Murder in the Hearse Degree

by Tim Cockey

  “Nice work,” I said. “Very nice.”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  The eyes of Shannon were upon me. “You, too,” I said to her.

  The actress took a beat to see if I had anything more to add. My praise hadn’t exactly knocked the thespian on her rear end. Seeing that I was only handing out scraps, she turned to her friends.

  Tom had a bag not unlike Shannon’s. He was rifling through it. He found what he was looking for. Lip balm. He uncapped it and ran an invisible smear over his lips.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you,” I said to him.

  “Sure. Are you a critic?”

  Well, I am. But not the kind he meant. I lowered my voice. “It’s about Sophie Potts.”

  Even at my reduced volume, the name caught Shannon’s ear. She skipped only half a beat, shooting a sharp look at Tom, which she then attempted to cover with a flourish of the bouquet and a controlled laugh. Tom wasn’t quite as skilled. His eyebrows collapsed in a frown, and for a moment he looked as if I’d tossed him a calculus question. He feigned an indifference that he clearly didn’t feel.

  “Sophie? Um. Yeah. What about her?”

  “Can we talk someplace else?” I asked, adding, “You probably want to get out of here.”

  “Yeah. Uh . . .” He looked over at Shannon. “McGarvey’s?”

  The voice said “Yes.” The look was considerably less positive. We left the theater and trudged up the street to McGarvey’s. A few of the stagehands were already there and had commandeered a booth. Shannon and her friends joined them. Tom and I settled in at the bar and ordered a couple of beers. Tom was fidgety so I sought to settle him down first. While we waited for our beers I complimented him again on his performance.

  “You really found Constanin’s heart,” I told him, which was effectively saying nothing, but I suspected the actor wouldn’t notice.

  “Oh God, though,” he said. “What about those hiccups? I couldn’t believe that. I thought I was going to die.”

  In the early scene where Constantin is railing against the others for their insensitivity to his artistic efforts, Tom had suffered a walloping case of hiccups. Personally, I felt that they underscored the excitable nature of this tragic boob who holes up in a tree house and I told Tom so. He got that calculus-question look again.

  “You think Constantin is a boob?” He sounded crestfallen. “You don’t think he’s Chekov’s stand-in? The true artist?”

  “I think Constantin’s a boob,” I repeated.

  “But that would take the importance out of everything he does in the play.”

  “There is no importance in what Constantin does,” I said. “He is a dreamer and a fruitcake and he needs to get a life. I blame his mother. She should have slapped him years ago and told him to get on with it.”

  Tom was fascinated. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. She has made her way in the theater world because she is brassy and she knows what the public wants. Constantin hasn’t got a clue. I think Chekov is laughing at him. Look at it. He put him in a tree house.”

  The actor looked perplexed. Our beers arrived and he picked his up by the neck.

  “So you don’t think the tree house was to signify purity and innocence?”

  “Pathetic immaturity,” I said. “The guy couldn’t cut it in the real world.”

  “But that’s purity and innocence.”

  “That’s being a baby well past the diaper stage.”

  Tom took a thoughtful sip of his beer. “I think I hate you,” he said despondently. “I think you just ruined the play for me.”

  I shrugged. “Hey, it’s just my opinion. But for what it’s worth, I think you did a great job. Constantin really came across.”

  The actor was happy to hear that. They’re always happy to hear that. He took a long pull from his bottle then set it on the bar and began picking at the label.

  “Okay,” he said, after running a tear halfway down the label. “So what’s up with Sophie?”

  I told him. “What’s up is that she’s dead.”

  It’s possible that he looked as if he’d just been hit in the head with a sack of cow manure. I’ve never actually seen this happen to anyone and of course I had only known Tom Cushman for a matter of minutes, so who am I to judge how he’d react to such a blow? But his head literally jerked and his face opened up in a mixture of disbelief and unquestioned queasiness. So sure . . . sack of manure.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I make jokes,” I said. “But not like that. No. She’s dead. She was pulled out of the Severn River a few days ago. So I take it you hadn’t heard?”

  He said he hadn’t and I tended to believe him. I knew for a fact he wasn’t a good enough actor to fake it. His face had gone slack.

  “Jesus, what happened?”

  “That’s the question of the hour, Tom. I was hoping maybe you’d be able to shed some light.”

  “Are you a cop or something?”

  “I’m looking into Sophie’s death,” I said in all honesty. I didn’t elaborate and he didn’t ask.

  “Well, what are you asking me for? I don’t know anything. I barely even knew her.”

  “What were you doing the night of September fifth?”

  The question came out of me so quickly I didn’t even have the chance to give it the noir spin it deserved.

  “That’s not funny,” Tom said. As a matter of fact, he was right.

  “So it’s not funny,” I said. “But that’s the last time Sophie Potts was seen alive. How about you answer the question anyway?”

  “Hey, you know. I don’t think I like your tone.”

  “Sorry. But a girl’s dead.”

  Tom was making quick work of the beer label. I’ve heard somewhere that this is a sign of schizophrenia, but in this case I was willing to keep my prognosis toned down to simple nervousness.

