Another Dead Republican (31 page)

Scott and I set out breakfast things, munched on a few leftovers, and then got back to work in the dead animal den. The wake for Edgar was later today so we had hours this morning to keep working. We still had nearly half the boxes to go. I’d also brought my laptop and zip drive down with me.

Before starting work, I told Veronica about Dewey’s break in. She didn’t want to deal with the problem and agreed that I should call a locksmith. I offered a whole lot of money to get them to show up that morning. The locksmith arrived within the hour.

Gerald had come about nine to offer to help. Scott had given him the task of sorting campground brochures. After ten minutes Gerald left the brochures and was inspecting the animals. Poor kid was bored, but he wanted to help. Fortunately, Mom came in a few minutes later and took Gerald with her.

Scott got to work on the next box while I started reading more of Zachary Ross’s dated e-mail folders.

After half an hour I realized that reading the e-mails was like slogging through a detailed nineteenth century Russian novel: lots of names, incredible details, and overwrought emotions.

It was after he became Edgar’s assistant that he began to think he was on to something. On that very first day Edgar just blurted out about anything. Zachary said it was like listening to a continuous monologue from a fifteen-year-old who finally had someone who would listen to him.

In a very few days Zachary found out that Edgar invariably ate half a dozen Ding Dongs, a six ounce can of cashews, and drank a diet soda for lunch. He had snacks during the day of doughnuts from a variety of vendors.

According to Zachary, Edgar didn’t seem to have a real job to do. He spent most of his time bloviating. His boss bragged about everything but mostly about guns. Zachary’s observation on this emphasized the notion about the guns being Edgar’s way of over compensating for lack of sexual prowess, low status in the family, or inability to articulate and relate to people in a meaningful way. Zachary finished that section that day with the comment, “The poor guy is more sad than anything. Of course, shooting things, and the need to bomb things, and invade other countries is probably all of a piece.”

Zachary said it wasn’t difficult to get Edgar to talk. Mostly Zachary just had to listen, nod, and occasionally say some version of, “My how interesting. Tell me more,” and Edgar did.

Zachary recorded that Edgar brought a different gun to work each day. He’d talk about his collection of guns, hunting trips, and the animals he’d killed. Zachary made a note that he thought a lot of this was bullshit, but that he never mentioned this to Edgar. Zachary was also not comfortable when Edgar would show off his guns.

As I read on, Zachary noted that Edgar’s favorite gun was a Colt Mustang Pocketlight .380 Auto, that he had several of them, and that he kept at least one of them in the office. The young reporter had asked Edgar why he kept a gun at the campaign headquarters. Edgar had simply said, “For protection.”

“From what?” Zachary had asked.

“Union thugs, those stupid protesters. Who knows what they’re going to do?”

Edgar never explained why he thought the opposition would invade. Zachary kept his feelings that this was nuts confined to his notes.

A week after Zachary started being his assistant, Edgar told the reporter about his secret room for building guns. So much for our big deal discovery about the hidden room which wasn’t very. Zachary noted, “It can’t be much of a secret if he’s blabbing about it to me. He seems to talk to just about anybody. The workers around here are stuck listening to him. His family just blows him off. If he corners someone, he never stops talking. Sorry as I am for him, I get sick of it pretty quick, but he’s just the kind to let something about the election slip.” Zachary vowed to stick it out as Edgar’s assistant.

After two hours, I needed a break. I turned to Scott and mentioned the Colt guns to him.

“He had several of them?”

“That’s what Zachary says. Edgar claimed it was his favorite gun.”

“We didn’t find any. Is that important?”

I shrugged, leaned back from the computer and stretched my neck.“What have you got this morning?”

“Camping brochures and US Savings Bonds. So far in this box I’ve found one bond stuffed into each brochure. He had at least fifty thousand dollars worth of them in here. They’re all in the kids’ names.”

I moved over to the desk and looked, saw the stack of bonds, shrugged. The guy could save his money any way he wanted. I went back to work.
I was into the last few days of Zach’s notes. Edgar’s brags and boasts had
turned to a lot of paranoia connected with his family. There were numerous mentions of his desire to take revenge on one, some, or all of them. He claimed they were traitors. Other times Edgar declared he was going to get even with all of them and they’d be sorry. That he, Edgar, had information saved and stored that could destroy all of them if they didn’t treat him right.

At one point Zachary asked Edgar, “Why do you all hate each other so much?”

Edgar had said, “We were brought up right.”

Which indicated to me that Edgar either had more insight or a better sense of humor than I’d given him credit for. Or he meant it, which was ghastly sad.

Edgar had never told Zachary what he had or where it was stored. Zachary was convinced that Edgar knew about
the plot to steal the election electronically. As far as I’d gotten, he had no proof.

Around noon we broke for lunch and to get ready to go to the wake which was to begin at the funeral home at 1:00 P.M.

As the time came to leave, I checked on Veronica. She and the kids looked as good as they could get in such awful circumstances. We left Darryl in the house to guard the place and headed to the funeral home.

FORTY-SEVEN

Saturday 1:00 P.M.

For much of the afternoon and evening I stood with Veronica and my mom and dad to the left of the closed casket.

My most vivid memory of the day, up until the last ugly incident, was Edgar’s brother Dewey taking pictures. He was in the viewing room recording each flower arrangement, the casket, and the mourners. Most of the assembled mourners looked at him with distaste. Fortunately, he mostly avoided our family, but who takes pictures at a funeral? The simple, obvious answer here was Dewey Grum.

