The Widow's Mate (17 page)

Five minutes later, Brenda Kelly came in, standing in the doorway for a moment until she recognized Cy. She came to stand beside him. “I'm late.”

No later than Gregory Packer.

“Where's Mrs. Flanagan?” Brenda asked.

“Front row, right side.”

Brenda craned her neck to get a better look. “Beautiful as ever.”

“Take a pew.”

“I don't have a rosary.”

Regis produced one as if by magic and handed it to her, courtesy of McDivitt's Funeral Home. Brenda started toward the chairs but, recognizing Marco and his companion, scooted to the opposite side. Cy wished he had asked Brenda who the woman with Marco was.

Marco was a distracting presence, inviting thoughts of how the body of Wally Flanagan had been found. Being found piecemeal in a cement mixer suggested the Pianone touch. Why would Marco show up for the wake of Gregory Packer?

Father Dowling said one mystery kneeling, the next standing, to make it easier on the mourners. Marco had produced a huge rosary, the beads looking like jewels, the crucifix massive. His presence seemed a statement, but Cy could not read its meaning.

*   *   *

Tuttle had thought he would have to crawl over Sandra Bochenski to the empty seat to her left, but she moved in, and that gave him the advantage, in case he wanted to bolt. He stole a glance at her and saw that her eyes were full of tears. After what she had told him of Packer's treatment of her, the tears should have been of the crocodile sort, but they seemed genuine. That diminished his anger at the way she had seemed to have given him the slip.

Father Dowling finished the rosary, stood, and turned, and then people began to come forward to kneel on the prie-dieu and get a good look at the embalmed deceased.

“You checked out of the Whitehall,” Tuttle said out of the side of his mouth.

“I left a message with your assistant.”

“I didn't get it.”

“When can we get together?”

This was disarming. Maybe she hadn't meant to dodge her responsibility to her professional advisor.

“Where did you go from the Whitehall?

For answer, she took a card from her purse and gave it to him. Tuttle had his tweed hat on his lap. He deposited the card in it.

“Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?” She asked him.

“Of course.”

“We'll talk afterward. There are things you should know.”

*   *   *

Regis McDivitt had slipped off to his office and the consolations of a mild bourbon and water. He toasted the photograph of his grandfather, the founder, and sipped complacently. You could count on Father Dowling to make things run smoothly. Not even the presence of Marco Pianone in his viewing room could upset Regis tonight. A pretty good turnout for a rolling stone; of course, it was the contingent from the St. Hilary senior center that filled the room. They knew how to say the rosary. In his line of work, Regis could not help but notice the fall-off of such pious practices. He kept a large supply of inexpensive rosaries on hand, since by and large people didn't carry one with them nowadays. They kept them, by and large, maybe even got back into the habit of using them. Regis felt a little bit like a missionary, bringing Catholicism to Catholics. Not that he would say such a thing out loud. An undertaker was by definition a background figure, seen but not heard, the reassurance that since these grim occasions were for him almost daily fare, this one would go well.

12

Cy's wife, Fran, wanted a blow-by-blow account of the wake for Gregory Packer—who was there, who said what to whom, was Regis still sucking mints.

“It was a wake. There's a body, you say some prayers and get out of there.”

“Come on. Were the Flanagans there?”

“The Flanagans were there. You're this curious, why didn't you come along?”

“I hate wakes.”

She hated funerals, too, so Cy went alone the following morning for the ten o'clock funeral Mass. Of course, he was on duty. They had six of the old guys from the center acting as pallbearers, and even then Regis had to give them a hand.

It was pretty much the same bunch as the night before, except that Marco wasn't there. Fran had a cat that liked hanging around the picture window of the house next door, driving the dog in the house crazy. To have the enemy so near and yet so far. Any Pianone but Peanuts was like that cat so far as Cy was concerned. The enemy you couldn't get at. It was still a puzzle why Marco had come to the wake.

“That was Sylvia with him,” Brenda said when he asked her.

“That explains his coming?”

