Working Murder (12 page)

Tina whispered to the child: “I just remembered something in my car you might like. Come
get it with me.”

They went out again, and Mrs. Horan, ensconced between Helen and me, began to enjoy
herself in a loud whisper.

“Any day—that's what I've been saying to my husband—any day. And he'd vomited before, I
know that. So it came as no surprise, no surprise at all.”

I said: “When did you last see Martin?”

“Let's see...” Mrs. Horan frowned like a witness on Perry Mason— “I guess it was the day
before yesterday. I seen him in the morning. Then I heard him talking to Mr. Cassidy in
the hall around noon and then around five o'clock. I figured they'd been somewheres. I
didn't look in on him that night. My husband don't like me going in the hall after dark.
There was a stabbing on our floor last month. Then later, I heard Mr. Cassidy leave.”

“You didn't
see
him leave?” I wondered if Helen thought the question odd, but she
only said:

“Then he must have gone back. Father Dever said Mr. Cassidy found him in the morning.”

Mrs. Horan nodded. “He probably just went out to get Martin some food, and then maybe he
stayed all night. He did that sometimes. He was real good to Martin. I think they were
related or something. They used to pal together before Martin's drinking got so bad.
Anyways, yesterday morning Mr. Cassidy comes banging on my door and it's all over.”

Tina reappeared, and we made room for her and the child in the pew. He was clutching a
box of animal crackers.

Mrs. Horan whispered: “That's real nice of you.”

“I have a little boy myself. I always keep something in the car for emergencies.” Tina
automatically assumed our respectful whisper. “Father Dever just arrived. I introduced
myself. What a sweetheart. He said he wished Martin could have some music, but there
isn't an organ in this chapel.”

Mrs. Horan said: “You can bet on it, Father's paying for whatever this costs—including
getting Martin buried in that awful place. We got a plot in Holy Martyrs ourselves.
Martin showed me that mausoleum once. I hate them things. Give me God's good earth, I
always say.”

“Where's Sadd?” I asked Tina.

“He's talking to Mr. Cassidy and Father Dever.”

We fell silent, sitting in the dimness; the only sound was the scrounging of small
fingers in the cracker box. I had a sense of unreality. What was I doing sitting in a
barely heated church, feet numb to the ankles, awaiting the remains of a pathetic
creature whom I'd never heard of till this week? I wrenched my thoughts to Santa Martina
Island, to a cove on its northernmost shore where Tampa Bay and the Gulf of Mexico merge
in a beautiful and dangerous expanse of swirling water. The sun would be blinding, the
gulls would be soaring....

The lights in the chapel went on. A modest arch was revealed and a wedding cake of an
altar. The doors behind us opened, and we rose to face the coffin advancing on its
trolley—flanked by Sadd and Frank Cassidy!

I converted my gurgle—successfully, I hope—into a cough, and Tina grasped my arm,
smothering a similar convulsion. Hired pallbearers cost money and Father Dever was
nothing if not resourceful. Now he himself emerged from behind the altar, handsomely
vested in black, and stood awaiting Martin's approach. The undertaker, a thin man and,
as Tina later said, “the only other pro in the show,” paced behind the two non-union
members of the cast, guiding their progress.

But why did I also feel like weeping? Was it the great stretch of empty pews between us
and Martin? True, Sadd and Cassidy were directed to take the front pew on either side,
but the five of us remained frozen in the rear of the chapel as Father Dever began the
Mass. And there was another emptiness ... the utter silence, except for the low voice of
the priest. I thought of Martin's words: “Lloyd said he'd bring me over to St. Bernard's
and give me the whole works—choir and all.” My sadness mounted as, under the assured
guidance of Mrs. Horan and Helen, we stood, sat, and knelt. At one point, the door
behind us opened and closed, but no one joined us. Evidently a devotional visitor,
perceiving a funeral in progress, had hastily backed out.

Now the Mass was over.

The undertaker signaled to Sadd and Cassidy to resume their duties. As they began their
slow procession toward us, suddenly, heartrendingly, Martin got his wish.

A fine baritone voice began to sing “Ave Maria.”

Jon!

