Travellin' Shoes

by V. M. Burns

  In the front of the parlor sat Mrs. Warren, appropriately dressed in black.

  The service itself was short, sweet, and to the point. There were no public displays of emotion. No hysterics. A recital of Psalm 23, a few scriptures, and a brief word from a funeral director who obviously didn’t know the deceased, and we were released. Tyrone Warren’s remains were to be cremated when released by the coroner and placed in a crypt. So there was no internment at the gravesite. All in all, the entire proceedings didn’t take more than thirty minutes.

  People grieve and cope with death in different ways. But there was something chilling about the lack of tears at the death of one so young. Perhaps in a much older man who had lived a long and productive life, or one who had suffered through an agonizing illness, death might have come as a relief. But the sudden death of a young man, barely in his mid-thirties, should have generated more emotions. Anger, sadness, shock … something, anything would have been better than this polite acceptance.

  Only once during the service did Mrs. Warren appear to lose her cool. As she was leaving the parlor, she stumbled. Maybe it was a moment of emotion, or maybe her cane got hung up on the oriental carpet. Whatever the reason for the slip, Mrs. Warren would have fallen if it weren’t for Bryce Chandler.

  “Ever the gentleman is Mr. Chandler, isn’t he?” Harley whispered as we watched him assist Mrs. Warren out of the parlor. Following at a discreet distance, we watched as he helped Mrs. Warren into the waiting limousine before sliding into the car himself. The limousine pulled off almost at once. Standing by, somewhat surprised at being left behind, was a woman I assumed was Mrs. Chandler. Puzzled and slightly embarrassed, she searched through her purse for her keys and then headed for one of the many BMWs gracing the parking lot. Hers was an impressive, black 760Li.

  Harley whistled as we watched her pull out.

  “Nice ride.”

  “That, my friend, is the BMW 760Li. Starting MSRP is one hundred twenty thousand dollars; however, I’m guessing Mrs. Chandler’s tushy is resting on comfortable Nasca leather seats. Walnut dashboard, and if my eyes don’t deceive, those are eighteen-inch tires with custom rims. All that luxury probably set Mr. Chandler back one hundred fifty thou.”

  I do love cars. While I am not a big fan of German cars, the BMW is a totally different story. That isn’t a car. It’s a finely tuned vehicle designed to hug the road. The suspension and turning radius are things of beauty. It’s also not bad to look at.

  “That car cost more than my house and it definitely cost more than either one of us will ever make serving and protecting the public.” Harley’s family was wealthy, but he didn’t flaunt it. He lived, to the complete and utter dismay of his parents, totally off his policeman’s salary.

  We got into our rental car, which seemed smaller now than before we entered the funeral home, and drove to Mrs. Tyrone Warren’s house.

  There were few cars at the house, but we did note Mrs. Chandler’s BMW was not in the driveway as we walked up to the front door. I wondered if Bryce Chandler would have the limo take him home or if he planned to stay over.

  Entering the house, we noticed new rugs provided a pathway across the great expanse of white carpeting that led into the living room. Apparently, Mrs. Warren had found time for a little redecorating before her husband’s funeral. We’d only been in town for two days, so she must have been in a hurry.

  In the living room, Mrs. Warren sat as if on a throne, while the guests came up and paid their respects. Waiters and waitresses dressed in black pants and white shirts circulated amongst the guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and white wine. Mrs. Warren had gone all out for this affair, but something about the entire thing made me sad.

  Funerals and memorial services at First Baptist Church almost always include a sermon and a choir. They are emotional occasions for a lot of reasons. I think there’s something comforting about tears and grief on such an occasion. The choir sings what Mama B called, “gone to be with Jesus” songs. Songs like “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and “Goin’ Up Yonder” or “I Stood on the Banks of Jordan,” which were sure to bring a tear or two.

  After the service, the processional followed the hearse to the graveside for a prayer and a few final words. Then everyone went back to the church for a meal. The Mother’s Board, Missionary Society, and all the other women who can truly cook brought food so the family ate and fellowshipped. You can actually get some of the best food you’ve ever tasted at an old-fashioned funeral. There’s sure to be chicken, dressings, green beans, corn, sweet potato pie, caramel cake, and fruit punch to wash it all down with.

