Mausoleum (16 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I dove head first at it before the muzzle could swing at me.

A boy, no older than pre-teen, with the dark, pinched features I associated with the abysmally inbred, intently villainous Jervis clan glared from the bush. I grabbed the barrel and tried to twist away from the business end. The kid tugged on the stock. His little arms and legs were stick thin, and I had almost got it away from him when he yelled, “Finders keepers!”

I was so surprised I actually let go of what I saw was a shiny new .22 woodchuck rifle—which was all the time the kid needed to crash off into the woods with it.

“The cops need that for evidence,” I shouted after him.

“Screw them,” he hurled over his shoulder, confirming his Jervis credentials, and disappeared, iterating a now-exultant, “Finders keepers!”

It was clear what had happened. The gunman gunning for Sherman had been spotted, as any stranger would be, by a Jervis kid out trapping muskrat or digging up rare wild flowers to sell to unscrupulous collectors, or hoping to steal a truck when the driver stopped to pee in the woods. The gunman took his shot and with every reason to believe that Sherman was thoroughly dead, tossed the evidence, bought cheap at Wal-Mart, and split. The kid saw a free weapon that would elevate him from trapper/digger to deer poacher. Such a small caliber weapon required a highly accurate head shot to kill a deer, and he would practice hard as soon as he convinced an adult to steal him some ammunition.

I poked around for confirmation of my theory. There were footprints in the stream bed other than mine and some scrapes in the moss where the shooter had steadied the gun on the culvert.

Then I went back to Sherman who was sprawled on the shoulder with his hand being held by the old lady who had stopped.

“How you doing?”

“Legs hurt like a sonofabitch—excuse me, Ma'am.”

I wiped the blood off his face and out of his eyes with my wet shirt and had a close look at his scalp, which had a shallow furrow in it—not gouged by falling on his head, but by .22 slug that had come within a quarter inch of relieving the Department of Corrections of further responsibility for Sherman's rehabilitation. The lady who had stopped went to her car to call her daughter who was expecting her, and I took the moment of privacy to say to Sherman, “The guy knew you were coming.”

“What guy?”

“The guy who shot you, you idiot. What are you into Sherman? He set you up. Told you to meet him at the Hitching Post and almost blew you away. Why?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Ben.”

“I just found the .22 he shot you with.”

“Oh shit! Ben, you got to hide it.”

“Consider it disappeared.”

“Thanks, pal. You're the best.”

“So we agree that you were shot?”

“Something hammered me in the head.”

“He had a scope. You're lucky he missed.”

“I turned my head to spit,” Sherman said, with wonder warming his voice. “Kind of thing could almost make you believe in God,” he marveled. We heard sirens, an ambulance howl and Trooper Moody's whoopers clearing the way.

“Don't say nothing to Ollie.”

“Who did you see at the mausoleum?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Who did you see at the mausoleum?”

“Latino guy.”

“What Latino guy? The picture I showed you?”

“Not him.”

“Not Charlie Cubrero? Who?”

“I don't know,” he lied, but by then Betty Butler and Trooper Moody had arrived. Betty had an assistant and a stretcher. Ollie had handcuffs which he snapped around Sherman's bony wrists and told him he was under arrest.

“What for?” Sherman and I chorused, Sherman indignant, me wondering if the State Police could prove he had shot Brian Grose.

“Credit card fraud.”

“
Credit card fraud
?” Where in hell did that come from, I wondered, until I looked at Sherman who did not appear surprised.

Betty worked on him for a while. Then they loaded him into the ambulance. “Hey Ben,” Sherman called. “Do me a favor, pal. Tell my Mom I'm okay.”

***

I drove back to Newbury, picked up Aunt Helen and drove her to the hospital to let her see for herself. Turned out he wasn't exactly that okay. They had him in surgery for a long while, inserting steel pins in leg bones, and the doctor said he would be in intensive care until Sunday morning. The elderly officer the cops stationed at the door to keep Sherman, who was well known for such shenanigans, from clumping off on crutches would double as protection. Which relieved a grateful me of having to introduce dicey subjects like Sherman's possible witnessing of Brian Grose's murderer, and the rifle taken by the scavenging Jervis kid. Nobody, including me, spoke to the police about the Jervis clan, who made my Chevalley cousins look like life members of the Men's Literary and Social Club of Newbury Street (Founded in 1894). Though with me it was also personal as Gwen Jervis, the red-haired daughter of Old Herman, Gangster Boss Emeritus, had been my friend since Eighth Grade.

