Even the Butler Was Poor (6 page)

H.J. smiled, studying the woman's face. "What circumstances, Mrs. Farber?"

"Oh, I thought that was why you were here, hon." She reached out of the house to pat H.J. on the elbow. "You and your other boyfriend used to visit him. It's poor Mr. McAuliffe."

Ben guessed, "He's dead?"

"He's dead," confirmed Mrs. Farber.

"N
atural causes?" asked H.J. from the fat, flowered armchair.

"Why, yes, hon." Mrs. Farber set her cup on the claw-footed coffee table in front of her and gave the young woman a puzzled look "Yes, he passed away in his sleep two days ago, poor man. That's me back in my Hollywood days, Mr. Spanner."

Ben was making a slow circuit of the cluttered living room, scanning the dozens of framed photos on the walls. "And that's George Givot and Isabel Jewell with you on the soundstage."

The manager chuckled. "You're the first person in years to recognize either one of them."

"Givot was a voice man on the side."

"Oh, are you in—"

"McAuliffe," put in H.J., recrossing her legs. "What exactly did he die of, Mrs. Farber?"

"Mostly just old age, Helen." She sighed, touched a knuckle to the corner of her right eye. "I was the one, you know, who found him. He was in his room up on the second floor, stretched out on his bed. He looked very peaceful and you might also have thought he was just taking a nap, except you can usually tell when someone's dead. His heart simply gave out, according to Dr. Weinberg."

Ben stopped in front of another large glossy photograph. "Here's McAuliffe," he said, tapping it.

The late ventriloquist, a heavyset blond man in a tuxedo, was sitting with his back to a dressing room mirror. Sharing the picture was a scatter of dummies.

"He wasn't an especially handsome man, but he was extremely likeable," observed the manager of the home. "Very kind to one and all with never—"

"Had he had many visitors lately?" asked H.J.

"Besides your other boyfriend, no. Except for his cousin. He had a cousin who lives over in Smithtown. As a matter of fact, that's who's paying for the funeral and all."

"Has anybody been to visit in the past few days?"

"No, dear, not even his cousin. If you know somebody's going to die, why, I guess you make an effort to see them one last time. But in this case, it was a complete—"

"I have a . . ." H.J. shifted in the chair, twisting her hands together in lap. "Well, it's rather a sentimental request I guess." She lowered her eyes, studying her hands. "But may I, please, take one last look at Buggsy?"

Mrs. Farber's sigh was deeper than the last one. "Oh, Buggsy isn't here anymore either, hon," she said. "No, he's going to be buried with Mr. McAuliffe. That was the poor man's wish."

D
escending the front steps, H.J. briefly drooped. "Shit," she muttered, "I hate setbacks."

"I've noticed that."

"Damn." She paused on the cracked pathway to kick out angrily at the high grass. "Ow."

"What now?"

"I don't know. I stubbed my damn toe on something hiding in the weeds."

Bending, he parted the grass and weeds. "Appears to be what's left of a ceramic troll."

"Well, screw him." She resumed walking, arms stiff at her sides, hobbling a bit.

"We seem to have come to a dead end in our quest."

Just short of the dangling iron gate she halted abruptly, pivoting around to face Ben. "The hell we have," she told him evenly. "We're going to that funeral parlor Mrs. Farber mentioned—The Teenie Weenie Chapel in the Swamp or whatever the heck they call themselves."

"The Wee Chapel in the Glen Funeral Home," he provided. "Listen, don't think I'm being non-supportive, but I draw the line at grave robbing."

"It's not grave robbing if the body is still above the ground. At the moment, Ben, McAuliffe is still lying in state."

"Even so, Helen Joanne, I think any kind of ghoulish activity is going to get us in deep trouble," he said. "Let's keep in mind, too, that we're on Long Island and not over in more liberal Connecticut. The penalties for bodysnatching are likely to be more severe over here."

