by Tim Cockey
“How do you do? Spencer Davis.”
There he was. The candidate. He had toned down his million-dollar smile in deference to the occasion, but he was a dashing young liberal nonetheless. He was about my height and even with his hair neatly combed down, you could still tell that it was something of a boyish cut. It made him look ever so slightly mischievous, despite his present gravity.
“Hitchcock Sewell.”
“May I introduce my wife?”
Well sure, why not. He presented a pleasant-looking woman, a trifle shy I thought, but fighting it gamely. There was a darkness around her eyes that brought to mind—unfortunately—the look of a raccoon. Her hair was cropped at the shoulders, black with a full spider-webbing of premature gray. It was not difficult for me to imagine Mrs. Davis in her college years: baggy overalls, no bra, no shoes, handing out fliers protesting God knows what, smoking a lot of pot, painting flowers on her boyfriend’s cheek, yanking open the sliding door of a VW van and piling in. In other words, a mildly rebellious youth, a lot more active spunk than I saw now in the woman whose hamster hand was already slipping from my grip.
A person could make a million bucks if they could read someone’s future just by shaking someone’s hand. They once made a movie about that. Reading their past that way is more of a parlor trick.
The candidate and his wife found a spot near the front. Davis’s advance man—a cheerless Joe named Bill—came rushing into the room (not exactly in advance, you’ll notice) and told me that he had called and left several urgent messages on my machine alerting me to the fact that the candidate would be attending the funeral.
“What was the urgent part?” I wanted to know. I indicated Mr. and Mrs. Davis down front, reading their programs. “He seems to be doing just fine.”
“I… well… the cameras… I—”
“I see,” I said. “So everything’s fine then?”
Bill couldn’t really say.
Aunt Billie and I had placed Reserved signs on about a dozen of the chairs closest to the front. Mrs. Simons of course would take one. Jeff was an only child, as well as a bachelor. The family factor wouldn’t play a big role here today.
“Who are those seats reserved for?” Bill wanted to know. Actually, he was demanding to know.
“Weather, sports, news and entertainment,” I answered. “And consumer affairs. Maybe even that gal who pulls the lottery numbers.”
Bill looked confused. “What?”
“Colleagues,” I explained. “Could you please move along? You’re blocking the door.”
Bill moved along. Evidently he wasn’t happy with the arrangements. His man was not being hit by the TV lights.
Some of those colleagues of the late newscaster were now arriving. TV people. I detected a trace of discomfort among a few of them. These are people who are used to smiling when they’re out in public; it’s usually tacked on with superglue. But this was a funeral. They had to put on their bad-story faces. Multiple murders. Killer tornadoes. The Orioles’ miserable loss to the Pirates in ‘79 when they were up by three … by three … and couldn’t close it. I directed the troubled faces to the reserved chairs. Mimi Wigg was among the mourners, of course. Her skin looked … well, frankly, she looked like a corpse. Dull and shiny at the same time. I handed her a program and aimed her toward the front.
The next thing I knew I was face-to-face with a stunning blonde. The last time I had seen her she hadn’t exactly been dressed for a funeral.
Alan Stuart loomed behind his wife like a mighty Colorado Rockie. Snowcap and all.
“Mr. Sewell, isn’t it? My campaign manager has been telling me about you.” He placed a large hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife?” I took the hand that was offered. No parlor tricks this time. No need. Millionaire’s daughter. Spoiled and cold. How hard is that?
“How do you do, Mrs. Stuart?”
“Hello, Mr. Sewell,” she replied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Was it just my lion’s pride or had I detected a little flash of light in her cool blue eyes? Was this lady flirting with me with her husband standing right behind her? Alan Stuart offered a sort of private smile over the top of his wife’s head, almost as if to say,” I know what she just did. She always does it. Just ignore it.”
I did.
“Did you know Mr. Simons well?” I asked. A little patter of the trade. I realized that my palms were sweaty.
Amanda Stuart answered. “Yes. He was a supporter of Alan. Impartial on the air of course. Jeffrey had tact.”
