Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said

by Bentley Dadmun

  I tapped the report with a finger and said, “Most of the report on Watson was authored by a policeman named Anderson, who was Chief of Police at the time. We should talk to him too, although he might not be very receptive to being interviewed by a couple of amateurs, especially when it pertains to an open case.”

  “Open case?”

  “Watson. I assume the books are still open on him.”

  “Jesus, the way you talk sometimes, you know? “Pertains to an open case. Authored.” Just say written for God’s sake, lighten up, join the common folk.”

  “Not on your life,” I said. “The only bumper sticker I ever considered buying was, ‘Why Be Normal.’”

  “Listen, you should have hung around the wards at County for a while, get a look see at what real abby-normal is.”

  I shrugged and toyed with Cat’s tail. “There’s another piece of this puzzle we have to think about. Whatever happened, Frank ended up at The Chapman Funeral Home. Watson stopped at Fairfield’s Funeral Home and didn’t like it, so we can assume he also went to The Chapman Funeral Home. Now, if Frank didn’t die of a heart attack on Branch Hill Road and if Rundle really didn’t take him to the hospital, it may mean that it was planned that his body go straight to The Champion Funeral Home.”

  Priscilla thought about it for a moment, raised her eyebrows and said, “Maybe maybe. What say we finish here and take a hike over there and scope the place out.”

  I put Cat, who was cleaning herself in preparation for a nap, in the sling, and we walked to The Chapman Funeral Home. Now that it may be connected to Jankey and perhaps Watson, the house seemed to stand out, to be somehow brighter and larger than the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. Then again my heightened perception could be the result of the cheap wine I’d consumed at Gretchen’s.

  Like Farifield’s, the door displayed a discrete brass plate that said enter. As I pulled open the varnished door, Priscilla grabbed my arm, pointed to the mat just inside the door, and made a motion with her hand. We stepped over the mat and entered a large room made somber by dim lighting, subdued stenciled wallpaper, and thick gray carpet. Two sofas and four cushioned chairs were tastefully arranged around the room.

  The heavy silence was intimidating. I had the feeling we were disturbing some unseen entity who was not going to take kindly to our intrusion. To the left was a portal framed in a dark wood that was a high relief carving of vines and cavorting cherubs. Priscilla and I looked at each other and I shrugged. She smiled and we crept through the portal.

  We entered a small chapel with a double row of wood pews facing an ornately carved alter stained blond. In front of the alter was a podium with a gold cross attached to it.

  And standing behind the podium, staring fixedly out at the pews, was a man.

  Dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie, he looked somber and dignified. He had a long face with wide set eyes and silver hair combed back in the manner of the stereotypical TV evangelist. At first blink he looked fairly young. At second blink he looked a well kept sixty five. We moved into his line of sight and waited. Finally his eyes drifted to us and a smile crawled across his face.

  “Dear friends,” he said in a baritone, “I am sorry that we meet under such… such… such. But know that I share your grief and that the – the… that we will do-do everything we can to ease your pain and sorrow.” He stood rooted to the podium as he talked, no body movement, no animation. He sounded like a recording. He shuffled around the podium, brushing against it hard enough to rock it, and minced up to us with his hand extended. “I am-I am, yes, why yes, I am, T. William Chapman. And I am… at your service.”

  We shook hands. His grip was limp, his hand damp, and the look in his eyes wasn’t right, but then this was a man who stole rings off dead women. A strong fecal odor was suddenly apparent. Cat, whose head and good paw were hanging out of the sling, batted at his hand. He smiled uncertainly and gave her head a tentative pat. She hissed and slapped his hand with a paw. He stared at her for a moment, stepped back, gave me a desperate look and stammered, “How may I ease your… your, yes, yes of course, your grief and pain?”

  “By telling us about Frank Jankey,” Priscilla said.

  A cloud swept over T. William’s face. He furrowed his brow and stared anxiously at us. “The name, the name is… the name.” He repeated.

