A Pinchbeck Bride (4 page)

Chapter Eight

The next morning’s
Globe
included a notice stating that Genevieve Courson’s funeral would be held the following morning at ten at the Cafferty/McGinn Funeral Home in Lynn, a former mill town north of Boston. I was just tearing out the notice when someone began knocking delicately at our condominium door, fluttering their fingers against the wood, making the sound of a small bird trapped in a box. It was Chloe, waving the very same obituary page and whispering, “Her funeral is tomorrow. Is Roberto out? Good. The Mothership is delivering that bracelet to WGBH. Oh, you already saw it. You
are
taking this seriously.”

Her butter-yellow dress, of some filmy material, billowed as she fidgeted. “Are you going? May I come?”

“Yeah, your mom and Roberto would love that. There’d be World War Three
and
a divorce.”

She was chewing a mouthful of Swedish fish, which made it impossible for me to understand her response.

“What?”

She swallowed the red candy and licked her lips. “Like that’s stopped you before.”

“I almost got killed.’

“But you saved my life.” Her face was expectant, guarded, hopeful.

“Thank God.” She enveloped me in her spindly arms.

So I drove up to Lynn, in the one suit I owned (wrinkled and in need of dry cleaning), a salsa-spotted tie, and scuffed wing tips, all dating from my years in advertising. The funeral home was a one-story structure of dun-colored brick, incongruous in a neighborhood of sagging three-decker houses covered in blistered paint or dented aluminum siding. Directly across the street, half of the funeral home’s parking lot had been commandeered by media trucks and reporters practicing their commentary into microphones: “Doug, it’s a somber scene here in Lynn…” Wooden barricades separated this mob from any mourners arriving.

“Sir? Do you have a moment?”

“Are you a family member? How are you feeling?”

“What did Genevieve Courson mean to you?”

Silent, I reached the safety of the funeral home porch, where, under a maroon canvas canopy, the somber male staff greeted me, their bouncers’ physiques at odds with the delicate way they clasped their hands and covered their crotches.

Inside, everything in the hallway was beige: the carpeting, the wallpaper, and the shades of the brass lamps. Two surprises hit me next: the sight of Genevieve in her open casket, and the rows of empty chairs, each a rebuke. We were the only two “people” at the service. The media/mourner ratio was about three-hundred to one.

Signing the condolence book open on the maple lectern, I noted three other names in the lines above mine. I felt guilty, signing and confirming my presence here, violating the wishes of my partner and best friend, and, of course, linking myself publicly with this case and perhaps arousing the suspicions of the police. As I placed the pen back next to the page, I felt a bulky presence to my right. It was Fletcher Coombs, whose freckles seemed to have faded with stress.

I had to say it. “Where is everybody?” Unfortunately, it came out sounding flippant.

“Are you done? Because I’d like to sign…I certainly hope people won’t come just out of curiosity.”

Was that a dig at me? He seemed chill as the corpses in the funeral home freezer, in his tie with little New England Patriots insignia, which I found a bit inappropriate. An elderly couple materialized behind him, so I fled to a seat in the anonymous middle of the room.

Genevieve was posed in suit of peat-brown wool that seemed alien to her wardrobe and personality. The ring that normally adorned her nose had been removed and the henna had been shampooed from her hair. The frilly collar of her custard-yellow blouse concealed any ligature marks left by her strangler. She resembled a prim young secretary from the early 1960s. Draped across the gray metal casket was a blanket of roses, so moist and white they looked made of cold cream. There were no other arrangements here, nothing.

I counted five people in the room: Fletcher, the elderly couple, a woman in a purple leather jacket, and Dorothea Jakes. Then Nadia, of all people, came lumbering in, almost chic in a lilac tweed suit. What was she doing here? I had thought she saw Genevieve as a necessary nuisance back at Mingo House, conscientious but not terribly serious.

Then the canned organ music, which had been droning faithfully in the background, ceased, as a minister, together with an older man with Genevieve’s sharp distinctive nose and the contours of her skull, proceeded up the aisle. This was, I assumed, her father, for, when he reached the front row of seats, he broke free of the minister’s arm, and, approaching the casket, tenderly touched the dead girl’s forehead in a soothing gesture. Then he wiped his eyes with a very large handkerchief, and sat down, alone, in a chair in the first row.