“I saw your brother last night,” I said, quickly changing the subject.
An eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes. He’s been seeing my ex-wife. Who I still see. Though not the same way, of course.”
A crack formed on the ice as the lady Stuart frowned.
“Mr. Sewell is just kidding around, Amanda,” Alan Stuart interjected. He reached out and gave me a burly handshake. “Perhaps we could talk after the funeral.”
It wasn’t really a suggestion. It was a politely issued order. We will talk.
Stuart pointed down the aisle. “Are those seats reserved?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Good. Thank you.” Alan Stuart grazed me with a flesh wound. His wife sank one deep, right between the eyes. And off they went. Lovely couple.
I watched Bill the advance man take gas as Alan and Amanda Stuart slipped into two of the reserved seats, right next to the popular sports guy. The minicam was picking it all up. Bill made his way over to me.
“What’s that all about! I demand that Spencer be seated in the VIP section!”
“There is no VIP section,” I answered him. “Those seats are for family and close friends.”
“Alan Stuart was no friend of Jeff Simons’s. They hated each other’s guts!”
“I didn’t seat him there. He just took it.”
“Arrogant bastard!” Bill stormed off. I wondered if he meant me.
The room filled. As Billie had predicted we had an overflow crowd. A lot of people were clearly fans, not friends or family. A number of them were clutching photographs of the late Jeff Simons. A little late for autographs. I escorted Mrs. Simons to her seat. Just as I was about to steer her into the aisle, she suddenly stopped and performed one of those religious curtsies. I almost ran over her.
I caught Alan Stuart’s eye as I turned to head back up the aisle. It was a stern and displeased eye. I remembered what Hutch had said to me out in the park by the Washington Monument. Whether or not Stuart was still seeing Kate—and I was positive that he wasn’t—he was still an unreasonably possessive man. It was my connection to Kate at the very least that was earning me this pissiness. I guess it wasn’t enough that he had this beautiful filthy-rich trophy wife sitting next to him. Of course if Hutch was to be believed, the man also suspected that I was attempting to blackmail him and to destroy his career, not to mention getting away with murder. I changed my direction and stepped over to where Spencer Davis and his perfect no-bullshit wife were sitting quietly, holding hands no less.
“Mr. Davis, would you and your wife like to move to, uh, more prominent seats? I didn’t intend for you to be shunted off into the corner like this.”
Davis glanced over to the … okay, to the VIP section. Alan Stuart was glaring at us. Good.
“That’s okay, Mr. Sewell. I think Beth would find those lights a little uncomfortable anyway. We’re fine here.”
Impulsively I reached out and shook the man’s hand. He responded with a hearty pat on my arm.
“Thank you though.”
I had to fight to keep the swagger out of my step as I headed back up the aisle. Take that! I’ve got Kate Zabriskie and I’m getting all chummy with your opponent. I shouldered my testosterone and returned to the back of the room.
Hutch was there. He was yakking with the minicam crew and he didn’t take note of my presence until the priest took his place up behind the coffin, took the nod fr
om me and started into his spiel. Hutch made his way over to me then and leaned in close. It was all whispers now.
“I got your phone message,” Hutch hissed. “You are so far out of line.”
“The truth hurts?”
“You’re in way over your head on this one.”
“What’s this? Two platitudes for the price of one?”
“Alan will bury you, Hitch. You did not choose your enemies wisely.”
“You know what I’ve learned, Hutch? You don’t choose your enemies. They simply show up.”
Hutch glared at me. “We’ll talk.”
He moved off to resume his flack duties. Both Hutch and Alan Stuart. What were they planning to do, take me out back and work me over? Maybe I could get them to wait until Lou Bowman showed back up. That way everyone could pile on at once.
I turned my attention back to the priest, who was explaining to a roomful of adults that Jeff Simons would henceforth be lying down with lambs and lions. Heaven as a petting zoo. I don’t know who comes up with this stuff.
