The Undertaker

by William Brown

  “Friends like the late Mr. and Mrs. Peter Emerson Talbott? Did you know them, by the way? Did he keep your books, too?”

  “No. Regrettably, I was not acquainted with the deceased, but that is hardly unusual in this business. Mortuary science can be a solitary profession and we rarely know our clients. I am told the gentleman operated a small, but very successful accounting business on the near north side of Columbus, but I did not avail myself of his services. Mr. Talbott was however very involved in the local community. I believe Mr. Tinkerton knew him and frankly, sir, that is a lot more than I can say for you.”

  I stared down at him, knowing I was running out of ammunition. “All right, what about fingerprints. Did you check those?”

  “Why would I want to do something like that?”

  “Because they weren't Peter and Terri Talbott, that's why.”

  “Then you should take the matter up with the sheriff's office or with the Varner Clinic. As for me, there were legal death certificates, all signed and sealed in the proper manner, and that is all that the law requires of me.”

  “No autopsy either, I bet?

  “Mr. Talbott, we have very precise laws in this state. Autopsies are performed when we do not know the cause of death. In this case, there was no question. Doctors had attended both of them at the time of their deaths. A train struck their car. There was massive physical trauma and tissue loss, so no further analysis was required practically or legally and an autopsy would have been an unwarranted intrusion.”

  “Funny, Dannmeyer said the accident happened out on the Interstate.”

  “Then the good sheriff was mistaken, wasn't he?”

  “The jarhead won't like you saying that.”

  “You have exhausted my patience, Mr. Talbott. If you have any additional questions, I suggest you take them up with the sheriff himself. You'll find his office up in the town of Campbell right next to the courthouse… right next to the county jail.”

  “And here I thought he ran things from your parking lot. How silly of me.”

  “I resent that. We provide a necessary and valuable public service, Mr. Talbott. Some people may find the mortuary business unpleasant or even discomforting. That is why we try to be as discreet and private as we can, which is what our clients expect of us. As for your suggestions that I'm involved in some conspiracy to knowingly bury another person under your name, I think you've been watching too many movies.”

  “Not after what I saw and heard today.”

  “You are right of course.” Greene broke into a sarcastic smile. “Why, just last week Lee Harvey Oswald stuck his head in to say “Hello.” We handled his funeral too, you know. And Adolph Hitler's and Howard Hughes’ as well, as I recall. Out front? That was Elvis Presley trimming the front hedges around the front door as you came in. Now good day to you, sir!”

  Having dazzled Greene with my footwork, intellect, and style, I turned and left peacefully. Of course, he was lying, but tossing his place wouldn't have added very much to what I didn't already know. Besides, the guy could be right. Other than the name and that newspaper obituary, I didn't have a damned thing to go on except my feeling that this thing was all wrong.

  I got in my Bronco and headed back south on Cedarville Road toward Columbus. As I neared the beltway, I could see the sign for the entrance ramp that read “I-270 East, Wheeling.” That was the route back to Boston. I knew I should take it and say to Hell with Ohio, to Lawrence Greene, to Sheriff Dannmeyer, and to those obituaries, but I wasn't ready to do that. Not yet. There was something about this whole business and the arrogant send-off I got from Greene and his buddy Dannmeyer that told me I was right and I needed to know more. So I drove on past the exit ramp. Going to the funeral in Columbus was probably my first mistake and driving past the exit ramp that would have taken me back to Boston was undoubtedly the second, but I was going to make a whole lot more before this day was over.

  Farther down the street, I saw a cluster of economy motels. My dwindling funds being what they were, I opted for the Motel 6. I told the young, blond college girl with the bright blue eyes behind the desk that Dave sent me and asked if they really did leave the light on, but she just stared at me. I'd like to think she'd heard that one before, but maybe she just didn't get it.

  After dinner, I made another call to Boston, to Doug Chesterton. “Is this him or his machine?” I asked.

  “It's his machine.”

  “When he comes back, tell him Pete Talbott got delayed a bit longer in Ohio.”

  “Twice in one day? It's gotta be something you met in a bar. Heather? Bambi? Or was it George?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Well, just don't catch anything, Peter.”

