“Richard . . . Richard!” I was abruptly shaken out of my nocturnal stupor.
“Okay, okay, Morgana, I am awake. What is it?”
“You were yelling in your sleep.”
“Was I? Oh . . . Sorry. What was I saying?”
“‘Who killed Uncle Raymond?’” Morgana calmly answered as she pushed my disheveled hair off my forehead.
“Really?” I said, noticing that I was somewhat out of breath.
“Yes, really. You frightened me. I feared that you might wake up Joe.”
“I am fine. And rest assured, I’ll be calling Kyle first thing in the morning. He’s the sheriff. I shouldn’t have to worry about murders. That is his job.”
I kissed my wife, and again, I bade her a good night. I rolled over and stared, on and off, at the bedroom wall until dawn. All the while, one thought kept buzzing about in my mind—Who killed Uncle Raymond?
#
CHAPTER 6
When I called Kyle, all I had to do was mention the word ‘breakfast’ to him, and he was on our doorstep before I put down the phone. In the time that it took to fry up six strips of bacon, my brother had planted himself at our kitchen table and polished off three homemade sticky buns, two cups of coffee, and a tumbler of orange juice.
“Not for anything, Rich,” declared my brother impatiently, “but unlike you retired folks, most of us have to go to work today. When you called, I thought breakfast had been already cooked and plated.”
“How in the world did you get over here so fast?” I said as I slipped a half rasher of bacon onto my brother’s plate. “I know you wake up at 6 AM; I phoned you at 6:30, and you’re here at 6:40. What were you doing when I called, hovering outside my house, waiting for an invite?”
“In fact,” said Kyle as he leaned backward in his sack-back Windsor chair, “I was on my way over to your place when you called. I wanted to give you the lowdown on some of the final arrangements I made for Uncle Raymond.”
As my brother chatted away about death notices and announcements, he leaned further back in his chair and rested all of his three hundred plus pounds on the chair’s two rear legs. The result was a long low moaning sound, much like a cow makes needing to be milked. The Windsor’s distress didn’t go unnoticed by my ever-attentive wife.
“Kyle,” beckoned my wife in her ‘calm before the storm’ voice.
“Yes,” Kyle innocently answered.
Smiling, Morgana walked to my brother in a slow, purposeful stride while holding a half-filled coffee pot in her white-knuckled right hand. “Kyle,” she asked, “how many times have I warned you not to lean back on our chairs? You have already broken two.”
“And don’t forget,” I chimed in, “our two toilet seats.”
“Hey, those toilet seats must have been very cheap to break so—”
“Sit like a normal person!” My better exploded with fire in her eyes. Her no compromise assertiveness caught both Kyle and me by surprise. Like boys being reprimanded by their mother, Kyle instantly corrected his posture, and I focused my attention on the business at the stove. Then like a summer cloudburst, Morgana’s mood changed. She smiled and calmly said, “Please, be more careful, Kyle . . . More coffee?”
My brother sheepishly held out his cup. “Yes, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Kyle.”
As Morgana refilled his cup, Kyle asked, “Eh, Rich, you mentioned on the phone that Joe was here?”
“Yep.”
“From what you told me, some strange stuff has happened to him.”
“Joe and I have come to the conclusion that it is all somehow linked to Uncle Raymond’s death. He can fill you in about the details himself. He should be down soon. I think he’s doing his morning office.”
Kyle looked confused.
“His breviary . . . his Examen. Though, I think traditionally the Jesuit Examen is done at noon and in the evening.”
Kyle looked even more confused. “He’s doing what?”
“Saying is morning prayers,” said Morgana.
“Oh? . . . Oh! That’s good. Ayup, we need all the prayers that we can get. With Uncle Raymond being murdered and all.”
With the speed of a cobra strike, my brother snatched the last two pieces of French Toast from the serving platter as Morgana removed it for replenishing.
“You like my French Toast?” Morgan asked with a dash of sarcasm.
