The Undertaker's Widow (9 page)

Karen Fargo heard the announcement of Lamar Hoyt's murder on the morning news while she was driving to work. She had pulled onto the shoulder of the highway because she could not see the traffic through her tears and she was shaking so badly that she was afraid she would lose control of her car. When she could drive, she took the first exit and returned home. She had called in sick that day and the next.

On her first day back to work, Mr. Wilhelm had called her into his office and fired her. Fargo was in a state of shock and her protests were feeble. Mr. Wilhelm had an explanation for his actions, but she barely heard them. She knew why she had been let go and who was behind the firing, though that person was so insulated by layers of middle management and executive power that she knew she would never be able to prove her suspicions.

After cleaning out her desk, Fargo drove straight home and called her parents in Michigan. She told them about being fired, though not about Lamar. Her parents were serious Baptists and would not have approved of her affair with a married man. They acted like cheerleaders, reminding her of how smart she was and what good work she did. Surely another company would hire her.

When Fargo ended her call to her parents, she was
upbeat. She did not have very much money saved, but she had enough to get by until another job came along. There was always a market for a good secretary. Maybe, she thought, it was best that she not continue to work at Hoyt Industries, where every day would be a reminder of the life she had lost. Maybe being fired was a blessing in disguise.

The next day Fargo started her job search with high hopes. She had graduated at the top of her secretarial school class, she was attractive and friendly and she always received excellent efficiency ratings. Strangely, the jobs did not come. The interviewers were always enthusiastic and she left the interviews with high expectations, but her phone did not ring.

At first, she convinced herself that the companies had lost her number and she called them to see if a decision had been made. Most of the time, the person who had interviewed her would not take her call. A secretary would tell Fargo that the job had been given to someone else. On the few occasions that someone important did talk to her, they seemed embarrassed. It was only during the call that she had made two hours before to Durham Food Products that she found out why she was being turned down for job after job. Mr. Pebbles, the man with whom she'd had such a positive interview, sounded uncomfortable when they spoke. Toward the end of their short conversation, he told her sympathetically that he would have hired her if her reference from Hoyt Industries hadn't been so negative. When Fargo asked the man what he meant, Pebbles told her that he had said too much. He wished her luck and hung up.

Fargo was too numb to think straight. Then she remembered that all of the jobs for which she had applied required references. When she figured out that someone at Hoyt Industries was blackballing her, she became frightened, then she became angry. Fargo had
driven to her old company to confront Mr. Wilhelm, but the security guard would not let her into the building. On the ride home, Fargo grew scared. What if she could not find a job? How would she live? She had broken down halfway home and she was still crying when she opened the front door of her small, rented Cape Cod.

Fargo had not bothered to raise her shades that morning and her front room was thick with shadows. She turned on a floor lamp. It took her a moment to realize that a man was sitting in the armchair near the window. Fargo took a step backward. The light from the lamp did not reach all the way to the armchair and she could just make out the man's profile.

“There's no need to be afraid, Miss Fargo,” the man said quietly. “I'm a friend, and I think you need one.”

Fargo reached behind her for the doorknob, but she made no move to open the front door.

“Who … who are you?” she asked anxiously.

“Someone who wants to help you. Are you upset because you've been turned down for another job?”

Fargo let go of the doorknob. “How did you know that?”

“That's not important. What is important is that you know the identity of the person who has been stopping you from getting a job. She's the same person who made certain that you were fired from Hoyt Industries.

“Miss Fargo, there are people who are concerned about you. People who don't think that it's fair that Ellen Crease used her power to have you fired and is using her power to keep you from finding work. These people want to secure a job for you. A good job that will pay you the salary you deserve.”

“Why would these people do that for me?”

“They're the same people who believe that Ellen Crease is responsible for the murder of Lamar Hoyt. They want to see justice done.”

The man stopped talking to let Fargo absorb what he had said.

“What … what do you want from me?” she asked.

“There is almost enough evidence for the district attorney to indict Ellen Crease. The one thing that is missing is a powerful motive. Crease was well taken care of by Lamar Hoyt, she had her own career and everyone says that she loved Hoyt and he loved her.”

“That's not true,” Fargo interjected.

“What isn't true?”

“Lamar didn't love her. He loved me.”

“We know that, Miss Fargo, but the authorities don't. If you give that information to the police, they will know Ellen Crease's motive for murder.”

“I couldn't go to the police,” Fargo said.

“Of course you could. We would protect you and we would reward you. The day after you go to the police someone will call you with a job offer. A very good job offer. Someone else will deposit a substantial sum of money into your savings account. I believe it's down to three hundred and eighteen dollars, as of this morning.”

“How … how did you know that?”

“We're concerned about you, Karen,” the man said with compassion. “We were afraid that you were suffering financially, so we checked your account to see if you needed our help. It looks like we can help each other.”

The man sounded so sure of himself, so comforting. Why, then, Fargo asked herself, did she feel so frightened?

“Why don't you tell me about your relationship with Lamar, so we can decide what you can say that will help the police?”

“I don't know if I should.”

“Karen, Ellen Crease has already made Lamar Hoyt her victim. Do you want to be her victim, too? Crease did
not give Lamar a chance to fight back. We are giving you that chance.”

