Coming Unclued (19 page)

I was beginning to think I might not be getting any helpful insights into Mr. Potter’s character from Hilda.

“Who was David?” I persisted. “Was he one of Mr. Potter’s clients?”

“Yes, yes,” said Hilda. “Terrible what that man did. Took his money like a common thief. That poor cat didn’t get a penny.”

“The cat?”

“Who are you?” asked Hilda in a peeved voice. “Why do you keep nattering at me?”

For the first time I noticed the casket at the front of the sanctuary, draped in yellow flowers. It looked expensive. And long. Perhaps caskets only came in one length. And there they were, near the front, all the office staff sitting in a row. Annette was dabbing at her eyes, but everyone else seemed to be coping quite well with the loss of their boss. The casket, the huge turnout, the beautiful church. Mr. Potter loved being the center of attention; it was a shame he had to miss this. As the organist played on, Sophie came slowly down the aisle, her eyes downcast. She did look lovely.

Ruth gazed around the church. “Awful lot of oldies here. I’m a fresh-faced sprite compared to some of these folks.”

“Mr. Potter had a special interest in the elderly,” I whispered. “That’s our company’s specialty. We arrange all their finances, help them plan their estates. They loved him.”

“Our company?” said Rose. “I don’t know about our. I wouldn’t be counting on a Christmas bonus.”

“Already got it,” I told her. “A ham. A coupon for a ham and a tote bag.”

“A nice little ham. Very generous,” said Rose. “No wonder you stabbed him. Ha — just kidding!” she snorted softly as she elbowed me in the ribs. “What a cheapo. Hilda, how long did you know the deceased?”

“Who?” asked Hilda.

“The little dead guy,” said Rose, nodding toward the casket. “What’s his name — Paul?”

“Paul?” said Hilda. “Years. I’ve known him for years. He delivered all my babies. Lovely man. So sad.”

“Terrible,” agreed Rose.

I was looking around as much as I could without drawing attention to myself, hoping to see Julie. Everyone looked so similar, a sea of middle aged and older faces dressed in black and navy, their faces blank as the minister droned on. I dug around in my coat pocket for the phone and texted her.
Where are you?

A moment later I got a reply.
At funeral. Saw Rose. She looks well.

I glanced over at Rose. She was looking well. All this excitement really agreed with her.

Julie again.
Mr. P has a son! Did you know? He wasn’t in the obituary.

A son?? How do you know?

The minister mentioned him.

Mr. Potter had a son? Very odd. I distinctly remember him telling me that he and Sophie didn’t have children. “Footloose and fancy-free,” he’d said, like they were F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda dancing in a fountain or something.

Where is he?
I texted.
I want to get a look at him.

You’re here? Are you insane?

Possibly. Where’s the son?

There was a momentary pause between texts as Julie must have been torn as to whether or not she should acknowledge my existence.

Might be the husky fellow sitting behind the wife.

I inched over as close as I could to Hilda so that I could peer through the crowd to see the front of the church. I could see Sophie’s beautifully highlighted head silhouetted in the front row and looked behind her for a husky fellow. There was a massively obese man, easily over 300 pounds, sitting at the end of the pew behind her.

Husky?
I texted.

Very husky,
replied Julie.
He looks grim. Quite upset. Be careful. There are police here.

I glanced around. My God, there were police here, standing at the back of the church surveying the action. I couldn’t imagine what they were doing. Did they think I was so stupid that I would show up at Mr. Potter’s funeral? Just stay cool. Breathe.

As the service progressed, Hilda began tilting toward me, so that eventually she was slumped against my side. She seemed to have fallen asleep, and no wonder. The minister didn’t get where he was by way of his mesmerizing oratory skills. Although Hilda didn’t weigh much, I could feel my right arm beginning to tingle. Trying not to appear rude — I didn’t want her to think she was bothering me — I leaned slightly to the right to leverage her into a more upright position. She didn’t move much. For such a tiny woman she had some heft to her. I gave a little wiggle so that perhaps she would take a hint and sit up straight. Hilda wasn’t getting the hint. If anything she was leaning against me harder than ever. “Hilda, wake up,” I whispered. “You’re missing the service.” No response. I took her hand and gave it a little shake. “Hilda,” I hissed, “Wake up.” Hilda wasn’t waking up. As I held her cold, limp hand I realized that Hilda wasn’t ever going to wake up. There was a tiny, elderly dead woman leaning against me.