  “Was Sophie murdered?” he asked. “Is that what this is?”

  “Well, there’s a certain stench around the cesspool,” I said. “I’m talking to people to see if I can get the air a little clear.”

  “God. I can’t believe it.” He took a sip of his beer. “So the fifth? You say that’s when it happened?”

  “No one is exactly sure. That’s when she disappeared. She wasn’t found for about a week.”

  The actor gave it some thought, tugging on his chin and staring a hole into the bar. I could tell he’d be a wobbly Hamlet.

  “Well, unless it was a Monday night I was at the theater. I mean, if you’re looking for an alibi.”

  A burst of laughter came from the booth where Nina and the others were sitting. I glanced over. Nina was entertaining the others with a mimed cigar. She appeared to be doing Groucho. Tom glanced over as well. I decided to wind up and let loose with the hard stuff. Right down the middle. I’d gotten such a rise from Mike Gellman with this approach earlier in the day I thought I’d take it out for another trot.

  “Tom, did you sleep with Sophie?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Sleep with her, Tom. Did you sleep with Sophie Potts and get her pregnant? That’s the question.”

  “Jesus Christ, are you kidding?”

  “I’m not. I’m completely serious.”

  “No!”

  “Did she call you up a few weeks ago and tell you that she was pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. That’s ridiculous.”

  “But did she call you up?”

  He hesitated. “Why? Did someone say she did?”

  I leaned in. “A little advice, Tom. If you’re going to lie, just lie. Don’t fudge. So okay, she called you up. What did she call you for?”

  “It’s possible that that’s none of your business,” he said snottily.

  I could have given him additional advi
ce about not being snotty, but I didn’t really have the inclination.

  “That’s entirely possible,” I said. “It’s also entirely possible that it’s something that the police might consider to be their business.”

  I was bluffing, of course. As far as I could tell the police were already finished with the death of Sophie Potts. I was just curious to see how much dodging this guy was up to. When he didn’t respond, I pressed.

  “Did she call you up and tell you that she was pregnant, Tom? If she did, you might as well tell me now and get it over with.”

  “I told you, I never slept with that girl. You’re way off.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I said ‘uh-huh.’ ”

  “You said it like you didn’t believe me.”

  I took up my drink. “Uh-huh.”

  Tom glanced over at the booth again. Shannon caught his eye. She smiled at him like a python.

  “She’s pretty,” I said. “Your little Nina.”

  “Shannon? Yeah.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?” I asked.

  Tom made a melodrama of rotating his head back to me. “Is this what you do? Keep asking people who they’re sleeping with until you get it right?”

  “Did I get it right?”

  “I don’t think I have to answer you.”

  “You don’t. Why don’t I just mosey over there and see if Shannon feels like answering me?” I started to slide off the stool and Tom stopped me. He did a little hemming and hawing, but as I say, he was not really much of an actor.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We’re sleeping together. So what?”

  “Is it because of Shannon that you don’t want to talk about Sophie?” I asked.

  “I didn’t sleep with Sophie, okay? We worked together a little this summer. I’m telling you the truth. I barely knew her.”

  “That’s curious. If she barely knew you then why would she call you up? What was that about?” When he didn’t respond, I pressed. “Somebody slept with her, Tom. And I’ve got to tell you, there aren’t really a whole lot of candidates at this point.”

  “What does it matter who slept with her?” he asked testily. “I missed the part where that was a crime.”

  “No one said it is. But pushing someone off a bridge, last time I looked, that’s a crime. Especially if it kills them.”

  “I didn’t push anyone off a bridge,” he said.

  “The phone call, Tom. Sophie Potts called you up about a month after she quit the catering gig. Convince me she wasn’t calling to tell you she’d gotten pregnant.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t sleep with the girl.”

  “Why did Shannon spit daggers at you back at the theater when I mentioned Sophie’s name?”

  “She doesn’t like Sophie.” He corrected himself. “Didn’t like Sophie.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Sophie had a little crush on me, okay? Shannon wasn’t real thrilled about it.”

  “What kind of crush?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Schoolgirl crush? Stalker crush? They come in all flavors.”

  “Nothing crazy like that. Schoolgirl crush.”

  “Did it start when you two were catering?”

  “If it did I didn’t know it. I swear.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She called me up. You’re right about that. A couple of weeks ago. Three maybe? A month? I’m not sure. I wasn’t there. My roommate took the call and he told her I was doing this play. She came to the theater that night. I spotted her halfway through the first act. You were there tonight. You saw how small it is. She came backstage and told me how much she liked the show and all that. The usual stuff. She told me she had a job as a nanny. She said she liked it. We really didn’t have a whole lot to talk about. But then she came back to the show the next night, front row center. You couldn’t miss her. Shannon couldn’t miss her either. She came back the next night, too, and the next and the next.”

  “Did she come backstage again?”

  “Not at first, no. It was kind of weird. Then she finally did again. She was real jumpy. I could see she was uncomfortable. She sort of stammered a little bit, and then when Shannon came out of the dressing room Sophie practically flew out the door. I felt sorry for her. I always thought she was a nice girl.”