“We gather here to remember a life that while brief was extraordinary and touched so many…” Clearly the minister wasn’t making up his eulogy spontaneously; he said nothing about the sparse house. He continued, offering no special insights into Genevieve’s life; she was a devoted daughter and a loyal friend. Only toward the end of his tribute did he allow the horror of her death to intrude into this beige, embalmed setting: “Some twisted soul, some sad and lost individual, callously and violently ended her life, but he did nothing to sully the wonderful young woman she actually was.” The “actually” was odd. Then he read some obscure psalms and the service was over. According to the felt board with white plastic letters posted above the condolence book, Genevieve was going to be cremated, so there would be no procession to a grave.

“Are you going back to the house?” the elderly couple was asking the woman in the purple leather jacket. “Oh, I’m not going
there
,” the woman all but snapped.

None of the mourners spoke to Mr. Courson, but crept away with the discretion of shoplifters.

“Do you want a few minutes alone with your daughter?” asked one of the funeral home staff. Mr. Courson nodded.

Both Nadia and Dorothea Jakes had evaporated, so I stepped back into the hall, where I met Fletcher, studying an eighteenth-century engraving of a lily, one of those botanical prints people hang when their imagination fails.

Three more cops had come out of the woodwork. Boston police, I noticed, casing the place.

“Not many people from school.”

He glanced at me and then back at the print. “It’s exam time.”

“But her father—”

“Her father has issues.”

“Who were those others?”

“Neighbors. What’s it to you?”

Just at that moment Mr. Courson emerged from his time with his daughter, but he was not alone. He was accompanied by a uniformed policeman who was telling him, “You can go to the crematorium, if you want, Larry. Don’t let me cramp your style.”

Was the policeman protecting Mr. Courson or guarding him? Could his “issues” be criminal?

“I’d just as soon head home.” Mr. Courson almost lost his balance, but the cop caught him, steadying his shoulder. Then the pair of them veered slowly toward the exit, never to see Genevieve again.

Fletcher appeared more haggard than when we met at the condolence book. “I’m going to the house.”

He was either inviting me along or saying this as a polite way to get rid of me. “May I follow you in my car?”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“There are all those reporters.”

“I’ve parked on a side street. We’ll go out the back.”

Marcia Haight, with her crew, awaited us. “This must be such a terrible shock…”

Then Fox News barreled up. “Hey, what’s with the father? Is he a suspect?”

Fletcher and I ignored them. They gave up pursuing us when a funeral home hunk snapped, “Hey, shut up or take your sorry asses elsewhere.”

Fletcher drove a battered olive-green SUV, its rear window dense with decals from national parks and with a line of dancing bears courtesy of the Grateful Dead. Inside, it was spotless, vacuumed but shabby. The only clutter, if it qualified as such, was an atlas of road maps of Massachusetts cities, a windshield scraper, and a Dunkin’ Donuts insulated coffee mug. As before, Fletcher had an air of tension about him, a sullen formality understandable when someone close to you dies so shockingly.

“Are you a fan of the Dead?” That came out wrong.

“I inherited the car from my parents.” He started the engine. His keys were on a chain along with a small enamel American flag.

He almost clipped a woman I recognized as a host on
Good Morning America
. He quickly lost one news truck trailing us by making turn after turn and speeding down several one-way streets the wrong way.

I wanted to get him talking, about Genevieve and her father. We were fresh from the service and they were the natural subject for conversation. In particular, I was wondering about Mr. Courson. “What was with the cop?”

“I told you, Mr. Courson has issues.”

“Legal issues?”

“Big time.” He kept his eyes on the road as we passed empty mill buildings where shoes had once been manufactured and then a sub shop, a potato chip factory, and a Baptist church for evangelical Hispanics.

I would wait for Fletcher to elaborate about the father. He was obviously the sort who resented questions. A blue Civic with duct tape mending its windshield cut us off at a green light and Fletcher exploded: “You dumb shit! Go back to where you came from!” He was well-built enough to win any fight not involving weapons. Gunning the engine, he seemed a little contrite. “It was kids.”

“In the Civic?”

