The Hearse You Came in On (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries)

by Tim Cockey

  Julia pounced. “What were you doing out there?”

  “I was out there to see a guy named Rudy. He’s the head groundskeeper. There was some talk about him taking on some work at Greenmount Cemetery. It was a business meeting. I saw your sister on the courts. She was being coached by the tennis pro at the club. I watched him helping her on her backhand.”

  “Amanda’s got a good backhand,” Morgan noted dryly.

  “Then I guess the guy did a good job with her.”

  “Amanda has always had a good backhand. We had a tennis court growing up. Amanda has always been very competitive.”

  “Plus she gets to show off her nice legs.”

  Julia cut in. “Yeah, yeah, and they’re insured by Lloyd’s of London. Look, boys, believe it or not, I can’t keep up with all this testosterone. Why don’t you two swing your clubs at each other a little longer while I go over and talk to my mom.”

  As she left she caught me with one more of her eye signals. Cool it. I believe that was the message.

  It was just the two of us now. Man to man.

  “Am I detecting an inordinate interest in my sister?” Morgan asked as soon as Julia was out of earshot.

  “Just making conversation.”

  “She is married, remember.”

  “Of course. To the future governor of Maryland no less.”

  Morgan rapped his knuckles on the bar.

  Interesting. “What’s that for,” I asked. “Don’t you think your brother-in-law is a shoo-in? Isn’t he going to bury Spencer Davis?”

  “I thought that was your job. Burying people.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “So far, yeah. That’s what the polls say. But you know politics. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

  “Yogi Berra for president.”

  “Whatever.” Morgan was doing little at this point to disguise his weariness of me. I downed my champagne and held the glass out for a refill. Morgan topped it off for me.

  “So, you think Commissioner Stuart might have a weakness?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But something could turn up that tosses the election to Davis?”

  “Well in theory, yes. That’s possible.”

  “But in fact? Is there something factual out there that could trip him up?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Morgan said. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Well, you’re his brother-in-law. You’re a big contributor to his campaign. I figure all of that makes you an insider. I also happen to be a friend of your brother-in-law’s campaign guru. The last time I talked to him he seemed to be a little worried too. I guess I’m wondering if he’s worried about the same stuff you’re worried about.”

  “Who said I was worried?”

  “You knocked wood.”

  “Well you can never be too sure, can you?”

  “I don’t know. Can you?”

  He snapped. “What the hell is this about!”

  Bingo. I pulled the rope. My man went up in the net.

  “Did you know that the man your sister was taking tennis lessons from was murdered?”

  “Of course I know that. It’s terrible.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I’m active at the club. I knew who he was.”

  “Is it strange that your sister was taking tennis lessons? I mean, when she already had such a killer backhand?” Killer. That just slipped out.

  “How about answering my question first?” Morgan said angrily.

  “I’m sorry. Could you repeat it?”

  “What the hell is this all about?”

  “I’m just making conversation,” I said.

  “Well it’s not a very interesting one.”

  “Really? I’m sorry. It is to me. A good-looking woman taking tennis lessons that she doesn’t need from a good-looking guy who is found murdered? The good-looking woman is married to a powerful man who is running for governor, seemingly unstoppable except when you talk to his campaign manager and his millionaire backer, who also happens to be his brother-in-law? I mean I know it’s nothing. But like I said, I’m a political junkie. It just all sounds so nice and sexy I can’t help it.”

  “Maybe you should try to help it. You’re talking about real people here. Not characters in a novel.”

  I set my glass on the bar. “Do you have any thoughts about who killed Guy Fellows?”

  “No, I don’t. Maybe my sister did it. With her killer backhand.”

  “It was a knife.”

  The millionaire sighed. “Christ. Whatever.”

  “Do you think she’s capable?” I asked. I hadn’t even brought it up. “I mean, we’re just talking here. Couple of guys, chewing the cud. That’s all.”

