Murder in the Hearse Degree

by Tim Cockey

  “Why don’t you give me a kiss then go inside and get dressed. You’re half naked.”

  Sugar rose from the swing, her arms still wrapped around her book. I shot her a smile but it didn’t seem to penetrate. Larue presented his chubby cheek and Sugar leaned forward and dutifully kissed it.

  “That’s a good girl.” Larue pulled the cap from Sugar’s head and tucked it between Sugar and her book. “You want to take a shower, honey. Say good-bye to Mr. Sewell.”

  The peep of a bird would have been louder. The woman’s eyes traveled well past me. Sugar stepped heavily across the grass and disappeared into the house.

  “She’s a pretty girl,” I said.

  Larue made an indifferent face. “Nowhere near as pretty as her mother.”

  Larue escorted me back to my car. Before I got in I asked him, “Mr. Larue, are you aware that the man who was here the other week posing as Sophie Potts’s lover was hit by a car a few nights ago?”

  Larue took a beat before he answered. “I don’t know how such information would have come my way.”

  “He was killed.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  I slid in behind the wheel and closed the door. “I just thought you might find that interesting.”

  Larue placed his hands on the open window. “What I find interesting, Mr. Sewell, is that it appears to be your habit to show up at my door with stories of persons who have recently died.” He smiled and added, “I have to say, sir, I am becoming a little concerned myself about being of your acquaintance.”

  I had some time before my lunch date with Virginia Larue, so I killed it at Union Station, nosing around the shops there and pestering the clerks with my collection of bad foreign accents. I picked this habit up from my father, who, I have to say, was much better at it than I am. He was especially adept with his Russian accent and in my more gullible pipsqueak years I actually believed he was a spy for the Russians and that he had another family just like ours stashed over in Russia. I pictured a little Russian Hitchcock in a huge fur hat goose-stepping back and forth in front of the onion-domed Kremlin and I would draw pictures of myself and my mother and of the neighborhood, sticking them into my father’s jacket pocket so that he could take them over to Russia with him when he left “for work” in the morning. (My geographic skills were slow in percolating.) I would write on the drawings, For Hitchcock, From Hitchcock, and upon my father’s return from work in the evening he would pull the drawings out of his pocket and announce, “Well, look at this. I’ve got something here for someone named Hitchcock,” and he’d hand them to me. Naturally, I hoped for a drawing from my Russian brother, but of course I never did get one.

  Virginia Larue was already seated when I arrived, at one of the tables next to a window off near the rear. I spotted her when I entered and I waved. She did not wave back.

  The restaurant was nearly empty. It was the tail end of the lunch crunch. Virginia Larue sat stone-still as the hostess walked me over to the table. She was wearing a ruffled blouse under a burgundy blazer. The blouse was two buttons open, revealing a small gold cross on a thin chain around her neck. She looked like she was practicing her posture. Her eyes followed me as I settled into the chair opposite her, but the book did not fall off her head.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  I could swear that the woman’s lips had not even moved. It was as if she snapped this off to me through telepathy.

  I saw that she was drinking a white wine and I asked the waiter who had sashayed over if I could have the same. The waiter suggested a carafe. I gave my lunch partner an inquiring look, but it bounced right off her.

  “A carafe sounds fine,” I said to the waiter. His nameplate said his name was Andrew. He wore a burgundy vest and a black bowtie.

  “I should have worn something burgundy,” I said after Andrew had vamoosed. “Seems to be the theme.”

  I broke no ice with that nonsense.

  “You seem a little uptight,” I said, snapping my napkin and setting it onto my lap. The fact is, Virginia Larue’s full frontal venom was unsettling, but I wasn’t about to let it show.

  This time the lips moved. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  The hand moved, too. It took hold of the wineglass and brought it to the lips. I feared she was going to take a bite out of it, but she only sipped. A pudge of lipstick remained on the rim of the glass. Her eyes were on me like a laser beam. If they blinked, I didn’t notice.

  “That’s a nice blouse,” I said, killing her with kindness.

  “What do you want?”

  I set my elbows on the table. “Well, first I want to compliment you on your nice blouse. I’ll probably take a few more stabs at trying to get you to cool off, but I won’t make a whole production out of it. Then I want to look at the menu and choose something yummy. I’m starving. I take it you’ve been here before. Maybe you’ll be able to recommend something.”

  “The bullshit sandwich is very nice.”

  I smiled. She didn’t. “Well okay, I’ll take that into consideration.”

  She began tapping a fingernail against the base of her wineglass. As things were going, this had to qualify as a full-fledged thaw. I hummed a nonsense tune as I pretended to look over the menu.

  “Do we need to be pleasant here?” Ginny Larue asked. “I really do not like to play games. I have no idea what you and that tramp were doing in my home the other day, but it was clear you had no business being there. Crawford simply dismissed it when I asked him. And now you come around slinging insinuations at me. So why don’t you tell me what this is all about and let’s be done with it.”

  The waiter arrived with our carafe. He filled my glass and aimed for Ginny Larue’s. She waved him off. He set the carafe down and asked if we wanted to hear the specials.