There were several eulogies on the docket. The main event of course was Mimi Wigg. If I expected the diminutive newslady to regale us with details of Jeff Simons’s final earthly ecstasies, I was to be disappointed. Instead, the large talking head of Mimi Wigg regaled us with cute behind-the-scenes stories about her fallen colleague. The minicam was recording it all. I realized that the cadaver makeup I had noticed on Mimi Wigg when she arrived was in fact her on-air makeup.
Mimi Wigg had chosen to offer her eulogy in the happy news style that had served her and Jeff Simons so well in their on-air time together. To my astonishment, right in the middle of her happy memories of Jeff, the tiny newswoman improvised. She knelt down and picked up one of the terra-cotta TVs—one with black-eyed Susans sticking out of it—and set the damn thing on top of the coffin. Suddenly it was Jeff and Mimi again, for one last time. The minicam drank it up: a priceless two-shot, tawdry and unquestionably in bad taste … and great TV.
My tepid admiration of the itsy-bitsy big-headed newswoman’s chutzpah was abruptly interrupted by the loud chirping of a cricket, which I only recognized as a cellular phone when I saw Hutch snatch the plastic thingy off the holster on his belt. It was a short call and clearly one that troubled him. Storm clouds gathered with astonishing speed. Hutch spat a few words, then disconnected. Immediately he dialed another number and then he looked off toward the front of the room. I followed his gaze. Alan Stuart gave a little start then reached into his jacket and pulled something out and looked down at it. From where I was stationed I couldn’t see what it was, but it must have been a beeper, for he turned partway around in his chair and found Hutch. Stuart turned and whispered something to his wife, then stood up and made his way to the aisle. Mimi Wigg lost her place for just a second, but seasoned professional that she was, she managed to turn the interruption into a dramatic pause. She surveyed the crowd with a sugary smile. “Jeff so loved doing zoo stories. He was wonderful with animals… so great …”
Alan Stuart hurried up the aisle. Hutch was already into another conversation on his little phone; I heard another chirping and saw one of the news guys down in front taking a call. What should I have done, collected all cellular phones at the door? Mimi Wigg skipped another beat, then her voice raised in strain as she pressed on. I think the woman now realized that she was missing something. She wanted to wrap it up. Bye, Jeff, nice knowing you. Gotta go.
Alan Stuart reached Hutch and signaled him to cut off his call. He gave his campaign manager exactly one second and then he snatched the phone out of his hand and snapped it closed. Hutch leaned in and spoke in a low tone to his boss. His boss did not respond in kind.
“Shit!”
Heads turned. But Stuart didn’t care. The crowd in the entrance hall had pressed forward to get a look at Mimi Wigg. Stuart and Hutch were already at the door, trying to work a wedge into the packed crowd and get the hell out. I stepped over.
“What’s going on?”
“Fucking Lou Bowman,” Hutch snarled.
Lou Bowman? My blood turned to ice.
“What about him?”
Alan Stuart lost it. He reached into the crowd and started shoving citizens aside. The voters pulled back. Hutch followed. He barked over his shoulder at me as he and Stuart plunged forward.
“He’s been shot!”
CHAPTER 37
Lou Bowman was in critical condition at Union Memorial Hospital. His room was under police guard.
So why didn’t I feel safe?
As far as news stories go it might not have been an especially big one, if not for the identity of the suspected shooter.
Kate Zabriskie.
I had my obligations. This was too big a funeral to palm off on Aunt Billie. We were expecting an even larger crowd at the cemetery and there was simply no way I could duck out on it.
We wrapped up the festivities in Parlors One and Two. Jeff Simons’s colleagues from the station—plus an uncle who looked like he might possibly be my next customer—shouldered the coffin and carried it outside to the waiting hearse. Sam was itching to meet Mimi Wigg but, unfortunately for him, the little newslady went left when the coffin went right. Doubtless she was being called back to the station to deal with the shooting of former police detective Louis Bowman. I had grabbed hold of the news guy whose phone had gone off inside. He was the one who told me that Detective Zabriskie was being sought in connection with the shooting.
