Executive Dirt: A Sedona O'Hala Mystery (22 page)

I double checked to make sure Tank wasn’t any closer to drawing his baton weapon and offered my fingers to Harley for a sniff.  The mutt, who had four different colored paws, made more gurgles and accepted a petting from me as well.

“Wanda’s a good egg,” Tank said. “Her son got her in with the wrong crowd.  We take care of our own.”

Harley looked up and whined at the threat in her owner’s voice.

“Weren’t some members of your own gang the ones who introduced Joe to—” I started.

“Fleet. We have a fleet, not a gang.” His finger jabbed at me to emphasize his point. “And those kids were Joe’s friends, not his ma’s.”

I nodded my agreement before he loomed any closer.  “Well, sure.”

Without further stalling, we scooted past.  Most Borgot employees sat on the left.  That alone would have convinced me to take the right side, but LeAnn had already declared our loyalties.  She parked us directly behind Joe’s “ma,” much closer than I’d have ever sat on my own. Of course, had I come on my own, after seeing Tank I might have claimed a robbery was in progress and left.

Wanda sat in the first row, her ankle monitor almost completely hidden by jeans that had torn seams at the bottoms to make room for boots.  She wasn’t wearing her motorcycle boots today; they probably didn’t allow it because the ankle monitor would never have fit.

The funeral home was dead cold. I shook that thought from my head. I was sweating profusely, which was ridiculous given the freezing drafts in the place. Were they running the air conditioner this early in the springtime?  Maybe they did it so the bodies wouldn’t smell.  I choked back that thought as well, focusing instead on the scent of flowers.  The only problem was there was a noticeable lack of blooms near the casket.  Two tall stands of lilies shouted, “standard funeral home provision.” A smallish vase near the pulpit had a card bearing Borgot’s logo.  Well, thank God someone had thought of flowers.  I certainly hadn’t, and it didn’t look as though Joe had many friends.

Everyone on this side of the aisle, excluding ourselves, was dressed in mostly black leather and tight jeans with boots, or a combination of the two. They all took up two seats because a helmet was placed next to each person.

My cell phone buzzed.  It took me a few extra-long seconds to extract it from my jacket pocket.  For the first time, I envied Radar and his smartwatch. If I had one, I could have discretely glanced at the watch to see who was calling and possibly sent a response without ever showing my phone. It was bad form to pull out a cell during a funeral, although technically the funeral hadn’t started yet.  LeAnn was busy on her phone too so it was probably acceptable, at least until things got started.

Checking my phone, I saw the text was from her.

“I arrived early,” she texted. “Put large black watch on his arm.”

His. Arm.  I glanced at the casket, my eyes wide.  She had put a watch on Joe’s arm?  Was she crazy?

My phone buzzed again. “Can’t see the watch clearly without pushing sleeve up,” she texted.

I swallowed hard, wanting to ask just how she had managed this task, but the answer arrived without any prodding.

“Showed up early, but had to duck in a closet and hide until the coast was clear.”

I closed my eyes momentarily and then typed, “We aren’t planning on mentioning this to Mark, right?”

“Already texted him.”

I looked up to find her grinning at me, her face flushed with pride or from whatever Mark had texted in return.  I gave her a nod.  She was a brave woman.

She texted me again. “We’ll keep our eyes glued to the subject. Catch anyone fiddling with sleeve.”

I wasn’t gluing anything to that idiot. I’d had more than enough of Joe.

LeAnn put her cell inside her voluminous canvas bag.  She then extracted a neat pile of kerchiefs. There was a pink one with delicate lace on the edges, a blue one that looked more practical and two nice big white ones.  She tapped Wanda on the shoulder and handed her the stack.  “From the sewing girls,” she whispered.  “Made them this morning.”

Wanda turned and blinked at us. When recognition dawned, her jaw dropped. She worked it back up, but it fell again.  We were the reason she was in jail, but our cover was good.  No way would anyone think we had pulled off that arrest on purpose, because it certainly hadn’t gone as planned.

Wanda finally reached up a tentative hand and accepted the hankies. She fingered them for a moment or two before nodding her thanks and turning back around.

