Another Dead Republican (35 page)

I said, “I don’t, but I’m not sure what we believe makes much difference. It certainly doesn’t to Ducharmé, but he certainly wants off the hook for the murders.”

“He’s afraid of something, or he wouldn’t have met with you.”

I agreed. Neither of us was sure precisely what he was afraid of, nor if we could ever find proof that would convict him in a courtroom of whatever crimes he may have committed.

I called Todd Bristol and filled him in. He promised to call Achtenberg and let her know the latest. I told him I wanted to confront the Grums immediately and to call the police to have them arrested.

He suggested we wait until after he had more time to confer with police and legal officials not connected with Harrison County.

Frustrated, I said, “They killed their own kid.”

Todd was very patient. “Are you saying you know who pulled the trigger?”

“One of them did.”

“You know we need evidence. You’ve got proof of internal family hell. You don’t have a smoking gun.”

I knew he was right. I agreed to give him a chance to meet with legal people, possibly not easy on an Easter Sunday.

We picked up some pecan Kringle, a Seven Sisters, and coffee and drove back to Veronica’s. Kringle is great, but if you’ve ever had a custard filled Seven Sisters from Racine, you’d know what true bliss is. Maybe I could drown my sorrow in the glorious confections we purchased.

After we were admitted to the subdivision without incident, we detoured and drove to the Grums’. I’d passed it on my morning runs. There were no cars parked outside their palatial mansion. Like good Christians they were in church where they belonged.

We drove to Veronica’s and ate in the kitchen then headed back to the dead animal den, and got back to work on the mess in the closet.

Around one I found a box with disturbing news about Edgar’s financial information. He’d had money coming in all right, but there were enormous investments over the years in schemes and deals and dreams, none of which worked out. I organized them by year and company. Often the paperwork included copies of legal briefs of people suing to get their money back. I found copies of court proceedings from some of them. The ones I found showed that the cases had been lost by Edgar. The bills I found for these legal issues were immense. Edgar’s overseas money had rushed in each year and flooded out. Presumably if Veronica now stopped the idiot investment schemes, the family might be well off, unless Edgar’s legal troubles came back to haunt them. Veronica would have to turn all this over to lawyers, more expense and frustration.

After I was done sorting the box of investment catastrophes and legal chaos, I went over the papers with Scott. As far as I could tell, there were at least three on-going legal cases and more than five that had already been settled. We set up separate files for each one, with court materials by date, letters from angry investors in a separate section, notes from Edgar’s legal team. Half an hour into this, Scott said, “His brother Dewey is mentioned in a lot of these.”

I looked where he pointed. “Dewey was involved in a lot of his money-losing schemes?”

“Seems so. The two of them were in these up to their eyeballs.”

I said, “Why couldn’t the killer be an angry investor?”

“I’m not sure that’s a strong motive. I mean, so what if you kill Edgar? How does that get you your money back?”

The next box had even more court cases. We examined, separated, filed, read.

Scott held out another set of documents to me. He said, “Dewey lost a lot of cash on some of these,” Scott said. “More than Edgar sometimes.”

I examined the papers. “The two were losing money together?”

“The family that goes broke together sues each other together?”

When we were done with that box, Scott said, “This is so sad.”

I held up a sheaf of legal papers from just one case. “His desperation for success, respect, and making it on his own combined with his lack of insight might yet bankrupt Veronica.”

“And maybe his blindness got him killed.”

We had maybe a quarter of the boxes yet to go. The very next one was another investment-legal nightmare. I started sorting.

FIFTY-FIVE

Sunday 3:00 P.M.

Veronica, the three kids, and my mom and dad didn’t get back until nearly three.

Scott and I, Veronica and my mom and dad and my brother Darryl sat in her living room. Lionel was with the kids.

I told all of them everything. I had my laptop set up so I could simultaneously display the program on its monitor and on the large screen television. I showed them Edgar’s and Ross’s notes.

Veronica sat between mom and dad on the couch. Mostly she looked frozen and numb.

When Scott and I were done talking, her eyes scanned all the rest of us. We’d only summarized everything. If she wanted to, it would take her quite a while to finish reading all the details of what Edgar wrote.

Veronica said, “I’m not sure what to do.”

I said, “You don’t have to do anything.”

Veronica said, “I’m too emotional to talk to the Grums. I don’t want anything to do with them. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the funeral tomorrow and the reception afterward.”

Mom held her hand, “We’ll be there with you, right next to you. Don’t you worry about that.”

I said, “We’re waiting for Todd Bristol and probably Enid Achtenberg to come by. We can discuss what’s to be done about the Grums with them.”

“Am I going to be arrested?” Veronica asked.

My dad said, “We’re not going to let that happen.”

Veronica said, “I just want to get through tomorrow, then I want whoever killed Edgar to suffer. And if that poor reporter died because of it, I want them to spend the rest of their lives in prison for that too.”

At 7:00 the lawyers appeared. We talked over everything. At 10:00 they left. We were to trust them, and they’d take care of everything.

Later in our bedroom I said, “I’m going to confront the Grums after the funeral. Those shits have got to pay.”

