Murder in the Hearse Degree (40 page)

And, of course, he was right.

 

The day of Mike Gellman’s wake, state senator Mickey Talbot was indicted for influence peddling in the matter of the half-finished sports arena on Route 50. Senator Talbot pleaded not guilty, even though the evidence against him—as spelled out in the indictment—looked pretty damning. Another indictment in the case—that of Michael P. Gellman—never saw the light of day.

Pete got me on the phone.

“Mickey Talbot,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Talbot. Ring any bells?”

It did. A large gong. “Bud Talbot. Annapolis police.”

“First cousins.”

“Acting police chief Talbot,” I said. “This is the fellow not too terribly interested in making waves for Mike Gellman?”

“It’s called vested interest.”

“I’m not the lawyer here, Pete. But isn’t that also called obstruction of justice?”

“Hey, you know what? I think you’re right, Hitch.”

“We don’t want him getting away with that, do we?” I asked.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Hey, you know what? I think you’re right, Hitch.”

Pete said he had to go. He said he had a call to make.

At Mike’s wake that night, Libby told me that she was trying very hard not to blame herself for her husband’s suicide. Mike had been well into his bottle of Johnnie Walker by the time I had dropped Libby off at the house and was already in a deep misery when she came through the front door. He knew his arrest was coming. And he knew what that meant to his career.

“But I made it deeper,” Libby acknowledged to me at the wake. “I know it. I hammered away at him. As far as I was concerned Mike was as responsible as anyone else for Sophie’s death. Not that he wasn’t already feeling that himself. He definitely was.”

We were standing in front of Mike’s casket. A framed photograph of Mike sat atop it. Libby picked up the photo and looked at it.

“I didn’t do it, Hitch,” she said to me. “I didn’t forgive him. I know it’s what you’re supposed to do, but I just couldn’t do it.” She set the photo back down. She placed a hand on the casket. Tears were forming in her eyes. “I still can’t.”

The service for Mike Gellman was held the next day at St. Luke’s Church on Charles Street. Sam and I got the casket to the church before anyone had shown up. We set it in place and distributed the flower arrangements. Sam was trying to sort out where to put one of the larger ones when the first guest arrived. He came slowly down the aisle and went directly up to the casket and placed his hand on it. He stood a long moment, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking nearly imperceptibly as he quietly wept. Our eyes met when he finally turned away. Owen Cutler began to say something, then apparently changed his mind. He stepped over to the front pew and parked himself all the way down at the end. He dropped his hands into his lap, his chin to his chest. He did not look up as the others began to arrive.

I was standing off near a side exit in the front of the church when Mike’s parents and Libby entered the church and made their way down the aisle. The parents both looked as if their entire understanding of how our lovely world ticks had been completely obliterated. Their son had been destined for big things. Coming to grips with the squalid facts surrounding his taking of his own life . . . that adjustment would take a while. The three went up to the casket and stood staring at it. I could tell them from years of experience . . . caskets give off no answers. They are smooth and blunt and silent. Stare a hundred holes through them if you like; they give back nothing.

As they turned from the casket to take their seats, Libby saw me standing off to the side. She said something to her in-laws, then crossed over to me. Instinctively I held both of her hands within mine. It always surprises me when I do this. I hate appearing unctuous, but unless you’re on guard for it it’s one of those automatic things that you do as an undertaker. Libby’s eyes were free of tears. Her skin was pink. She seemed the picture of health.

“We’re leaving this evening,” she said. “As soon as I can get away from all of this I’m picking up the kids and we’re getting out of here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to California. It’s as far away as I can get. I know I can’t escape all this, but it’ll at least give us a little space. I’m going back to my maiden name. The children will take it, too. If we stay here we’re just a freak show. Especially Lily. I couldn’t bear that.”

“I understand,” I said. “I think it makes sense.”

Libby looked up at me. “So do I say good-bye to you here or at the cemetery? It seems kind of gruesome either way.”

“Say it now.”

She did. She squeezed my hands and then released them. She held my gaze for just a fraction, then she turned without another word and walked past the casket and into the pew where Mike’s parents were sitting. Mike’s father had slid partway down the pew and was talking quietly with Owen Cutler. Libby sat a moment with her eyes closed, her head bowed in prayer, then she straightened and leaned over slowly, resting her head against her mother-in-law’s shoulder.

Several minutes later the priest stood up and began the show. I know it by heart. I stepped outside into the sun.

 

The stoop outside the funeral home was getting crowded. Along with Aunt Billie and Darryl Sandusky there was a newcomer. As I approached, the newcomer chased some wispy blonde hair from her face.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Praise be,” I said. “I could sure use a little faith right about now.”

“Hey, man,” Darryl said. “You think that’s funny or something?”

“What’s in that mug?” I asked the kid.

Darryl poked his nose into the mug he was holding. He sneered up at me.

“Coffee.”

I turned to my aunt. “Billie? You’re caffeinating this monster? If you don’t stop soon someone is going to bring you up on charges.”

You pretty much expect a kid like Darryl Sandusky to stick his tongue out at you. It’s slightly disconcerting when he is joined by your dear old auntie.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said to Faith. “This is bad company you’re keeping.”

Faith accompanied me back to my place, where I changed out of my funeral duds and into something a little more comfortable. My timing was off, for no sooner had I changed into something more comfortable than I stepped into the front room to see that Faith had changed as well . . . only she had nothing comfortable to change into so she had changed into nothing at all. It’s all very complicated.
I
then swiftly changed
out
of something more comfortable and into the same nothing that my guest had achieved, all of which paved the way for making the next hour and ten minutes extraordinarily
more
comfortable than . . . well, it was a nice way to shake off the gloom of the day, let’s just leave it at that. Faith was a wonderful panacea. A restorative. A credit to her name.

Alcatraz was bundling his belongings into a bandanna, which he was ready to attach to a bamboo pole, so Faith and I returned ourselves to the “something comfortable” state and took the neglected canus out for his stroll. The first crisp taste of autumn was in the air. In another few weeks we’d be getting whatever version of leaf changing this year was going to bring. Faith and I walked on air down to the harbor. The cat that Alcatraz never catches came flying out from behind the Oyster and took off down the street. Alcatraz bounded hopelessly after it, woofing outrageously. I explained to Faith that the dog never catches the cat.

“He seems to enjoy the chase,” Faith remarked.

I agreed. “Yes. He seems to.”

We could still hear Alcatraz’s baying off in the distance. Out in the harbor a tug sounded. It was difficult making out where the dog faded out and the tug took over. In a few seconds, both had stopped. Faith looped her arm around my elbow.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said.

It was. No question. Diamonds were dancing all along the water. The sky was a rich blue. The air was clear.

Faith abruptly withdrew her arm. “Race you to the end of the pier!” And she took off. I hesitated, watching her run. She was all loose limbs, her hair kicking left and right. Very pretty girl, I thought. Which of course I already knew. With no warning, my chest contracted—it was almost painful—and a deep sigh, nearly audible, ran through me. A seagull off to my left let out a pair of cries, swooping into the wake of Faith’s laughter. I sent the signals down to my legs and I took off running.