I had to get out, quick. When he came out of the restroom I was already heading for the locker room.
“Don’t you want to stay and, I don’t know, talk? Maybe have a drink of Red Bull to revive?”
Talk about bull. What did he think this was—a relationship? All it was was se . . . self-defense, no more.
“No, I’ve got things to do. Thanks for the se . . . session.”
“A little commitment-phobic, Horowitz?” he said to my retreating back. “No problem. When it comes to getting what I want, I’m very patient. And persistent.”
There he went with that cockiness again. I wasn’t going to put up with this egomaniac. I entered the locker room and slammed the door behind me. I showered and changed.
When I came out, Lior’s office door was closed, and he wasn’t in sight. Perfect. No goodbye necessary.
It was time to head over to the reverend’s funeral. When I got to the mortuary, the parking lot was empty. Strange. Why was this happening to me twice in one day? Howard had said the funeral was at two, hadn’t he? I looked at my watch. It was twenty till. I guess I was early. I went in to wait.
Inside, there was nobody in sight. I sat down in the antechamber. The side table held issues of Mortuary Management and Funeral Monitor. I idly leafed through them. Now, I suppose funeral directors might enjoy spending their evenings sitting by the fireplace, sipping sherry and reading about the latest embalming techniques or negotiations with grave diggers’ unions. But anyone else would die of boredom. I put the journals back and sat there, feeling restless. My mind kept wandering back to my encounter with Lior. To the feel of his body on mine, his lips on mine.
Oh, this was ridiculous. I had to distract myself. I got up to walk around. I knew the mortuary well since Mort occasionally had let me and my adolescent friends hang out there for thrills.
I wandered into the display room, checking out the variety of coffins and urns available. This being Boca, containers for the dead tended toward the over-the-top. You could get an actual sarcophagus from ancient Rome or an urn from ancient Greece. You could get a coffin carved with a custom epitaph, like Here Lie I, an Atheist, All Dressed Up with No Place to Go, or Gone Away, Owing More than I Could Pay.
I strolled out of there and into the consultation room. I sat down at the desk and looked through the three-ring binder that described various kinds of services and arrangements. I swear this was just like a party planner’s portfolio, which I’d seen plenty of as a Boca Babe. As with birthdays, graduations, weddings and such, the purpose of funerals in Boca was to outdo your friends and neighbors. You wanted an event that people would talk about for years to come.
There was the football fanatic whose funeral had featured a performance by the entire Miami Dolphins cheerleading squad. There was the developer who’d had custom-made Monopoly games given to all his mourners as party favors. The game board was made of bronze; the tokens were silver; the houses were gold; the hotels were platinum; and the money was real. And then there was the plastic surgeon whose send-off included a lottery for a free boob job by his business partner.
I went into the next room. It held an open casket surrounded by flowers. I knew what that meant: there was a body inside. It couldn’t be the Reverend Botay. Since her service was about to begin, her casket would be in the building’s chapel.
Okay, I’ll admit I have a morbid curiosity. I strolled over to see if I knew the deceased, and more importantly, to see how good a job the makeup artist had done.
I got to the edge, but before I could get a look, I was suddenly grabbed from behind.
A voice whispered in my ear, “This is what you get for snooping. This thing is going into the cremation oven. Burn, baby, burn!”
Hey, weren’t those the lyrics from “Disco Inferno”? Was this some kind of sick joke? Guess not.
Just as I started to make a Krav Maga move to escape, my attacker shoved my torso into the coffin facedown, lifted my legs, threw them in over the side and slammed the lid shut.
I was trapped—on top of a corpse!
Chapter 8
I WAS CHEEK to cheek with the corpse. Its face was cold and waxen. The two of us were stuffed into this box built for one. I couldn’t move an inch. My face was smashed into the pillow on which the corpse’s head rested. I screamed, but the noise was totally muffled by the pillow. I could hardly breathe. And it was pitch-black in there. Claustrophobic panic seized me to my very core.
Suddenly, I felt the coffin being wheeled. Then I heard a voice. Female.
“Lapidus, Lapidus, my darling, how will I go on without you?” she wailed.
Oh, my God. I recognized the voice, and the identity of the corpse.
The voice belonged to Brigitta Larsen O’Malley, a queen bee Boca Babe. We were the same age, and she’d been a “friend” back in the day. And the corpse was that of her eighty-something husband, Lapidus O’Malley.
Holy shit! I was really freaked now. If lying on top of a corpse wasn’t bad enough, lying on top of Lapidus O’Malley was just too much to bear.
Lapidus had been a senior partner in my former husband’s law firm, which raked in millions defending pharmaceutical companies, auto manufacturers, toy makers and the like against the little people who’d been injured or killed by the corporations’ utter disregard for human welfare. The firm’s tactics consisted of intimidation and delay until the plaintiffs were totally worn down and gave up. And if that didn’t work, there was always their favorite strategy: the nuts ‘n’ sluts defense. You know the one, where every female plaintiff or witness is either a nut or a slut, or, preferably, both. Lapidus was the major force behind it all, and thus lower than a snake’s belly.
I just couldn’t take this. I began to choke and gag.