  Priscilla moved very close to him, stood on tiptoe, and gripped his upper arms tightly. She stared into his eyes and said, “You buried him ten years ago. Frank Jankey. He used to run a lot. Everyone knew him because they saw him run all the time. He was always dressed in dark shorts and running shoes and a red Tshirt. He was a runner. He loved to run.”

  He let out an odd gurgle of a laugh, looked around, stared at me and said, “The runner. Yes. In my Special Place. Yes, why yes in my Special Place, I … ”

  “T. William!”

  A drill team couldn’t have done it better. At the sound of that voice we turned as one and stopped as one, forming a perfect line of three. Framed in the portal was a gray haired woman somewhere in her sixties. She wore a pale blue silk dress and black shoes. Her hair was pulled up and back in the complicated style women wore when I was young.

  She marched up to T. William, grabbed his arms, put her face close to his, and said slowly and loudly, “T. William. Go and arrange the instruments.”

  After a moments silence he nodded and said, “Of course my dear, please see to these, to these, these… ” He turned, slowly shuffled to the portal, hesitated, looked right, looked left, and his feet dragging through the carpet, shuffled out of sight.

  The woman wheeled around and demanded, “How did you people get in here?”

  “Why the front door, of course,” I said. I noticed that the left side of her face drooped slightly.

  “Then why didn’t the bell ring?”

  I pasted what I hoped was a perplexed look on my face and said, “I have no idea, Mrs. Chapman, perhaps a short in the system.”

  She glared at us a moment, then wheeled around and marched to the front door and stomped on the mat. Starting from somewhere in the back of the house, chimes flowed toward us like an oncoming wave. She marched back to us. “Leave, now. We are not conducting business at this time. Fairfield’s would be more to your liking, although I’m quite sure even they would not allow you in their establishment with that filthy little animal hanging on your chest.”

  I started to protest, but Priscilla pulled on my arm and we slunk out of the place and walked back to Gretchen’s.

  … . .

  PRISCILLA SUCKED UP WINE THROUGH A straw, raised her head and looked at me. “Demented. T. William is seriously demented. Maybe Alzheimer’s, or a bunch of micro strokes, or plugged up carotid arteries. Did you smell him? He was wearing a Pamper. I bet she just loves it, changing her wacko husband’s diaper. I’m surprised she still keeps him around, people like her usually get rid of hubby when their brain goes sour, which is one reason why places like County were usually full.”

  Dementia. Anyone near my age is terrified by even the name. It creates a panic deep in the core, the Self, for that’s what the damn disease does, rots the Self and wipes out decades of memories and experiences and turns one into a walking corpse, a corpse that needs a diaper and someone to change it for him.

  Cat limped from the napkin holder and sat in front of me. Ignoring Priscilla’s gaze, I put a peanut between her feet. She gave it a tentative sniff and batted it off the table. I looked at Priscilla, shrugged casually and said, “I don’t know, he didn’t appear that bad. Strange eyes though.”

  “Jesus, Harry, get back on the planet, I saw a lot of it at County, it doesn’t take a… “ She stopped and her eyes searched my face. Then she nodded to herself, sucked up more wine and said, “Okay, Harry we won’t talk about it, but do believe that T. William is wacked.”

  “Some of the clues we’re finding seem to point to those two and their funeral home.”

  She nodded. “And if those nurs
es that that old goat’s sister talked to just happen to be right?”

  I thought about it, and after a time I shrugged with my eyebrows and smiled without humor.

  It was pleasant and toasty in the booth. We settled in, drinking wine and working the plate of mixed nuts Gretchen put on the table. I was comfortable, warm, and pleasantly sore from the machines. I was looking forward to a night sitting by the woodstove reading and playing with Cat while Priscilla hunted creatures in the Wasteland. I noticed that she bit her fingernails and wondered if it was anxiety. What would make this tough elf anxious? Maybe it was just habit.

  “Hey Harry,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Frank wore rings, one on each hand. Gold ones. The one on his right hand had a large diamond surrounded by a lot of little diamonds”

  I got the drift. “We’ll never know, Priscilla, he’s long buried and if those people stole his rings we’ll never know.”

  “You know where Lasting Peace Cemetery is?”

  “Yes, it’s at the east end of town, just off that little road by the landfill.”

