Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) (15 page)

“We got the backhoe going again,” Pops said. “It took some real slamming before we finally got the dirt to start breaking up.” He chuckled. “Made enough noise to wake the dead.”

“Gee, and after all the time and effort I went through to get them all settled in.”

“Nothing I can do about it, kid. That’s life.”

Pops was still chuckling over his little joke as Aunt Billie walked in. Pops pawed his ratty cap off his head.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bellamy,” Billie said sweetly.

“Yes ma’am. How are you today, Mrs. Sewell?”

“Delightful. Thank you for asking. Have you brought us good news?”

Pops told Billie what he had just told me, that his crew was digging Helen Waggoner’s grave at this very minute. He didn’t reprise any of his jokes. Pops has always tried to impress Billie with his professionalism.

“I got to get back and supervise,” he said, letting his voice drop down an octave. Or trying. Pops has had a crush on Aunt Billie ever since I’ve known him. At the moment, his ratty cap was feeling the brunt of his tortured affections. The old man was twisting it in his hands like it was a wet towel he was wringing out. Billie stepped aside to make way for him to pass. I noticed that she didn’t leave
that
much room. The old guy had to scrabble sideways like a crab in order to get out the door.

“You fan that poor man’s flames,” I said to Billie as she plopped down in my small armchair. “You’re such a tease.”

“He’s terribly deferential, isn’t he?”

I brought my feet down off my desk. “Billie, he carries a torch for you. Pops thinks you’re the cat’s meow and pajamas all rolled into one.”

“Silly.”

“Seriously. He thinks you’re top drawer. The living end. The bee’s knees. The cream in his—”

“Now stop it. Arthur Bellamy has been digging graves for us for twenty years. If he’s been thinking I’m the bee’s knees all this time, I’m sorry for him.”

“Don’t you ever get lonely?” I asked.

“Don’t you ever mind your own business?”

“Oh, come on. Pops is a sweet old guy. Who knows, he might even surprise you.”

“Hitchcock, I’d rather not have any major surprises at this stage in my life. Besides, Arthur Bellamy is really not my type.”

“I’ve never quite ever figured out what is your type,” I said. “I mean after Uncle Stu. You’re not going to find another one of him.”

She laughed at the memory. “Lord, my family could never understand what I saw in Stuart. I don’t suppose a lot of people did. I’ve told you of course what Father said when he heard I was heading off to Baltimore to become an undertaker’s wife.”

Of course, she had. But she wanted to say it again.

“ ‘
Baltimore!
’ ” Billie looked up at the ceiling and laughed softly.

“Oh, Stuart was certainly a sourpuss. But he loved me. I was the one single thing that your uncle never ever complained about. I was ‘it’ in his eyes. He told me that once, Hitchcock. He told me that in his estimation I was the only good damn thing this earth ever produced.” Billie brought her fingers to her face. “Goodness, you’re going to make me cry.”

“Go right ahead. Everybody who sits in that chair seems to be crying these days.”

Billie cocked an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t be referring to a certain Miss Waggoner now, would you?”

“I would.”

Billie clucked. “It really is such a shame. First the mother and then the poor girl’s only sister. And now she has that little boy to raise all on her own.”

“Actually, the father has showed up. I just met him this morning.”

I explained to Billie how I had dropped by Vickie Waggoner’s house to discuss the possibility of cremating her sister. I trotted out my lie about needing to swing by Hopkins anyway, just to keep my aunt’s eyebrows in their hangar. I skipped the part about Bo’s father appearing to be high on drugs or that he had been involved in pornography with the poor little boy’s mother, as well as possibly encouraging her to take up her mother’s tarnished profession. Or for that matter, that he used to get off on watching the little boy’s grandmother take off her clothes down on The Block back when he was a pimply teen. Certain things you just steer away from your dear old auntie. I did, however, describe Terry Haden as “a bonafide creep.”

“Do you think he could be the one who murdered Helen?” Billie asked.

“Well, he’s certainly not what you would describe as a model citizen.”

“Model citizens shoot people too,” Billie reminded me. “They simply lose their model status when they do it.”

Just then the phone rang. Mine doesn’t have a name. Billie shooed me away and took the call herself.

