Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  • • •

  On his way back to the funeral home, Kennet walked along the berm to avoid fouling his sneakers with the tar that bubbled on Smithfield. He needed a new pair. He no longer wore Keds, but he wanted to keep what he had in good shape. The scorching sun beat down on his bare neck without mercy.

  Delores Swann really had been poisoned, he was certain of it, and Grinold had done it to prevent her from blackmailing him. Well, that little plan backfired.

  It might not be possible to convict the funeral director of murder now that her remains had been cremated, but ruining his reputation was the next best thing. Kennet would leave the investigation up to the news professionals. Granted, half the places that received an envelope with such content would simply toss it. But some might not. Especially since he had written on the fax and the outside of all the envelopes, DELORES SWANN WAS MURDERED. He could count on Channel 11 to pick up a tabloid story right in their own backyard.

  The last time he spoke to Ma, she said when Sister Etta laid hands on him, the prophetess imparted a spiritual gift. He said, “What’s a gift unless it helps somebody else?” His gift, a seeming trifle—discerning the cause of death of those he cremated—was legitimate. And proving to be useful.

  If he didn’t believe in himself and his gifts, strange as they were, if he wouldn’t stand up to intimidating adversaries and avenge the helpless who’d been wronged, justice would not be served, and lives would remain at stake. He couldn’t let that happen. Even if he had to give up Loretta Pratt’s nice apartment and room instead with the cigar-munching geezer up the road, he’d make it on his own. But he couldn’t walk away until he completed his duty to right the wrongs placed in his path. Starting a new life wouldn’t mean much unless he did.

  He crossed the parking lot to the annex driveway, weaving among the mourners streaming from the front doors of the funeral home to their vehicles. Mary Grace followed them out, her purse on her arm.

  Now, if Grinold vacated too, he could use the copier for his final work.

  Mr. Grinold stepped out the front door and called after him. “Kennet, could I see you inside?”

  His stomach twisted. What now? “Sure thing, boss.” He turned and made for the door.

  Chapter 36

  Cecil poured Kennet and himself a drink in his office. He held out the glass of whiskey to the young man, who was sitting on the edge of a chair before his desk.

  “No, thanks, Mr. Grinold. I’m really not a drinker.”

  “I see.” Grinold forced a smile and carried his own drink behind the desk, where he lowered himself into his executive leather chair. Kennet definitely had something on his mind, but Grinold was in no mood for more confrontation or sniveling about his mother. All he wanted was to get stupid little Hansel back to the annex so he could shove him into the big hot oven.

  “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Grinold, so I’ll get to the point.”

  Grinold had called Kennet in to dispose of him, but for some reason Kennet was turning the tables. “I appreciate that,” he said. But he didn’t like the boy’s patronizing tone.

  “I know you killed Delores Swann.”

  Grinold laughed nervously. “Why, that’s preposterous. She died in a car crash, for pity’s sake. I hardly knew the woman. Why would you make such an accusation?”

  “Because you poisoned her. I don’t know what with, but the reason she wrecked her car is because you gave her something that made her unsafe to drive.”

  Grinold scoffed again, but it was becoming impossible to mask his anger. The imbecile was going to cause trouble, and he must be stopped. Now.

  “You’re wrong, young man, and I’ll prove it to you. But for the moment, let’s assume what you say is true.” He swilled at the scotch and set the glass aside. “Where’s the evidence? Where’s the proof? If you think I perpetrated such a heinous deed, what have you got to back up your allegations?”

  Kennet shifted on the chair, apparently undaunted. “Nothing specific tying you to the murder.”

  “There you are—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, please.”

  Grinold’s rage began to boil.

  “I do have evidence. Someone dropped by with some incriminating photos of you and Ms. Swann. And, gosh, Mr. Grinold, you looked like more than acquaintances to me.”

  The blood drained from Grinold’s face. The lock box. He assumed that since Delores had called off her friend—if there actually was any friend with the key to a lock box—he was no longer in danger of being exposed. Apparently not.

