Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  But those were just the politicos, people I assumed had bothered to put on their suits and ties because they recognized this occasion as a valuable photo op. I also saw businessmen whose faces were familiar, Long Island’s corporate bigwigs, like the head of a big computer company and the CEO of a major insurance company. As for the media, I saw so many of the reporters I was used to watching on TV that I wondered who was covering that day’s car accidents on the Long Island Expressway. There were quite a few men in uniform in attendance, as well, all looking dutifully somber. I even noticed Officer Pascucci standing in back, checking out the scene and, not surprisingly, wearing a malevolent expression.

  All in all, it was an impressive showing. As I shuffled toward the rows of wooden chairs that faced the open casket, I had to admit that I was kind of enjoying being in the midst of such a high-profile event. That is, until I spotted one more familiar face.

  “What’s the matter, Nick? Don’t tell me even you’re starting to find Tommee Frack’s murder intriguing.”

  “Actually, Jess,” he said, without missing a beat, “you’re the reason I’m here.”

  “Moi? Should I be flattered?”

  “Let’s just say that after our conversation the other day, I had a feeling you’d show up today. And I wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid.”

  “Were you afraid that I’d leap up in the middle of the eulogy and yell, ‘Would the real murderer please stand up’?”

  “Something like that.”

  It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to growl at him.

  “Well, since you’ve taken it upon yourself to baby-sit me, you might as well make yourself useful. I recognize a lot of these people—the highway commissioner, the president of Kel-Tech Computers—but maybe you can fill me in on who some of these other movers and shakers are.”

  He sighed, then reluctantly pointed. “That’s Daniel Sharpe, the police commissioner. And that’s Jerry Siegel, chairman of the board of Norfolk Imaging. Over there is Ralph Pereira, head of Channel 14 News. And I’m pretty sure that guy over there is on the town’s zoning board.”

  “Golly, gee,” I said breathlessly. “Is there anybody Frack didn’t know?”

  Nick shrugged. “That’s PR, I guess. From what little I understand, it sounds as if knowing the right people is the key to success. Jess, I hope you’re not planning to do what I think you’re planning to do.” He must have noticed me eyeing the crowd hungrily.

  “Which is—?”

  “Go up to complete strangers and start asking a bunch of inappropriate questions.”

  “People do chat with each other at wakes, don’t they?” I asked indignantly. “I think it’s called being polite.”

  Before he could get another word in, I said, “You know, I think I’ll pop into the ladies room before this thing gets started.” I wrinkled my nose. “Too much coffee.”

  I moved away, no easy feat in that crowd. But I got far enough so that Nick couldn’t see what I was doing—or try to stop me.

  I looked around, wondering how to go about meeting and greeting in a situation like this. It was like being at a school dance, desperately searching for some guy who was standing by himself so you could ask him to dance without anyone seeing you do so.

  And then I spotted my victim, standing alone and looking decidedly awkward. Between his military-style haircut and his eyeglasses, so thick it was a miracle he could hold his head up, he had the look of someone very intelligent, not to mention important. Not a single wrinkle defiled his gray suit, his immaculate white shirt, or his dignified Harvard tie. Even his shoes gleamed, with not a speck of dirt or even a scuff mark daring to mar their shiny black surface.

  I mustered up all my bravery and sidled up to him.

  “Tragic, isn’t it?” I began conversationally. “That such a terrible thing should happen to someone so young?”

  He peered at me, his eyes blurs behind the bullet-proof lenses. “Terrible,” he repeated in a voice that was at least an octave higher than I’d expected.

  “I’m completely in shock,” I prattled on. “I mean, when I read about this in the newspaper, I was just beside myself.”

  This time, all I got was a nod. It was increasingly apparent that my interviewing technique needed work.

  I decided I had to be a little more creative. “I mean, Tommee was so . . . so . . .”

  “Greedy?”

  I blinked. “Actually, that wasn’t the word I was looking for.”

  Of course, I didn’t add that I had no idea what word I was looking for. But I was pleased to have learned something about Frack, who was still pretty much an unknown quantity to me.

  “Let’s face it,” the man volunteered glumly. “The guy did nothing but work. He barely slept. He’s the guy who invented the phrase ‘twenty-four/seven.’ ”

  I’d often thought I’d like to find myself alone in a dark alley with whoever had invented that phrase. But I had a feeling that Tommee Frack, for all his accomplishments, couldn’t really be credited with that one.

  “Did you know him well?” I ventured.

  The man snorted. “Let’s just say I saw a side of him that very few people got to see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My curiosity was piqued. Was I speaking with Tommee Frack’s bookie? His psychiatrist? His proctologist?

  His answer was kind of a letdown.

  “I am—I was—his accountant.”

  Figures, I thought. Of all the people at the funeral who could provide me with an inside look at Tommee Frack and what might have brought about his demise, I have the bad luck to pick out the biggest dead end in the room.

  “How . . . fascinating.”

  He snorted again. I realized that what sounded to me like a colt who thought I was getting a little personal during a physical was actually this accountant’s laugh.