Then I heard another voice—Howard’s!
“Mrs. O’Malley,” he said. “You’ve said your final farewells. Please don’t deepen your grief now. It would be best if you stepped out. One of my assistants will be happy to sit with you. We really advise against family members accompanying the deceased in this final journey.”
“Yes, all right,” Brigitta sobbed.
I couldn’t catch my breath to scream. I struggled to move my arms and legs to beat on the coffin walls, but there was no space to move. I was immobilized.
I heard footsteps receding, then returning.
Yet another voice came. Male this time.
“Okay, let’s go ahead and wheel it into the oven.”
This was it. I was about to die. A strange sense of calm came over me. The fear was gone.
Then I heard Howard again.
“Wait!” he said. “This thing isn’t going in. That family is so cheap, they only rented this fancy casket to impress the gatherers at the service. We’ve got to take him out, put him in a cardboard box, then that’s what goes in the oven.”
Suddenly the coffin lid swung open. As I pushed myself up, I closed my eyes against the blinding light and gasped for air.
Howard and the other guy screamed.
“Oh, my God,” Howard yelled. “Harriet! How did you get in there?”
“Are you all right? Let me help you out,” the other guy said.
I felt his arms on me and climbed out of the coffin, my eyes still closed. I was led to a chair and told to sit. I did and lowered my head between my knees. When my breathing became normal, I slowly opened my eyes and sat up.
Howard and the other guy were staring at me, their faces pale and sickly.
“Oh, jeez,” I said. “Sit down, you two. You look like you’re in worse shape than I am.”
They took a couple chairs.
I quickly explained what had happened.
“Oh, this is dreadful, just dreadful,” Howard moaned, wringing his hands. “Who could have done such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Did
you see anyone around?”
They both shook their heads.
“It’s obviously someone who thought this coffin was going into the oven,” I said. “They wanted me dead. So for one thing, it couldn’t be O’Malley’s family, since they knew this casket was only a rental. Anyway, Brigitta doesn’t have anything against me that I know of. We’re not friends anymore, but we’re not enemies, either. Our lives just went in different directions.”
Killing your husband tends to have that effect.
“I think it’s connected to the case I’m working on, the Reverend Botay’s murder,” I continued. “What’s the deal with her funeral, anyway? You told me it was at two. That’s why I came here.”
“Oh, dear,” Howard moaned again. “Is that what I said? I must have misspoken. It’s at three.”
I looked at my watch. It was three now.
“Well, let’s not keep the mourners waiting,” I said. “Let’s get the show on the road.”
We all rose and stepped to the door.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I said, turning back to them. “Not a word about this to anyone. The assailant could be one of the attendees. It’s certainly well-known that killers often show up at the victim’s funeral.”
Or was that only in the movies? Whatever. That wasn’t my main concern, actually. My mother was.
“I don’t want my mother to hear a thing about this,” I said. “She’d order me to get out of the P.I. business immediately, and if I didn’t, she’d kill me herself.”
Chapter 9
THE CHAPEL WAS packed. I took one of the few remaining seats as Howard and his assistant went to the front to begin the proceedings. At a quick glance I saw that all the attendees from the aborted wedding were there, including the contessa, Mom and Leonard, and the Holy Rollers, in drag, including Trey—Honey du Mellon—who was out of jail on bond.
At a nod from Howard, the Rollers rose, proceeded to the front and started the service by singing, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” Following that there was not a dry eye in the house. Then Lupe gave the eulogy, recounting the reverend’s life, challenges, and achievements and reminding the mourners to carry on her mission.
Numerous speakers followed, each sharing warm personal recollections of the deceased. The ceremony closed with a glorious rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In” by the Rollers, leaving everyone in a more uplifted mood. Howard informed the gathering that the reverend’s body would be cremated and her ashes spread at sea, according to her wishes, which she had expressed from time to time to various church members.
Then directions to Lupe’s house were passed around and we all rose to depart. The Rollers and I decided to ride over on our hogs as a group. After the Rollers had changed into their street clothes, we took off.
The reverberation produced by six hogs together created a formidable, yet melodious sound. In its own way, it was music, like an echo of the Rollers’ harmony. I’d always been a lone rider, so this experience of group unity was new and unexpectedly affecting.
Upon our arrival at Lupe’s, each of us unloaded our potluck contributions from our saddlebags and went in.
Lupe’s house was a gorgeous Bahamian-style cottage: square, wooden, with a tin roof, large shutters and a wraparound porch. Outside, a flower garden flourished. The inside was lavishly and lovingly decorated with indigenous art from Mexico and Central America.
Many of the gatherers were already there, congregating in small groups while eating off paper plates. The large, carved wood dining-room table overflowed with food. I squeezed my container of coleslaw onto the table, hoping no one would notice me and my paltry offering. Hey, at least I took off the price sticker.
I filled a plate with actual cooked food and looked around. I spotted my mother talking with Howard. I saw Leonard sitting alone so I went to join him.
“Harriet, please sit down,” he invited, patting the couch cushion next to him.