Outside, Spencer Davis and his wife came over to me.
“What’s going on?”
“Someone was shot,” I said.
“Who?”
“A guy named Lou Bowman. He was—”
“I know who he is,” Davis said, cutting me off. He looked terribly troubled. “Do they have a suspect?”
I didn’t want to say who. “Not in custody,” I said.
Then Davis hit me with a two-by-four. His quiet, peace-loving wife didn’t even flinch.
“Is it Kate Zabriskie?”
Well hush my puppies and send me off to bed … how the hell did he come up with that name.
Davis heard my unspoken question. Probably got it from my slack-jawed face.
“I met with Detective Zabriskie last night,” Davis explained. “I’m up to speed on this thing.”
“You met with Kate?”
“Last night. She phoned my office at the end of the day and said that it was urgent that she see me right away. Among other things, she had, uh, something she thought I should take a look at.”
At that precise moment Amanda Stuart stepped right past without so much as a glance in our direction and got into a black town car.
Spencer Davis gave me a look, then checked his watch. “Look, Mr. Sewell, I wonder if I could ask a big favor of you. I’m going to have to get back to the office and start dealing with this. I feel terrible about leaving right in the middle of a funeral.”
I was going to note that Alan Stuart had expressed no essential grief about pulling out early, but I let it pass.
“Could you see that Beth gets to the cemetery?” He turned to his wife. “You’ll be my representative?”
She nodded.
“Wonderful. Thank you.” Davis kissed his wife on the cheek then turned and gave me another shoulder grip. This was apparently one of his things.
“Thank you, Mr. Sewell. Ms. Zabriskie told me how you’ve been helping her. I appreciate it. I want you to know that my office will do everything we can to help her in all this. But the first thing is to get her safely in. Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Any place that none of the rest of us would have thought of?”
I didn’t right offhand. Or maybe I did, but my brain was going a little spastic at the moment.
“No, I don’t.”
“If you think of something, call me directly. Beth can give you my personal number. Don’t worry about anything, Mr. Sewell. We’ll sort this all out.”
He pounded my shoulder again then gave a he
ad flick to advance-man Bill. The two ducked into a waiting car. Bill shot me a hostile look just before he closed the door. I made a mental note to remove the Hate Me sign that must have been taped on my jacket.
The coffin was loaded. Sam shut the rear door.
“All set, boss.”
I held out my arm for Beth Davis to take.
“Shall we?”
I was a bit distracted at the cemetery. As predicted, the turnout was impressive. Neighboring graves were indeed being trampled. The news of the shooting of former police detective Lou Bowman had robbed the guest list of some of its heavy hitters. But Jeff Simons’s fans did themselves proud. I went ahead and seated Beth Davis under the canopy, just behind Mrs. Simons. Amanda Stuart was nowhere to be seen. Apparently she didn’t feel the need to make a graveside appearance as her husband’s representative. I introduced Beth to Mrs. Simons. The younger woman’s consolations to the older woman were touching.
“Would you like me to drop you somewhere?” I asked Beth Davis when the service was over.
She checked her watch. “I normally volunteer at the soup kitchen in Cherry Hill,” she said. “But it’s kind of late.” She added, “Though I guess they can always use a hand in cleaning up.”
“You volunteer at a soup kitchen?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“You’re kidding.”
“There are a lot of elderly in the area. On fixed incomes. Why?”
“Oh. Nothing.” I would have driven the dedicated citizen to the ends of the earth, but she insisted that the corner of Calvert and Lombard would be fine.
“You’re going to take the bus, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
How many times am I allowed to vote?
Arriving back at the office I leaped for the phone, which was ringing as I came through the door.
“Mr. Sewell, this is Detective Kruk.”
“Detective Kruk. Hello.”
“Are you all right? You sound like you’re out of breath.”
“I am,” I said. “Both. I’m … What’s up, Detective? What’s going on?” I slid around my desk and dropped into my chair. “What can I do for you?”
