The Hearse You Came in On (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries)

by Tim Cockey

  “Swear on, sailor,” I said. Carol turned to Kate.

  “He’s cute.”

  Kate didn’t confirm. Her mind—I could see—had gone elsewhere. And I knew roughly where that was. After a few more minutes of Carol’s fascinating autobiography, Kate suddenly piped up.

  “Carol. Listen. How would you like to make some money? Real fast?”

  Carol eyed her suspiciously. “I’m not doing anything kinky.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. Honest. It’s a little complicated to explain … but how would you like to make five thousand dollars?”

  “I could find a place in my budget for that kind of money.”

  “There’s only one hitch I can think of,” Kate said. “You’d have to take a little vacation. Right away. For your own safety.”

  “So this is illegal? Or just dangerous?”

  “It’s not really illegal,” Kate said. “It’s … well, it’s a gray area. But yes, it might be dangerous. I just think you’d be safer disappearing for a few weeks. Could you do that?”

  Carol snorted a laugh. “Half the time I’m gone anyway.” In a frightful flashback to the Moose-bound barfly, Carol leaned over and put her face right up to mine. “Maybe I’ll go to Tim-buck-too!”

  I turned to Kate. “What do you have in mind here?”

  “I think Carol deserves a break,” Kate said flatly. “I think she needs some money and I think she could use some time away from this place.” She turned back to Dame Shipley. “Will you help us out?”

  “Hey, lady. For five thousand dollars?” She pointed at me. “I’ll dance on that guy’s face.”

  Kate’s plan was deceptively intricate. Its first requirement was that Carol stay over with us in the hotel. This part was not so much intricate as it was eyebrow-raising. I’ve described Carol to you already, so I’m not intending to be mean—only accurate—when I say that she had “hotel room” written all over her. And now that she was being squired upstairs by the ubiquitous Mr. and Mrs. Frank Sinatra … well, desk clerks do have their imaginations to keep them company, don’t they.

  I insisted on taking the cot and letting the two ladies crash in the double bed. I lent one of my shirts to Carol, a painful lending to an old romantic like myself. They giggled together like a couple of schoolgirls after lights out.

  The next part of Kate’s plan required Carol’s leading us early the next morning to the local drugstore, which had a Federal Express kiosk off in the rear. We grabbed one of each of the several different-sized mailing envelopes. We also picked up a pen, a package of pink tissue paper gift wrapping and a hard plastic beach bag, a wide-mouth number with a shoulder strap and an illustration of Disney’s The Little Mermaid embossed on the side. Our next stop was the local Tru Value store, where I picked up a box cutter. The folksy man behind the counter warned me not to cut myself with that thing. “They’re sharp, you know?”

  Well, yes. That’s why they’re called cutters.

  We also picked up a new cap for me to wear. This one read “Roadkill” over the top of a cartoon image of a hitchhiking hippie frozen in fear in oncoming headlights.

  Now came the intricate part. Carol directed us to the road that would take us to the NAPA Auto Parts store. We dropped her off just around the corner from the store, armed with the pen and the FedEx envelopes inside the Little Mermaid bag, then we continued on past the yellow NAPA sign and parked in the parking lot next door, which serviced a pizza joint, a Laundromat and a video store. There we waited. A little over an hour later we watched the Federal Express van pull up. The guy in his shorts and blue FedEx shirt hopped out of the van carrying a mailing envelope and entered the shop.

  “Clockwork,” Kate said. She had Kruk’s PI’s report out on her lap. “We’re rolling, Bob.”

  I was a little worried about a few things. I had been worried that the little dustup I had witnessed the night before between Bowman and mean-looking Molly might interfere with the monthly FedEx arrangement that the two apparently had. But Carol had assured us that the two fought like that all the time. My second concern had involved the part of Kate’s plan yet to be implemented. Its success would hinge on Lou Bowman’s pulling over to pick up a hitchhiker from the side of the road.

  “What if he just drives on by?” I had asked. We were all in the hotel room at this point. I had asked my question from the cot, in the dark, as the sorority sisters giggled.