  “I want to go there.”

  “What would be the point? Staring at the ground won’t answer any questions.”

  “I just want to, I haven’t been there in an age and I should pay my respects.”

  … . .

  WE GOT OFF THE BIKES AT the end of Cemetery Road and pushed them through dead grass to Lasting Peace Cemetery, which was an unkempt forest of monuments and headstones. A nearly useless dirt road meandered through the place, more or less divining it into sections. The road reminded me of when I was sixteen, driving my father’s Ford coupe along such a road at one in the morning, one arm draped around the warm shoulders of Mary Ann, my first love.

  I followed Priscilla as she pushed her bike through the grass to the other end of the cemetery. We walked over dozens of gravesites, some so old and worn I couldn’t read the names on the headstones. We stopped close to the tree line and looked down at the small slab of polished granite that marked Frank Jankey’s grave.

  Priscilla squatted and dug into the soil with her fingers. Showing me a handful of dirt, she smiled her meaningless smile and said, “It’s not frozen yet so I don’t think it will be too much of a hassle.”

  She couldn’t be serious. But her cool, steady gaze spoke volumes. “You can’t be serious. What would be the point?”

  “The point would be, does Frank still have his rings? And, are there any gouges or holes in his bones? If he didn’t have a heart attack, and I’m here to tell you he didn’t, then maybe his bones can give us a clue.”

  “My God, do you realize what would happen if we got caught?”

  She stood up and brushed dirt off her hands. “Probably not that much, a big fine most likely, but no jail time. The media, clergy, and your basic Christian old ladies would give us a hard time, and when we walked down the street people would point and flap their lips. But who gives a shit what other people think as long as they keep their distance?” She nodded at a spot behind me and said, “You’d better collect the hairball before she ends up crow chow.”

  Cat had managed to climb out of the trailer, and, with her broken tail twitching back and forth, was limping through the weeds, intent on stalking two crows pecking at something by a headstone. She was having a tough time getting through the thick grass and kept stumbling. I clapped my hands and the crows flew to a nearby headstone and gave us their version of the hairy eyeball while scolding me. I slipped Cat into the sling and rubbed her neck as I walked back to a smirking Priscilla. She put her nose six inches from Cat’s and murmured, “Hang it up, Hairball, those crows would have had you for supper.” Cat bopped her on the nose with her good paw and gave forth with her trademark squeaky hiss. Priscilla hissed back and yanked Cat’s ear. While rubbing her nose, she looked at me and said, “Well?”

  “Priscilla, if they had something to do with Frank’s death we can assume they stole his rings, so let’s leave it at that, it’ll save me a hell of a lot of anxiety, not to mention midnight digging. We have numerous other places to look for clues. We have Rundle to hunt up, we might be able to talk to that ex Chief of Police, and we can take a closer look at the Chapman’s without digging up some of their work.”

  “Listen, you’re the one always spouting off about facts. If we start assuming stuff we’re going to end up at a dead end somewhere. And I’ll say it again, it’s not only the rings, what about broken bones or a bullet stuck in a rib? We find something like that, we know, we know for sure. Like you said, Old Man, chips off that rock.”

  I sat on someone’s headstone and stared unseeing at the ground. After several minutes thought I realized she was right, but not because of the rings. I gave her a weak smile and said, “We get caught I’m running off to Arizona and live with the Apaches, maybe I’ll see Watson.”

  “So we’ll do it then?”

  “Yes. I hate the thought of it, but we have to see.”

  “Eva should know if those rings are gone and we just might find evidence of violence.”

  “I’m not talking about the rings or even evidence of violence. T. William Chapman said something about a special place. ‘Perhaps in my Special Place,’ he said.’” I put the toe of my shoe on Frank’s grave. “I think we have to see if Frank is where he’s supposed to be. If he isn’t, I’d say the Chapman’s have some explaining to do.”

  A chilled mist swirled out of the clouds, and moments later it turned to rain. After we struggled into our rain suits I put Cat in the trailer, wrapped her in the quilt, and zipped up the door. Priscilla slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t look so glum, Harry. We’ll cage supper off Eva and Ona, borrow a couple of shovels and spend a pleasant evening digging up Frank.”