  “Do, do you expect me to believe such a cockamamie story as that? I’m not frightened of you. Show me this evidence.”

  Kennet’s gray eyes were cool. “Nice try, Mr. Grinold, but it’s too late. Delores left specific instructions about what to do with those photographs. Right now, they’re in the hands of the U.S. Postal Service, making their way to the news organizations they’re addressed to.”

  Hot blood returned to Grinold’s face and his hands trembled. He finished the drink in a gulp. “What do . . . did you ever think that Delores may have been trying to blackmail me, that she wanted money, that—”

  “Her friend told me what she wanted. And even if she was blackmailing you, she was only doing it to protect herself.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “She didn’t succeed in saving her own life, but she did succeed in ruining yours.”

  Grinold jumped to his feet, toppling the leather chair. “You little—”

  “And since I had no direct evidence linking you to her murder, I did the next best thing. I made sure her little publicity campaign went off without a hitch. I think once your affair becomes known, smart people will put two and two together.” Kennet smiled grimly and rose from his chair. “You shouldn’t have killed Delores Swann, Mr. Grinold. And you shouldn’t have denied my mother or Albert Putterman a funeral and a burial.”

  “You will not do this to me. Kennet!”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Grinold. I quit.” Kennet turned to go.

  Grinold snatched the gold letter opener from his in-basket and maneuvered around the mahogany desk. He closed the distance between them and lofted the weapon to plunge it into Kennet’s back.

  As if someone had alerted him, Kennet suddenly sidestepped and latched onto his arm, wrenching it behind his back. It hurt something fierce. Then Grinold heard a click, the distinct sound of a gun being cocked.

  “That’s quite enough, Mr. Grinold. Now, I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t think you want a gaping hole in your back, so you’d best settle down and do what I say.”

  “K-Kennet, I, we—”

  “Shut up, Grinold. I’ve listened to you long enough. Drop the letter opener.”

  Reluctantly, he let it fall to the carpet.

  Kennet shoved him through the office door and past Mary Grace’s desk. Grinold considered making a break, but he was no runner, and he didn’t dare try to wrest the gun from the boy. They moved up the hall.

  “In here.”

  “Not the closet.”

  “Get in there!”

  Grinold stumbled in among the mops and cleaning supplies as Kennet shut and locked the door. Darkness engulfed him.

  “You be good, Cecil.” Then Kennet laughed.

  • • •

  Kennet found Mary Grace’s office keys in her in-basket. He unlocked the file cabinets and pulled the folders for his mother, Putterman, and Rhoda Osgood—a good sampling of Flavia’s crimes. The copier was already on, and he duplicated the contents of every folder, stapling each set with Mary Grace’s Swingline. Now he had complete proof of Flavia’s misuse of funds. It would make a strong foundation for a successful investigation.

  When he finished, he returned the folders, locked the cabinet, and replaced the keys. Then he approached the janitorial closet. Inside, Grinold was muttering and rummaging, doing God knows what. Kennet slammed his palm against the door and snorted in glee when the man gasped.

  “Whatcha doin’ in
there, Cecil?” Calling the man by his first name surely irked him, and this pleased him.

  “Kennet. You must let me out. We can talk things over, make an arrangement.”

  “I’ve made all the arrangements I’m going to make. You sit tight. I’m sure Mary Grace will be back soon.”

  “Kennet, I know what you need. I have money, see. Five thousand dollars would rent you a nice apartment for an entire year. Kennet!”

  “No deal. Not a word to Mary Grace about me being the one who locked you in there, okay? I know it’ll be embarrassing when she gets back from lunch, but you’d better get used to it. From here on in, there’s going to be a lot of embarrassment for you.”

  “Kennet!”

  Kennet picked up his copies from the desk and strolled down the hall to the annex, laughing as he went.

  • • •

  Kennet’s laughter faded and was followed by the slam of a door.