“He came with her.”

“Okay, why did she come?”

“Ask me why I did.”

Cy asked, and she told him. She and Sylvia had worked for Wally Flanagan; the dead man had been living in the garage apartment at the Flanagan home.

“That's it?”

“Don't you see?”

“Where did you flunk logic?”

“I wish she'd answer my e-mails.” Another convoluted explanation followed this.

“So give her a call, write her a letter.”

Brenda drew closer. “She's not in the book. I don't know where she lives.”

“I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Ask her.”

By then Sylvia had left.

After the Mass, most of the seniors went back to the center, and there was only a small group at the cemetery, which made the three women, Brenda, Sylvia, and Sandra, all the more conspicuous. Sandra had widow status, in a way, but the other two must just like funerals. Tuttle was sticking to Sandra Bochenski like a bill collector. The casket had been placed on rollers and positioned over the open grave, effectively concealing it unless you were standing close. Rugs of artificial grass had been laid over the dirt that had come from the hole. Father Dowling, in street clothes, read from a book and sprinkled holy water on the casket, and that was it. The casket would be lowered into the grave and covered over after they left.

Cy loped across the incline to his car. He got the news from downtown before he was halfway out of the cemetery.

“The only fingerprints on the wrench are Luke Flanagan's,” Agnes told him, excitement in her voice.

“So what?”

“So what? Did you hear me? His fingerprints are on what Dr. Pippen and others are sure was the murder weapon.”

“Agnes, it was his house, his garage, no doubt his wrench.”

“Cy, these are fresh prints. Very fresh.”

If he had shared Agnes's excitement, he would have turned around and gone back to ask Luke about it.

“How fresh?”

“Talk to the lab,” Agnes said, disgusted. She hung up before he could say anything else.

Phil Keegan thought the fingerprints significant, too. “We've got nothing else, Cy.”

“You want me to talk to Luke?”

“Not yet. Agnes is going to see if she can find out where Luke was when Packer was killed.”

“We could find that out by talking to Luke.”

Phil shook his head. “Of course, it's a long shot. If he was in the Loop at the time, the fingerprints don't mean a thing.”

By the Loop, Phil meant the place where Luke lived, just off the Magnificent Mile. Cy got Agnes on the radio and told her he would meet her there.

*   *   *

Agnes was in the lobby talking to the woman who had sat next to Luke at the wake. Her name was Maud. She looked Cy over appraisingly. “You're a big son of a gun.”

“I saw you at the wake.”

She laughed. “Where else are you going to see a woman my age?”

“But you didn't go to the funeral.”

“The next burial I go to will be my own. I've seen too much of it.”

Agnes was getting impatient with all this banter. “Mrs. Lynn,” she broke in.

“Maud.”

“Maud, we're here because we're following routine. Could I ask you a few questions?”

“Shoot. And I don't mean with that.” She pointed at Agnes's weapon. Agnes was in uniform.

Cy let Agnes ask the questions, a little too bluntly maybe, but all of them to the point. She told Maud the approximate time of Packer's death and explained that the routine was meant to establish where everybody was at that time.

“I was right here.”

“Okay. Good. And Luke Flanagan?”

“He lives here, too.”

“I know that. Were you together?”

“Sweetie, we've become inseparable.”

“Right here?”

“Right here. Well, in his room.” She dipped her head and looked at Agnes over her glasses.

“Okay, okay.” She thanked Maud and asked her how she liked living there.

“You call this living?”

“You should see my place.”

Maud was lying, Cy would have bet his badge on it, but why? She wasn't protecting herself, so it must be Luke she was lying for. Cy watched Maud continue to wrap Agnes around her finger.

The elevator door slid open, and a man in a wheelchair pushed himself into the lobby. His face lit up when he saw Maud, and he rolled up beside her. “Can we go for a beer?”

“Not right now, Boleslaw.” Cy had moved toward the wheelchair, and Maud looked up at him. “This is Boleslaw Bochenski.”

“Bochenski?”

The old man glared at Cy.