“No, with Genevieve’s dad. He was accused of diddling a kid. He’s a sex offender. He’s under house arrest. He wears one of those ankle bracelets.”

How awful, I thought, for her. What a burden for a young woman to carry. No wonder people had shunned Mr. Courson at the funeral. Especially if his crimes were recent. My sympathy for the man curdled with revulsion, so that the two emotions battled, spiders in a jar.

We turned right, and, to my surprise, the dilapidated houses gave way to woods and a small park with a baseball diamond—and then a street of freestanding single-family homes appeared, once-fine Greek revival structures with porches and proud Doric columns. We stopped at a house abutting a pewter-gray, rain-swollen pond.

“He lives in there. That’s where Genevieve grew up.”

A police car was parked at the curb. So was a truck from the Canadian Broadcasting Company.

“How is her dad doing?” I asked Fletcher.

“Not great. What do you expect?”

“Is it okay to visit?”

“Man, the water’s gotten higher!”

He was right about that. It had flooded a garage and inundated a redwood picnic table twenty yards from the house.

The cop came out of the house just as we approached it. “Poor devil,” he said to us. Which of those words did he mean more?

Fletcher rang the bell. Then Marcia Haight and her crew came climbing onto the porch, almost stumbling over a stack of firewood, elbowing the Canadians aside. “Who on earth could have killed Gen?” she asked us. Just then, the front door—still decorated with a Thanksgiving wreath of Indian corn—was pulled open to reveal Mr. Courson in his grief-black suit, now barefoot and holding a glass of clear liquid.

“Fletcher, I can always count on you. Thank you, thank you as always.” They hugged. That was a surprise.

“I’m Mark Winslow. I knew Genevieve from the museum.”

“Oh, that place. I’m Larry. Or what’s left of me.” His sigh turned into a deep sob. Fletcher patted his arm.

The interior of the house was beautiful, unexpected in this neighborhood. The wide floorboards gleamed with wax and the rooms were furnished with Victorian pieces that would not be out of place in Mingo House: a sofa carved with clusters of grapes, chairs upholstered in needlepoint and velvet. One whole wall was hung with daguerreotypes, portraits that could command formidable prices at auction. Mr. Courson apologized for having nothing to drink but birch beer, which he served us in elegant cut-glass tumblers. Fletcher joined me on the sofa in front of a low table stacked with books of photography: Cartier-Bresson, David Bailey, Richard Avedon.

“Mr. Courson is an incredible photographer.” Fletcher began jiggling his right leg.

“
Was
.” Mr. Courson’s tone was bitter. “That’s all finished.” He scratched his ankle, covered by his pants leg. Perhaps the bracelet was fastened on that leg.

“He had a studio downtown.”

Mr. Courson blinked rapidly and sipped his soft drink.

“You stopped taking photographs? Why?” Just as my words took flight I guessed that photography was somehow related to his legal troubles.

“It was part of the entrapment. Part of the whole scam.” Fletcher was one of those people who channel excess energy by wiggling one foot, and as soon as one became calm, the other activated. “There’s this girl who has a screw loose who made a pass at Mr. Courson. When he said ‘No way,’ she made a federal case out of it. Then her parents got in on the act, and the whole thing snowballed.”

“Times like these, you learn who your friends are. And who they aren’t.”

On the wall, contrasting to the daguerreotypes, were photographs of the girl who grew up to be Genevieve. Her young smile seemed heartbreakingly brave, given the fate that lay in ambush this spring. She was clutching a stuffed monkey, awash in tropical surf, riding a palomino pony through British-green meadows…These photographs suggested affluence and security, but this was no doubt before Mr. Courson was charged.

“Just a terrible thing. A terrible thing.” Mr. Courson was talking about all that had befallen him.

“We all liked Genevieve at the museum.” Again I had mentioned the site of the murder. I tried to amend things: “She had a wonderful rapport with the visitors.”

“Except with the one who killed her.” Mr. Courson put his birch beer onto the table with the books of photography. “I thought her problems were over when that crazy professor killed himself. And did the world a favor. Of course he almost killed my daughter in the act.”

“Zack Meecham. He sure was a prize,” Fletcher said.

I decided to ask questions while I could. “Was he…harassing her?”