  … . .

  EVA, LOOKING FRAIL IN HER RECLINER, glared at Priscilla over the rim of her Coors. She dumped the rest of the beer down her throat and handed the can to Ona, who turned it upside down and slapped it on the table, creating a beery mist and hacking out a sliver of wood. As Ona tossed the can into the yellow wastebasket, Eva said, “If that sonofabitch took Frank’s rings I’ll cut his balls off.”

  Sarah, her head bobbing mechanically, gripped her glass with both hands and tried to look at everyone at once. Then she patted Eva on the shoulder and said, “Oh my yes, it’s the very least you should do, Eva.”

  Priscilla said, “Listen, don’t you guys get torqued up until we find out for sure. And even if they did, we’re not going to do anything about it until we talk it over. We go off half cocked we’ll make mistakes and foul everything up.”

  Sarah downed her champagne, licked her lips and said, “You don’t want to foul everything up, Eva.”

  I shook my head and sipped coffee. Ona looked at me and grinned. “Harry, it’s colder than a well digger’s ass out there and it’s raining. Odds are pretty good no one’s gonna stumble across you two while you’re digging up Frank. And if they do, Eva and I will swear before any god you care to name that we begged you to do it. So have some more coffee and don’t look so goddamn glum.”

  Sarah reached over, patted my hand, and her manic eyes glowing hot and steady, said, “Yes Harry, don’t look so goddamn glum.”

  … . .

  SHROUDED BY THE COLD NIGHT, WE walked the bikes around the perimeter of the cemetery. Actually, I followed Priscilla, and when she stopped I stopped. Cat, as uneasy as I was with the operation, meowed softly and scratched at the inside of the trailer. I leaned my bike against a headstone, unzipped the trailer door a little, and scratched Cat’s ears while mumbling soothing nonsense. Priscilla slapped a shovel against my side and said, “Boy, am I glad we didn’t leave the hairball with Eva and Ona. This way if she gets loose we can have a lot of fun chasing around the cemetery trying to find her mangy butt before a fisher cat or coy dog does.”

  I ignored her and walked to Frank’s grave. The shovels, still in their original wrappings, were army surplus things used for digging foxholes that Frank bought
a year before he died. They had very short handles and a shovel blade that unfolded and locked.

  It was a good night for this sort of thing, complete with a wind that slid through the trees, sending the cold rain skittering across the cemetery to sting my face. Priscilla as usual took it all in stride, never stopping or complaining, just doing whatever was necessary to get the job done.

  We got on our knees and started. After the first few inches the ground turned to sand and we used the shovels as scoops. Fifteen minutes of digging and we were standing knee deep in the grave getting in each other’s way, and I was developing a serious sweat. “Okay,” I said, “Get out and let me shovel for a while. It’ll go faster and we won’t stab each other with these sorry pieces of junk.”

  It was a mindless labor. My back, arms and neck ached because of the awkward position and from using a shovel designed for Mickey Mouse. We had to be careful because the slightest touch against the sides of the hole would bring down avalanches of sand. The rain, combined with my sweat, made me feel like I was wrapped in a wet wool blanket.

  Four go turns later I was at it again when my shovel struck wood. When I straightened up my head was just above the hole. “I thought graves were supposed to be six feet deep.”

  Priscilla’s silhouette shrugged. “If you dug graves for a living you’d probably cheat too.” I dug a little more and cleared sand off the top of the coffin. I shifted my weight to get at the lid, and the wood broke, dropping me to mid-calf in the coffin. “Oh Christ! Shit, damn it!” I leaped out of the hole and rolled twice.

  Priscilla giggled and threw sand at me. “Geez, Harry, you stomped on my grandfather.” She giggled again and dropped into the hole. I squatted on the edge and shined my light into the grave.

  The coffin had probably looked pretty good sitting on a stand in the Chapman’s display room. Ten years buried in damp sand had turned it to trash. A thing of cheap wood covered with veneer, it had probably started to come apart soon after it was covered.