Bury Me When I'm Dead (7 page)

“That would explain why his sister was always trying to make things easier for him.”

“Look, let's head to the mortgage company and then have lunch someplace to compare notes.”

Don backed up the sedan. Charlie noticed the plates on a late model Mercedes that read GFIII. She also spotted Grant Freeman watching them from his office window.

At Haldeman Mortgage, Don tried to finagle, flirt and finesse any intelligence he could about Joyce Stringer. In forty-five minutes he had spoken to the receptionist, the office manager and the President's executive assistant, but the company trained their staff well; only documents presented by law enforcement could open company files or lips. However, when Don returned to the car, he had the phone number for Elsbeth Carnegie, the receptionist.

“What's the place like?”

“Corporate, fancy, boring. They take up half of the eleventh floor. There's a waiting room with hoity-toity furniture and a pretty brunette receptionist who doesn't miss a thing. There are two long hallways leading to the rear of the building with a half-dozen closed office doors on either side.”

“How'd you get this Carnegie's phone number?”

“My manliness, what else?” Don grinned.

Charlie had to admit, Don
was
handsome, in a Polish frat boy kind of way. It was hard to tell his age and he could be charming when he had a mind to be. Because of his unassuming looks and dress he appeared to be the kind of guy you could enjoy a beer with or trust with a confidence.

“I invited her for a drink when she gets off work tonight.”

“I see.” Charlie gave Don a raised eyebrow and he feigned an innocent look.

“What? We need information, don't we?”

“Let's find someplace to eat,” Charlie said.

Weekday lunchtime in downtown Birmingham seemed to be its finest hour. The mostly empty sidewalks began to fill with office workers, store clerks, students from the nearby University of Alabama campus, homeless men, hospital staff in scrubs, police on bicycles, and clumps of construction workers wearing hard hats. Don and Charlie parked the car and blended easily on foot into the crowd. Like Detroit, Birmingham was racially polarized when it came to schools, neighborhoods and churches, but during business hours, capitalism highlighted the diversity of the area.

They found a “meat 'n three” place that had been recommended by their motel clerk and joined a cafeteria-style line of hungry diners along a display of amazing food. Charlie hated places like this because there was too much to choose from. She felt pressure from the back of the line so she finally settled on baked snapper, creamed corn, turnip greens and a bowl of cherry cobbler. Don ordered a ham steak with cabbage, carrots, a home-made roll and fudge pie. When they settled into one of the high-back booths and looked at their plates, they gave each other smiles of good fortune. Halfway through the meal, Charlie pulled out her notebook and Don followed suit.

“Haldeman's definitely has a file on Stringer. I saw the receptionist pull it up on her computer, then when I was with the office manager she looked at something on her screen, too.”

“They probably have a client database. We should probably use one, but I don't know what Judy would do if she couldn't color code the paper files.”

“Did you talk to her while I was at Haldeman's?”

“No. But I spoke to Gil. He found out Joyce owns the Detroit house, the cousin's house and a third home that's here in Birmingham somewhere in the ‘burbs. I've got the address and I'd like to take a look at it before you drop me off at the motel so you can make your hot date with Elsbeth.” Charlie pronounced the woman's name with
a snooty tone. “Who names their kid Elsbeth? Her mother must have watched too much Masterpiece Theatre.”

“What's
Masterpiece Theatre
?” Don asked, gulping down the last piece of ham steak and reaching for his pie.

“A show that's on PBS when you're watching the hockey game.”

“Whatever,” Don said. “Damn, this pie is delicious. What say we get a couple of meals to go for tonight's dinner? We can put them in your fridge.”

“Best idea you've had all day, partner,” Charlie said between mouthfuls of cobbler.

Chapter 9

Grant was able to sell the Anderson widow a $20,000 full service funeral. That included flowers, a private visitation room with a flute and harp, three limos, and the latest thing in the funeral business: a 3-minute video made up of photos of the loved one. Grant made notes on a small pad. He would get a kickback on the flowers, music, the third limo, and the video.