  “Accountancy is an underrated field,” he informed me indignantly. His voice had gotten even higher, moving dangerously into the squeaky range. “Most people don’t realize just how exciting it can be.”

  “Gee, I never really thought about it.” At least that part was honest. “But I’m curious: why do you think Tommee was greedy? I mean, as opposed to simply . . . successful?”

  “Because his highest priority wasn’t servicing his clients. It was collecting their checks.”

  Better and better. A mourner who had a grievance against the dead man. “I have to admit I’m at kind of a disadvantage here,” I said meekly. “I don’t know much about public relations.”

  “Not much to know. A client hires a PR firm in order to get his name in the news as often as possible. And the way the PR firm accomplishes that is by employing account executives who get on the phone and pitch the media.”

  “ ‘Pitch the media’?”

  He looked at me oddly.

  “I’m a veterinarian,” I offered as my apology.

  “The account executive calls the editors of magazines and newspapers, as well as the producers of TV and radio shows, and basically tries to sell them an idea over the phone. You know, like, ‘My client, John Smith, just gave a million dollars to such-and-such charity.’ Or invented a new product or hired a new vice president or whatever. And if the account exec is doing his job, that story ends up on the six o’clock news or on page two.”

  “I see. So what was Tommee Frack doing that made him, you know, greedy?”

  “Pitching the media is time-consuming. You figure most account executives would probably handle six, maybe eight clients, tops. Even that’s pushing it. But Tommee liked to keep his costs down. He had only three or four account execs at a time, but he was billing over sixty clients.”

  “Sixty clients! Wow, he was successful!”

  “Except I never understood how he could possibly service all those clients with such a small staff. You’d think they would have felt shortchanged and taken their business somewhere else. Instead, they stayed with him, year after year.”

 
“Maybe he was just good with people.”

  “Well, it’s true that he did have a way with people. At least, when he wanted to.” The accountant smirked. “Or maybe I should say, when there was something he wanted from them.”

  It occurred to me that this hardly seemed like the kind of conversation one should be having at a wake. Then I reminded myself that I wasn’t here to mourn Tommee, but to sneak around and find out all the dirt I could about him.

  But there was no more time to speak ill of the dead. A minister was making his way toward a wooden dais placed in front of Tommee, who lay in front of the room in pretty much the same position he’d been in when I’d first come across him.

  “I guess we’d better sit down,” I said. “But I enjoyed talking to you, Mr.—”

  “Havemeyer. Jonathan Havemeyer, CPA.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. I glanced at it politely, then stuck it in my purse.

  By the time I looked up again, Tommee Frack’s cranky accountant had wandered off toward one of the middle rows. I headed to the back of the room, where I figured I’d get the best overview of the proceedings.

  I’d just found myself a comfortable spot, with a wall to lean on and a towering potted plant to hide behind, when I felt someone else’s presence. I glanced up, intending to offer to share my space. Instead, I did a double take.

  “Officer Nolan! How nice to see you again!”

  “Hey, call me Jimmy. And it’s Jessie, isn’t it?”

  I felt ridiculously pleased that he remembered.

  “I hope you’ve been keeping out of trouble.” He grinned, that same spectacular smile that had impressed me the last time we’d met. “No more dead bodies?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Good. Murder is something to steer clear of. Trust me.”

  “I guess you should know.”

  “Are you kidding? One of these days, you and I should sit down over a couple of beers so I can tell you about some of the things I’ve seen.”

  I had to admit that didn’t sound like a bad idea. And my curiosity over Tommee Frack had nothing to do with it.

  “Jesus H. Christmas. Will you look at all these people?” Officer Nolan—Jimmy—commented.

  I raised my eyebrows, surprised by such an odd phrase—especially coming from a cop. “I guess Frack was a pretty important guy.”

  “What about you? What are you doing here?”

  I shrugged. “I guess it’s kind of weird, but I feel a sort of kinship with Tommee Frack, even though I never met the guy. I guess I’m hoping that coming to his wake will give me a sense of closure.”

  “I hear you.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ve gotten involved in the investigation a little bit, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to come to his wake.”

  Before I had a chance to ask any more questions, the minister tapped on the microphone. I wouldn’t have expected such a high-tech touch to be appropriate at a wake, but in this case, it was a good idea: there were so many people packed into the room that it would have been impossible to hear without a speaker system.

  “Family, friends, business associates of Tommee Frack,” he began when the noise died down. “While all of us in this room knew Tommee for many different reasons, today we are all united by a common bond: mourning the loss of this committed, involved, caring man . . .”

  I was already growing bored. I looked around the room, not knowing what I expected to see. Somebody grinning diabolically, maybe, or giggling to himself in a corner.

  Instead, I saw a bunch of business-types, men and women in suits. Nothing too interesting there. Sitting in front, I noticed an older couple clinging desperately to one another. Tommee’s parents, no doubt.

  The minister droned on and on. I was beginning to wonder if I was wasting my time when a shrill voice from the hallway cut through the minister’s sugary words.