  “Give me your fanciest burger, Andrew,” I said.

  Ginny Larue opened and closed her mouth. “Spinach salad.”

  Andrew started to say more, but I gave him the cut-and-run look. He obeyed. I turned to the iron maiden across the table.

  “For starters,” I said sweetly, “she’s not a tramp. Julia dresses provocatively on occasion because why the hell not? She’s got the goods. Some people blend in with the woodwork and some don’t. Julia don’t. And the fact is the majority of people are entranced, intrigued or in some way quite taken with her, whether they’re willing to admit it or not.” I took a sip of my chardonnay. “Besides, Julia is an unmarried woman and she only sees unmarried men.”

  Ginny Larue picked up the carafe and topped off her glass. The ice was still burning in her eyes, but I sensed that the posterior stick had been removed. There was movement in the shoulders. The head seemed willing to swivel.

  “You’re a good-looking man,” she said.

  The awesome power of her transition threatened to ruffle my hair but I went with it. “Well thank you,” I said. “Allow me to return the compliment. You’re a dandy-looking number yourself, Mrs. Larue. Mr. Larue must clap his pudgy little hands with glee every time you walk into the room.”

  Her glass froze halfway to her lips. “What in hell are you about? I am about three seconds from throwing this chardonnay in your face.”

  “May I be blunt?” I asked.

  “I seriously doubt that I could stop you.”

  “It’s possible you could. But I’ll take that as a yes. Does your husband know that you screw around as much as you do?”

  She had been a little off in her calculations. It was more like ten seconds, not three. I was glad we hadn’t been drinking red. As I dabbed at my face I watched the smoke coming out of Ginny Larue’s ears. The color came up in her pale face. Her once-rigid posture was downright loosey-goosey.

  She hissed, “You son of a bitch.”

  “I deserved that.”

  “You damn well did.”

  I folded my napkin and set it down, th
en reached across the table and calmly retrieved the woman’s silverware. I also retrieved her empty wineglass and the carafe and brought them to my side of the table. Safety first.

  “I’ll rephrase the question. Does your husband know that you’re screwing around specifically with Mike Gellman?”

  She began to protest. I held up a hand to cut her off.

  “We can save a lot of time if you’d forgo the protesting. I saw the two of you in Gellman’s hot tub the other night.”

  “You’re a shit.”

  I nodded. “I’m a shit. I guess that’s something I’ll have to live with. But you’re worse, Mrs. Larue.” I took a high kick and sent it right down the middle. “You’re a killer.”

  Wise old me, I had left her nothing to throw at me. However, it didn’t seem to matter. She used a weapon I would not have expected.

  She laughed.

  Hysterically.

  “I’m a killer? Oh my Lord, that is rich. That is really . . . what kind of imagination do you have? Oh my goodness.” She held her wrists out to me across the table. “Arrest me. Please.”

  Virginia Larue fell back in her chair and split her sides. Right there in a public restaurant. Color rushed to her skin and she guffawed like an old horse.

  The girl had a fine old time with that one. She had to dab at her pretty makeup to make sure she didn’t suffer a little mudslide. Andrew arrived just then with our food and I silently cleaned the space in front of me for my burger. The waiter set our plates down. Ginny Larue was still yucking it up. Andrew and I swapped a glance. His was bemused.

  “Good-bye, Andrew.” I refilled the woman’s wineglass and returned it to her. “You behave. I’m trusting you.”

  She was getting over her laughing fit. Quite fully thawed now as far as I could tell. Her eyes flashed a wholly different temperature at me across the table.

  “Don’t let your hamburger get cold.” She hiccupped a laugh. “Or I might have to kill you.”

  I retreated behind the burger. Retrenched behind it.

  “Who exactly am I supposed to have killed?” she asked, poking her fork about in her large bowl.

  “Skip it,” I said. “I was just making conversation.”

  “Well then maybe you’ll tell me what you were doing spying on me?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t spying on you. At least, that’s not what I was intending to do. I only drove out to Gellman’s house that night to do a little thinking.”

  “Funny place to think.”

  “If I may ask again, does your husband know about you and Gellman?”

  She lowered her fork and looked at me across the table. She smiled. It was such a lovely smile. Two rows of tiny piano keys, the very slightest crinkling of crow’s-feet. “Are you insane or just insanely stupid?”

  “I’m curious about something, Mrs. Larue. How do you know Mike Gellman?”

  She threw some extra syrup into her voice. “I assume you mean besides biblically?”

  “This entire ARK thing is really a complete crock for you, isn’t it?”

  “We are all sinners on the road to salvation. The Lord has room for the imperfect.”

  “Gellman,” I said again.

  She shrugged. “People meet people. What interest could that be of yours?”

  “Let me ask you about someone else. Sophie Potts.”

  She picked up her wineglass. “Sophie Potts.”

  “Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “She came over to the house to see your husband several weeks ago.”

  “Crawford sees a lot of people.”

  “He was seeing this one because he was thinking of adopting her baby.”

  “Oh. The adoption.”

