Mausoleum

by Justin Scott

  So I said, “I’ve got people coming over. I better follow you so I can leave early.” Which turned out to be a very wise decision.

  The Hitching Post was a long ways north of Newbury on a remote country road that skirted lands that belonged to the Jervis clan—from whom Sherman might buy meth, if meth was his goal—and the Indian reservation. We headed out of town, me trailing, up Route 7 for eight miles, and cut off onto a narrow paved road that wound through farm land into a broad reach of state forest. I had my windows open to enjoy the clean crisp rhythm of motorcycle exhaust from a perfectly tuned machine. The sound of manhood, I was thinking, rhapsodically (almost kicking myself for not riding along with him) when suddenly I heard a loud bang, which I thought was the bike backfiring.

  Sherman’s arms flew high and wide. He looked like he had been crucified. Sunlight glinting through the trees sparked dazzling reflections of Harley chrome as the bike wobbled. Sherman slumped forward. I saw his brake light flash and stomped my own brakes before I ran into him. The bike swerved toward the ditch, veered away, crossed the road, skidded on the far shoulder and slammed on its side.

  I pulled past, stopped the car in the road with flashers blinking and headlights on to block on coming traffic, and ran to him, bracing for gore.

  He never wore a helmet, of course. Connecticut motor vehicle law still permits such nonsense, and topping the list of things Sherman believed that a real man did not do was wear a helmet on a motorcycle. Even though it is a medical fact that when most people fall on pavement their head lands first. Even though any emergency room doctor will tell you that they enjoy a happier success rate with broken legs and shattered arms than spattered brains.

  There was so much blood I had no idea where his brains were. His face was covered in red as was his tee shirt. Possessing no brain surgery skills I decided to tackle the problem of getting the crushing weight of the bike off him. I crouched down and lifted with all my strength. Seven hundred pounds of steel would not budge. Spots flashed in front of my eyes as I concentrated everything I had and tried again. I heard a roaring in my head, the spots merge into lightning bolts. Suddenly the bike began to tilt upward. I thought I must be having one of those adrenalin experiences where your body does things it can’t ordinarily. Then I heard a grunt next to me.

  “Pussy.”

  Sherman was helping push.

  We got it up onto its wheels, and I dragged him away from it before it fell on him again.

  “You okay, Sherman?”

  “What are you, whack?”

  “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “You want to get this blood out of my eyes?”

  I called in 911 and then I took my jacket off and laid it over him to keep him warm and went looking for a stream. A car stopped. It was driven by an old woman who came running with a blanket and we covered him with that, too. She sat down on the ground and held Sherman’s hand. I said, “Ambulance is coming. I’ll find some water. Be right back,” and hurried up the road toward a culvert that I hoped carried a stream that the summer hadn’t dried up. It was still flowing. I took my shirt off and soaked it and was just up standing when I heard rustling in the brush less than ten feet away. I saw the gleam of a rifle and the glint of a scope.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I dove head first at it before the muzzle could swing at me.

  A boy, no older than pre-teen, with the dark, pinched features I associated with the abysmally inbred, intently villainous Jervis clan glared from the bush. I grabbed the barrel and tried to twist away from the business end. The kid tugged on the stock. His little arms and legs were stick thin, and I had almost got it away from him when he yelled, “Finders keepers!”

  I was so surprised I actually let go of what I saw was a shiny new .22 woodchuck rifle—which was all the time the kid needed to crash off into the woods with it.

  “The cops need that for evidence,” I shouted after him.

  “Screw them,” he hurled over his shoulder, confirming his Jervis credentials, and disappeared, iterating a now-exultant, “Finders keepers!”

  It was clear what had happened. The gunman gunning for Sherman had been spotted, as any stranger would be, by a Jervis kid out trapping muskrat or digging up rare wild flowers to sell to unscrupulous collectors, or hoping to steal a truck when the driver stopped to pee in the woods. The gunman took his shot and with every reason to believe that Sherman was thoroughly dead, tossed the evidence, bought cheap at Wal-Mart, and split. The kid saw a free weapon that would elevate him from trapper/digger to deer poacher. Such a small caliber weapon required a highly accurate head shot to kill a deer, and he would practice hard as soon as he convinced an adult to steal him some ammunition.