  Morgan set his glass down on the bar next to mine. “Look, I think Amanda is capable of anything she puts her mind to. But let me tell you a little something about my sister. She didn’t kill Guy Fellows. Especially if it was a crime of passion. My sister has no passion. That’s her ugly little secret, though if you know her, it’s really no secret. Amanda is the original ice queen. You’re insinuating that she was sleeping with Fellows. Maybe she was. You’re not going to shock me if that’s the case. But I can guarantee you that if she was it meant absolutely nothing to her. She’d have no motive to kill him. The lady just doesn’t care.”

  “When did she sign you up as her publicity person?”

  Morgan sighed again. “You forced it out of me, old man. I’m just defending her.”

  “Interesting defense. ‘Too cold to kill.’ ”

  “Take it or leave it. The truth is, I don’t really care.”

  He picked up the bottle and refilled his glass. “Listen, I’m going to go schmooze my future mother-in-law. It’s been … well, we’ve certainly talked, haven’t we?”

  “Like a couple of old biddies,” I agreed. He started to leave. “Oh. One more question. If you don’t mind.”

  He stopped. He didn’t look particularly enthusiastic.

  I asked, “Do you know anything about a company called Epoch Ltd.?”

  Morgan did. I could absolutely see that he did. Come on, his sister was on the board, for Christ’s sake. Kate had given me that much to chew on.

  But he lied. He shook his head slowly, as if he were really thinking it through.

  “No. Can’t say I do. Now excuse me.” And he went over to charm the great big pants off of Sally.

  But he had lied.

  Just then the door flew open and in stepped Tony Marino—I hadn’t seen him slip away—in full Scottish regalia. The kilt, the furry belt, the Beefeater hat. He entered piping. The acoustics in the bar were astounding. “Amazing Grace” filled every available molecule of air in what I firmly believe was Tony Marino’s most impassioned and heartfelt rendition ever. He marched solemnly, in abbreviated goose-step, across the room toward Edie, chin high, squeezing his bag, choking his pipes. He was blubbering like a baby. It was the most noble spectacle I have ever seen.

  CHAPTER 36

  My head was ringing.

  No. It was the phone.

  Correction.

  What my head was doing was pounding. The sound of distant tom-toms joined in with the mix as I fumbled for the phone on the table next to my bed. I found it, brought it near and made a noise into it, something between a groan and a grunt.

  It was Kate. She was angry. She snapped, “You didn’t return my call.”

  The pounding of the tom-toms increased. Not so distant at all. They were inside my head. I found my voice, enough to croak, “In my country we say hello.”

  “Fine. Hello. Didn’t you get my message?”

  My phone machine was blinking accusingly.

  “I didn’t play my messages, Kate. I’m sorry. I… I don’t remember getting into bed. I must have passed out.”

  I looked down at myself to see that I was still wearing my dress shirt and tie (loosely knotted, thank God), a pair of boxers and on my feet a pair of bright orange
thermal socks that normally hibernate over the warm months in the rear of my sock drawer. I have no idea how they found their way out of the drawer and onto my feet.

  “Too much fun at the wake, huh?” Kate asked snidely.

  A scene from the night before was burning into focus. Thames Street. Late in the evening. A procession. Edie’s coffin being carried aloft. The remnant of the dinghy being tossed into the harbor. I shot up in bed.

  “Shit!”

  This got the attention of Alcatraz, who lifted his head from the floor and let out a bark.

  “What? What happened? Are you okay?” There was genuine alarm in Kate’s voice.

  My memory was coming back to me in patches. Fortunately the next patch included Edie’s coffin being safely delivered back to the funeral home.

  “I’m fine. I just thought for a minute … never mind.” The tom-toms were drumming even harder now. They definitely wanted out. Alcatraz barked again—he definitely wanted out too—and so I missed the beginning of what Kate was saying.