LeAnn whipped another two out of her bag and handed one to me.  It was a very soft cotton in a flower print.  The edges were perfectly finished.  I wasn’t about to cry over Joe, but the hankies were nice enough to bring a tear to my eye.

Just as I relaxed back in my seat, Tank rolled through the middle aisle and took the three seats next to Wanda.  One was for his helmet, the other was for his dog.

Mark sat down next to me as the funeral director took the mic.

Chapter 30

Joe’s mother didn’t offer a eulogy, and who could blame her?  It wouldn’t sound good to say, “My son got himself killed, and his criminal activities got me arrested.”

When LeAnn offered Mark a kerchief, he rolled his eyes and shook his head sharply.  I covered up a laugh by pretending to sneeze.

The funeral director intoned peaceful cliches about “moving on” and read a poem about hills and valleys and journeys.  The whole presentation would have been more successful had the guy not borne a striking resemblance to Ichabod Crane right before he lost his head.

I shifted in my seat in order to scan the room behind me.

The Borgot employees were stacked together like dominoes ready to fall. Roscoe was definitely typing on a tablet.  Lawrence wore an impressive dark blue wool suit that went well with Monique’s subdued pantsuit.  She dressed it up with extremely high heels and a small nose stud. We all had to be grateful that there was probably nothing painted on her butt.

Howard must have called in reinforcements because he was sitting near a couple of guys I had never seen before. The three of them looked like a lineup for an Eddie Bauer flyer, casual professional.  Then again, maybe the two unknowns were with Paul, the IT guy.  He was in the same row dressed in his shorts and ever-present sandals with socks. He probably didn’t own anything other than eight sets of the same.  He reminded me of Radar when we first met; uncomfortable in the light of day with a touch of panic about him.  Kovid wasn’t much better, fidgeting and earning a glare from Heather and Kay at the same time.  I doubt he noticed or cared.

The surprise attendant was Clint, our mysterious ballerina ex-marine.  He sat near the back on our side, next to two of the ladies from the sewing group. Barb, the owner of the shop, was too nice a person to miss the funeral.  The rest of the chairs were peppered with the motorcycle gang, er, fleet members.

I completely expected to see Detective Saunders and Adrian standing at the back of the room, and they didn’t disappoint.  Saunders grimaced an accusatory stare in my direction.  I wrinkled my nose and turned around lest he decide I was obviously the perpetrator because I dared peek at the other attendees.

When it came time for us to offer condolences and respect at the casket, I kept myself planted.  Not only did I not want to greet Wanda, I had nothing to offer that casket.  Besides, it was my duty to watch for anyone who might show an interest in a half-hidden watch.

Mark squeezed my wrist, and whispered, “Stay put.” He found a place against the wall where he could keep track of people offering their respects.

Tank must have been expecting trouble or perhaps he just enjoyed scaring people because he stood to the left of Wanda as though he was her personal bodyguard.  His stance blocked LeAnn’s view and part of mine.

Undeterred, she hopped over my legs to Mark’s abandoned seat.

We watched.  Mark watched.  The policemen watched us all. Joe’s mother kept her composure, but her hands shook when she accepted the clasps from some of her friends.  Borgot employees streamed past almost as a single entity. Roscoe didn’t even pretend to pay his respects to the casket; both he and Kovid bolted down the center aisle without looking back.

Lawrence and Monique minced their way past, heads mostly down.  The rest of the group seemed to end up in front of the casket at the same time, blocked by Lawrence who had to stop suddenly because Harley had shuffled into the center aisle.  The dog sniffed studiously at his shoes and may have drooled on them because Lawrence jumped back, bumping Monique.  She hit Howard.  For a few moments, everyone was shifting and shuffling, searching for personal space.

Lawrence finally edged around the dog, but Monique was having a harder time of it in her high heels.

I glanced at Mark.  He was surveying those left in front of the casket.  Good.  With so many people standing there, it was impossible for me to see what any one individual might try.

Tank finally realized Harley was blocking traffic.  He patted the side of his chaps and Harley lifted her head.  She gave a quiet woof rumble and dragged her rolls back over.

The dam broke.

When all had cleared, Joe was still in his casket.  If anyone had tampered with him, I couldn’t tell. LeAnn slumped beside me in frustration.