  I poked around for confirmation of my theory. There were footprints in the stream bed other than mine and some scrapes in the moss where the shooter had steadied the gun on the culvert.

  Then I went back to Sherman who was sprawled on the shoulder with his hand being held by the old lady who had stopped.

  “How you doing?”

  “Legs hurt like a sonofabitch—excuse me, Ma’am.”

  I wiped the blood off his face and out of his eyes with my wet shirt and had a close look at his scalp, which had a shallow furrow in it—not gouged by falling on his head, but by .22 slug that had come within a quarter inch of relieving the Department of Corrections of further responsibility for Sherman’s rehabilitation. The lady who had stopped went to her car to call her daughter who was expecting her, and I took the moment of privacy to say to Sherman, “The guy knew you were coming.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who shot you, you idiot. What are you into Sherman? He set you up. Told you to meet him at the Hitching Post and almost blew you away. Why?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ben.”

  “I just found the .22 he shot you with.”

  “Oh shit! Ben, you got to hide it.”

  “Consider it disappeared.”

  “Thanks, pal. You’re the best.”

  “So we agree that you were shot?”

  “Something hammered me in the head.”

  “He had a scope. You’re lucky he missed.”

  “I turned my head to spit,” Sherman said, with wonder warming his voice. “Kind of thing could almost make you believe in God,” he marveled. We heard sirens, an ambulance howl and Trooper Moody’s whoopers clearing the way.

  “Don’t say nothing to Ollie.”

  “Who did you see at the mausoleum?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Who did you see at the mausoleum?”

  “Latino guy.”

  “What Latino guy? The picture I showed you?”

  “Not him.”

  “Not Charlie Cubrero? Who?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied, but by then Betty Butler and Trooper Moody had arrived. Betty had an assistant and a stretcher. Ollie had handcuffs which he snapped around Sherman’s bony wrists and told him he was under arrest.

  “What for?” Sherman and I chorused, Sherman indignant, me wondering if the State Police could prove he had shot Brian Grose.

  “Credit card fraud.”

  “Credit card fraud?” Where in hell did that come from, I wondered, until I looked at Sherman who did not appear surprised.

  Betty worked on him for a while. Then they loaded him into the ambulance. “Hey Ben,” Sherman called. “Do me a favor, pal. Tell my Mom I’m okay.”

  ***

  I drove back to Newbury, picked up Aunt Helen and drove her to the hospital to let her see for herself. Turned out he wasn’t exactly that okay. They had him in surgery for a long while, inserting steel pins in leg bones, and the doctor said he would be in intensive care until Sunday morning. The elderly officer the cops stationed at the door to keep Sherman, who was well known for such shenanigans, from clumping off on crutches would double as protection. Which relieved a grateful me of having to introduce d
icey subjects like Sherman’s possible witnessing of Brian Grose’s murderer, and the rifle taken by the scavenging Jervis kid. Nobody, including me, spoke to the police about the Jervis clan, who made my Chevalley cousins look like life members of the Men’s Literary and Social Club of Newbury Street (Founded in 1894). Though with me it was also personal as Gwen Jervis, the red-haired daughter of Old Herman, Gangster Boss Emeritus, had been my friend since Eighth Grade.

  I drove Aunt Helen home with a promise of bringing her back in the morning—less out of cousinly kindness than a desire for a close family connection to a patient whose visiting privileges would be curtailed.

  Then I cancelled Sunday’s house showing appointment with the not unattractive New York lawyer, shaved, showered, and got to Aunt Connie’s in time to fill an ice bucket and greet our first guests.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Grace Botsford was first. Early, in fact. Connie was still upstairs. I offered her a martini. She said, “I felt last night’s this morning. I’ll have a glass of white wine, please.”