My heart started racing in a way I’d become much too familiar with. What could I do? Difficult not to draw attention to myself now that I was sharing a pew with a corpse. Could this really be happening? I peered down at Hilda, wondering if it was too late to do CPR. How long had she been leaning against me? Ten minutes at least; she’d probably passed away during the eulogy. At least she didn’t suffer, just drifted off, her head on my shoulder, perhaps quite literally bored to death. I gave Hilda another little nudge, hoping to sit her upright without alerting anyone around me that there was a problem. I was afraid of pushing too much in fear she would tumble right off the pew. There didn’t appear to be any way to get her to sit straight on her own; her backbone seemed to have disappeared along with her heartbeat. While I was terrified of drawing attention to myself I was remarkably sanguine about having a dead stranger leaning against me. Perhaps I’d found my calling and could get a job at a morgue once this was all over. Hilda actually looked quite peaceful, her eyes shut and a slight smile on her face like she’d been having a particularly pleasant thought when she expired.

But I couldn’t just sit there. I needed to get out of this place. I glanced over at the couple sitting on the other side of her. They seemed oblivious to what had happened, the man trying to stifle a yawn while his wife dug around in her purse. Out of the left side of my mouth, I whispered to Rose, “Rose, we have a situation.”

Rose gave herself a little shake and blinked her eyes. “Hmmm?”

“A little issue,” I murmered. “Don’t respond, don’t react. Got it?”

Rose gave me a dirty look. “What now?”

“We can’t stand up. The next hymn we need to stay seated.”

“Fine,” said Rose. “All this popping up and down is killing my knees.” She was quiet for a moment. “What are you up to now?” she hissed.

“Nothing. Just don’t move. I’m thinking.”

“I will sit here with bated breath,” said Rose.

I needed Julie. She would know what to do.
Need help
I typed.
Serious problem.

No shit
responded Julie.
Oh my. The son riseth.

I looked up to see the very large man in the second row making his way to the front. He didn’t look to be a man who was comfortable in his own skin; a man who had made peace with his size. He wore an ill-fitting blue suit with what looked like a grease stain on the back. He was completely bald on the top of his head and had a fringe of very black hair that he had tied into a ponytail. It wasn’t a good look, but I was trying to resist judging this book by its cover. If this was Mr. Potter’s son, he had suffered a great shock and he deserved my compassion. I surreptitiously adjusted Hilda and peered between the heads in front of me. What was this guy wearing on his feet? It looked like slippers. To his father’s funeral?

The man cleared his throat and looked out on the congregation. “I’m not sure why you’re all here today,” he said in a slow, steady voice. “My father was a jerk. A low-life. That woman that stabbed him? Good for her. He deserved it.” With that he gave a snort loud enough to clear his sinuses for the next year or so, and stepped down from the podium. The congregation was shocked into silence, but within seconds a buzzing of voices filled the church. Mr. Potter’s son seemed oblivious to the furor he’d created as he lumbered down the aisle and out of the church. I stared at his feet as he went by. He was wearing mules. It was December and he was wearing slippers that didn’t even cover his whole foot. Ratty, beat-up beige mules, one of which had a dark red splotch right over the big toe.

The minister rushed over to the microphone, his voice now set at a somewhat higher pitch. “The choir will now sing one of Harry’s favorite hymns
Breathe on Me Breath of God
.” He turned and waved madly at the choir who were still thumbing through their hymn books as the organist hit the first notes.

“Short eulogy, but succinct,” said Rose. “I like that at a funeral. Interesting choice of hymns given the deceased’s issues. Do you have any mints?”

“No I do not have any mints.”

“Don’t get snippy. There’s enough of that going around at this thing. Ask Hilda.”

“She doesn’t have any.”

Rose scowled at me and reached across and tapped Hilda on the leg. “Hilda, do you have any mints or maybe a Lifesaver?”

I pushed at Rose’s hand. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Don’t poke her. She’s dead. She passed on.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Don’t be so dim. She’s a heavy sleeper.”

I glared at Rose. “Not this heavy.”

“Check her pulse.”

