The Devil You Know (5 page)

“They’ll finish things when we’ve gone. Believe me, the sound of the earth falling in is not something you want in your memory.”

I could agree with that. I shook hands with the pastor and thanked him. Barrett took his turn, discreetly slipping the man a more tangible expression of appreciation, then we trudged off to our respective cars.

Barrett drove as before. Neither of us talked, but it was an oddly companionable silence.

The service was over, and I felt strangely lighter for it. Funerals are indeed for the living. I’d had that internal catharsis of saying good-bye; it was done. I’d spend the day in my room at the Francher house and leave at sunset tomorrow, taking the train back to Chicago and Bobbi. All I wanted was to be with
her
, and I was sure Maureen would understand.

We pulled in through the estate gates; Barrett didn’t bother to shut them. Perhaps he wasn’t as reclusive as Emily.

He followed the drive up to a point, then veered off, the Studie’s wheels churning uncertainly over the snow-caked lawn toward the site of the old house’s excavation. What the hell?

He cut the motor, shrugging a little in response to my look. “I’ll explain. If you would come with me . . . ?”

The deepest night is like daylight to us, but he dug a flashlight from the trunk. Skirting the big piles of raw earth and mud-smeared trash, we moved closer to the pit, the heavy digging equipment looming like snoozing elephants. The wind had picked up and whistled a freezing note in my ears. I hunched futilely against its annoyance.

“This was dreadful work,” he said. “Brought back such a lot of unpleasant memories.”

All I could think was, that despite what he’d said earlier, he might have some archaic debt of honor to settle with me about Laura. Guys from his century fought duels for less. He could be planning to cosh me on the noggin and drop what was left into the deep end. A few minutes with the bulldozer would finish the job.

“I need your advice.”

So he’d said earlier. At the first sudden move I’d vanish.

“I left it here.”

In a broad space between the big machines was a roughly folded tarp with the remains of cut rope dangling from its eyelets. That must have come from the back porch where it previously covered the summer furniture. When I drew breath to ask a question the stink of decomposition from the excavation hit me between the eyes. Damn, why had he brought me
here
?

He pulled the tarp away, revealing an oblong wooden tool box. He squatted next to the box and opened it. The inside was packed to the top with snow. It being so cold and with the tarp for shade, there wasn’t much melting.

Barrett brushed snow from something about the size of a loaf of bread. With thumb and forefinger and no small distaste, he picked out the mud-smeared object from its icy nest and set it down across one corner of the box. Just so there was no doubt about what he wanted to show, he played the flashlight’s beam over the thing.

It was a man’s shoe—with the foot still in it.

 

* * * * * * *

 

* * * * * * *

 

I’d seen death before,
but had to turn away, fighting the urge to heave.

“Jeeze, you could warn a guy can’t you?” The stink got worse. I moved upwind.

“How?” he asked dryly.

“Whose is it?”

“I don’t know. I found it down there, of course. The mechanical shovel separated it from the rest of the body. I’d have missed it completely but for the reek. I thought it was—”

“Yeah,” I said, not wanting him to finish.

“I can assume that this person came to be buried at the same time as Maureen. Whether it was by misadventure or was intentional is yet unknown.”

“Laura had to do with this one too?”

“I don’t think so. She did not mention anything the night I questioned her.”

I’d questioned her, too, thoroughly. She’d only spoken of killing two people, not three. “Hand me that light.”

He passed it over, and I gave the grisly thing a closer look. Part of an argyle sock remained, the rest had torn off. I also used my thumb and forefinger to turn it over, checking the sole and heel.

“He didn’t buy this at Macy’s. Handmade. Might be able to track down who if there’s a maker’s mark inside.” I dropped the shoe back in the tool box and shut the lid. “But I’m not looking for it.”

“I do not fault you for that, but—”

“But nothing. You give this to the cops.”

“Out of the question.”

“You wanted my advice about this?”

“Yes. I need to decide what to do next.”

“You call the cops.”

“But they will want to know why I was digging. Such labor is not something a gentleman does. They’ll hardly be satisfied that I was planning to build a guest house and doing the work myself.”

“Then give them the evil-eye whammy and make them accept it.”

“The
what?
”

“Hypnotize ’em.”

“It won’t last and you know it. There will be an investigation, gossip, and heaven knows what else. They could connect it to Maureen’s funeral and take it straight back to Emily and Laura—I want to
live
here. I can’t do that in peace if a pack of sensation-seekers start tramping over the property poking into my business. What if one of them breaks into my room during the day and finds me?”

I waved the flashlight beam toward the hole. “The rest of him is still down there?”

“He is.”

“Then you put his foot back and bury him again.”

He looked ready to spit with outrage. “An unmarked, unsanctified grave? That’s indecent!”

“Then call the cops. You can whammy them into not talking to the press.”

“No. I won’t risk it.”

“Sounds like you didn’t need my advice after all.”