  “I'll be careful, coach.”

  “Good. And get your ass back here as soon as you can. Those sub-routines were great and they got us back on track with the contract, but I can't crank on the next phase without you.”

  “A couple of things came up that I gotta look into tomorrow morning, then I'll be back on the road. Honest.”

  “Fine. But be here by Friday or I'm road kill, okay?”

  “Gotcha, boss, Friday it is.”

  I knew I should have taken Dave's room keys back to the desk and piled my stuff back in the Bronco right then and there. I could have made it into West Virginia or Pennsylvania that night, slept there, and cruised into Boston the next day, but I was exhausted from being up for two days straight. That was what I told myself, but I just couldn't make myself leave. As I sat there in the motel room and stared at the telephone, I realized this business with the obituaries, the funeral, and with Greene and Dannmeyer had lit some fires deep inside me that hadn't burned for a long, long time. I was no longer a stick-man walking. I felt alive, and I liked it.

  The loss of the job and Terri had left me a cold, burned-out shell. For the first time in many months, I was hot about something. Love, hate, or whatever, I felt something and I knew I mattered again. Something terribly wrong was going on here and I had to find out what it was. If I cut and ran, and that would have been so easy for me to do, I'd be safe in my little shell, but they would have gotten away with it.

  So I decided to stay in Columbus, for one night anyway.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pete, we hardly knew ya…

  I needed sleep, but I was too wound up to try. One good thing about a Motel 6, the top drawer of the nightstand always contains a Gideon Bible and the drawer below it always has a phone book. Old Dave is nothing if not clean and predictable. The phone book was new. I let my fingers do the walking, flipping back through the white pages to the T’s. There were about four inches of Talbotts in Columbus, some with one T, some with two Ts, and a couple of Peters. Sure enough, towards the bottom, I saw: “Talbott, Peter E., 625 Sedgwick Ave, Worthington, 895-2612”.

  Well, I'll be damned, I thought. Whoever the guy was, he had been using my name long enough to be listed in the phone book. That meant this wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing. They had stashed their Peter Talbott here, him and his wife, and bought him a house and a business to settle into. An accident? Both of them? Not that the world would really miss one CPA more or less, but unless the coffins they buried this afternoon in Oak Hill weren't empty, someone went to a lot of time and trouble to put the guy and his wife here, and a lot more to make him go away.

  I picked up the phone and dialed. After three rings, I heard what I expected to hear, “This number is no longer in service in Area Code 614. If you need assistance, please dial...” I hung up and flipped to the yellow pages, to the A's, where the Accountants dwelled, all five pages of them. I saw a simple two-line listing for “Center Financial Advisors, Accounting and Financial Services, 1811 N. Sickles, 758-9119.” No color graphics or snappy, modern logo like the big accounting firms, not even a boxed ad or bold type, only the two lines of plain black-and-white print. That meant the guy was either very, very successful and didn't need any additional business — and I had never known a bean counter who fe
ll in that category — or his accounting business was so far down in the crapper that a small ad was all he could afford.

  The clock radio on the end table said it was almost 6:00 PM. I would have at least an hour or an hour and a half more daylight, so I decided to check out my alter ego for myself. After all, my busy social schedule was clear for the rest of the night, so why not?

  With my Marathon gas station road map spread out on the car seat next to me, the house on Sedgwick and the office on Sickles proved easy to find. They were a couple of miles apart further in toward town. The house was in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood on the northwest side, about three miles from the motel. It was an older Dutch Colonial with white clapboard siding, dark green shutters and door, flower boxes below the front windows, and two big oaks in front. I could imagine Beaver Cleaver skipping down the front walk on his way to school as Ward mowed the grass in his white shirt, tie, and cardigan sweater, smoking his pipe. Unfortunately, Ward wasn't taking care of this one. The grass was thin and mostly overtaken with weeds, the wood siding on the house had faded, the flowers in the window boxes hung limp and ratty, and the hedges were in desperate need of trimming.

