember me and our conversation about the Perfect Ruby Rest 0557 product?”


  I sit down and look out the window at my small family of doves nesting in the abandoned flowerpot on my fire escape. I have to put feed out for them after lunch. I close my eyes and say, “Yes, I do remember you and that product very well, Mr. Jasinski.” What I remember is how he lovingly stroked the casket as if he were its lover. “Go on.”

  “I’m so glad. I thought I may have dialed the wrong number.” He clears his throat and continues. “Well, my call is about the Perfect Ruby Rest 0557. It is one of our most beautiful resting containers. You may remember the lovely lines and the smooth satiny finish? It is especially fit for a lady and I was wondering…” Jesus! I shiver. Is this guy trying to sell me a coffin? “Mr. Jasinski, are you giving me a sales pitch? Because if you are I can tell you...”

  “Oh no, no, this is not a, what did you call it? Oh, yes, no, this is not a sales pitch, no, not at all. Well, not unless you are in need of one, of course. I would be glad to be of service in your time of need.” His voice hovers like a hungry ghoul in a horror movie and I am annoyed.

  “Mr. Jasinski, just what is this call about?”

  “The Perfect Ruby Rest 0557. That is what I’m calling about, Ms. Harlow.”

  “What about it?”

  “The one that was ordered for a Jennifer Brooks-Warren last week? Well, you gave specific instructions that we were not to call the lady in question so I’m calling you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jasinski, but just what about the…product... warrants this call?”

  “It was picked up.”

  “What?!” I’m on my feet. “By whom?”

  “The Perfect Ruby Rest 0557, the one supposedly ordered by Ms. Brooks-Warren, was picked up last night, around eleven-thirty. I wasn’t here myself but I saw the delivery book this

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 89

  morning that lists merchandise delivered or picked up. We at Luca Memorial Services did not

  deliver it, no. It seems as if it was picked up by a truck rental company.”

  “What’s the name of this company?”

  I hear a rustling of paper. “U-Move-It National.”

  A do-it-yourself haul-away company. Their trucks from eighteen wheelers to small pick-ups are all over the city. The Eliminator, from what I gather, has picked up the casket from Luca Memorial late at night when the regular manager and workers are not around. He only had to deal with one person, an office worker doubling as a night watchman. Still I may be able to find out where the casket was taken.

  I ask Mr. Ghoul if he can get hold of the person who was in charge last night to come down to Luca Memorial today to speak with me. I tell him that I’ll be down at his office later this afternoon. “Yes, yes, of course Ms. Harlow, I’ll call him now. I’m sure when I explain the necessity of you having to speak with him, he’ll be glad to accommodate you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jasinski. I’ll be there at three.” Damn!

  After I hang up I think of Jennifer. She hasn’t called me yet so obviously the Eliminator hasn’t sent any message to her concerning the delivery of the casket. If there was a delivery I’d know about it, if not from a terrified Jennifer then surely from her fiancé Edward or Adrian’s alert crew. I still haven’t told her about the little outing I planned. I didn’t want her to obsess about leaving her condo until everything was set. I check my watch; it’s almost twelve noon. That means that it’s been over twelve hours since someone picked up the casket. The fact that I haven’t heard from her or Adrian’s team is a good sign but I call her just in case.

  Edward answers the phone. “Hi, Edward.” I make my voice sound normal and professional. “Just checking to see how everything is. How’s Jennifer feeling?”

  “She seems fine but I know everything is getting to her and to me as well. Any news on your end? Are you close to finding this, this hit man?” His rich voice is pleasant but I hear a tired catch to his words.

  “Actually we’re getting some new intel so I’m confident that we’ll find him.”

  “For all our sakes I hope so.”

  “Put Jennifer on the phone, Edward. I’d like to speak with her about all of us going out to dinner Wednesday night.”

  “Of course.” I hear him call to Jennifer, “Sweetheart? Cate Harlow is on the phone. She’d very much like to speak with you. And, she has a nice surprise.” A few seconds elapse before I hear Jennifer’s voice. She sounds tired and old.

  “Jennifer, I know this is wearing on you. But as I told Edward a few days ago, I have a little outing planned for you two. How does dinner out at a nice Italian restaurant Wednesday night sound? You’ll be with me, Adrian and his crew, and a New York City detective. Sound good?”