  “… has really hit the fan. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

  “What’d you say? Kate, I’m sorry. I’ve got—”

  “I don’t have time to go into it now. Listen, Hitch, I’m sorry about … about everything. I told you I didn’t want to drag you into all of this. I’m sorry.”

  I scooted up in bed. “Wait. What are you talking about, Kate? Hold on for a minute. I’m awake now. Look … you’ve got to tell me, what’s going on? I’m sorry I didn’t get your message. What did you find out yesterday? What’s all this about Amanda Stuart and Epoch? I ran into Peter Morgan last night and he pretended he had never heard of Epoch. He was lying.”

  There was a pause.

  “You ran into Peter Morgan?”

  “Yes. Julia brought him along to the wake.”

  Kate said nothing. For a moment I thought she had hung up.

  “Are you still there? Kate? I—”

  “I’m still here. Hitch … I want you to be careful, okay? Please. Don’t worry about me. Just do me a favor. Walk away. Turn around and just walk away. No matter what happens.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry.”

  “Kate, you’ve got to tell me what you’re talking about.”

  When she spoke, there was a waver in her voice. “I’m tired, Hitch. I’m just really … I’m tired.”

  “Kate. Are you crying?”

  This time when I heard nothing it was because she did hang up.

  I immediately dialed her home number, but all I got was her machine. Maybe she was sitting there listening, I don’t know. I didn’t leave a message. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. What a miserable time to feel miserable. I had no idea what Kate was talking about. When what happens? Why was she telling me to walk away? Walk away from what? From her? I had nothing but questions. And nothing but pounding tom toms for answers.

  I padded across the floor on my orange feet. Alcatraz didn’t budge; I had to step over him. I found some aspirin in the bathroom and chewed them raw. No diluting. Then I shrugged out of my clothes and heaved my carcass into the shower and stood there until the hot water ran out. It was painful, but it worked. I emerged from the shower considerably more alive than when I had gone in. Now, if I could stick my head into a bucket of coffee I would be a brand-new Hitch.

  I put on my charcoal suit, white shirt and burgundy tie. I sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for a funeral, but there was nothing to be done about it. I clicked a leash onto Alcatraz’s collar and the two of us headed over to the funeral home. Alcatraz took care of his ablutions on the way. He bounded upstairs to Billie’s apartment, trotted over to the lambskin rug she keeps for him in the corner of her living room, dropped onto the rug, yawned and settled in for the morning.

  Sam had already pulled the hearse up around the side. The rear door was open and ready to swallow. Sam was leaning against the car aiming his face up at the sun as I came back outside.

  “Good morning, Sam. Ready to rumble?”

  “Let’s rock and roll.”

  “Come on then.”

  Billie was having tea with Mrs. Simons inside.

  “I’m so sorry about Edie,” Mrs. Simons said to me as Sam and I entered. I glanced over at the two coffins on the far side of the room. Apparently we had parked Edie here last night after the wake.

  “Would you boys care for some tea?” Billie asked.

  “I don’t think so, Billie. We’d better get moving.”

  Mrs. Simons let out a sigh. “It’s going to be a zoo at the cemetery, isn’t it?”

  I shot her with a finger pistol. You got that, girl.

  • • •

  Billie helped Mrs. Simons select the flowers she wanted placed on top of the coffin, as well as which ones were to be taken out to the grave site for decoration. I went on ahead and took the batches of flowers out to the cemetery. I had instructed the folks at Green-mount to put up the largest canopy they had, and I didn’t think that two dozen folding chairs were too many for the occasion. After arranging the flowers by the grave, I saw that I still had a little time before I had to be back at the funeral home. I plotted a course due north and in five minutes was standing in front of a headstone that read “Sewell.” I knelt down and plucked a few weeds from around the main stone as well as the three smaller stones identifying my parents and my never-born little sister.