As the day went on Veronica clutched my arm less often. The Grum family was to the right of the casket. Neither side approached the other. Scott sat in the back observing both sides for quite some time. My family looked grieved and worried. The Grums looked variously dispirited, lost, or angry. Every hour or so Mrs. Grum had to sit down. It must have been hard for all of them to be standing there hours on end. I also noted that some of the people lined up to talk to the Grums didn’t bother to stop and talk to Veronica. Were these politicians currying favor? Veronica’s people tended to talk with her longer, hug more often. With the Grums it was handshakes, and an occasional hand to the elbow.

For a while Scott watched the kids. David, the oldest, got restless and bored. Gerald and Patricia sat solemnly with him for a while. Patricia fell asleep against his arm for half an hour. The family rotated duties taking care of them.

Often Scott took up a quiet spot down a hall at the opposite end from the entrance to the viewing room. Partly because he was bored, but I could still find him if he was needed.

The viewing room and hall toward the front door were fairly crowded with people. Off to the side where Scott stood was mostly quiet.

Around five that afternoon, while Scott and I stood together in the hall, a very drunk man about Edgar’s age staggered up to us. He slurred his words and his liquor-fueled breath reeked.

“Is this the way to the john?”

I pointed to a door a few feet away. He took a step in that direction and then peered closely at Scott. “Aren’t you the baseball player?”

Scott said, “Derek Jeter, nice to meet you.”

“Nah, you’re not Jeter. I seen Jeter on Letterman. You ain’t him. You’re Verlander that Cleveland guy, no wait, Detroit guy. You’re him. You’re somebody. Why’d you say you’re Jeter?”

Scott said, “I came for Edgar and his family. It’s sad that he’s dead.”

“Ol’ Edgar. I was his best buddy in college. I’m Bill Rabenaw.” He thrust out his hand toward Scott who shook it. Scott said, “You knew him that long ago. You must have been good friends.”

“The best of friends. The very best of friends. We went everywhere together. Couldn’t keep us apart. Dated some of the same girls.” He hiccupped and leaned toward Scott conspiratorially. “We even banged one chick together once. We didn’t touch each other. We’re not gay. It was hot her doing both of us at once. Each of us took a different end.”

More information than I wanted.

Scott asked, “Had you seen much of him these past few years?”

“Hell, yes. Played poker with him. Me and his buddies, but I was his best buddy. Inseparable buddies.”

“He usually win or lose at poker?”

“Lost. He was so great to play poker with. Could never pull off a bluff. Never.”

“They say he was murdered.”

“I heard that. I don’t believe that. Who would want to murder him? He was harmless. Never hurt a fly. Always a good guy to be around.”

“Did you work with him?”

“As kids we had jobs together at my dad’s construction business. My dad fired him.” He leaned close. “We couldn’t go out and do carpentry work. God damn unions insisted we join. Wouldn’t join no god damn union. Edgar and me, we hated unions. You in a Union?”

“Sort of one.”

“That’s right, Derek Jeter, the baseball player. You guys got a Union.”

“So you worked in the office at the construction company?”

“Yeah.” He leaned close to Scott again, but he was still loud enough to be heard halfway across the hall. “I like you cause you’re a baseball player. I met some of the Milwaukee Brewers once or was it the Bucks? Anyway. Met them because my daddy’s rich. I can tell you this stuff. Edgar got fired. By my dad. Edgar wouldn’t say nothing. My dad just got rid of him. His dad and my dad are buddies. Good to have good buddies.”

“But he fired him?”

“Well, that’s what it amounted to. One day he was gone. I think my dad was missing some money and Edgar’s dad, he paid up. I think it was a lot of money. Nobody wanted to involve lawyers or police or shit. Just friends, you know, but Edgar, he had to go.” He burped spasmodically and said, “I think I’m gonna be sick.” I steered him down the hall.

Around six my mom and dad took the kids to get something to eat and then promised to bring them home. I stayed up front with Veronica for a while.

The lines were still long as it neared 9:00 P.M. I stepped out in the hall to talk to Scott. We were in a far corner when Mrs. Grum tottered out of the viewing room. Two older women flanked her, one on each side. I thought they might be her sisters. Mrs. Grum clutched her dog. She wore a nearly shapeless gray dress. With her free hand, she wiped her eyes. She wore black rimmed glasses. She must have been making her way to the washroom which was behind me and to the left.

We moved to make sure they had enough room. She only caught sight of us when we were within two feet of each other. She halted abruptly and staggered back. The dog wiggled, squirmed, and leapt free. On the ground the poor little dog yapped and shivered and then ran.

Mrs. Grum stooped toward it. She stumbled. Her companions grabbed for her, but Mrs. Grum’s bulk propelled her forward. Scott reached out his hand to keep her from falling. Their flesh came in contact for an instant. She pulled herself back as if she’d been burned.

“Don’t you touch me.” Her voice was shrill, high, and loud.

I looked into the mad, unreasoning hatred in her eyes. She wagged a finger in Scott’s face like Governor Brewer in the face of President Obama. She shrilled, “It’s your fault my son is dead. You killed my son. I wish you were dead. I hope someday you suffer in the flames of hell.”

Scott spoke very softly. “If it makes you feel better to belittle and berate me, it’s okay. Your son is dead. I’m so sorry.” I was standing right next to him. We turned to each other. I embraced him, held him close, and kissed him.