“I checked. It’s not pulsing. Now stop talking. Someone will notice us.”

Rose was speechless for a moment as she digested this latest development. “Well, you’re quite the Angel of Death aren’t you? What was it that took her?”

“I haven’t done an autopsy. I’m guessing natural causes.”

“Must have been all of the excitement,” said Rose. “She doesn’t get out much.”

The choir was hitting the last few high notes and the minister was heading toward the pulpit to say his final words. “You’re going to have to stay behind,” I told Rose. “Prop up Hilda while I blend into the crowd.”

“Don’t you think we should report this?” asked Rose. “We can’t just leave her here to” —she lowered her voice — “fester.”

“We’re not leaving her here,” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. “I will leave. You will stay here. After I am well away from here you will notice that your old friend has passed on and you’ll alert someone. Okay? Do you understand?”

“Well okay, but how about you try and remember who it is who keeps sending folks to their great reward. How am I going to meet up with you?”

“I’ll be in touch,” I said. “I’m going to go talk to the son.”

“Hmmm,” said Rose, mulling this over. “Can’t see that fella climbing four flights of stairs to stab someone. Don’t think his heart could take it.”

“I just want to ask him some questions. I’ve got to start somewhere and I’m sensing he has some animosity toward his father.”

“Good pickup,” said Rose. “You’re a natural at this.”

“Thank you,” I said as I watched Mr. Potter’s casket rolling down the aisle, with the minister and Sophie following behind. Where was the rest of his family? Was Sophie all he had?

“Look at her,” whispered Rose. “No tears — her makeup’s still perfect.”

“Maybe she’s all cried out,” I said.

“Maybe you’d better stop giving folks the benefit of the doubt,” responded Rose. “Everyone’s a suspect. Remember that.”

“I’ll remember,” I said, glancing back at the cops. “Now I’m going to stand up and you have to squiggle over so Hilda doesn’t fall.”

“Lord honey, I’m way too old for squiggling,” Rose sighed, but she did her best to shimmy across the pew as I stood. Hilda flopped against Rose as we changed positions, but it would take a practiced eye to notice anything untoward. “We’ll be fine,” said Rose, as she picked up Hilda’s hand, perhaps to confirm for herself that Hilda was truly gone. “And keep me apprised of your goings on,” she said. “I’m an asset to this investigation.” She pointed at me to assert her view that she was indispensable, but because she was holding on to Hilda, it was poor Hilda’s limp little hand that she used to accentuate her point. “Call me,” she said, shaking Hilda’s hand at me. “And hunch,” she hissed. “Hunch.”

I blended in with the exiting crowd, skirting the police, looking for Julie. Where was she anyway? Across the street from the church there was a little parkette with a wooden bench. Perfect. I would sit there and watch for Julie. I’d be safe. It was pretty clear that my disguise was quite effective. No one had given me a second glance. I hunched across the churchyard, trying to achieve the perfect blend of elderly and innocuous. It had turned into a beautiful December day. The sun was shining and it was just cold enough to be crisp and invigorating rather than damp and miserable. How much sky did prisoners get to see? What if they put me in solitary confinement for my own protection and I never saw the outdoors? How would I get my Vitamin D?

I took Andrew’s phone out of my pocket to call Julie, wishing I’d paid more attention to police procedurals on TV. Could they trace these calls? I seemed to remember something about cell phones being easy to trace but I couldn’t remember any of the details. Anyway, didn’t matter. They’d think it was Andrew. What was happening with Hilda? Julie wasn’t answering. I started texting instead.
Where are U
? I typed.
Walk up Church St. Meet me at first
Starbucks
.
Don’t be followed
.

This was downtown Toronto. No chance we’d have to go more than a couple of blocks without encountering a Starbucks. I would just have to hope that no one was following Julie or that if they were, she’d be able to lose them.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted, “do you mind if I take your picture?”

What? My picture? I looked up. A young woman with very dark hair and very pale skin, wearing a down vest, mini skirt and hiking boots was pointing a camera in my direction. “I freelance for The
Star,
” she said. “I’m doing a piece on the elderly and how they’re embracing new technology. You know, they’re not all stuck in their ways the way some people think. I saw you sitting over here texting and I was wondering if I could get a picture of you.”