  I circled the block past the Neighborhood Watch sign with the big eyeball and parked in front of 625. After all, I was Peter Talbott, wasn't I? If this was my house, I had nothing to hide. I strolled up the sidewalk to the front door, rang the bell, and waited. Nothing. The drapes were drawn across the front picture window. There were no lights on, but leaning out as far as I could, I peeked around the edge and caught a glimpse inside. The house was empty. No furniture. No carpets. Nothing but bare walls and bare wooden floors. Interesting. The two bodies were barely in the ground, yet someone had already cleaned the place out.

  Following a line of concrete stepping-stones, I walked around to the side of the house, whistling softly and acting as casual as I could in case anyone was watching. The path brought me to a gate in a wooden fence that ran around the back yard. I opened it and stepped inside. Again, empty. Not even a lawn chair, a rake, or a garden hose. They had picked the place clean.

  “Can I help you, young man?” I heard a sharp-edged, woman's voice call to me.

  I turned and smiled, knowing it wasn't a question. It was an accusation. On the other side of the fence stood a tall, craggy, gray-haired woman leaning on a long-handled garden rake, watching me like a sentry with a pike. She wore a man's oversized denim work shirt and she drew a steady bead on me with a pair of small, hawk-like eyes.

  “You know, you just might,” I answered her with a big smile. “I've been trying to reach the Talbotts for a couple of days now.” I motioned toward the house. “I rang the bell, but nobody answered. Guess they aren't home.”

  “Nope. Won't be coming back, neither. They're dead, both of ‘em, in a car wreck, three days ago.”

  “That's awful. A car wreck, huh?”

  “When you get to be my age, you don't want to speak ill of the dead, ‘cause you might be next. But the way Pete drove, didn't come as no surprise.”

  “You knew them pretty well?”

  “'Bout as well as I know you. They moved in maybe six months ago and kept to themselves. Didn't talk much to me or anyone else around here, far as know.”

  I had to laugh. “Warm and friendly?”

  “New Jersey. Same difference. She had a mouth on her could curdle milk. And him? All I ever heard from that fat slob was a loud belch. No, sir, they never fit in, not in this neighborhood, and that's the way they wanted it.”

  She pointed to the rear yard. “Look at the place. Used to be real pretty back when the Battersees lived here, but Pete let everything die. Probably so he'd never have to cut it. He was too damned lazy to do it himself and too cheap to hire it out.” She shook her head sadly. “I don't know. It was as if the two of them weren't expecting to be here very long and they couldn't be bothered. So “screw the lot ‘a you” was about all we ever got out of them, if you'll pardon my French.”

  “But the house? It's already empty.”

  “Yep. A big Allied moving van showed up this morning and took everything.”

  “This morning? Before the funeral?

  “Yep, lock, stock, and pasta barrel.”

  “Pasta barrel? I didn't think they were Italian.”

  “Well, you ask me, they were passin'. Talaberti? Talachetti? Talabuttafucco? Whatever. Maybe Pete changed the name for business, but he wasn't foolin' any of us.”

  “No kids? No family?”

  “None that I ever heard of. Nobody but lawyers.”

  “Lawyers?” I laughed along with her. “There was a time I had a few of them as dependents myself.”

  “Nice boys. Short hair. Dark suits. Like those two fellas in “Men in Black”, but both of them were white and nowhere near as good looking as Tommy Lee Jones.”

  “Tommy Lee Jones?”

  “That's just to show you I don't miss much, young man.”

  “Oh, I can see that.”

  “They sat out there in that gray sedan all morning. Imagine, two lawyers sitting out there in that car, billing by the hour, watching four rednecks load a moving van. I declare.”

  “No idea where they were taking the stuff?”

  “Nope, they didn't say and I didn't ask.”

  “What about the lawyers?”

  “From Hamilton, Keogh, and Hollister, that big firm downtown.” She shook her head. “Imagine what they cost? All that overhead. But they were nice and polite, just like you. They showed me their business cards and their papers, 'cause I said I'd call the cops if they didn't. Same reason you're going to show me yours, aren't you?”

  Sharp. Very sharp, I thought. She held out her hand and waited for me to produce mine. “Hey, I'd love too,” I said. “My briefcase and all my stuff's out in the car. I can go get one if you'd like.”

  She stared at me with a hint of amusement. “If you say so, but I saw those California plates on that Bronco of yours. I wrote the number down too, 'cause we've had enough of people snooping around here lately and we're beginnin' to know what belongs and what don't.”