“Ayup, they’re not bad,” replied Kyle, obliviously to the tone of the question. “Oh, by the way, I spoke with Terry Blanmar about Uncle’s wake and funeral arrangements. If it is okay with you, the wake will be the day after tomorrow. The funeral itself will be the day following.”
“One day for the wake?” I said, mulling over the idea. “Yeah, that’s all fine with me. I don’t think Uncle Raymond would want us to have more than that. He would never forgive us the extra expense for a two-day wake. Should you and I go to Blanmar’s this afternoon to pick out a coffin?”
“If you want to, but I thought that we should get the same model that we got for Dad.” Kyle wiped his hands on a paper napkin and began to dig into his pants pocket. His search produced a torn piece of notebook paper. “The casket’s style is called The Homeward Bound,” said Kyle reading from his notes. “It’s made of maple and has brass hardware. Wholesale it goes for fourteen hundred dollars.”
“Yeah, I don’t remember the casket that well, but I do remember the price of Dad’s . . . twenty-six seventy-five . . . but that was retail and without tax.”
“But here’s the thing. Old man Blanmar said he has one of these caskets in stock that he’ll give to us for a flat nine hundred.”
Knowing my brother, I was a little afraid to ask him how he managed to get such a substantial discount, but curiosity got the best of me. “Why such a great break on the price?”
“It’s a return.”
“Someone returned a coffin?”
“That’s what old man Blanmar said. It’s like brand new.”
“But it is a return? Is that even legal?”
“Ayup, under certain conditions.”
I hadn’t the stomach to ask Kyle for any more additional information about the coffin. I just let myself be satisfied with getting a good price on the box. “Sounds good, I guess.” My thoughts then went to other things. “Oh, in Uncle’s desk, there is an old Boy Scouting manual. In it, there is a list of friends and acquaintances of Uncle Raymond’s.”
“I have it. Picked it up last night at the scene of the . . .” Kyle stopped, sighed, and started again. “But why would he keep the list of his friends in an old Scout handbook?”
“God only knows,” as I started another batch of bacon. “He kept things all over the place.”
“In any case, the names will be useful for the investigation.” Kyle gently shook his head from side to side. “Boy, it seems that Uncle Raymond had lots of friends, but I personally know only a few of them.” Kyle paused to wipe some wayward syrup from his bottom lip. “How did you know about the list?”
“A few weeks back, I spotted it when I was looking for one of his medical forms. I found the book with the list in the top center drawer—”
“Good morning all!” said Joe entering the room. “Sorry for taking so long getting down. I had some things to do.”
“Grab something to eat before Kyle gets to it,” warned Morgana with a wry smile.
“ Kyle, good to see you again,” said Joe extending his hand. “I haven’t seen you since—”
“ I performed the Dragon’s Breath trick at my brother’s wedding,” proudly said Kyle as he stood up.
“And a breathtaking trick it was,” commented Joe grabbing his my brother’s hand and shaking it. “Oh, no need to get up . . .”
“Yes, there is. I’m a little bound up in my shorts.”
“Thank you, Kyle, for always being our source of news and entertainment,” commented Morgana, placing the platter of freshly cooked bacon, scrambled eggs, and French Toast on the table. “Joe,
your place is next to Richard’s.” I noticed her giving the back legs of the chair a quick eye when she pulled it out for our guest. “I’m sorry that we started breakfast before you came down, but I must dash off to work. And Kyle starts work at, eh . . . never mind. Come, sit, and eat. The three of you have much to talk about.”
“I see that you’re now the local sheriff,” remarked Joe as he started serving himself breakfast.
“That I am. I have been elected twice by the people of the county.”
“Democracy is an amazing institution.” Joe shook. “Congratulations. And Rich, I phoned Father Peter, and he will be here around noon time to take me back to the abbey if that is okay with you?”
“Sure, that’s fine, Joe . . . Tea or coffee?” I said while I poured myself a second cup of Columbian.
“Coffee will be fine, Rich.”