  Connie had a fine old Prohibition bar, the kind that closed up to look like an ordinary cabinet until the teetotalers went home. I poured Grace a glass of wine and one for myself.

  “I’ve always admired this house.”

  “Connie said you used to come here as a little girl.”

  “It was the first ‘mansion’ I had ever been in. That grand staircase and the magic of a second staircase off the kitchen. It was quite magnificent to a child.” She took a second sip and looked around, as if confirming we were alone, though of course we were as no one else had come yet. Lowering her voice, she said, “Part of its charm was that I thought I might live here—before your aunt turned my father down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When he asked her to marry him—you knew that, didn’t you. Oh, good Lord, I’m so sorry Ben, I just assumed you knew.”

  “No, but I’m fascinated. When was that?”

  “Oh, Lord. I was a small child. I mean my mother died when I was four and Dad was raising a little girl by himself, and I’d hear relatives whispering the way they do as if children were deaf: ‘Gerard should marry.’ Back then it was still frowned upon for a man to raise children alone. I began to fantasize about a new mother. Then we started coming here, often. I was dazzled. She was so beautiful.”

  “Why did Connie turn him down?”

  “Dad told me, years later, that Connie told him to wait until he grew up.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Grew up? He had already taken over the Cemetery Association. He was a man of substance. What did she mean?”

  “All I know is that when he was in his seventies Dad said, ‘Connie Abbott was right. Saved us both a lot of trouble’—here she is. Hello, Constance, how are you?”

  Connie was coming down the steps a little unsteadily and I went to help her, but Grace mounted the stairs and shook her hand briskly, while smoothly offering support.

  Connie said, “Hello, Dear—Benjamin, I overheard that. For your information, I turned Gerard Botsford down because he was very full of himself. We remained great chums anyway. No harm done, except poor Grace didn’t get me for a new mother, which was probably just as well, as I was quite full of myself, too, and together we would have driven the child nuts.”

  The door bells chimed. I greeted Rick and Georgia Bowland. Rick was wearing a coat and tie. Georgia was wearing her trust fund in the form of a beautiful Asiatica jacket made of antique Japanese kimono cloth; she seemed happy, not at all fragile tonight. Both looked pleased by an occasion to dress up on a Saturday. I shook Rick’s hand and kissed Georgia’s pale cheek. “Loved your Notables. A portrait painter and a shopkeeper—quite a range.”

  “We exposed our deepest fantasies,” Georgia said, in her low, compelling voice.

  I poured wine for them. Rick started to ask about the case, but the bells rang again. I excused myself and found Dan and Priscilla Adams and Wes and Cynthia Little bunched on the front steps, faces so bright that I assumed that one couple had stopped at the other’s for a couple of quick ones before they came.

  Priscilla, whose proudly glossy, perfectly straight, lustrously golden hair announced, Mayflower Daughter, said, “This is so great. Thank you for inviting us.”

  I said, “Connie’s idea. I’m just the bartender.”

  Cynthia Little said, “I’m glad your aunt still feels up to a party.”

  Cynthia was quite pretty, tonight, wearing some sort of goldish shadow that made her hazel eyes glow. “Connie is looking forward to meeting you,” I told her. “Come on in.” I took Priscilla’s shapely arm, which was summerly bare, and led them to the living room.

  The guys, who would not be wearing jackets if they weren’t visiting Connie, were wearing them over polo shirts. Neither of the couples had been in Connie’s house before. Priscilla had grown up in comfort. But Cynthia appeared somewhat overwhelmed. I heard her whisper to Wes, “It’s like a museum.”

  Wes, easy going as always, said, “That’s why she’s leaving it to the Historical Society.”

  “What about Ben?”

  “He’ll have to buy a ticket like the rest of us.”

  I let go of Priscilla to say, “Admission will be free.” Wes grinned and hit me on the arm, pulling his punch as he had when we were kids.