He used the intercom on his desk to summon his sister. The door opened slowly and Grace sidled into the room. “Have the Andersons left?”

“I saw them drive away on the camera,” Grace said.

“What were the policemen talking to you about?”

Grace looked confused, then her eyes sharpened. She looked at Grant and then at the folders on his desk. “The pretty lady and the white man. Right Grant?” she asked, nodding.

“Yes, Grace.”

“They said they will find out who killed Paulie.”

“Did they ask you any questions?”

“The lady asked me if I saw Paulie.” Grace crossed her arms closely against her chest as if shielding herself.

“But you told her no, right?”

“Right, Grant.”

“Did they ask about Daddy?”

“No, Grant. Did Daddy call?”

“No. We'll see Daddy and Mama tonight. We're all going out for supper.”

“Oh good. I'm going to have chicken fingers, hash browns and broccoli.”

“That sounds good. One more thing, Grace. Did the lady ask you about Miss Joyce?”

Grant knew Grace was thinking about supper at the restaurant with their parents.

“Did you hear what I asked, Grace? Did the policewoman ask about Miss Joyce?”

“No, Grant. Do you want me to file that folder?”

Grant stared at Grace. She looked at him for a second, then away. He loved his sister but resented being saddled with her at the mortuary. “You can start a file for the Andersons. I'll give you the paperwork to file, tomorrow.”

“Okay, Grant. Okay, I'll go to my desk.” Grace edged out of the office in the same shy way she'd entered.

Grant spun his chair to face the window and put his feet on top of the bookcase. Today was perfect weather for a funeral, cloudy with no rain nor bright sun. Many people equated drab, wet weather with a funeral but rain made it difficult to hear the words spoken at graveside and grievers streaked mud into the parlor and onto the limousine carpets. They also lost a half-dozen umbrellas each time they presided over a rainy service.

Grant turned to his desk, reached into his suit jacket draped over the chair and found the pink message slip he'd used to take notes when Smith called three weeks ago. He looked at the number on the paper. Smith said he'd gotten Grant's name from an associate, but didn't say who, and when Smith proposed an exchange of cash for information Grant might hear in his daily routine, initially Grant said “no.” It sounded like a prank or a scam. Smith mentioned in particular being notified about pending government investigations. But it was the final thing Smith said that made Grant keep the man's number. He'd pay to know if anyone asked about Joyce Stringer. He dialed the number.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Mr. Smith?”

“Who's calling?”

“This is Grant Freeman, the third. In Birmingham? Alabama?”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Freeman. Good to hear from you. Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“Maybe. But I have a couple of questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you involved in criminal activity?”

“Of course not. I deal in information. My clients are legitimate businessmen paying for research that furthers their goals.”

“But you mentioned federal investigations? I can't do anything illegal. I'm not a criminal.”

“I understand that, Grant. Can I call you Grant?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“I know. You're being cautious. Let me explain. Government or political inquiries into local industries, even individuals, can provide valuable insights into the business climate of a community. That's the kind of information I'm looking for. It's not unusual for my clients to pay for both formal and informal research before they invest in any enterprise.”

“I see.”

“I told you I got your name from an associate who speaks highly of you and your father. He says you're both well known in Birmingham, and my clients are exploring the feasibility of doing a great deal of business in the region.”

“Well, my father is better connected to the business community than I am.”

“That may be, but we're more interested in the activities of a younger demographic.”

Grant pondered Smith's words. He thought the man was a bit of a fast talker. Probably a lawyer. “I see. What kind of money are we talking about?”

“Well, my clients run multimillion dollar businesses. So up to ten thousand dollars isn't out of the realm, if the information is useful to them.”

Ten thousand dollars. I could sure use that kind of money. It beats the nickel and dime money I make when I take a piece of our contractor fees.
“How would the payments work?”