“Yikes, I must go,” declared Morgana, noticing the time. “Don’t overdo it on the coffee, Richard. Remember your blood pressure.” She gave me a goodbye kiss on the cheek, then she whispered, “Call me around 10AM. And protect my chairs!” Grabbing her briefcase and her coat, she dashed to the kitchen backdoor. “I’m sorry, guys, but I must run. I have several meetings today, and I have some scholars flying in from Europe to meet and greet. Great to see you again, Joe. Don’t be a stranger.”
With minimum effort, she got on her coat and trotted out the door. “Oh, Richard, it’s your turn to make dinner. There’s some left-over ham. Do you want to make your Chinese rice dish?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Good. Bye guys. Don’t get into trouble.”
“We won’t.” I glanced at Kyle and hoped. “Bye, Love.” My eyes followed Morgana to the car. In a flash, I was already missing the nearness of my devoted supporter and confidant. I sighed to the crunching sounds of tires rolling over gravel that faded away amid the tweets and chirps of the nearby forest.
“Morgana’s a great girl, Rich,” said Joe, breaking the silence. “You’ve done well.”
My old friend’s remark caught me off guard. It had been a long time since anyone called Morgana a girl.
“You are so right, Joe; I am so lucky to have married her.”
“So am I,” quipped Kyle.
“Thank you, Kyle, for that endorsement.”
“I think that Morgana’s French Toast is better than Grandma’s.” Kyle swallowed hard to finish what was in his mouth. “And let me tell you, Joe, our grandmother’s French Toast was exceptional.”
Not wanting to waste any more time, I brought the pot to the table, poured a cup of coffee for Joe, and sat down. Without any objections, I assumed the position of chairman of our kitchen table conference and had Joe tell Kyle all that he told me last night.”
Again, my old friend ran down the list of events and experiences that involved his planned visitation to Uncle Raymond. When Joe got to the part about being mugged, he mentioned his suspicions about the guy in the black trench coat.
“Wait a second, Joe,” interrupted Kyle. “Did you really think this guy in the black raincoat was following you from the airport and then interfered with your attackers?”
“Not at the time of my attack, but I do now.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, I think I saw him in the driver’s seat of the car parked outside the abbey where I’m staying.”
“Very odd,” said Kyle from behind a heap of scrambled eggs on the fork that was heading straight to his mouth. “And the make, model, color of the car? Did you see the license plate?”
“The car at the diner was a black, two-door something or other. I do remember that it had New York State plates, but I haven’t any idea what the numbers were.”
“Well, that helps, but not much,” said Kyle as he leaned back on his chair, digesting both his breakfast and Joe’s tale.
“The car at the abbey, was it the same car?” I asked.
“It was dark outside, I can’t say for sure, but it looked like it.”
“In what direction was the car facing?”
“By the compass, I don’t know. But it was parked in the same direction that I was coming from.”
“And he was parked across the street, eh,” said Kyle.
“On the other side of the street,” said Joe, “of the abbey.”
“So, this mysterious fellow of yours, Joe, was parked on the Northwest side of Abbey Road,” I said, “when you arrived at the abbey?”
“Yes.”
“So if this stranger is the same guy who was at the airport and the diner,” concluded Kyle, “he knew your ultimate destination.”
“Exactly,” said Joe with uneasiness. “Not a pleasant thought, is it?”
“Better him being there than your two muggers friends,” I said while marveling at the empty basket where two sticky buns were just a moment ago. “Joe, did you like the buns?”
“Were there buns?”
“So,” said Kyle, “this mystery guy drives off into the darkness and disappears.”
“Exactly. The whole thing was so strange, and it happened so quickly . . . This French Toast is really delicious.” Joe took a moment to cut another forkful and dipped it into the puddle of maple syrup on his plate.
While Joe was distracted by Morgana’s culinary creation, I held up the empty basket and gave my brother a hand gesture that signaled my disappointment that there weren’t any buns.
“And you have no idea who this mysterious stranger maybe?” asked Kyle.
“Not a clue,” said Joe, cutting his French Toast with the side of his fork.