Barrett snarled something while I looked down into the pit. I sniffed, catching the stink again. There was more down there, all right. “What?”

“I said, you could help me find out who this poor devil is and how he came to be here.”

Which was exactly what I did not want to do. “You’re kidding.”

“You’ve more experience at this sort of thing than I.”

He had me there. “Have you told Escott?”

“This is not a subject one should mention in a telegram, and I don’t want to risk a letter. Once a tale is in writing, all sorts of mischief can ensue. Telephoning is out of the question; the long-distance operator might hear something she shouldn’t.”

Too right. “Why didn’t you say something sooner about this?”

“It would have been inappropriate. Seeing to Maureen was more important.”

An old-fashioned guy with old-fashioned manners. They must have their uses.

“Will you help me, Mr. Fleming? Please?”

I wanted to say no, but knew Maureen wouldn’t have liked it. Besides, he’d said the magic word. “Okay, but only up to a point.”

“What point?”

“I’ll let you know when I reach it.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

* * * * * * *

 

I’d been careful to not ask about
or to imagine how Barrett had taken Maureen from that miserable hole. Unfortunately I found out firsthand as we spent the next few hours digging out the rest of body belonging to that detached foot.

I’ll skip
the details.

We put the muddy, decomposed remains on the tarp in six pieces: legs (one with the foot still attached), trunk, arms, head, all of which were in gruesome condition and stinking despite the cold. Barrett and I had to inhale to talk, so we didn’t say much. I was positive I’d never get the stench out of my nostrils.

Back when I was a reporter I’d seen my share of bodies, but had never been part of the actual recovery. A body this far gone didn’t get a picture in the paper, not the rag I’d worked for, anyway. I’d never covered a story about one this bad.

Cops and reporters tend to ask the same questions, the first having to do with identity: who was this guy?

I had on borrowed work clothes and gloves, which didn’t make going through the pockets an easy task. I found loose change and nothing else. His wallet and the other things a man usually carries were gone.

He had no coat; we’d not found a hat or any other belongings. His shirt and summer weight trousers looked to be as expensive as his handmade shoes, but the labels had been cut away, which was significant. Barrett wanted to know why.

Backing well upwind from the corpse I breathed in cleaner air to talk. God, I could
taste
the stink. I hawked and spat. It didn’t help.

“Labels are a trail straight to a tailor, who might be able to identify the man,” I said.

“How?”

“The work some of those guys do is as individual as signing their name, but it would take a discouraging amount of legwork to track down which one just by this one pair of pants.”

“There must be hundreds.”

“More. It depends how exclusive the tailor is. The really good ones keep detailed records. If some bird went to the trouble of cutting off labels then chances are good it would have led to this guy’s name.”

“What about the shoes?”

I lifted a palm toward the deceased. “It’s your turn. Go ahead.”

He wasn’t pleased, but to give him credit, he went back to the leg that still had an attached foot, and somehow removed the shoe.

“Marnucci and Sons,” he read from the inside. “Manhattan.”

I’d heard of them. “Marnucci’s is the cream of the footwear crop. Not a lot of people can afford that kind of stuff. You hear of any rich guys around here going missing seven years ago?”

“No. That would have been in the papers.”

“You never know, maybe a family wants to keep it quiet that someone knocked off Uncle Moneybags and put out that he took a trip. Instead he winds up here. We might learn something if Marnucci keeps records going back that far. Be glad the killer overlooked the shoes.”

“I am inclined to think this fellow met with foul play, but what reason have you for that conclusion?”

“Cleaned out pockets, no labels, broken ribs—”

“That might have been caused by the weight of the earth on top of the body,” he pointed out.

“I don’t think that would account for the broken arm and leg bones.” Those had been only held together by the remaining flesh. “They’re old breaks, not new ones caused from our digging. We’ve been too careful.”

“Hm.”

“Check the position of the breaks; they’re close to the joints. Bones are thicker there. It’s more likely for a bone to snap here”—I pointed to the middle part of my lower arm—“than here.” I indicated a spot just below my elbow. “I’m thinking someone beat the hell out of this guy before they killed him.”

“Or he suffered a fall.”

“Yeah, onto a bullet. There’s two holes in the head.” Barrett had dug it out, but I’d carried it up to the tarp. “The one in his temple is this big, and the one in the back you don’t want to know about. Entry and exit wounds were made by a slug of no small caliber.”

“Good God.”

“Someone aimed the gun here—” I put a finger an inch above my right eyebrow, pointing down toward the back of my head.

“He might have shot himself.”

“If he did, then he aimed it funny. A suicide is more likely to put the gun muzzle on the side at a right angle, pointing upward like this. If the bullet comes out it would be through the opposite temple or the top of his head. I’m not saying that he couldn’t have aimed it funny because of the broken arms, but a killer standing over him makes more sense.”

“You
are
familiar with this sort of thing.”

I turned away and spat again so he couldn’t see my face. My familiarity with how a suicide puts a bullet through his skull was not something of which I was proud.