  “He’ll stop,” Carol said.

  “But how can you be sure?”

  The tone of voice she used in her answer squelched all further conversation on the matter. And all giggling as well.

  “He has before.”

  Bastard.

  It was maybe another hour after the FedEx drop-off that Lou Bowman’s 4x4 pulled into the NAPA parking lot. Bowman got out and went into the shop. He was as mean looking as the day before. Maybe that’s what Molly saw in him. Kate, who had already gotten behind the wheel of the rental car, lowered her Gina Lollobrigida sunglasses onto her nose.

  “Here we go.”

  She turned on the engine, pulled out of the parking lot and drifted slowly across to the NAPA lot, pulling up directly behind Lou Bowman’s big Jeep. The vehicle was between us and the shop. I opened my door and hopped out. Remaining in a squat, I dug into the rubber of the Jeep’s right rear tire with my new box cutter. They’re sharp, you know? It took a bit of frantic hacking before the blade finally made the first puncture, at which point I ripped as quickly as I could at the side of the tire.

  “Get in!” Kate snapped suddenly. I crab-walked back into the car and pulled the door closed, keeping my head down below the window level as Kate pulled smoothly out into the road.

  “Okay,” she said, eyeing the rearview mirror. “You can come up now.”

  I slid up in the seat and tossed the box cutter out the window.

  “Why’d you do that?” Kate sounded annoyed.

  “That’s how it’s done,” I assured her. Being a detective already, of course Kate was not terribly impressed with my theatrics. I could tell.

  We rounded the corner and Kate rapped twice on the horn. The sister of the mayor of Heayhauge stepped out from the shade of an old oak tree. I won’t swear to it, but I believe she had hiked her leather mini even further up on her hips. It was a bright blonde, a big bust and a whole lotta leg that stepped to the side of the road and stuck out its thumb. I reached out the window with a thumbs-up of my own, but missed her by about a foot. Kate slowed down. She was still eyeing the rearview mirror.

  “Okay … down!”

  I turned around and got a glimpse of Carol’s hitchhiking pose: legs spread, arm way up in the air, head thrown back. She was right. I’d been silly to worry that Bowman might not pick her up. The most conservative TV evangelist in the business would have picked her up. I saw the 4x4 round the corner and then slow to a stop.

  “Get down!” Kate hissed again. I did. We didn’t want to risk Bowman’s recognizing me from the bar. As far as recognizing the car, we simply had to gamble on its nondescriptness. Most rental cars don’t look like anything anyway. Ours certainly didn’t. White. Four doors. Antilock brakes. No tape player. Ubiquitous. The road was narrow along this route, and winding. There was no decent place to pass. Kate maintained the speed limit, and no more. The idea was to keep Bowman from zooming off to the bank. He’d have to chug along at the legal thirty-five, like the rest of us.

  Except that unlike the rest of us, his right rear tire had been hacked away by an undertaker from Baltimore with a brand-new sharp box cutter.

  “Yes!” Kate cried suddenly.

  “He’s stopping?”

  She was triumphant. “He’s stopping.”

  Kate drove on past Lou Bowman’s bank and parked across the street in front of a coffee shop. We figured it would take Bowman at least a half hour to change his tire, so Kate and I went into the coffee shop. It was a new coffee shop, not an old one. No photographs of Cher or Steve and Edie on the wall. I ordered a cup of coffee and
the bubbly high school girl behind the counter rattled off a litany of optional caffeine formats that I might want to consider.

  “Just coffee,” I said. Gently but firmly. “Mud in a mug. That’ll be fine.”

  The deceptively intricate plan was now in its final phase. While Bowman was jerking around behind his Jeep with the jack and the spare tire, Carol’s job was to locate among her FedEx envelopes the one that was the same size as the envelope that Bowman had fetched from the NAPA Auto Parts store. She was to slide the shipping label out of Bowman’s package and copy all of the information down on the label from her own package. Kate had emphasized all. “Don’t overlook code numbers or routing numbers. Copy it all down.” Carol was to then stuff the appropriate amount of tissue paper into her own envelope to match the thickness and feel of Bowman’s, slide the original mailing label into the plastic sleeve of the tissue-packed envelope, drop Bowman’s package into her Little Mermaid bag and start making her holiday plans.