  That damn fool’s locked me in here and left! When I get out, I’ll kill the little bastard with my bare hands. I’ll—

  The phone on Mary Grace’s desk warbled.

  Was she back yet? Would she answer?

  It rang four more times. The answering machine clicked on, and he listened to his own voice apologizing that no one was available to take the call. Leave a message after the tone. The machine beeped, and the message began with a familiar voice.

  “Mr. Grinold? It’s Tom Wagner of the Real Estate Company. I presented your offer for the old Chupa funeral home to the seller, but they didn’t bite. In fact, someone else came closer to their asking price, and they accepted it. Better luck next time.”

  The machine clicked off, and Grinold knew there wouldn’t be a next time, knew—

  The phone rang again, and this time, he dreaded to hear who was calling. The machine picked up, played its message, and beeped in anticipation.

  “This message is for Cecil Grinold.”

  This voice also sounded familiar, but Grinold couldn’t quite place it.

  “This is Karen Hobart of Channel 11 News.”

  No. Not Channel 11!

  “I’ve just received a fax of some potentially damaging allegations about a woman named Delores Swann. I think you’ll want to talk to me, to tell your side of the story. We’ve already arranged a meeting with her husband, Mabon Swann. Please call me at your earliest convenience to set up an interview. You can reach me at . . .”

  “No, no, NO!” Grinold bellowed and started throwing things—foul-smelling cleaning supplies, tools, brooms, packages of paper towels. When his fit played itself out, he groaned and slid down the door to the gritty tile floor.

  His dreams and plans were over. Done for. His reputation ruined.

  Just then light began to fill the closet. Grinold’s heart leaped in hope. He rose to his feet. The light switch was outside the door, so Mary Grace must have returned and switched it on. But the bulb above him was dark.

  “Mary Grace. Open the door.” He banged on the door until his fist hurt.

  No answer. But the eerie light continued to fill the confined space, and Grinold cowered from it at the back of the closet. The light took shape before him.

  Two glowing figures hovered above the scattered cleaning supplies. An old man with short, bristly hair, and a woman with her face utterly ruined. And they were pointing at him with an accusing glare, moving ever towards him.

  Albert Putterman. And Delores Swann. Dear God!

  His legs gave way along with his bladder. He collapsed to the floor, whimpering. In all his dealing with the dead, his professional comforting of the bereaved, he’d never believed in continuity of consciousness, life after death, the survival of the soul. But here they were, and he knew they wanted revenge.

  In his frantic groping on the floor, Cecil grasped something cool made of metal. It fit neatly in his hand. He thumbed the knurled slider, exposing the blade of the utility knife. He ran his thumb over it and felt the sharp edge bite into his thumb.

  He once told Kennet that a professional always cleans up his own mess. On this point, he had to admit he was wrong. As the figures swarmed nearer, he pressed the blade to his throbbing throat and drew it sharply down.

  Chapter 37

  “What did you do to your hair?” Christy looked anguished as she ran her fingers over Kennet’s cropped head. At her touch, a delightful shiver danced down his spine.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s too stinkin’ hot for long hair. I stopped at the Style Shack yesterday and got a me new look.”

  She sighed. “Well, it’ll grow back soon enough. Let’s go, Fuzzy.”

  Kennet rode into McKeesport with Christy in her mother’s LeSabre. The Tuesday morning traffic had thinned. They parked beside the Daily News building and walked down Lysle Boulevard to the City Building.

  “What floor’s it on?” Kennet asked, glad to be out of the heat.

  “First,” she said. “This way.”

  Kennet had never been to the police station before and expected to see an open area with a gruff sergeant manning the counter. But the station was only an office at the end of the hall. The reception area was crammed with filing cabinets and a copy machine.

  A slender young woman with auburn hair sat behind a government-issue desk, pecking at a computer keyboard. “May I help you?”

  “Um, I hope so.” Kennet glanced at Christy, who was looking back at him encouragingly.