  There is a brief pause. “I guess. Whatever you feel is best, Cate. I just, I—I just want this over.” Jennifer sounds groggy.

  “Jennifer? Are you feeling all right? Do you need a doctor? I can have one come to you.”

  “I’m just very, very tired now, Cate. Just...tired. All I want to do is sleep.”

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 90

  “Okay, sure, go lie down and let me talk to Edward for a moment. Listen though, we’ll make the restaurant trip a definite for Wednesday, around six. Now, put Edward back on the phone.” There’s a sound as if someone has dropped the receiver then Edward comes back on the line.

  “Edward, Jennifer sounds groggy, how many pills is she taking? I mean, we don’t want an overdose. Are you monitoring her?” Giles’s warning about depression and sedatives is fresh in my mind.

  “Oh yes, of course. Actually she hasn’t taken anything today. Quite frankly, Cate, she’s depressed and seems to want to sleep all the time. I assume that’s natural considering all that she’s going through. Sometimes I feel as if she doesn’t know I’m here or even care that I am. Poor girl. I just wish I could be of more help to her.”

  “You’re helping more than you know, Edward. Going out Wednesday night will be good for both of you. Hopefully this will all be over soon, Edward.”

  There’s a pause on his end, then, “Yes. Over soon.”

  I hang up the phone. I have a sudden brainstorm; I need someone with charm and grace to make the evening seem normal and there’s one person who has that down to a science: Melissa Aubrincourt. I immediately text her to see if she has any plans for Wednesday. I quickly explain the situation, assure her that we’ll all be safe, and tell her one of Adrian’s people can pick her up. Five minutes later I get a call from her saying she’s available until her eleven o’clock appointment later that night and that she’ll take a cab to the restaurant if I can drive her back to her brownstone later.

  “Thanks so much, this woman needs a real distraction right now. And believe me, Melissa, you’ll be safe, what with Will and Adrian’s team.”

  Her sweet melodic voice says, “Oh I don’t doubt my safety and it’s my pleasure to help you. See you at six. ’Bye.”

  There’s a text message from Will on my phone asking if I’d be able to grill him on bar exam questions tonight. I text him back, “Home around six, right now going to check out info on a coffin pick-up at Luca Memorial. See you later.”

  ๕๕๕

  Meeting with the night clerk–cum–night watchman sheds very little light on the pick-up of the Perfect Ruby Rest 0557. All he remembers is that he buzzed a man in around 11:10, the man asked for the item and said he was here to pick it up for a client. A grainy old-fashioned video tape shows a man dressed in workman’s gear wearing a cap, brown jacket, and heavy work gloves. The coffin is loaded onto the truck by a hydraulic lift. Unfortunately the camera only shows the bay doors and the flat inside of the truck, both of which were above the license plate area. The clerk doesn’t have any more info or a decent description of the man and I suspect that he may have been sleeping when the truck arrived and the driver banged on the door. I write down all the information, thank both the clerk and Mr. Jasinski, who is creepily stroking one of the coffins again, and get the hell out of there.

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 91

  In my car a
quick call to the New York office of the U-Move-It National rental company yields very little information. The person on the other end says the company doesn’t require that a renter states what they want to move. “It’s a privacy thing, miss.”

  “A privacy policy that could be very dangerous,” I say. “After 9/11, I would think some type of security and knowledge of what’s being hauled would be appropriate. The truck may be involved in a potential crime.” Getting nothing but, “I’m sorry, office policy,” as an unsatisfactory reply to my statement, I ask him to send a copy of anyone who rented a truck large enough to move heavy furniture over the past week to my office e-mail.

  “Sorry, miss. I can’t do that either. Again it’s a privacy thing. You need something from a judge in order to look at our files. Sorry.” He hangs up and I immediately call Will to tell him about their “privacy thing.”

  “Can you get me a search and seizure warrant for a list of people who have rented large trucks over the past week at U-Move-It National? Their local office is down by the Bowery.”

  “This about the coffin text message you sent? The one that was ordered and now picked up?”

  “Yes, can you help me on this, Will? You know some judges who have helped you in the past on your cases.”

  “True, but those cases were in fact real crimes; there was evidence enough to warrant a search and seizure. I need to give hard proof to any judge I approach that this is, in fact, a crime. That’s the legal system as it works now.”

  “How about a not-so-legal type of search and seizure?” I hear him sigh and the sound of a pen tapping.