  He went back to his beer label and completed its decimation. I slid my bottle over to him.

  “You want to start on mine?”

  He wagged his head. “I can’t believe she’s dead. That’s just crazy.”

  “Crazy and true.”

  Tom stared a hole into the counter. I waited. He couldn’t keep his hands still. His fingers were knotting and unknotting. The bartender started toward us but I waved him off. Off in the booth Shannon let out a whooping laugh. Tom glanced over his shoulder, then turned a wretched expression to me.

  “She made me promise not to tell anyone,” he said softly. “Not a soul.”

  “Who did? Sophie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Sophie’s dead, Tom. I think the promise probably dies with her.”

  Tom fidgeted. “I guess it really doesn’t matter as much. I mean you’re right. Now that she’s dead. It’s kind of a weird story.”

  “Do you want another beer?”

  “Good idea.”

  I signaled the bartender. Tom shifted on his stool.

  “There’s this thing called the ARK,” Tom said. “Do you know what that is?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s this religious thing. And this guy who runs it . . . Look, don’t tell Shannon any of this, okay? What I did was pretty weird.”

  “It’s between us,” I said.

  Our beers came. Tom took a long pull.

  “Sophie wanted to know if I could do her a favor,” he said. “It was weird.”

  “That’s what I’m hearing.”

  Tom let out a half laugh. “I mean seriously. Just listen.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  I slept in the next morning. Monday. My morning dream featured an amalgam of Sophie and the actress named Shannon, smoking a cigar and stepping off the edge of a tree house. The Sophie/Shannon didn’t drop, but floated like a sheet caught in an updraft. I was down below, at my catering table, handing out gin and tonics to an endless line of naval cadets, each of whom saluted smartly when he received his glass, then went down on one knee like Al Jolson. Libby and Mike made an appearance in the dream. They were standing together under the tree house, holding a large umbrella over their heads. Mike looked like he was about to cry. Libby looked coldly at him. The empathy I felt for Mike was palpable. I think that’s what woke me up.

  There was a head on the pillow next to me. It had eight-inch ears and a cold black nose.

  I was out of dog food so I gave Alcatraz the last of the Grape-Nuts. I showered and shaved and pushed my hair around until it told me to stop. After the Grape-Nuts I was out of people food, too, so dog and I went over to Jimmy’s, where I ordered a double omelet, sausage and home fries. I felt like flipping my skull open on a hinge and having Edna pour coffee directly onto my brain, but I refrained.

  The little bells above the door jangled and Ray Ghost walked in. He was wearing a glen plaid suit, red tennis shoes and a dingy baseball cap with the ESSKAY logo on it. He looked like a Harry Dean Stanton character on his wedding day. Ray’s real name isn’t Ray Ghost, by the way. It’s Ray Stone. He picked the nickname up a number of years ago when he was strolling across the grass at Greenmount Cemetery in the mustard-colored suit of a recently deceased butcher from Randallstown on the same afternoon that the butcher’s widow happened to be out at the grave site doing a little weeding. When she looked up and saw Ray in her husband’s suit—a suit she had always despised—she had fainted dead away, convinced tha
t she had seen a ghost. On her way out of the cemetery she spotted Ray again; this time he was sitting on a gravestone with Greasy Kevin, sharing a box of Cracker Jack. She cried out, “Ghost!” and fainted again. Greasy Kevin told the story so many times that the name stuck.

  Ray took a seat at my table and ordered a cup of tea. Edna tilted her coffeepot toward the table and I slid my mug under it.

  “Coffee’s bad for you, Hitch,” Ray said as Edna shuffled off. “It dehydrates your brain. That’s why so many people these days can’t remember anything. You notice that? People are saying it all the time. ‘I just can’t remember.’ That’s because their brains are drying out.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I said. I made a loud sipping noise on my coffee then looked back up at Ray. “When did you get here?”

  Ray said he wasn’t hungry, then proceeded to pick from my plate. I offered him a fork but he preferred to use his fingers. Ray was about to head over to Read Street for a pickup. Billie had hosted a funeral the day before for a retired suit salesman. The widow had asked her about the dispensing of her husband’s clothes and Billie had steered her toward the Church Home and Hospital Thrift Shop. Ray was expecting a gold mine.

  “He worked for Stewarts for fifteen years,” he said, wide-eyed. “And then Joseph Banks after that.”

  Ray asked if I didn’t want a little pepper on my home fries.

  “Sure,” I said.

  As he gave the shaker a vigorous workout he asked me about Libby.

  “Are you going to marry her now, Hitch?”

  “She’s married, Ray.”

  “But she’s leaving him, right? Isn’t that right?”

  “I can’t say for sure. It’s possible.”

  “So are you going to marry her?” he asked again.

  “I’m not in love with her, Ray.”

  Ray set the shaker back down and considered this. “When I saw her the other day, I thought maybe you two could pick up where you left off.”

  I reminded him that where we left off, Libby was leaving me to go back to Mike. Ray scratched his head. Actually, he scratched his ESSKAY cap.

  “She’s still real pretty.”

  “Well then maybe you ought to marry her,” I said.