I did, and we chatted a bit about the tragedy, the touching and thoroughly fitting funeral service, and how my mother was holding up. Then Leonard launched into his favorite topic, the Cold War. I liked the guy and was even starting to be cool with this weird fixation he had. I realized that, as a retired spook, the Cold War represented his glory days, and I couldn’t deny him the pleasure of recounting his adventures. He waxed poetic about infiltrating the Russkies, setting bugs in the tunnel under the Berlin Wall, and on and on.
Then my mother joined us. We squeezed over on the couch, and she sat on Leonard’s other side.
“Harriet,” she said, “I was just speaking with Howard. He was telling me about the city’s awful plans to put iguanas on the bridge right by Mort’s.”
“Oh, yes, I know. I meant to tell you about it. I happened to see Howard yesterday, and he told me.”
“Well, this is just dreadful. We can’t allow this to happen. Poor Mort would flip in his grave. I told Howard I would do whatever I could to help him defeat this proposal. In fact, I’m going to start by passing around a petition in the neighborhood. You’ll help me, Leonard, won’t you?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
What a gracious man. Not every guy would be so willing to act on behalf of his love’s former husband.
“Good idea, Mom,” I said. “Doing something active might help you get over your grief.”
She sighed. “Yes. But, my dears, I am so overwrought,” she said, playing drama queen again. Leonard patted her hand.
“I just can’t understand who would do such a thing to that wonderful woman,” she went on. “Harriet, you must find whoever committed this heinous act.” Apparently she’d heard by now that I was on the case.
“I intend to,” I said.
“I know the Holy Rollers think Trey was framed,” she said. “Maybe it was by someone whom he had sentenced in his court and who held a grudge.”
“Could be,” I said. “I’ll look into that possibility.”
“Or maybe it was someone who had an upcoming trial scheduled in Trey’s court and got him out of the way so they could get a more lenient judge.”
“Yeah. I’ll look into that one, too.”
Shit, why hadn’t I thought of these things myself? I was the P.I. here, not Mom. Irritated, I made my excuses to Mom and Leonard and went to talk to the Holy Rollers, who were standing out on the porch.
Trey looked as if he’d lost ten pounds and aged ten years during his two days in jail. He was slightly taller than me and had been of medium build but now looked gaunt. He thanked me profusely for taking on his case. I decided to swallow my pride and follow up on Mom’s ideas.
“Trey,” I asked, “do you think anyone other than the gay-marriage protesters could have framed you?”
“Oh, Harriet, I’ve thought and thought about that endlessly. I’ve been on the bench for fifteen years. Naturally, many of the defendants who came before me were unhappy, to say the least, with my judicial decisions. So it could be any one of them. But I think there’s only one likely candidate worth some scrutiny.”
“Who?” I asked eagerly.
“Guy named Lucas Morse. He’s a young punk, a leader of a small-time local white supremacist group calling themselves the Loyal Brotherhood of Aryans. He was coming up to trial in a couple weeks on hate-crime charges. He’d been caught in flagrante delicto—”
“Wait, excuse me, fragrant delectable what?” I interrupted. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. But give me a break. I’m a recovering Babe. The knowledge required for that job is not particularly broad. But as in any kind of recovery, one of the steps is admitting your shortcomings to your fellow human beings. So that’s what I was doing.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I lapsed into legalese. What I mean is, he was caught red-handed painting swastikas on the Temple Beth Boca. You can imagine he wasn’t pleased with coming before a blac
k judge.”
“Yes, I can imagine. Where would I find this dirtball?”
“I don’t know where he lives or works. Try the D.A.’s office. Tell them I referred you, and they’ll give you the information.”
“On it,” I said.
I decided to call it a day, so I went around and said my goodbyes to everyone. Then I went out, donned my helmet and leathers, straddled my hog, fired it up, and headed for home.
It was dark by the time I got there. I sat down on the porch with my Hennessy and pondered the day’s events. As I sat there staring into the night, Lana’s snout emerged from the swamp.
“Who the hell shoved me into that coffin?” I asked her.
“Think about everyone you’ve seen or talked to since you took the case,” she suggested.
“Okay. On Monday I was hired by the Rollers. Wait. Could one of them have set up Honey? Could there be a Judas among them?”
“Think, girl!” Lana replied. “They were all at the altar before and after Honey got there and before you found the body. Assuming that Honey was not the killer, then the murder must have happened after Honey left the clothes-changing room. So the Rollers’ whereabouts at the time of the murder are accounted for. Same with all the wedding guests. They were all seated well before Honey got there, and none of them left afterward.”
“Well, thank God for that. I won’t have to interview a hundred potential suspects. Okay . . . so then on Monday I had lunch with Lupe, and she gave me names of the church board members. Then I called those people. So they know I’m on the case. It could be one of them.”
“Yep. Check ’em out.”
“Right. Now, yesterday I went to the council meeting. I didn’t say anything to anyone there about being on the case.”
“Except Howard.”
“Yeah. But whoever shoved me in the coffin meant for me to burn. He or she thought that coffin was going into the oven. But Howard knew it wasn’t. So it couldn’t be him.”
“I guess not,” Lana conceded with a swish of her tail.
Dirty Harriet Rides Again Page 6