“You give me an account number at a financial institution of your choice, and I wire the money to the account.”

“It's that simple?”

“That simple.”

“Okay, Mr. Smith. I called because I heard something today. Two police detectives came by and asked about Joyce Stringer.”

“What did they want to know?”

“They pretended to be interested in her brother's funeral and said they're trying to find his killers, but then they asked about Joyce. When was the last time I saw her, or spoke to her.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth. I haven't seen Joyce since Paulie's funeral. Is she working on a start-up here? Is that why you're interested in her?”

“You're a smart young man. If she's been making inquiries about locations or looking for potential investors, we'd like to know about it. See if you can find out more. Maybe your father has heard something.”

“Okay, but I'd like to leave Dad out of this. I'll do some snooping.”

“For your trouble, I can wire you five-hundred dollars as a goodwill gesture. Just call me with the account information.”

“I can give you that now,” Grant said, before ending the call.

He turned his chair and elevated his feet on the windowsill, revisiting the entire conversation with Smith. Nothing illegal, just passing on information he might pick up around town. He could do that. Talk to some of the guys he knew from the gym, have lunch at the City Club a few times and put out some feelers. Karen might even have insider information. She was always talking about the people she met at the courthouse and the judges she knew. He was giddy with excitement. “Five hundred dollars now, ten thousand dollars later. Man, this can give me the cash I need to get out of the dead-people business.”

“Was you talking to yourself, Grant?”

He spun around to find Grace staring into space in front of his desk. “Damn, Grace. You scared me. Stop sneaking around, will you? Didn't I tell you to always knock before you come in?”

Grace stepped back and looked as if she might cry. She pulled her sweater tight around her, fastening her eyes on the floor.

“I'm sorry, Grant. I forgot.” She swayed in place and let out a tiny groan.

Grant shifted in his seat, ran his hand through the thinning hair at his crown and tried to squash his irritation. “What is it? What is it you want?”

“It's three o'clock. You said to tell you.”

“Okay, Grace. Okay, thank you. I'm going down to the prep room. We're expecting a delivery from the morgue at three-fifteen. At five o'clock we'll close up and I'll drive you home.”

“So we can go to supper, Grant?”

“That's right.”

“I'm going to have chicken fingers and hash browns,” Grace said with anticipation.

“I know. That sounds good.”

Grace exited the office in a single pirouette and tip-toe motion. Grant grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, opened the closet and stepped in. He removed his slacks and dress shirt, carefully fastening the shirt's top button and adjusting the arms on the hanger. He hung his tie across the shirt and dropped his cufflinks in the breast pocket of the coat.

He slipped into blue scrubs and sneakers and enjoyed his image in the mirror, then glanced at the wall safe at the back of the closet. His father had always been stingy with his affection, especially with his wife and son. When he was a boy, his mother had eased his jealousy by telling him his father was an important man who had to give his attention to his business, and to his daughter, who needed him more. But when he'd graduated mortuary school and become a full partner in Freeman Funeral Home, Grant decided to find his own answers to his father's continued distance and secretiveness.

He had full access to every part of the business except the wall safe, and when he asked about its contents, his father dismissed his question with a mention of memorabilia from the early days of the business. “Nothing of significance, son. Besides, I lost the combination long ago,” his father had said. It had cost Grant four hundred dollars out of his own pocket—no receipt for his father to find—to have a locksmith open the safe. His father's deceit of almost forty years was verified in letters, photographs, receipts for travel and hotel rooms, and other mementos.

Grant glanced at the safe again, remembering his mother sitting home alone, on days and nights that would fill a calendar, as his father contrived work appointments. He thought about his own decision to give up his dreams of becoming a doctor, to take up his father's career—just to please him. His father had emptied the safe two months ago, and Grant had emptied himself of loyalty. His father's shortfall of affection no longer mattered. All he wanted was to be free of the burden and moniker of “the Third” that kept him lifeless, like the bodies he embalmed.