  “You don’t sound terribly excited.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

  “It just seems peculiar, that’s all.”

  “I’d really prefer not to talk about it.”

  I pressed. “It just seems strange. I mean, if your husband is interviewing people who are the potential parents of your child? Isn’t this something you would discuss?”

  “You do have a bad habit of minding other people’s business, don’t you?”

  “I guess I’m just a people person.”

  She looked at me a moment over the rim of her glass. “Okay, yes. I suppose I do recall something about this woman. What I recall is that Crawford was not terribly impressed with her. There wasn’t really much to discuss.”

  “Sophie Potts is dead,” I said.

  If I was expecting a big reaction, I was disappointed.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” the woman said. “What did she die of?”

  “She tried to drink a river. It turned out to be too much for her. Especially after a long drop from a bridge.”

  “May I say that our conversation is not making a lot of sense to me?”

  “I admit, I’m not the most linear dog in the park,” I said. “Sophie drowned. She may or may not have been pushed off a bridge.”

  “Is this the person I am supposed to have murdered?”

  “The fact is I’m a little frustrated here, Ginny. I assume I may call you Ginny. I feel so much closer to you after the wine in the face.”

  “You may.”

  “Ginny. You see, I’m having a real problem. I’m trying to get a clear picture of things. I was hoping to muscle you into giving me some information.”

  “I don’t suppose it crossed your nonlinear brain simply to ask?”

  “Well, I did. I asked you how it is that you know Mike Gellman.”

  “That’s simple. Mike’s uncle introduced us.”

  “His uncle?”

  “Owen Cutler. Owen is a dear friend of Crawford’s. He has known him for years. His firm represents the ARK in legal matters. Do you know Owen? He is an exquisite gentleman.”

  “I’ve met him.” I thought about this for a few seconds. Owen Cutler. I pictured the distinguished gentleman coming up onto the Naval Academy Bridge to represent Mike to Sophie’s parents. “Gellman sent him along as an errand boy a few days ago.”

  “Mike is devoted to that man.”

  “Let me ask you something else. Do you know how it is that your husband heard of Sophie Potts in the first place?” I already knew the answer.

  “I seem to recall that that was Owen as well. Owen is aware that Crawford has been . . . looking into adoption. He came to Crawford and told him that he knew of a young girl who was in a ‘difficult position.’ ”

  “Did Cutler also tell your husband that Sophie was Mike Gellman’s nanny? For that matter, did Mike tell you?”

  Ginny Larue looked authentically surprised. “Mike’s nanny?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. He didn’t tell you?”

  “I would hardly expect Crawford to think I might find that information the slightest bit interesting.”

  “I find it interesting.”

  She smiled. “Of course you do. It’s other people’s business.”

  “Okay, I can understand your husband not bringing it up. But Mike?”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t aware.”

  “That his uncle had ushered his own nanny off to see your husband? Sorry. He must have known. But he didn’t mention it to you. Seems odd to me.”

  She thought a moment. She also made a gesture to the waiter. She wanted the bill. “It does. I agree. The fact is, Mike and I don’t really spend a lot of time talking about things like that.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Our lives.” Ginny Larue finished off her wine. I started to pour her some more, but she reached out and stopped me. Her fingers rode mine as I lowered the carafe, then she withdrew her hand and touched a finger to the side of her mouth.

  “It’s my turn to as
k a question,” she said.

  “Fine. Shoot.”

  “Room sixty-five has a superb view of the Capitol.” She took her napkin from her lap and set it in her salad bowl. “Would you like to see it?”

  CHAPTER

  21

  I had an uneventful drive back to Baltimore. I got caught up in a little early rush-hour traffic. But then I’m so blessed to have a thirty-foot commute between my place and the funeral home that I don’t think I’ve much place to crab about being caught up in traffic when it happens. I searched around the radio dial and found an interview show with a man in England who had managed to breed a type of rabbit that glows in the dark. Phosphorescent green. The man was giggling so much I never did discover what the purpose of this was.

  All things considered, Ginny Larue had taken my polite refusal to check out the view in room sixty-five pretty much like an adult. She had told me that she was not going to ask me a second time, that this was a once-in-a-lifetime offer.

  “It’s a spectacular view,” she said. “Like no other you’ll ever get.”

  I expressed my gratitude and explained that it was nothing at all personal. She apologized for her earlier hostility.

  “I don’t like it when a man thinks he can boss me around. I won’t put up with it. I never have.”

  “Equal rights for equal fights,” I had responded, wondering where the hell that had come from, let alone what the hell it really meant.

  I swung by Bolton Hill on the off chance that I’d catch Libby. She wasn’t in, but the baby-sitter from up the street was. Lily appeared at the woman’s side and screwed her face up when she saw me.

  “I can pee in the bathtub,” she announced.

  I was noting a definite water theme with the child.

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “I ate a pumpkin.”

  “I swallowed a restaurant,” I told her, and she made another screwed-up face and ran back into the house, laughing.

  Darryl Sandusky was sitting on the front steps of the funeral home when I got back, enjoying a cigarette. So was Pete.