  Something about this catered plate of appetizers and white wine seemed sacrilegious. I smiled to think what Mama B would say if she saw it.

  Harley and I made our way to Mrs. Warren. She seemed angry, or was that fear? I extended my hand. “Mrs. Warren, I am very sorry for your loss. I only knew your husband for a few months, but I can honestly say he made a big impression on our small town and on our church, where he will most assuredly be missed.”

  She shook my hand, and I saw the first glimmer of true emotion. For a moment, her eyes watered and her voice shook.

  “Thank you. I didn’t realize you knew him personally.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  Bryce Chandler had moved from his position beside Mrs. Warren when we arrived, but now he watched us from across the room.

  “Mrs. Warren, we are truly sorry.” Harley had turned up the Southern accent and the charm a notch as he handed Mrs. Warren a business card. “However, if you think of anything that will help us in our investigation, please give us a call.”

  Mrs. Warren fingered the card before placing it on a nearby table.

  “Yes. I will, but I don’t …. I will. Certainly.”

  She glanced at Bryce Chandler, who was having a whispered conversation with a man we’d seen earlier at the memorial service.

  “Is there something you remembered?” For a split second, I thought she was going to say something. Perhaps she would have if Bryce Chandler hadn’t chosen that moment to turn and make eye contact. You didn’t have to be a psychic to know something was going on between these two.

  “I was just wondering when my husband’s personal belongings would be released.”

  “Unfortunately, there isn’t a lot left. Practically everything burned in the fire. We’re still investigating. Any evidence collected will be returned after our investigation is complete.” I thought Mrs. Warren seemed a little anxious. Maybe it was just the stress from the funeral.

  “I see. Well, thank you.”

  We were holding up the lines of mourners waiting to extend their condolences to Mrs. Warren, so we moved on.

  Other than some stolen glances between Bryce Chandler and the widow Warren, there didn’t appear to be much going on.

  So we ditched the finger food and left. Outside, a Rolls Royce was parked at the curb. It hadn’t been there when we went in. Trust me, I would have noticed a Rolls.

  Harley whistled and said, “Nice ride.”

  “That model is about two hundred fifty thousand. Only a small percentage of Rolls Royces are even imported into this country each year.” I do so love cars.

  “Tye Warren must have some rich friends.”

  “You got that right.”

  “I wonder who?” But Harley didn’t have to wonder for long. Just as he finished speaking, the door opened and the Incredible Hulk got out of the front seat. Wearing jeans so tight I wondered how he could breathe, he zipped up a black-leather jacket to hide a shoulder holster. Harley and I both made sure our hands were close to our weapons as the Hulk opened the door to the backseat.

  Compared to the Hulk, the elderly woman who stepped out of the car looked like a child. She was extremely petite and wore a full-length fur coat despite the warm May weather. Perhaps she wasn’t dripping in diamonds, but there sure seemed to be a lot of them adorning her small frame. We nodded as she approached and were both surprised when
she stopped in front of us, holding on to Hulk’s arm for support.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I was hoping for an opportunity to speak to you.”

  We mumbled good afternoon and shook the small, frail, wrinkled hand she extended.

  “Let me introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Elizabeth Hartford-Graham.”

  “Hartford-Graham? Are you the Hartford-Graham who owns the Easy Street Casino?” Harley had done his homework after all.

  Smiling, she said, “Well, yes. My husband owned it, but after he passed away, I found I enjoyed owning my own casino.”

  “I’m Detective—”

  “I know who you both are,” she said.

  “What can we do for you?”

  “Would you gentlemen mind if we sat down and talked? I’m not a young woman and I tire easily. I’m sure we can find someplace quiet to sit and have a private conversation inside. You weren’t leaving so soon, were you?”

  It was obvious we were leaving but we denied it and turned to accompany Mrs. Hartford-Graham back into the house.