It was so stunning, so unexpected, so wonderful. We turned, bumping into each other,
gawking at Jon, who stood, unwrapping a scarf from his neck and making the arch ring
with the hymn which, at least momentarily, is the downfall of doubters, the confusion of
agnostics, and, in this case, almost the undoing of Sadd and Cassidy, who advanced with
streaming faces and wavering steps. Our back-pew delegation smiled weepily as the
glorious
a cappella
soared to a climax and the coffin reached the door.

It was easy to imagine Martin already wafted to cloud
cum
harp.

IN THE CAR, AS WE FOLLOWED THE WINDING route of the hearse, I leaned into the front seat
and hugged Jon. Sadd slapped his back, and Tina said:

“Jon, that was just plain wonderful.”

“That was just plain lucky.” He laughed, pleased with our pleasure. “I didn't turn on my
answering machine till this morning, and then I just caught Henry as he was leaving for
court. Poor Marty! He used to love those requiem High Masses at St. Bernard's. When I
saw that dim little chapel and that no-frills Mass!”

“And that crowd of mourners!” Tina laughed. “All seven of us, including Mrs. Horan's
grandson.” She braked suddenly. “My God—I forgot them! Should I have waited for them?”

“Not to worry,” I said. “Father Dever sent them home in a cab.”

“And Helen Cavanaugh's left,” said Sadd. “She's had all she can take, poor thing.”

“This place is incredible.” Jon peered out of the window. “Aunt May told me about it
once—something about just one person being buried—” He stopped and looked shyly from one
to the other of us. “Did Henry tell you?”

I said: “Yes, dear. I'm so glad May did that.”

“We're delighted for you, son.”

Tina said: “It's great, Jon.”

“Thanks, Tina. Did you ever meet Aunt May?”

The question, so sudden, so innocent, so revealing, reduced us all to silence for a few
seconds. Fortunately, a horn sounded behind us. Frank Cassidy, Father Dever seated
beside him, was signaling to us from his car. Tina stopped, and he got out and hurried
to her window. He said:

“When the hearse stops, pull up
behind
it. It will have to leave before we do.”

Tina nodded and moved on.

So May had said nothing to Jon? Did he even know of Ellen's existence? He could only have
heard of her from his father. In the front seat, Jon was asking Tina about probate. I
said quietly to Sadd:

“He may never have heard of Ellen. Did you ever discuss the case with him?”

“Never.”

Then that was that. But ... the portrait in May's living room. Surely Jon had sat there,
had seen it.

I said: “Speaking of wills, isn't it nice that the portrait of May's daughter goes to
Tully. Did you ever see it, Jon?”

He nodded and turned. “Yes, the first time I went to Aunt May's apartment. I asked her
who it was, and she said it was her daughter and that they had ‘lost her.' I suppose
people can't bear to say ‘die' when they refer to a child, especially their own.”

Sadd said: “Here's Lazarus wearing his crown. We're almost there.”

“I didn't know you'd ever been here, Dad.”

“I practically live here,” said Sadd, and Tina laughed at Jon's bewilderment and said it
was a tale for around the fire someday. She pulled up behind the hearse and we got out.

Uglier than ever, the veil of snow gone from its roof, dawson loomed to receive Martin.
Two workmen were shoveling a path to the door, and now one of them swung open the
grille. I thought fleetingly of Martin plunging through the drifts, our trespassing
footsteps following after. It had been more fun than the tame scene that now ensued as
the workmen carried him up the path and set his coffin down just inside the mausoleum.
Then they walked away, shovels over shoulders.

The undertaker got back into the hearse, and it pulled away.

We stood uncertainly in the road. Father Dever and Frank Cassidy were standing beside
their car, earnestly talking. Or was Father doing the talking?

From inside the mausoleum came a pattering sound. We looked at each other, then with one
accord, walked up the path to the door.

A young workman stood on a ladder scraping bits of mortar from the yawning cavity of the
topmost left crypt. Its slab lay on the ground. Jon said softly, as we all stared in:

“I could hardly believe it when May told me, but sure enough there's the one inscription.
What a bastard he must have been.”

The workman turned and nodded to us. He said: “Mr. Cassidy here yet?”

“Right behind us,” said Sadd.

Tina said: “Who decides who goes where?”

The workman shrugged. “Mr. Cassidy told me to open this one. Plenty of choice.” He
laughed and tossed a pebble at Jim Cavanaugh. “That dude's finally got company.”