“We’ve got a portrait of an idiot as a modern Republican.”

“I thought you were the one who felt sorry for him.”

“I do. That doesn’t change the fact that he was one of the great assholes and morons in history.”

FIFTY-SIX

Monday 10:00 A.M.

The early morning was subdued. Mom was in the kitchen. The coffee was prepared. Scott and I made toast, got cereal and juice ready.

Veronica and Patricia came downstairs together. Veronica hugged my mom.

David appeared in a good suit. He held a tie in his hand. He went up to Scott and asked him to tie it for him. After Scott gave him a two-minute lesson, David smiled at himself in a mirror in the bathroom off the kitchen and said, “Thanks, Uncle Scott.”

We drove to the funeral home. We left Darryl in charge of the caterers preparing for the after-funeral reception.

In the front parlor the great trollish Buddha that was Mrs. Grum sat by herself glaring straight ahead in silence, as disapproving as at the wedding. She wore a black velvet dress, draped in a black knock-off pashmina shawl, and a pill-box black hat with tiny feathers on one side. The hat had a veil attached. It was thrown back over her head. When she stood, she pulled the veil forward. It hung in front to the top of her breasts and in the back, halfway to her butt. As she walked out, I noted that the dress had a foot-long train. The dog was nowhere in evidence.

Dewey Grum took pictures of the casket leaving the funeral home, being moved into the hearse, of the people as they milled about. My family ignored him. At one point Patricia broke away and went over and tugged on his suit coat and asked, “Why are you taking dead pictures?” This did not stop Dewey, who marched quickly away from his niece.

We processed in our vehicles to the church.

Minutes later, the sound of Mrs. Grum’s sobbing filled the sanctuary. She’d begun as her son’s casket appeared at the far end of the center aisle of the Cathedral of Saints Majestic Church. Mr. Grum held her hand. A mother was weeping for her son. I felt rotten for all the bad things I’d thought about mother and son.

A misty rain fell throughout the entire ritual at the cemetery. This wasn’t a problem, as an enormous tent had been erected around the gravesite. I was given to understand that it was a family plot.

I hoped maybe the rain would ruin Dewey’s camera as he continued to record everything. I thought his behavior was vile, but I didn’t have to live with him. Then again, maybe having pictures of this ceremony would give him or his family solace in such a difficult time. I couldn’t see how, but I wasn’t going to have to look at them.

At her son’s graveside, Mrs. Grum wept, great sobbing gusts. And I felt sorry for her again. Perhaps she was seeing her child as a baby when she rocked him to sleep. I thought of Watson’s comment in the
Hound of the Baskervilles
when the evil criminal Seldon has died and his sister weeps for him. Watson says, “Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.”

And Edgar had more than one. I shoved the thought that this was better than he deserved deep into my subconscious.

Veronica had wept. His kids at various times showed their distress. I was being too harsh and too judgmental. Maybe this whole Republicans-are-totally-evil shtick was a little harsh. Or maybe I was just feeling guilt for recognizing my honest feelings about the asshole.

Around two back at the house in the living room, Scott and I took some bottled water and stood in a corner out of the way. People and caterers crowded the house. The dark suits were perfectly normal. The somber looks standard. Even wolfing down food seemed pretty usual. The liquor flowed. But a catered funeral? With waiters carrying canapés and drinks? Maybe I don’t get to enough funerals.

Every politician of any note in the county was there. Half the chief Republicans in the state showed up.

All my family had been warned to keep an eye out for the appearance of Harrison County deputies or detectives with designs on arresting Veronica. None of them appeared.

Just after we arrived back at the house, I sought out Barry Grum and whispered in his ear, “I found what all of you have been so desperately looking for. I want to see all your family after we’re done here today. Make sure it happens or I release it to the media and to as many police agencies not in this jurisdiction as I can find.”

He glared daggers at me. “Don’t fuck with me.”

I just smiled at him and said, “I never bluff.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Monday 5:00 P.M.

The caterer had packed up and gone. All the other friends and relatives had oozed away. Scott, the rest of my family, and the Grums remained.

When I had the mystified and concerned-- my family-- and the angry and ill-disposed-- the Grums-- gathered together, I said, “I know who killed Edgar.”

Mr. Grum said, “Don’t be absurd.”

I said, “Edgar kept detailed records of everything you and the Ducharmés were up to. You must have known he had something or why did you keep trying to get into various parts of this property to hunt for it?”

Mrs. Grum now had her dog with her. I set up my laptop as I had the day before so they could view what Edgar had written on the large television screen.

I sat the computer on a coffee table and adjusted the print on the screen so that it could be read easily.

I said, “First we have Edgar’s notes.” I began to show them.

After about three minutes, Mrs. Grum said, “We have no proof Edgar wrote this. If you know something, tell us.”

Barry Grum said, “You claimed you know who killed him.”

Veronica said, “Can’t you people ever shut up?”

They all glared at her. Veronica sat between my mom and dad on a couch.

Slowly enough so that they could read and comprehend them, I continued to let the words scroll on the screen. They sat mostly in silence, mouths agape, as Edgar’s version of the details of their lives emerged in front of them. Indeed, for a while at least, they were silent.