  Turning to the Hulk, she said, “Gerald, you can leave me now. I’m sure these nice young men will help me.” And with that, Gerald was dismissed as Mrs. Hartford-Graham shifted away from him, hooking one arm through each of ours. We slowly helped our frail charge into the house.

  Back inside the house, the atmosphere was electrified as Mrs. Hartford-Graham entered and was immediately recognized.

  Mrs. Warren rushed—as much as anyone with a cane can rush—to welcome her new visitor. “Mrs. Hartford-Graham, I’m so honored you would come to my home.” To say that Mrs. Warren gushed might be stretching it, but not by much. Obviously, Mrs. Hartford-Graham was well known and extremely well respected, at least in this circle. If Mrs. Warren were physically capable of a curtsy, I think she would have done so. Instead, she bobbed her head.

  Mrs. Warren became the charming hostess. “Please have a seat over by the window. That chair is the most comfortable, and it has a good view of the outside. I’m sure Mrs. Johnson won’t mind switching.” Mrs. Warren didn’t care whether Mrs. Johnson minded or not. Mrs. Johnson vacated the comfortable chair at once, as if not minding the snub. Apparently, the ritual of seniority seating that played out in Mama B’s small living room was no different than that of the rich and famous, I thought, as I watched Mrs. Johnson shift down to a less comfortable chair more suited to her rank in this hierarchy.

  Sitting delicately in the chair of honor, Mrs. Hartford-Graham said, “I am so sorry for your loss. I wanted to come personally and give you my condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Warren bowed her head in acknowledgment, and I swear to God, bobbed again.

  Harley and I were both pretty curious at this point and wondered just how important Mrs. Hartford-Graham was.

  “Mrs. Warren, I think my age and rheumatism are catching up with me. Do you have a quiet place I could rest for just a minute?”

  “Of course. You can go to the master bedroom. It’s just down the hall. Let me help you.” Mrs. Warren moved in to assist Mrs. Hartford-Graham but was stopped with a look.

  “I believe these two gentlemen can assist me, if you will just point us in the right direction.” It was said with kindness, but a firmness underlined the words and prevented any rebuttal from Mrs. Warren.

  “Why, of course. It’s just down the hall there. Please let me know if you need anything,” were Mrs. Warren’s final words as we led Mrs. Hartford-Graham down the hall.

  The bedroom was as impersonal and cold as the rest of the house, with white carpet and a large four-poster bed that looked like it belonged in a decorating magazine but not a home. A desk and a seating area were set up in front of a bay window that overlooked the yard.

  “I think that chair at the desk will be just fine if you gentlemen wouldn’t mind helping me.”

  After ensuring Mrs. Hartford-Graham was comfortably seated, Harley and I sat in the two Eames-inspired chairs that faced her and waited.

  “Tyrone Warren was a brilliant auditor, as I’m sure you know. He did the books for my casino and several other businesses I own. Needless to say, I was shocked at his disappearance and later to hear word of his death.”

  Sitting behind the desk in the Warrens’ bedroom, we got a glimpse not of the frail woman whose body was failing her, but of the shrewd, rock-hard businesswoman who had built a multimillion-dollar enterprise.

  “Have you discovered who killed him?”

  Now here was someone I would not enjoy playing poker with. She neither shrank from us nor did she provide any of the usual small signs of discomfort or anxiety. Bold and flatfooted, she stared at Harley and me as if she had every right in the world to ask this question and expected to be answered. In her eyes, I glimpsed the steel that must have propelled her to her current position, and for a split second I intended to answer her.

  Instead, I replied, “Mrs. Hartford-Graham, I’m sure you understand we’re working on an active murder investigation and are not at liberty to disclose any information.”

  She looked disappointed. As with the hulk-like bodyguard, the Rolls Royce, the fur coat, and the jewelry, it was all an act. This lady was a master manipulator, and like any good theatrical director, she had set the scene, gotten her actors, and was playing her part. I don’t mean she wasn’t old or that she wasn’t in need of assistance. I believe that part was real. But she was not a helpless invalid. Mrs. Hartford-Graham was a dangerous woman who should not be underestimated.