  “I want to report a crime.” He didn’t expect the woman to appear shocked, but she wasn’t even fazed.

  “Ted?” she called into one of the two deeper offices. “Can you file a report?”

  A deep voice came from the other room. “Sure. Send ’em in.”

  The woman motioned toward the other office. Kennet led Christy through the door. A stocky, balding man sat behind the desk, flanked by framed pictures of his family.

  “Assistant Chief Holtzman.” The man stood and offered his hand to Kennet and then Christy. They introduced themselves and took seats on the beat-up chairs in front of the desk. Holtzman asked what the nature of the crime was.

  Kennet told the officer where he lived, that his mother had died recently along with a few other residents, and explained the paperwork he’d found at Flavia’s and the funeral home. He handed over a kraft envelope containing the copies. Holtzman examined the papers and, as Kennet continued, took a few notes and asked questions for clarification.

  “My biggest concern,” Kennet said, “is that something might happen to somebody else. Another resident.”

  “Understood. I’ve got the basics down. What I’m going to do is contact Bryan Kessler. Captain Kessler will assign a detective to your case. He’ll review my report and then be in touch with you for more information. How can he contact you?”

  Kennet started to give Holtzman the telephone number of the home when Christy said, “It might be safer if you call me. I can get a hold of him quickly, if necessary.”

  “You his girlfriend?”

  Kennet glanced over at Christy, who was smiling slyly.

  “We’re getting there.” She winked at Kennet, and his face suddenly felt like an Atomic Fireball. Yet he couldn’t keep from smiling, too.

  Christy gave Holtzman her home number and cell number, and she and Kennet left the building the back way. As they strolled up the alley, Christy took his hand.

  She said, “I didn’t embarrass you in there, did I?”

  “No, of course not,” he said. “I was embarrassed for you. When he asked you if you were my girlfriend.”

  She stopped and turned him toward her. “And why would I be ashamed if he thought that?”

  “Well . . . my bad haircut and all.”

  “You!” She stepped closer and ran her nails over his cropped head. “You must have lost some of your brain with your hair.”

  “For Samson, it was strength. For me, it’s smarts.”

  She giggled. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let it grow back.”

  “Sounds like
a smart idea to me.”

  She kissed him then, right there in the alley between the City Building and the Daily News. He kissed her back and drew her closer with both hands. He could get used to calling her his girlfriend. Maybe more.

  A horn blared, startling them. They jumped out of the way. A police cruiser inched by, and the officer at the wheel rolled his eyes at them. Kennet laughed and led Christy to the car.

  Now that he’d turned over his evidence to the police, he needed to get his stuff out of the house. Or at least tell Flavia he was moving out. He wanted to call Loretta Pratt to see if the garage apartment was still available. He hoped so. But he had some unfinished business to take care of first.

  “Could you drop me off at Good Shepherd Cemetery?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said and pulled onto Lysle Boulevard.

  • • •

  Flavia shut the cupboard door on the clean lunch dishes she had just put away. The door banged but she didn’t flinch. Two Xanax and three shots of Sambuca took the edge off everything. Except for one thing.

  The wooden block by the coffee maker held a full set of kitchen knives, a set she always kept sharp. Not with the ridiculous sharpening wheel on the back of the can opener—that thing ruined good steel—but with the whetstone she stored in the utensil drawer with the garlic press and the poultry scissors.

  She pulled the carving knife from the block and ran her thumb along the edge. It was sharp as a razor.

  This was the type of knife she should have used on her husband, but she hadn’t the foresight or the guts. She’d married Stephano Costa in a June wedding when she was twenty-four. Theirs was a stormy relationship not because of other women, but because of Lady Luck. She concluded that the quickest way to a man’s heart was with a knife through the ribcage, but not soon enough. He died of a heart attack on their eleventh anniversary and, having failed to pay his insurance premiums because of gambling debts, left her with nothing. Just like her father.