“Joe,” I asked, “and don’t take this question the wrong way, but why didn’t you call me before you even contacted Uncle Raymond? . . . You know, out of courtesy.”
“I did, twice. I left messages for you to phone me, but you never called back.”
“You called. When?”
“Three days ago and yesterday morning.”
“I never got a call.”
“Did you check your messages?”
I got up from the table and went to the kitchen phone to check its answering device. “There aren’t any messages. Morgana might have gone through them, but I’m sure that she would have told me about them.”
Kyle leaned back on his chair and asked, “Joe, did you call Richard on his cell phone or his home phone?”
Joe reached into his pocket and took out his mobile. After a few taps on his device, he said, “I called using the number that Richard gave me when we met in Italy a few years back.”
Kyle grinned, then said, “I bet you anything, Joe, that the number you have is Richard’s cell number.”
It was.
“And Richard doesn’t use his cell phone very often, and never at home. In fact, it would be a cold day in Honolulu when he turns his phone on without expecting a call on it. Oh, by the way, Rich, where is your cell phone right now?”
“Up, stairs . . . I think. Either it’s on my dresser or in the pocket of my hiking vest.”
“Is your cell on now?” pointedly asked Kyle.
“No. Why would I run down the battery?”
“When was the last time you checked your messages on that phone?”
I was getting a little uncomfortable with Kyle’s interrogation. “Joe, I didn’t mean to give—”
“Rich, when did you last check your messages on your cell?” persisted Kyle.
To my way of thinking, my being hounded about my cell phone use was wasting time. So, I bit the bullet to bring the matter to a close. “I am not sure that I know how to check for messages on my cell. I hardly use the thing.” I could tell by the glint in my brother’s eyes that he was enjoying his little inquisition.
“Morgana gets a hold of my phone every now and checks my emails and messages. She then cleans out the unwanted ones for me. I haven’t any inclination to figure out the intricacies of that annoying device,” I said in my defense. “I use my mobile phone to make out-going calls . . . or to receive calls at a pre-arranged and specific time
. Otherwise, I rely on my trusted landline to make and receive calls.”
“But if someone,” asked Joe, “wants to call you when you are not at home, how does he reach you?”
“He doesn’t,” snapped my brother. “Rich is still living in the twentieth century. If you want to call Rich, and he’s not home, call Morgana. She’ll most likely be with him. And she keeps her cell phone on.”
“How about texting?” asked Joe.
“Richard has never texted in his life. He equates it to Morse Code, as he has put it on several occasions.” Then in a poor imitation of my voice, Kyle said mockingly, “‘If you want to communicate with me electronically, phone me. If you want to write to me, write a letter. But don’t bastardize the arts of speaking and writing by involving me the ancient art of the radio-telegraphy.’”
Both Kyle and Joe enjoyed a chuckle.
“Hey, enough about me. We should be focusing on who killed Uncle Raymond? Why was he killed? Is Father Mason’s requesting Joe to visit Uncle connected to uncle’s death? If this mysterious stranger who is shadowing Joe is mixed up in this mess somehow?”
“Well, that sums it up for me,” said Kyle as he poured himself more coffee.
“And,” I said, “there is one more thing. Last night, just before Morgana and I turned in, from our bedroom window, I spotted a car parked across the street.”
“Get an ID?” asked Kyle.
“No. All that I could make out was that it was a dark-colored SUV . . . may be black, dark blue, charcoal gray . . . I can’t say for sure. It drove away in the direction of town when Morgana came into the room.”
“Well, it could be nothing to be concerned about,” said Kyle nursing his coffee. “A lost Leaf Peeper—”
“Come on . . . who looks at the foliage in the middle of the night?”
“Maybe some kids downing some beers on the sly. Peterson has been cracking down on DWIs lately.”
“Right, a seventeen-year-old is going to have a few on the sly within sight of the only house in a quarter of a mile because there is just no other place in the county to sneak a drink. Does that make any sense?”
“I get your point. I’ll look into it.” Kyle leaned back again on his chair.
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 7