I drove Aunt Helen home with a promise of bringing her back in the morning—less out of cousinly kindness than a desire for a close family connection to a patient whose visiting privileges would be curtailed.

Then I cancelled Sunday's house showing appointment with the not unattractive New York lawyer, shaved, showered, and got to Aunt Connie's in time to fill an ice bucket and greet our first guests.

Chapter Fifteen

Grace Botsford was first. Early, in fact. Connie was still upstairs. I offered her a martini. She said, “I felt last night's this morning. I'll have a glass of white wine, please.”

Connie had a fine old Prohibition bar, the kind that closed up to look like an ordinary cabinet until the teetotalers went home. I poured Grace a glass of wine and one for myself.

“I've always admired this house.”

“Connie said you used to come here as a little girl.”

“It was the first ‘mansion' I had ever been in. That grand staircase and the magic of a second staircase off the kitchen. It was quite magnificent to a child.” She took a second sip and looked around, as if confirming we were alone, though of course we were as no one else had come yet. Lowering her voice, she said, “Part of its charm was that I thought I might live here—before your aunt turned my father down.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he asked her to marry him—you knew that, didn't you. Oh, good Lord, I'm so sorry Ben, I just assumed you knew.”

“No, but I'm fascinated. When was that?”

“Oh, Lord. I was a small child. I mean my mother died when I was four and Dad was raising a little girl by himself, and I'd hear relatives whispering the way they do as if children were deaf: ‘Gerard should marry.' Back then it was still frowned upon for a man to raise children alone. I began to fantasize about a new mother. Then we started coming here, often. I was dazzled. She was so beautiful.”

“Why did Connie turn him down?”

“Dad told me, years later, that Connie told him to wait until he grew up.”

“How old was he?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Grew up? He had already taken over the Cemetery Association. He was a man of substance. What did she mean?”

“All I know is that when he was in his seventies Dad said, ‘Connie Abbott was right. Saved us both a lot of trouble'—here she is. Hello, Constance, how are you?”

Connie was coming down the steps a little unsteadily and I went to help her, but Grace mounted the stairs and shook her hand briskly, while smoothly offering support.

Connie said, “Hello, Dear—Benjamin, I overheard that. For your information, I turned Gerard Botsford down because he was very full of himself. We remained great chums anyway. No harm done, except poor Grace didn't get me for a new mother, which was probably just as well, as I was quite full of myself, too, and together we would have driven the child nuts.”

The door bells chimed. I greeted Rick and Georgia Bowland. Rick was wearing a coat and tie. Georgia was wearing her trust fund in the form of a beautiful Asiatica jacket made of antique Japanese kimono cloth; she seemed happy, not at all fragile tonight. Both looked pleased by an occasion to dress up on a Saturday. I shook Rick's hand and kissed Georgia's pale cheek. “Loved your Notables. A portrait painter and a shopkeeper—quite a range.”

“We exposed our deepest fantasies,” Georgia said, in her low, compelling voice.

I poured wine for them. Rick started to ask about the case, but the bells rang again. I excused myself and found Dan and Priscilla Adams and Wes and Cynthia Little bunched on the front steps, faces so bright that I assumed that one couple had stopped at the other's for a couple of quick ones before they came.

Priscilla, whose proudly glossy, perfectly straight, lustrously golden hair announced, Mayflower Daughter, said, “This is so great. Thank you for inviting us.”

I said, “Connie's idea. I'm just the bartender.”

Cynthia Little said, “I'm glad your aunt still feels up to a party.”

Cynthia was quite pretty, tonight, wearing some sort of goldish shadow that made her hazel eyes glow. “Connie is looking forward to meeting you,” I told her. “Come on in.” I took Priscilla's shapely arm, which was summerly bare, and led them to the living room.