The rest of the line went through smoothly.  Before I had a chance to decide whether it was necessary to offer further condolences, Tank stepped up, raised his hand and closed the casket.  It slammed shut rather hard, a ponderous, final thud.

Tank’s friends were prepared.  Without further ado, they marched Joe down the aisle and outside.

The detectives remained by the doors, watching us stragglers.

I let the casket get a head start and then stood.  LeAnn was right behind me.

Ichabod disappeared through a side door.

Mark and LeAnn flanked me, which meant I didn’t have to pretend to stop and talk to the detectives. They followed us right out, though.

The bright sunlight had me blinking tears that I hadn’t managed for Joe.  I sucked in a lungful of fresh air, one that wasn’t canned and wasn’t as cold as the frozen air inside the viewing room. We stood with a few others on various levels of the steps, waiting for the crowd to disperse.

Tank and the other pall bearers slid the casket into the back of a hearse. The young driver, in an ill-fitting black suit, hurried behind the wheel and slammed the door.  The bang of that door was too reminiscent of the casket closing. The boom silenced the already subdued crowd.

We all watched as the long black car shot away from the curb.

“We don’t have to visit the gravesite, right?” I whispered.

“There’s usually a ceremony there. We probably should,” LeAnn replied.

“That driver left in a hurry,” Mark said, sounding puzzled. “Doesn’t at least one family member usually travel in the hearse?” We all looked around for Joe’s mother, but she hadn’t come out yet. “He could have at least waited for the pall bearers to get in their vehicles.”

“You mean on their motorcycles,” I corrected.

“Whatever.”

The hearse was already well down the road.  It turned at the stop sign and sped out of sight.

We started down the steps again.  From behind us, Ichabod burst out the doors.

“Are the police here?  Is anyone an official with the police department?” he gasped out.  His adam’s apple bobbed as if it were diving after a lottery dunk. Long, bony fingers wiped sweat from his forehead.

Adrian snapped around. “What’s the problem?”

Ichabod pointed down the road, but the hearse had already disappeared from view. “My driver was in the back room, tied up! I stopped to untie him, but someone just stole my hearse!”

Before Adrian could jump back up the two steps, Tank loosed a caveman roar. “Let’s get’m, riders! No one disrespects our dead!”

I wasn’t sure Joe was really one of them, especially since Tank had separated the crowd, but apparently it didn’t matter to the clan of bikers at this particular moment.  Leather and metal flashed.

Instead of following the cops, Mark followed Tank.  He hopped on a bike that had a lightning bolt down the side. I recognized it and sucked in a worried breath.

LeAnn crossed her arms. “Well.  That plan went to hell.  This place is totally disorganized. It’s no wonder someone stole the hearse.  You should see the back room in this place.  It’s a miracle they get the right bodies in the right caskets. I’ve never seen such an unorganized mess. I just about died in that closet, it was so jammed with paperwork that should have been filed last decade.” She stomped down the steps and then glanced back over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“Where are we going?”  Gamely, I skipped down beside her.

She waved up the road. “They’ll never catch him.  Whoever it was will figure out the watch is a fake.  We may as well go back to your place and wait for Mark to report.”

I agreed. With Mark on the chase, we wouldn’t be making it to Clockworks today.

In all the excitement, there hadn’t been a chance to ask Clint who had invited him to the funeral of a guy he couldn’t have met unless maybe Joe had worked at Clockworks. It was too late to ask now.  Along with the rest of the revelers, he was long gone.

Chapter 31

LeAnn headed for the sewing table as soon as we arrived at my place. I headed for the kitchen. To each their own unwinding mechanism.

While I concocted a chocolate mousse pie to calm down, she held up one end of the tank top I had cut out.  She flipped it and studied it from the other end, but that didn’t seem to provide any additional clues.

“Tank top,” I said. “I cut the pattern from one I found on the web.  Well, it was a t-shirt, but I messed it up.”

“The stretch has to go right to left, not up and down.  You’ll never get this on.”

I didn’t tell her that I never planned to finish it, especially since that part of the case was solved. “Yeah.  Probably.”  I left her to her hobby and attended mine.

The pie was in the fridge setting up by the time Mark arrived.  Dusk was already darkening corners of the yard outside.