  “Is that what you think I'm doing? Snooping?”

  She looked at me and cocked her head. “I don't know. You don't look like that other one, I'll give you that much.”

  “The other one?”

  “A cheap sports coat with sunglasses and all those gold chains. He drove a Lincoln, but there were others before him nosin' around, lookin', and none of them belonged in this neighborhood. Neither did those two Talbotts. And neither do you.”

  “One look and you can tell, huh?”

  “Mister, you asked enough questions for one day. Time for you to move along. I got a .357 Magnum inside the house and that's an NRA Life Member decal on my front window. Now you git.”

  “Whoa! I'm with First Ohio National up in Toledo. They just moved me back here from California and the Talbotts are four months behind in their car payments. My job's to track down deadbeats. That's why I'm here.”

  “Which one? His old Buick Electra or the Chevy?”

  “Actually both,” I said, taking chance out of the equation.

  “Then you're half-way in luck. Pete was driving the Chevy when they said he got broadsided by a cement mixer out on the east side some place.”

  “A cement mixer? That sounds messy.”

  “Sure does. I hope it wasn't any of that quick setting stuff. As big as Pete was, that would've made it a whole lot worse,” she giggled. “My Lord, but that's an awful thing to think, ain't it? Guess it don't matter much though. Dead's dead.”

  “You're right, it probably doesn't. You wouldn't know where he left the Buick, would you? Is it in the garage?”

  “Nope. If it was, those lawyers would have sucked it up along with everything else.”

  “You got any idea where it is, then?”

  “Sure do. It's parked up Sedgwick, under that big oak tree in the middle of the next block, where he always left it.”

  “And it's still
there?”

  “It was an hour ago, when I went by, ‘cause I don't think the lawyers know anything about it. It's dirty as sin, but it's still there. You can't miss it.”

  “But why would he park it there?”

  “With Pete, you never know. Most of the time he just sat there like a fat slug, but the man was no dummy. He knew that I knew about the Buick. I'd passed him on the street down there when he was getting in or out a couple of times. I asked him what the Hell he thought he was doing parking down there. He said he needed the exercise and then we really laughed. He shrugged and called it his “getaway car.” I figured he was jokin’ around again, but with them both dead now and you holding the papers, you might as well know where it is, ‘cause he ain't gettin’ away to anywhere anymore.”

  “Thanks. First Ohio National really appreciates it. But how come you never told the lawyers about it?”

  “Them? I have a strict “don't ask, don't tell” policy with cops and with lawyers, young man. They didn't ask, so I didn't tell.”

  I walked back to the Bronco smiling, shaking my head. Who said all the nuts had rolled west to California? Some of them stuck and took root right where they dropped out of the tree.

  Sure enough in the middle of the next block under a big oak tree sat an old midnight blue Buick Electra. I pulled over, parked a few cars down, and walked back. It had to be ten years old: dirty, covered with leaves, and the exterior rusting around the wheel wells. I glanced around, but the street was deserted. I looked inside. The interior was well trashed, with candy bar wrappers, coke cans, and old newspapers strewn about. I tried, but the doors were locked, all four of them. Interesting, I thought. For now, it was enough to know the car was there. But it might be fun to get inside and see what Pete's ”getaway” car held besides the old newspapers and trash.

  The sun would not set for at least a half hour. Sickles Avenue was a four-lane commercial boulevard that proved to be no harder to find than Sedgwick. The 1800 block where Center Financial Advisors was located looked like it had once been a fashionable neighborhood commercial street back in the 1920s or 1930s, but that was a long time ago. Now, it was a badly run-down strip of small stores that wouldn't make it any place else. The surrounding residential area showed the first signs of gentrification, but the stores would take a lot longer. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven. The overhead wires sagged in long loops down the street and no one even tried to keep up with the gang graffiti. It would take a lot of gentries and a ton of city money before the Tae-Kwon-Do parlor, the second-hand clothing shop, the adult book store, two gritty neighborhood bars, and a boarded-up Baptist Mission became art galleries, boutiques, trendy restaurants, and a Starbucks.