  “Bowman’s into something crooked, isn’t he?” Carol had asked after receiving Kate’s instructions.

  Kate said, “He killed my husband.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s way crooked. Do I kick him in the balls for you after I take the loot?”

  Of course not. The idea was to get her away from Bowman as quickly as possible. After some debate though, we had rejected the idea that Carol leave Bowman behind and start walking—or hitchhiking—into town while he was busy changing his tire. He might suddenly check on the envelope, discover the switch and race after Carol on foot, at which point he would likely be too incensed to give her the opportunity to plant her foot in his soft and tenders.

  “Knee him, actually,” Carol had corrected herself. “You’ve got to let them get close first.”

  Kate and I took a table and kept our eyes glued to the window. We had a clear view of the bank across the street. As soon as Bowman pulled up and went inside, we had to move fast.

  “Are you enjoying detective work?” Kate asked as we sat there hunched like vultures over our coffee cups.

  “Honestly? It feels vaguely criminal.”

  “That’s very perceptive, Hitch. When you’re playing games with the bad guys sometimes you’ve got to adopt some of their rules.”

  “I guess that’s why some cops go bad, eh?” I regretted it the moment I said it. Kate frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean—”

  It was too late. Kate’s eyes glazed over as she stared a hole into her coffee cup.

  “I don’t believe Charley went bad,” she said softly. “Alan concocted all that. He saw the chance to knock my stool out from under me even more and he took it. And he made sure he was there to catch me himself.”

  She stared blindly out the window. “I’m weak, Hitch. I’m probably the weakest person you’ve ever met.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You couldn’t be more wrong. Kate, you are one of the strongest people I have ever met.” I added, “And one of the prettiest.”

  “Then you don’t know me.” She took a sip of her coffee then looked at me over its rim. “Do you really think I’m pretty, Hitch?”

  “Kate, that is such a woman question.”

  “It is such an insecure woman question. Hitch … You have no idea what it was like growing up the way I did. I know, I know, I’m not the only one and I know plenty of others had it much worse, but I don’t care. My father … that bastard put the spook into me, Hitch. I grew up wanting a good man to replace the bad man but doubting that a good man would have me. It’s an old story, I know. I was more familiar with the bad men so that’s where I’d go, blah, blah, blah. I knew that world and I knew my place in it. Meeting Charley was … he was a better man than any of the others I had met. We had a decent thing going. And then, wham. Not to be. Back to the bad men. Back to the Alans. Back to the Guy Fellowses. Back to the game I knew best.”

  Kate’s eyes had welled up with tears. She was angrily refusing to let them flow. She had finished her coffee and was balling the cardboard cup up in her fist. Christ. How had we gotten to this conversation? She was staring out the window again. But I don’t think she was seeing anything out there.

  “So what about me?” I asked. “I’m not such a bad guy, am I? And we seem to be doing okay.”

  Kate broke from the window and looked over at me. She was looking extraordinarily sad.

  “You’re a good guy, Hitch.” She managed a small laugh. “I’m not so sure about this job of yours, but basically you’re a good guy.”

  “See? You’re not as doomed as you say you are.”

  She made a single line of her lips and gave me that sad frank look. “We don’t count. We’re too new.”

  “Jesus, Kate, your glass is sure as hell half empty, isn’t it? How about a little faith here?”

  “Hitch, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t even have a fucking glass.”