"Dummy-snatching can't be all that serious." Giving him a thorough scowl, she pushed through the gateway. "And keep in mind that . . . Oh, good afternoon. How are you?" She halted on the sidewalk, smiling.

A
tall gaunt man in a venerable black suit was approaching the home. "Ah, my day is made," he informed her, bowing deeply. "Always a pleasure to encounter you, Miss Mavity."

"Same here, Marvelo."

"Here's but a small token of my esteem." From out his left sleeve popped a large bouquet of flowers.

They were cloth blooms, faded and frayed. Accepting them with a smile, H.J. pressed them to her breasts. "Thank you."

"And for your companion." A large peppermint stick appeared in Marvelo's right hand.

"Thanks, but I'm trying to quit."

The magician waved and the candy was gone. "I'm the Great Marvelo, sir—and you?"

"Ben Spanner."

"Ah, Miss Mavity's erstwhile husband. She's mentioned you on her previous visits to our little seaside hideaway. I've enjoyed your voice work on several commercials, in spite of some nitwit copy."

"Thanks. I remember seeing you on television when I was a kid."

"That indeed dates me." Marvelo took H.J.'s hand. "I was saddened to hear of Rick Dell's death, my dear, which I just read of in our local library's copy of this morning's newspaper." He tilted his head in Ben's direction. "I presume it's permitted to discuss a departed rival in front of you."

"I'm not in the running in that contest anyway."

H.J. said, "I understand Rick visited Mr. McAuliffe here by himself a couple of weeks ago. At least Mrs. Farber thinks so."

"McAuliffe is gone, too. I'd hate to think, considering my advanced years, that these things actually do go in threes."

"Did he, though, Marvelo?"

"He did, my dear, to be sure. Yes, Rick, looking very furtive and secretive—although, now that I think of it, he always looked that way. Something to do with his eyes being a mite too close together. Yes, he called on McAuliffe about two weeks since. Although my room is next to his, I didn't hear what they chatted about. I'm not above eavesdropping, but this time they spoke in very low tones. Even a water glass against the wall didn't help." He bowed again to H.J., deftly taking back his bouquet and hiding it away again. "Now I must go inside and catch my favorite soap opera. Nice to meet you in person, sir." Nodding at Ben, he started up the path to the house.

"P
izza," commented H.J. as she shifted impatiently on her side of the green booth, "never before struck me as the sort of food one savored."

"We've only been sitting in this place about eleven minutes and they only served us six minutes ago." He returned to slicing his wedge of mushroom pizza with knife and fork. "Relax."

"You're also the only person I know who eats pizza with a fork." She wiped at her palm with her crumpled checkered napkin. "Everyone else on the face of the Earth grabs it with their hand."

"I had a real high-class upbringing, sister," he said in his Dead End Kid voice.

"Could you perhaps speed it up? I'm all finished and I would like to get over to the Little Chapel in the Ditch before sundown. We shouldn't even have stopped for lunch now."

"Missing meals isn't good for you." He chewed a bite of pizza, slowly. "And eating too fast causes stress."

"Eating fast doesn't hurt anybody. The whole damn country is devoted to wolfing down their food as rapidly as they can. My Man Chumley, for whom you'll be prostituting your talent tomorrow, boasts that they'll serve you in under two minutes or refund your—"

"Let me change the subject." He cut himself another small bite of pizza. "What do you say to our heading back to Port Jeff and hopping aboard the first available ferry for home?"

"What I say is no."

"Suppose—despite what Mrs. Farber says Dr. Weinberg told her— suppose McAuliffe was murdered, too?"

"At first, when she told us he was dead, I suspected that's what did happen," admitted H.J. "But then I used my powers of reason. See, McAuliffe died way before Rick did. And there is no reason to believe anybody knew two or three days ago that he was hiding something valuable for Rick. They probably still don't know that."

"Be that as it may, the idea of stealing Buggsy out of the coffin makes me uneasy."