“Sewell & Sons, how may we help you. … Yes it is. … Uh-huh … Uh-huh … Well, in fact he … Yes, everything’s fine now. Yes. We can go ahead if you’d like. … Uh-huh … Yes, dear, of course. That’s fine. We’ll take care of everything. Let’s say ten o’clock? Will ten be okay with you. … Fine. Okay. We’ll see you tomorrow then. Good-bye, dear.”

She hung up the phone.

“That was Miss Waggoner,” she announced. “We have a funeral.”

The wind picked up Vickie Waggoner’s hair as she stood at the edge of her sister’s grave the following morning throwing roses down onto the casket, one at a time. One of the roses got picked up by the wind. It skittered over the tarp-covered pile of dirt beside the grave and blew up against Terry Haden’s leg. The pornographer leaned down and grabbed it then stepped over to the grave and held the rose out to Vickie. She hesitated, then took it from him. She snapped the flower from its stem and crumpled it. The ruby flakes scattered and vanished. Vickie considered the thorny stem in her hand, then let it drop into the grave.

This is what we call a depressing funeral.

The only decent thing about the day was the sky. A battalion of large, cotton-candy clouds were bundled in a perfect line, like something out of a van Gogh, beautiful and dwarfing. Other than that, the small gathering at the gravesite of Helen Waggoner was a pitiful exercise of futile grief. There were less than a dozen mourners, besides Terry Haden and Vickie. Exclude myself, Bonnie, Jay Adams and a very uncomfortable-looking fat man sent over by Detective Kruk, and Helen Waggoner’s farewell entourage could have squeezed into a minivan.

Vickie looked over at me, letting me know that as far as she was concerned we were through here. I gave the signal to Tony Marino, who had been standing some twenty feet off from the main action. God bless the lovesick Italian, he was braving the shriveling temperatures in his kilt and full regalia. He seemed impervious to the cold, though he must have been completely sheathed in goose bumps. At my signal, Tony hugged his bagpipes to his chest and proceeded to squeeze out his first-rate rendition of “Amazing Grace.” Several of the mourners, a few waitress buddies of Helen’s I recognized from Sinbad’s god-awful Cave, stepped forward and tossed some flowers into the grave. Everyone stood a moment and listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, then they started making their way back to their cars. I stepped over to the fat policeman.

“See any killers?”

“Who’s that guy?” He pointed at Jay Adams.

“Suspicious looking, isn’t he? I think you should arrest him on principal.”

“He looks familiar.”

“It’s those John Dillinger eyes,” I said. “That Al Capone complexion.”

The fat man gave me a queer look. “What are you talking about?”

“Skip it.” I added, “But I’d put a tail on him, just in case.”

Vickie and Terry Haden hadn’t left the graveside. Vickie looked up as I approached.

“Thank you for the bagpipes.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s something we throw in now and again.”

“‘It was very moving.”

Haden snorted. “Big production number.” Then he headed off toward the cars.

“Awfully sweet fellow, isn’t he?” I said.

“Helen really knew how to pick them.”

“Is everything okay? I can’t say you looked exactly comfortable yesterday.”

“I’m fine. I just didn’t expect him, that’s all. I grew up around men like Terry Haden, I’ll be okay. He’s just another loser.” Vickie looked down at her sister’s coffin. “He used her. It’s the same old story. But I guess she used him too. I don’t really know. Some people just suck off each other, it’s all they can do. That’s their version of love.” She looked up at me. If I expected a sad face to go along with her wistful musings, I was mistaken. Her eyes were clear and frank; her lips were drawn back in something approaching a smirk.

“Growing up, I used to beat myself up for not being more like my sister. Can you imagine anything more stupid? Look where it got her.”

“I’d like to talk with you some more, about Helen,” I said. “Not now, of course. Sometime later.”

“You think Terry Haden had something to do with it, don’t you?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m beginning to think he actually loved her. That sounds strange, I know, but I think it’s true. He’s been babbling on and on about her since he showed up.”

“What about Bo? Has he said anything about taking his son back?”

“He hasn’t. And … I don’t really know what I’m going to do if he does.”

I had my opinion on that one, but I decided to keep it to myself for the moment. Vickie glanced over in the direction of the cars. Haden was playing James Dean, leaning against his Impala, smoking a cigarette. A few cars away was someone I didn’t want to let leave before we’d had a chance to talk.