  My parents made me very happy when they were alive. And although my little sister never got the chance to charm me, I have always assumed that she would have been the most fantastic sibling. I know I had been looking forward to her arrival. I remember that my father and I had joked that we would use the new baby as a football, for a few months at least, until it grew too big. My mother’s response had been that certain persons—in particular, a certain Sewell and son—can never get too big to be used as soccer balls either and that if we dared to try out the great American sport on her brand-new child, she would gladly try out the great Italian one on the two of us. “I’ll kick-a your high-nees” was sort of how she put it. Of course she never got the chance.

  I patted the stone and stood back up. “Incoming,” I announced to the family Sewell. “Film at eleven. I love you. Gotta go.”

  As I headed back to my car, though, I was no longer thinking about my absent family. I was thinking about Kate. I was worried. I wondered if maybe I had been underestimating the kinds of pressures she was under. Even if Kate were to discover that it was really Bowman’s bullet that had been the one to kill her husband—and that was still a big “if” —she had nonetheless also shot him herself. She had known that shock and had lived with that agony for six months now. And in that time she had been pressured first into an affair with her boss, then into sleeping with a known hustler. Somebody had killed the hustler. Possibly Stuart. And now, all the recent revelations about Lou Bowman and this Epoch Ltd. situation … Kate was settling a lot of scores. She was under the kinds of pressures that I could only muse about. And they all seemed to be coming to a head. No wonder Kate was so brittle on the phone. And so fragile. I wished to hell I knew where she was or how to get ahold of her.

  Don’t worry. Could two words ever be more useless?

  As I got into my car I thought about something else that Kate had said to me on the phone. Just walk away. I started the car, then just sat there, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Kate was cutting me loose. In the past twenty-four hours our contact had suddenly whittled down to a pair of fairly abrupt phone calls. She was steering clear of me for a reason. Was all this happening too fast for her? Too much too fast, that sort of thing? I could all too easily envision Kate as one of those people who have a difficult time relaxing into a good thing. It spooks them; they start thinking that they don’t deserve this or that it’s all going to go away soon so why not blow it up in advance and get it over with. Certainly Kate’s history suggested the “I don’t deserve it” frame of mind.

>   It also suggested the hero mentality. The one who will give herself up to the brutal blows in order to keep others safe. I steered my Chevy Nothing through the gates of Greenmount Cemetery and headed east on North Avenue, which ought to be impossible. I stopped at a red light. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe I was the one suffering the misguided hero complex. Maybe I was the one beginning to show signs of relationship freakout. I’m sure I could turn Dr. Freud’s magic magnifying glass on old Hitchcock Sewell and write an entire book about it. It’s easy to swim in clear water; it’s a whole different thing to navigate a swamp.

  I turned right onto Broadway. I tried to tell myself to relax. Kate and I would hook back up before I knew it and I would dump all these silly fears into the Dumpster of silly fears. It didn’t work. Something was terribly wrong. I could feel it.

  I drove past Johns Hopkins Hospital on my left, where my parents and sister were pronounced dead and where I was born. Downtown was a mile over to my right. In front of and behind me … the rest of the world.

  Sometimes you have to take stock of where you are.

  Everything back at the funeral home was set. The guests had already started to arrive. Billie took the front hallway; I stood just inside the parlor doors, pressing the flesh and handing out the programs. We had arranged the chairs in as wide a crescent curve as the rooms would handle, with a large aisle running down the middle. We left enough room in the back for the minicam crew that the station had sent out to cover the event. The advance crew the day before had hung a few of their lights, mainly up front where the coffin sat, and these had already been turned on. They were as bright as hell.

  I was to discover later that in addition to the neglected message from Kate on my home machine, I had received a few messages at work that I had failed to retrieve as well. And so I was taken completely by surprise by the arrival of the entourages of the two main contenders for the governorship of Maryland. They arrived within five minutes of each other.

  Spencer Davis arrived first. I had just fetched a handful of programs and was pressing one into someone’s hand when the hand made a fancy move and took hold of mine with a firm grip.