"Ben, it isn't even, technically, stealing at all. Because Rick wanted me to have whatever it is he stashed in Buggsy's hollow leg. I mean, his reciting all that clop clop stuff in the Eastport Mall is practically a living will."

Ben said, "Things look to be getting increasingly complicated and dangerous."

"Finish your damn pizza," she advised.

T
he foyer of the funeral parlor smelled of flowers and furniture polish. The pink fountain at the center of the small oval room wasn't functioning properly and every few seconds a spurt of scented water shot up almost to the domed, pale green ceiling. Weak, forlorn, organ music was drifting out of two small dangling speakers.

A very old man in a wrinkled black suit was slumped, arms dangling and eyes shut, in one of the three straight back chairs that lined the far wall. A net shopping bag beside his chair had slumped, too, and spilled three oranges and a tin of deviled ham onto the hardwood flooring.

Tugging at Ben's arm, H.J. led him over to the announcement board on the wall to their right. "C'mon, kick up your pace," she urged in an exasperated whisper. "We're almost to our goal."

"We're almost into the hoosegow for violating a tomb."

"That only applies to Egypt, when you go break into a pyramid." She scanned the listings in white plastic lettering on the board. "There he is—McAuliffe, Reposing Room 3. They didn't give Buggsy any billing."

He leaned closer to her. "Let's go home. I can loan you the $5000."

"It's always a bad mistake to borrow money from a former mate." She shook her head. "Besides, Ben, I really am caught up in the mystery now."

Saying nothing further, he accompanied her down a pale green hallway. She hesitated in the arched doorway to the reposing room. "I can't, from here, see who's in the coffin."

Easing around her, Ben crossed the maroon carpeting and halted beside the metal stand that supported the polished wood coffin. There were no mourners in the small room, the five rows of dark wood benches were empty. Arranged behind the coffin were six small floral wreaths on wooden legs. "This is the right one," he said.

Gingerly, she came into the room to join him. "I should've brought some flowers."

"Custom doesn't require grave robbers to do that."

"It really is McAuliffe?" She was watching her feet, not the occupant of the coffin.

"Appears to be, judging from my childhood memories and from that photo I saw back at the home."

Very slowly, and uneasily, she raised her head, stood on tiptoe and chanced a quick glance. "Oh, Jesus—I don't like to view bodies."

"You should be getting accustomed by now."

"Where's little Buggsy?"

Ben pointed. "Right over there."

The dummy's freckled face was visible on the far side of the coffin, wedged in next to the dead ventriloquist's right side, his red hair bright against the white satin lining.

H.J., fists clenching, forced herself to take a more careful look into the coffin. "Yes, that's Buggsy sure enough," she said. "He looks dead, too."

"Let's leave him be, Helen Joanne, and head for—"

"No, I've come this far and I intend to carry this through. Can you tug him out of there, Ben?"

"Might be easier to just reach in there and—"

"But Buggsy's legs are hidden by the lower half of the coffin lid," she said. "No, you're going to have to get hold of the little guy by his armpits and give him a good hefty tug."

"That's what you are going to have to do. I'm only an accessory, not the perpetrator."

"Honestly, you can be such a geek at times." Nudging him aside, she stepped closer to the coffin.

"Ah, I'm very glad to see this."

H.J. stopped still, then brought her forefinger up to her nose, sniffling. When she turned to face the newcomer to the room, she seemed to be crying. "It's so sad," she managed to say.

"He's had so few visitors, which is why I'm delighted to find you two here paying your respects." The man was in his forties, small, fresh-shaven, smelling of flowers and furniture polish. He wore a grey suit and a grey tie. "I'm Lynn Gerstenkom, one of the partners in the Wee Chapel," he explained as he approached them. With a sad smile he handed Ben an embossed business card. "Should you ever need our services." He smiled even more sadly as he gave H.J. a card.

"My husband and I were dear friends of Mr. McAuliffe," she explained, sniffling while she dropped the card into her black purse. "And of little Buggsy, too."