“He’s got that don’t-give-a-damn act going,” Vickie continued. “But he’s not doing such a great job of it. He seems pretty confused to me.”

“Drugs and a life of general depravity can do that too, you know. So could killing someone. For that matter, especially someone you love. That might leave a person a tad confused, don’t you think?”

“Can I ask you a question? Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to figure out who killed Helen?”

I didn’t have a ready answer for her. I guess I wasn’t sure myself. It wasn’t really for Bonnie, although I suppose it had been at first. And Helen … I never knew Helen. Bo, perhaps. I just couldn’t say.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Vickie placed her hand lightly on my arm. “Thank you, whatever it is.”

I looked over at Haden again. “You should be careful around this guy.”

Vickie cocked her head. “If Terry killed Helen because he loved her, then I’m perfectly safe, aren’t I? He doesn’t love me.”

I was dying to get an explanation of Helen’s apparent appropriation of Vickie’s name. Deciding to use a fake name when you’re making skin flicks is one thing. Or even regular flicks. Look at John Wayne. Or rather, Marion Morrison. But choosing the name of your own sibling is another thing altogether. I still didn’t even know if Vickie was aware of her sister’s peculiar paean. And the dead woman’s fresh gravesite certainly wasn’t the appropriate place to bring up the matter.

Vickie loosened a chunk of frozen dirt with her shoe. She nudged it into the grave. Her shoulders rose and then fell.

“I guess that’s it.” She winced a smile. “Sort of anticlimactic, isn’t it.”

“Funerals often are,” said sagely old Sewell.

“I meant her life.”

She moved off toward the cars. Pops and his crew were lingering some thirty feet away, next to a mausoleum. I gave the old man the nod. Bonnie and Jay Adams were standing next to the hearse, shooting the breeze. Sam, our driver, was behind the wheel—staying warm—rocking his big head to whatever rap trap was running through his Discman. Sam is a bouncer at several clubs and bars around town, as well as being on call to squire our coffins around. He’s a good kid. As big as a wall. As kind as a pussycat. Smile that’ll blind you.

Five or six cars down, the person who I didn’t want to get away was fishing for her car keys. I made a signal to Bonnie to hang tight and I hurried over to an old MG convertible. A classic model, not in the best of shape; several patches of rust, a recently replaced fender with a not so well-matched paint job, some curls on the convertible roof. But still, pretty snappy. A redheaded woman was about to get in.

“Hold up,” I said. She did. “You’re Tracy Atkins, right?”

She was in her early twenties. Chinless. Lipless. Round face. Nothing to bark about. A big tug of ginger hair. She was wearing a down parka. A patch of duct tape on one of the elbows was peeling back.

“Yes.”

“I’m Hitchcock Sewell.”

“You’re the underticker.” She had a hillbilly accent.

“That’s right. You worked with Helen at the restaurant, right? You were friends, weren’t you?”

“I’m hair, rat?”

“Excuse me?”

“Said, hair I am.”

“Of course. Look, I was wondering … I’d like to talk with you.”

“’Bout what?”

“About Helen.”

“What’d you wanna know?”

“Well, a little more than we can cover standing in the freezing cold. Can we go somewhere?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You pick up girls at funerals a lot?”

“I’m not picking you up.”

“You really just want to talk ’bout Helen?”

“That’s right.” That’s rat.

She gave me a quick once-over. “Okay. When?”

“How about now? Are you free?”

Her lips pulled back in a not very appealing smile. “Sure. Why not. Where’d you want to go? You gotta place?”

“Can you hang tight for just a minute?”

I hurried over to the hearse.

“Who’s the redhead?” Bonnie asked, tight-lipped. She was still unhappy with the unceremonious hustling out the door the day before.

“A coworker of Helen Waggoner. Her name is Tracy Atkins. She might know something about Helen that could help us. I’m going to go talk with her.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Bonnie asked. She asked it in a way that signaled loud and clear that she already knew the answer.

“I think she’ll open up to me more if it’s just one-on-one.” I regretted every single word the instant they left my lips.

“Call me later,” Bonnie said coldly. “If you want.”

“Of course.”

Jay Adams—Mr. Smug—appeared to be enjoying this. I wanted to stick a pin in him, but I let it go. No point in digging my hole any deeper. I left them and went back to the MG. Tracy rolled down the window. I noticed a FOR SALE sign on the floor behind her seat.