  “You mean they started without me? They couldn’t wait five minutes?”

  I glanced toward the doorway. So did everybody else in the room.

  We weren’t disappointed. A pretty young woman— more young than pretty—flounced inside, looking annoyed.

  But the expression on her face was the least of her inappropriateness. She was dressed in black, all right, but her dress was cut so low on top and so high on the bottom that she could have been wearing a dish towel. The result was enough leg and enough boob to stun even the minister, who halted mid-sentence.

  Something else separated her from all the other mourners. Strutting alongside her was a black-and-white Tibetan Terrier, a twenty-pound version of an Old English Sheepdog. The breed is a bit of a rarity, even in my circles. The black-and-whites are particularly high maintenance, requiring two different shampoos, one for the black fur and one for the white. These days, most busy families prefer the wash-and-wear varieties of house pets.

  The minister remained silent as everyone in the room watched the woman with the living, breathing fashion accessory prance toward the front of the room on heels so high and so spiky that I feared for the carpet. When she reached the first row, the one reserved for family, she wiggled her way into a seat, displacing several coats in the process. Someone—possibly, but not definitely the Tibetan Terrier—let out a little yelp.

  “Goodness, who’s that?” I whispered to Officer Nolan.

  “Barbara Delmonico,” he whispered back. “Tommee’s fiancée.”

  So, I thought with satisfaction, good old Tommee wasn’t such a stuffy businessman, after all. There was another side to him, a side that, from the looks of things, was still rooted in his adolescence. In fact, I’d be willing to bet he had a poster of Pamela Anderson hanging in his bedroom.

  As my attention turned back to the ceremony, one mover and shaker after another stood up to extoll Tommee Frack’s virtues. I was tempted to yell out, “If Tommee was such a great guy, how come somebody wanted him dead?” Instead, I continued studying the crowd, not knowing what I was looking for but naively certain I’d know it when I saw it.

  And then I noticed the sobbing woman.

  She stood hunched over in the opposite corner of the room, next to the doorway, her shoulders heaving violently. Unlike most of the other mourners, who looked like they had charge accounts at Bloomingdale’s and Today’s Man, she was more of a Wal-Mart type. Her dress, dark blue with more ruffles than anyone over the age of six has a right to wear, had a tired look. She was barely five feet tall, yet round enough that she could have benefited from a bigger size. Her nondescript brown hair was worn straight down, as if it had never been introduced to the concept of a stylish cut. And yet, I could see that she was fairly pretty, even though her face was half-hidden by the clump of tissues she kept pressing against her eyes.

  Something else struck me. Whoever she was, she was the only person at Tommee Frack’s funeral who was crying. Even his fiancée seemed more irritated than grief-stricken.

  I tensed up like a retriever about to dive into a lake as I watched her head out of the room. “I’ll be right back,” I told Officer Nolan, figuring he’d assume I was going to the bathroom.

  Actually, it turned out to be precisely where I was going. As I turned the corner, I saw the crying woman pushing the door labeled “ladies.”

  Inside, I found a pleasant sitting room with flowered wallpaper, mirrors, and upholstered benches. The perfect place for collecting oneself.

  The woman had sunk onto one of the benches and appeared to be trying to do just that. She wasn’t having much luck.

  Impulsively, I sat down beside her and slipped my arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” I asked gently. “He was so young, and so involved. There were so many people who cared about him.”

  “None of them cared about him the way I did.” She spat out the words.

  “Are you related?”

  “I used to be. As a matter of fact, I used to be his wife. I’m Merrilee Frack.”

  I patted her shoulder. While my attempts
at comforting her until this point had been sincere, I now realized I’d stumbled upon a gold mine.

  “It must make you feel great that so many people turned out for Tommee’s funeral,” I soothed her. “He was such a vital part of the community—”

  “I hate those people!” She swiped at her eyes with her ball of wet tissues. What was still left of her eye makeup became even more smeared, the blues and greens swirling together like the colors of Monet’s water lilies. “They’re responsible.” She spat out the words venomously.

  “Responsible . . . for his death?”

  “Everything! His death, the stupid way he led his life . . . I wish they would all just go home. Especially her. How dare she show up here? That . . . that whore!”

  Not knowing what to say to that, I indulged in a little more patting. Then I stood and reached for Merrilee’s hand.

  “Come on,” I said briskly, using the same tone I use with puppies who aren’t grasping the basics of good behavior. “Let’s get your face washed. A little cold water will make you feel much better.”

  “I bet I look a mess,” she wailed, trailing after me obediently.

  When we reached the sink, she gasped. “Oh, my God! I actually appeared in public looking like this? Tommee would have died!”

  And then, to my astonishment, she started laughing. At first, I was afraid she’d lapsed into hysteria. But then I realized her laughter was sincere. This was precisely the relief she needed.

  Splashing water on a paper towel, I said, “First of all, let’s get some of that makeup off.”

  “I can do it.” Merrilee focused on her reflection, scrubbing at the streaks of color. “You’re right. This cold water does feel good. And maybe it’ll stop my eyes from looking so red.”