  Everyone said hello to everyone and I asked, “What would you like to drink?”

  Beer for the guys. White wine for the ladies. Connie took all four women out to the garden. The guys surrounded me and I didn’t even have to prompt Rick Bowland to ask, “Any progress?”

  “Brian,” I answered, having resolved to repeat his name repeatedly, “was shot, in my opinion, by one of three people who were inside his mausoleum Sunday morning.”

  “Which one?” asked Dan.

  “Precisely which one of them shot Brian, I cannot tell you at this point. But I can tell you that it was not the Ecuadorian the cops are after.”

  “Jesus, Ben,” said Wes. “That’s incredible.”

  “That’s what you’re paying me for,” I answered grandly, basking in their sudden awe until Rick Bowland said, “But if the cops arrest Charlie Cubrero, we’re right back where we started with an ‘employee’ of the Cemetery Association charged with murder on Cemetery Association property.”

  “Which reminds me,” I interrupted with a change of subject. “If I’m still authorized to ‘buy’ Charlie from the bounty hunter, I’m going to need it quick and in cash.”

  Wes said, “Give me five minutes heads up and the money’ll be waiting for you on my desk.”

  “What if it’s after banking hours?”

  “Call me, and I’ll meet you at the side door.”

  “Good. In the meantime, Brian Grose is the direction I am turning my attention—while of course still attempting to get Charlie to turn himself in—to discover whatever Brian was involved in that would have annoyed the killer enough to shoot him.”

  “How many hours have you run up?” Wes asked. “What’s this costing?”

  “I’ve been working flat out since you hired me.”

  “That was Tuesday night, late. So: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—did you work today?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Today was quite a day.”

  “It’s getting expensive.”

  “Do any of you want me to stop investigating Brian Grose?” I looked sternly at Rick Bowland; Rick looked away. I looked sternly at Wes; Wes shrugged. I looked sternly at Dan Adams; Dan said, “Investigating Brian could take weeks. What could you possibly find that the cops can’t?”

  “If I have to answer that, I’m back on the clock—Hey, come on, it’s a party. Why don’t we join the ladies?”

  I stepped through the French doors into Connie’s garden. They followed. Across the lawn I saw Connie holding forth among her daylilies. Her white dress glowed in the evening shade. Grace, Priscilla, Cynt
hia, and Georgia were listening with smiles on their faces. The flowers were bright, the grass green as a jewel, the air in perfect balance between afternoon heat and evening chill, and I felt suddenly so glad to be alive. Connie greeted me with the smallest of winks and said, “We were just discussing poor Mr. Grose.”

  “You were discussing him,” said Grace Botsford. “I for one have nothing good to say and will therefore say nothing.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t so bad,” said Cynthia. “I don’t think.”

  “I only met him twice,” said Georgia. “But I do not like a man to come on to me when my husband is standing eight feet away.”

  “But quite all right when Rick’s out of the room?” Connie asked with a smile.

  Georgia smiled back, easily. Like me and like Grace, Georgia had grown up with older parents. She wagged a mock finger and said, “Connie, I knew you would say that. I gave that one to you.”

  Connie said, “Priscilla, did he ‘make advances’ toward you, too?”

  Priscilla did not smile. “I noticed what Georgia noticed. I just didn’t take him seriously. I mean, there are guys who just can’t help themselves. It’s like they have to get a return look so they think they’ve won points. Do you know what I mean?”

  “You should have told me,” said Dan. “I would helped him.”

  “Which is why I didn’t tell you. It wasn’t serious. But you would have thought it was serious. And threatened to punch him in the nose, which certainly wouldn’t help business.”

  “Were you doing business with Brian?” I asked Dan.

  “Of course I was doing business with him. I work for a bank, don’t I?”

  “I thought he was retired.”

  “Well, he still needed a checking account.”

  Wes Little said, “Come on, Dan. You haven’t done checking accounts since you came home from college.”

  Dan said, “The checking account is the foot in the door.”

  “Brian’s foot in the door, too,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”