  I was going to challenge her on that, but suddenly we became aware that the sunlight had disappeared. And there was no passing cloud. A large white and green bus had pulled up directly in front of our window. Apparently this was where they loaded and unloaded passengers for the trip in and out of Heay-hauge. There were only a handful of passengers getting off the bus. The driver—who looked like Boris Yeltsin—lumbered down off the bus and yanked open one of the luggage doors on the side of the bus. The new arrivals de-bused and gathered their suitcases and duffel bags. Mr. Yeltsin slammed the luggage door closed, shared a quick word with a young woman with a clipboard, then climbed back into the bus. Several passengers boarded the bus, and Yeltsin pulled the door closed. Even inside the coffee shop Kate and I could hear the loud hssss, followed by the grunt, as the bus pulled away, popping a little balloon of gray smoke from its exhaust pipe.

  A woman was running in the direction of the coffee shop, from directly across the street. She was arm-pumping like crazy so as to maximize speed on her high heels. Her face was wide open in a silent shriek. Bowman’s 4x4 was parked in front of the bank. It was Carol.

  “Holy shit! Let’s go!”

  Kate and I bolted from the coffee shop. The high school girl trailed a “Thankyoucomeagainhaveagreat-day” behind us as we ran out onto the sidewalk. Carol was breathless.

  “I got it!” she shrieked, waving a FedEx envelope in the air. She addressed me. “He’s pissed about his tire.”

  “Good,” Kate said. “Let’s go.”

  We piled in to the rental car. I drove. I weaved our way past the town harbor.

  “Do you need to pack anything?” Kate asked, turning around in her seat. “It would have to be fast.”

  I glanced up at the rearview mirror. Carol had yanked open the FedEx envelope and was peering down into it. I checked the road, then the mirror again. A big smile met me there.

  “Children … I’m packed!”

  CHAPTER 31

  It would have been nice if the return address on the FedEx label had given us the exact name and street address of the sender. Hell, actual directions how to get to the place and which bed to look under in case the guy was hiding would have been nice too.

  Kate had warned me not to expect too much.

  “The package isn’t even being sent directly to Bowman. His name certainly won’t be on it. And if Bowman has taken that kind of precaution, you can bet the sender has too.”

  The return address section of the label gave only a post office box and a zip code. The return zip code on Bowman’s package was 21030.

  “That’s Hunt Valley, out in Baltimore County,” said Kate.

  I was directing the rental car through one of those damnable roundabouts. I had already passed the exit for Boston twice; it was coming up again.

  “The industrial park?”

  “Yep. You know that all used to be cow country out there. And now … it’s like someone dropped an atomic bomb in the middle of a cow field and voilà, a thousand acres of office buildings.”

  I made the exit. “Pastu
re,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Cow pasture. You said field.”

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s pasture.”

  From the back seat, Carol snapped, “Get off it, Bob. What are you, a fucking farmer?”

  I glanced the rearview mirror. “Actually, I’m an undertaker.”

  Kate added, “And I’m a detective.”

  Carol exploded into laughter. “And I’m a college professor, ha-ha. And I don’t even know how to play this game!”

  She sat back in her seat to count her money… again. Maybe she thought that it multiplied with multiple countings. I saw in the mirror that she moved her lips as she counted. The peculiar thing was, it had multiplied. Not since the first time Carol counted it, but from what Kate and I had expected. Based on the bank statements that Kate had located while snooping around Bowman’s place, we had expected the FedEx envelope to contain five thousand dollars. But when Carol announced her tally after the first counting, it had been eight thousand. Kate and I had no way to account for the uptick.

  In a way, we had all wanted to stick around to see Lou Bowman bursting out of the bank in all his distress and fury. I could just picture him ripping up that FedEx envelope and its pink tissue paper.

  “He’ll kick the first dog he sees,” I predicted.

  “He’ll punch the first person who looks at him sideways,” Kate said.

  Carol’s guess was more solemn. “He’ll take it out on the Moose.”

  This last prediction had prompted us to pull over so that Carol could phone her bartender to warn him in advance of the possibility of a rough customer on the way. Carol announced as she climbed back into the car, “I told Mike to juice up the cattle prod, just in case.”

  “You keep a cattle prod behind the bar?” I was astounded. “Is that legal?”

  “Hey, Bob, I run a place where people crowd into a dark room to get drunk. If I gotta prod them once in a while to keep them in line, go ahead, sue me.”