Fargo considered what the man said while he waited patiently. Then she started talking. When she was through, the man asked her questions and she answered them truthfully. When he was satisfied with what he heard, he told her what to do.

“How do I get in touch with you?” she asked as he crossed the room.

“Don't worry about that.”

He stepped into the pool of light near the front door. Then he was gone and Fargo realized that the only thing she knew about her visitor was that once upon a time something had happened to him that was violent enough to leave a jagged scar on his right cheek.

Hoyt & Son's West Side Home of Heavenly Rest was a white, three-story building that resembled a plantation home in the antebellum South. Lou Anthony knew that there were four other Homes of Heavenly Rest in Oregon, as well as two Heavenly Rests in Seattle, Washington, one in Butte, Montana, and one in Boise, Idaho. Junior's office was here on the West Side.

A crystal chandelier hung over the foyer, but the lighting was subdued. As Anthony entered through the wide front doors, a tall, solemn-looking man in a mourning coat approached him.

“Are you with the Webster party?”

“No, I'm not.” Anthony flashed his badge. “I'm looking for Mr. Hoyt.”

The man examined the badge for a moment while Anthony listened to the soft strains of organ music that floated toward him from somewhere in the building.

“Take the hall on your right. There's a set of stairs at the end. Mr. Hoyt's office is at the top of the stairs.”

The interior of the funeral home was dark woods and dark red draperies, all under subdued lighting. There were two chapels on Anthony's left as he walked down the hall. One was empty, but a small group of mourners gathered in the other talked in hushed tones. A casket dominated the room. A heavyset woman wept in the
front row. Two young men in ill-fitting black suits tried to comfort her.

Anthony found the office easily. An attractive blonde wearing too much makeup was talking on the phone when he entered. She glanced at Anthony, told the caller that she would get back to her and hung up.

“I'm here to see Mr. Hoyt,” Anthony said when he had the woman's attention.

“What does this concern?”

Anthony showed the woman his shield. The secretary disappeared behind the only other door in the office. A moment later, she emerged and held it open.

The office had the same subdued decor as the rest of the funeral home. Junior was sitting behind his desk. He did not look pleased to see Anthony.

“What's this about?” Junior asked brusquely. “I'm pretty busy.”

Anthony sat down across from the mortician without being asked.

“I have a few questions I want to ask you. I decided to wait until after the funeral. How did it go?”

Junior's aggression disappeared.

“We gave Dad the best we had. Our Royal Deluxe.” Junior looked thoughtful. “It was so odd seeing him laid out. I see people every day like that, but when it's your own father …”

Junior caught himself, embarrassed by his show of emotion. “You said you had some questions?”

“Just a few. I'll try to make this quick. I understand that you and your father had an argument at Hoyt Industries headquarters a few days before he was killed. What was that about?”

Junior's face registered fear and surprise.

“Who told you that?”

“I'm afraid I can't reveal my sources.”

“I bet it was that turd Appling. Well, the argument
was a big nothing. Just a disagreement about some changes I made at Heavenly Rest.”

“There wasn't any more to it?”

“No,” Junior answered nervously. “Why are you interested in an argument I had with my father, anyway? I thought the police believed that this was just a burglary by that guy Jaworski.”

“Jablonski,” Anthony corrected Junior. “Martin Jablonski. You didn't happen to know him, did you?”

“Why would I know him?”

Suddenly, Anthony's reason for asking the question dawned on Junior.

“What the fuck is going on here? You're not suggesting …”

“I'm not suggesting anything.”

“Well, I think you are. If you really want to find out who's behind my father's murder, investigate Ellen Crease.”

“You made the same accusation against Senator Crease when you were at the mansion on the night your father was murdered. Why do you think your stepmother …”

“That cunt is not my mother …”

“Senator Crease, then. Why do you think that she had something to do with your father's murder?”

Junior snorted with derision. “You're some detective. Don't tell me you don't know yet.”

“Know about what?”

“Dad was going to dump her. She was on the way out. Then good-bye, sugar daddy.”

“Why do you think that your father was planning to leave Senator Crease?”

“You don't know much about my father, if you're asking that question. His wives all had a shelf life of about seven years and he began cheating on them way before he dumped them. Ask my mom.”

“So you're going on your father's history with women? You don't have any concrete evidence that your father was going to divorce Senator Crease?”

“No. I just know my father,” he answered bitterly. “He was a user.”

“You don't seem to have liked him much.”

Junior seemed suddenly subdued. “My father walked out on my mother and he never hid how he felt about me. No matter what I did, it was never good enough. He told me to my face what a disappointing incompetent I was, more than once.”

“He let you run this business.”

“I'll give him that. But he made it pretty clear to me that I could never expect anything more from him.”

“Like letting you run Hoyt Industries. That was something you must have wanted.”

“Are you kidding? That company is worth millions,” Junior answered with a combination of anger and wistfulness. “The bitch will get those shares now. My only regret is that my father won't get a chance to see her run his life's work into the ground.”

Lou Anthony reached two conclusions as soon as he saw the young woman who was waiting in the reception area of the Portland Police Bureau Detective Division. The first was a no-brainer. The woman was gorgeous, with smoky emerald eyes and hair the shade of auburn that takes your breath away when the leaves change color in the fall.