The guys, who would not be wearing jackets if they weren't visiting Connie, were wearing them over polo shirts. Neither of the couples had been in Connie's house before. Priscilla had grown up in comfort. But Cynthia appeared somewhat overwhelmed. I heard her whisper to Wes, “It's like a museum.”

Wes, easy going as always, said, “That's why she's leaving it to the Historical Society.”

“What about Ben?”

“He'll have to buy a ticket like the rest of us.”

I let go of Priscilla to say, “Admission will be free.” Wes grinned and hit me on the arm, pulling his punch as he had when we were kids.

Everyone said hello to everyone and I asked, “What would you like to drink?”

Beer for the guys. White wine for the ladies. Connie took all four women out to the garden. The guys surrounded me and I didn't even have to prompt Rick Bowland to ask, “Any progress?”

“Brian,” I answered, having resolved to repeat his name repeatedly, “was shot, in my opinion, by one of three people who were inside his mausoleum Sunday morning.”

“Which one?” asked Dan.

“Precisely which one of them shot Brian, I cannot tell you at this point. But I can tell you that it was not the Ecuadorian the cops are after.”

“Jesus, Ben,” said Wes. “That's incredible.”

“That's what you're paying me for,” I answered grandly, basking in their sudden awe until Rick Bowland said, “But if the cops arrest Charlie Cubrero, we're right back where we started with an ‘employee' of the Cemetery Association charged with murder on Cemetery Association property.”

“Which reminds me,” I interrupted with a change of subject. “If I'm still authorized to ‘buy' Charlie from the bounty hunter, I'm going to need it quick and in cash.”

Wes said, “Give me five minutes heads up and the money'll be waiting for you on my desk.”

“What if it's after banking hours?”

“Call me, and I'll meet you at the side door.”

“Good. In the meantime, Brian Grose is the direction I am turning my attention—while of course still attempting to get Charlie to turn himself in—to discover whatever Brian was involved in that would have annoyed the killer enough to shoot him.”

“How many hours have you run up?” Wes asked. “What's this costing?”

“I've been working flat out since you hired me.”

“That was Tuesday night, late. So: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—did you work today?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Today was quite a day.”

“It's getting expensive.”

“Do any of you want me to stop investigating Brian Grose?” I looked sternly at Rick Bowland; Rick looked away. I looked sternly at Wes; Wes shrugged. I looked sternly at Dan Adams; Dan said, “Investigating Brian could take weeks. What could you possibly find that the cops can't?”

“If I have to answer that, I'm back on the clock—Hey, come on, it's a party. Why don't we join the ladies?”

I stepped through the French doors into Connie's garden. They followed. Across the lawn I saw Connie holding forth among her daylilies. Her white dress glowed in the evening shade. Grace, Priscilla, Cynthia, and Georgia were listening with smiles on their faces. The flowers were bright, the grass green as a jewel, the air in perfect balance between afternoon heat and evening chill, and I felt suddenly so glad to be alive. Connie greeted me with the smallest of winks and said, “We were just discussing poor Mr. Grose.”

“
You
were discussing him,” said Grace Botsford. “I for one have nothing good to say and will therefore say nothing.”

“Oh, he wasn't so bad,” said Cynthia. “I don't think.”

“I only met him twice,” said Georgia. “But I do not like a man to come on to me when my husband is standing eight feet away.”

“But quite all right when Rick's out of the room?” Connie asked with a smile.

Georgia smiled back, easily. Like me and like Grace, Georgia had grown up with older parents. She wagged a mock finger and said, “Connie, I knew you would say that. I gave that one to you.”

Connie said, “Priscilla, did he ‘make advances' toward you, too?”

Priscilla did not smile. “I noticed what Georgia noticed. I just didn't take him seriously. I mean, there are guys who just can't help themselves. It's like they have to get a return look so they think they've won points. Do you know what I mean?”

“You should have told me,” said Dan. “I would helped him.”

“Which is why I didn't tell you. It wasn't serious. But you would have thought it was serious. And threatened to punch him in the nose, which certainly wouldn't help business.”

“Were you doing business with Brian?” I asked Dan.

“Of course I was doing business with him. I work for a bank, don't I?”

“I thought he was retired.”

“Well, he still needed a checking account.”

Wes Little said, “Come on, Dan. You haven't done checking accounts since you came home from college.”