“Where do you go for a beer?”

Maud told him of the bar up the street.

“I'll take you,” Cy said.”I could use a beer myself.”

So he got Bochenski through the revolving doors, a bit of a trick, and rolled him up the street to the bar Maud had mentioned.

Inside it was about thirty degrees cooler than outside, but it seemed a nice place. Cy got them settled at a table, and a waitress came over.

“A boilermaker,” the old man said.

“Make it two.”

While they waited, the old man peered at Cy. “Do I know you?”

“My name is Horvath. I'm a cop in Fox River. I know your daughter.”

“Daughter? Do I have a daughter?”

“Sandra.”

“She called yesterday. I haven't seen her for years.”

“She's been in California.”

“So she said.”

Their drinks came, and Cy dropped the subject. The old man was more interested in the ball game than in his daughter anyway. Between innings, though, he leaned toward Cy. “She moved me into that place. She pays for it. She's not all bad.”

Boleslaw was on his second boilermaker when Luke Flanagan joined them.

“Maud says you were looking for me.”

“One question, Luke. Where were you on Wednesday afternoon?”

“I thought so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did someone see me leave?”

“Tell me about it.”

Luke's story was the twin of Amos Cadbury's, only he had been in the garage apartment before the lawyer, and he had threatened to throw Packer out of the garage apartment on his ear. For years he had blamed Packer for the fact that Wally had not turned out as Luke had hoped.

“We found the wrench, Luke.”

“Have a boilermaker,” Boleslaw urged Luke.

“Do I have time?” Luke asked.

“I'll have another myself.”

13

The arrest of Luke Flanagan on suspicion of murder put Amos Cadbury in a delicate position, and he drove himself out to St. Hilary's to talk with Father Dowling. “They've arrested Luke Flanagan.”

“Yes.”

“Father, I may have done a stupid thing.”

“I doubt that, Amos.”

“It's true that I don't regret it.”

“Tell me.”

They sat in the pastor's study, the door closed against the curiosity of Marie Murkin. Amos unwrapped a cigar and prepared it lovingly. When he applied a match to it and turned it slowly, ensuring an even burn, it was a work of art.

“Luke came to me and told me that he had gone out to his old house to throw Packer out of the garage apartment. He said he came upon a scene very much like the one I came upon.”

“Do you mean he found Packer already dead?”

“I believed him. I do believe him. On the way up the stairs, he picked up something he had stumbled on. It turned out to be the wrench that killed Packer. Luke fled in a panic, and when he got outside, he threw the wrench into the backyard, where it was found.”

“That accounts for his fingerprints on it.”

Father Dowling remembered Melissa sitting in this study, telling him that she had made a big mistake in allowing Packer to use the garage apartment. He told Amos that.

“On the very day it happened?”

“Yes.”

“Good Lord, Father, what if she had gone home and surprised the intruder?” The old lawyer closed his eyes at the thought.

“She spoke of helping Packer set himself up in business.”

“Yes, a driving range. We had talked about that, Melissa and I. He had an appointment to see me when I was to give him the good news. Of course, I saw it largely as a way to get him away from her. Once he had the money, he wouldn't have any reason to linger, but he didn't show up for the appointment.” Amos paused. “You'll forgive me if I say that was an uncommon experience for me. I drove out there in anger, much as Luke himself had earlier.”

“Packer's experience with driving ranges hadn't been good.”

“What experience of his had been? When he wept at Wallace's funeral, I liked the man. Everyone else turned it into some sort of pep rally, even … But I must not criticize the Franciscans.”

Father Dowling smiled. Amos had an old-fashioned conception of the deference due the clergy.

“Now, if they persist in seeing Luke as the assailant, I will have to come forward and testify in his behalf. I assured him at the time that he had been wise to tell me, not that I thought he would become a suspect.”

“Wouldn't that come under lawyer/client privilege?”

“Of course.”

“What a star-crossed family the Flanagans are.”

“Indeed, indeed. The sins of the son visited on the father.”