Sadd said: “I wonder if we're expected to give Martin a leg up.”

“Oh, he won't be placed till this afternoon, maybe tomorrow. The mason has to be here to
seal the slab.”

I looked at it. “There's no inscription.”

“That costs.” The boy jumped down from his ladder and collected his tools. “Some people
don't bother. Well, see you.” And the lively young worker among the dead went off
whistling.

We stood there glumly. Tina said:

“If Martin doesn't get ‘placed' now, why are we here?”

“A few more prayers, I guess,” said Jon.

Father Dever and Frank Cassidy were approaching the path. I walked around Martin's coffin
to the bank of crypts and looked up at them. The huge slab fronts, though not sealed,
appeared to be firmly in place. Oddly, the only one that looked loose was Jim's own. The
mortar had been chipped away in spots, and the slab jutted and sagged slightly.

I said: “If any of Jim's buddies are here, I'd say they'd have to be right in his own
crypt with him.”

“They are, Mrs. Gamadge.”

It was Frank Cassidy's voice. We all agreed later that the words didn't register at once.
I was aware that Father Dever looked bigger than ever in a bright blue parka, his thick,
white hair blowing. His only vestment was a narrow, purple satin stole with a cross at
each end. He held a prayer book, and Cassidy carried a small bag. I recall walking back
to the door and standing with the others as the priest opened his prayer book and said
cheerfully:

“We'll give Marty the final blessing that will commend him to the Lord. Then Frank and I
have something to show you.”

He began to read. At one point, we were requested to recite The Lord's Prayer and I
suppose we got through it. Father Dever closed his book and helped Cassidy cover the
coffin with a purple pall. Then he said:

“I don't want you folks to catch cold. We'll be as quick as possible. When Frank has the
slab free, I think, among us, we can lift it off.”

Cassidy snapped open a brown plastic bag. Next came a hammer. He started to chip at the
crumbling mortar on Jim Cavanaugh's crypt.

Father Dever went on: “When the mason comes the slab will be back in place, and he'll be
told it had come loose and should be re-sealed. Because what we do here is in
confidence, of course. We're all members of the family one way or another, and this
place has been a shadow on us too long.”

A few more ringing blows, and Cassidy threw down his tools. Then the three old men and
the single young one grasped sides and corners of the tipsy slab and, amid a shower of
mortar fragments, staggered back with it.

The bottles, stacked against the moulding coffin, winked at us evilly. Frank Cassidy
lifted out an ugly greenish quart that gurgled in his hand. He said:

“Care for a swig? Jim Cavanaugh's special brew. Very old stock.”

On the phone, Tina was assured by Teresita that Hen's cold was better, but he'd been
asking when his mother was coming home, and that sent her flying to her car. Jon, an
audition scheduled for one o'clock, asked to be dropped off at the nearest subway stop.
I waved them off with assurances that we'd report in full and that Father Dever had
offered us a ride back to Willow Street. Then I returned to the blessed warmth of the
Hong Kong Gardens.

My whiskey sour had just arrived, and Sadd moved over in the booth. We all raised our
glasses in a toast to Martin.

“He was such a good-looking kid,” said Father Dever. “Played fine baseball. How old was
he when he got hooked, Frank?”

“About eighteen. Jim had him working in that warehouse of his out in Riverhead. Marty
quit school to do it. The stuff was such poison. I had a fair amount of it myself. But
Marty was like Maura, he couldn't handle it.”

“He tried to quit in his middle years.” The priest looked into his beer. “We all thought
he'd licked it. Then he married Grace and she died and the baby died, and that cooked
his goose.” He smiled at me. “We've ordered for you, Mrs. Gamadge. It's your favorite,
Mr. Saddlier said. Moogoo something.”

“The day I learn to pronounce it,” said Sadd, “I plan to open my own place.”

Cassidy's hands toyed with his chopsticks, then threw them down. “I'd like to say
something. I feel bad that you folks thought I was rude or whatever, but things had got
so bad with Marty, I was scared he'd break into that place and start a scene and then
there'd be a lot of rotten publicity. Recently, he'd been chipping away at the crypt to
get at the stuff we put there the night Jim was buried.”