Dan said, “The checking account is the foot in the door.”

“Brian's foot in the door, too,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well you guys and Grace let him into the Association. Which surprised a lot of people. Maybe it started with the checking account.”

Wes Little laughed. “Got you there, Dan. You're the one who brought him in.”

“I did not.”

“First time I met Brian, you introduced us. Remember, you had a cookout. Just Cyn and me and you and Priscilla and him. Hey, Cyn, was he on you too, that night?”

Cynthia drilled him with a cold stare. “Not that I noticed.” Connie, too, was looking a little chilly as Wes's “on you” was moving outside her bounds of party talk. But she rose to the occasion, saying, “And how did you meet Brian, Georgia?”

“I'm trying to remember. I think Rick and I were having dinner at the club. And, Priscilla, you brought him over, didn't you?”

“Cynthia and I brought him over. We were waiting for these two,” she indicated Wes and Dan, “who were working late as usual, and we ran into him at the bar.”

“Well,” said Connie. “A checking account goes a long way, these days. Dan, if you would allow me your strong arm, we could go inside and fill our glasses.” She took Dan's arm and got two steps before she said, “Grace? Where did you meet poor Mr. Grose?”

“Dad wrote the policy for his house. Next thing I knew he had invited himself to supper.”

***

After they all went home, Connie went upstairs to get ready for bed. I made her tea and brought it up when she was settled in. “What do you think?” I asked her.

“It seems Mr. Grose was very clever at getting to know people.”

“And wives?”

“I have no idea. Beyond the obvious fact that little Cynthia has a roving eye.”

“Sounded to me like Dan was his wedge.”

“Certainly no love lost between Grace and Mr. Grose.”

“Grace told me that Brian used her father. Took advantage.”

Connie said, “You must be aware that for Grace everything comes back to her father. They were such companions. She must miss him so.”

“Is that why she never married?”

“Who knows such things? You might as much as ask me why I never married.”

“Did Gerard Botsford really ask you to marry him?”

“Of course.”

“Of course?”

“Well why wouldn't he? He was a widower. I was single, wealthy and, if I could believe half the men who called on me, beautiful enough. Gerard and I had known each other for years, and his father had known my father, and his grandfather had worked for my grandfather.”

“Why did you turn him down? He was full of himself?”

“I didn't love him.”

“Oh.”

“Well why else would I turn him down, for pity sakes? Gerard was available, prospering, and handsome. And what a piano player! Oh my lord, I could listen to him play for hours.”

“Any regrets?”

“No more than for any of the others I turned down,” she said with a smile. Then she turned serious. “Would I change my life?” she asked, and answered, “No. I was probably meant to be alone. I have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances—had, they've mostly died…As has Gerard. So at this moment I would be a widow instead of a spinster.” Then she was smiling again, her face alight; and she said to me, “But I do not believe you were meant to be alone.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise.”

“The evidence suggests you are dodging involvement. That is different than wanting to be alone. You are alone by mistake. Or confusion.”

I went home and was still lying awake thinking about being single, like most of my Chevalley cousins and dead Brian Grose when Father Bobby telephoned. The priest did not apologize for the late hour, but accused in a hard voice that would have made an Inquisition subject's blood run cold, “We had a deal.”

“That's right. I agreed not to mention you to anybody, which I didn't. You agreed to talk to Charlie and call me, which you didn't.”

“You broke your word, Ben.”

“I did not.”

“Then who sent the fat guy after me.”

“The only fat guy I know is a bail bondsman who calls himself Big Al Vetere, and I did not send him after you.”

“Somebody did. Why's he nosing around Bridgeport?”

“He's a sad sack who feels more comfortable in a city. That doesn't mean he's on to Charlie. Or you. Though, just as a point of fact, Father, he told me he met a priest who sent him on a wild goose chase up here. Anyone you know?”

“He told you that? God in heaven.”

“Did you?”

“I said the first thing I could think of to get rid of him.”

“Well it worked. He's lucky he didn't get shot by the Feds. But speaking of finding, how are we doing with Charlie? Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for, Father? The Feds are all over the place. Lame as they are, there are so many of them one might actually stumble into him.”