  One quick glance toward Harley, and the first act was finished. She smiled and nodded before adding, “I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I can see you are smart men. Quite perceptive too, I think. You’d make dangerous adversaries.”

  I surprised myself by saying, “So would you, I think.”

  Mrs. Hartford-Graham smiled. “You’re right, Detective. Do I still call you ‘Detective’?”

  Interesting. Only a handful of people knew I was considering retirement. She wanted me to know her sources were powerful and her network extended not only to St. Joe, Indiana, but to its inner circle. “I’m still a detective.”

  She smiled. “I’ve always been vain.”

  Harley wasn’t quite quick enough to hide his surprise, which caused another smile before she continued, “No, Detective Wickfield, I don’t mean vain about looks. I was never what anyone would call a raging beauty. No, not beauty, but I have always been smart. I am vain about my intelligence. You have undoubtedly done your research and probably know more about me than I’d care to acknowledge. But did you know I graduated first in my class at Smith?”

  She gazed out the window and her eyes had a faraway look as if she were remembering herself as a student at the prestigious women’s college. “But I was born in the wrong time. Women were not titans of industry in my day. I had thought in my youth I could change that. I was conceited and bold enough to believe I could succeed where countless other women had failed before me.” Looking directly at me, she said, “I think you understand. Society is far too concerned with the physical, outward appearance. Black or white, man or woman, young or old—it shouldn’t matter. It’s the brain that matters. The intellect.”

  Shifting her gaze toward the window, she looked out again for a full minute before continuing, “I learned there were other ways to have influence and power.” She sighed and then added in a matter-of-fact tone, “But enough reflection. We cannot change the past. So, you can’t or won’t share what you’ve discovered so far about Mr. Warren’s death. I shall have to be satisfied with that.”

  Mrs. Hartford-Graham started to rise but halted when I asked, “Is there anything you can tell us about Mr. Warren’s death?”

  “I have no information about Mr. Warren at all.” She shook her head. “I haven’t seen or heard from him in many months.”

  “Do you know any reason why someone would want to see Mr. Warren dead?” I kept hoping her words or behavior would provide some clue about the murder.

  Again, she shook h
er head, “No. I didn’t know him very well at all.” Mrs. Hartford-Graham looked at me with wide-eyed innocence.

  “But you knew him well enough to come to the funeral,” Harley said quietly.

  “Well, Detective, at my age I attend a great many funerals,” Mrs. Hartford-Graham said with a smile.

  “Have you noticed any money missing, perhaps?” I asked.

  For a split second, I saw a look of anger cross Mrs. Hartford-Graham’s face before it resumed its mask of innocence.

  “Not that anyone has told me. Why do you ask, Detective?”

  I felt sure she was lying. Mrs. Hartford-Graham was missing money and she knew I knew. I also knew she wouldn’t say anything that would help us find out who killed Tye Warren, but I had to at least try. “If you know anything at all that can assist us in our investigation, I encourage you to please tell us.”

  She looked at me and sighed. “Detective Franklin, I wish I knew something that would help you. Unfortunately, I don’t.” With that, she pushed herself up from the desk and Harley and I went to assist her.

  “It is terrible to get old, Detective Wickfield.”

  Trying to lighten the mood, Harley added, “I hear it beats the alternative.”

  “I don’t know that it does. Perhaps if your brain grew old along with your body … but to have your brain just as sharp, or very nearly so, as at thirty or forty in an eighty-year-old body that is falling apart is not a pleasant thing.”

  We walked Mrs. Hartford-Graham back to the living room area where the crowd looked virtually unmoved, as if frozen in time.

  Mrs. Warren hobbled over to attend to Mrs. Hartford-Graham. The older woman, however, merely inclined her head, halting Mrs. Warren in her tracks. She then allowed us to lead her out to her waiting car. Outside, Hulk leaped from the car and opened the door and helped Mrs. Hartford-Graham into the seat.

  “Gentlemen, thank you both so much for all your assistance. I don’t know if we shall see each other again, but I do hope that if we do, it will be under more festive circumstances.”