Death & the Brewmaster's Widow (10 page)

Still, she was curious about Andrew Grey and his wife. With Andrew incapacitated and his wife effectively cut off—and wasn't that an alien concept?—they had no part in allowing Death to see the inside of the brewery. It would be transparently disingenuous of her to bring them a small thank you gift as a pretext to meet them and get a look inside their home. Back home in East Bledsoe Ferry it wouldn't be a problem. If she didn't know someone, she was certain to know someone who did. And then, of course, there was Cameron and his connections through the paper. He knew everybody and everything that went on in a three-county radius.

Cameron. Hmm. He had been the first to find the picture of Randy at the school fire safety day, even if none of them had seen the significance at the time. Maybe he could snoop long distance.

The easy chair Wren curled up in still smelled faintly of a delicate, floral perfume and she knew without asking that this had been Death's grandmother's favorite seat.

I hope you don't mind me sitting in your chair
, she thought.
And I hope you don't mind me falling in love with your grandson. I'll give up the chair if you want me to, but Death's mine
.

The A/C unit cut off and the room warmed around her ever so slightly, but perhaps it was only coincidence. She fished her phone out of the pocket in her dressing gown and dialed Cam. He picked up on the second ring. “How's St. Louis? Have you knocked the Arch over yet?”

“Knocked over as in ‘robbed it' or knocked over as in ‘boom'?”

“Have you done either?”

“Well, no.”

“Then what's the difference?”

“Ha ha. Very funny. Have I ever told you how much I love a comedian in the morning?”

“I think you may have mentioned something once or twice. Something about dry heat and telemarketers and little kids leaving jacks and plastic building blocks in the carpet?” Wren growled for form and Cameron laughed.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure of your grouchy attention this morning?”

“I was just calling to check in,” she hedged. “How are my babies doing?” Cameron was watching Thomas, Wren's pugilistic old tomcat, and Lucy, the three-legged hound she'd adopted.

“They're fine. Why are you really calling?”

“What makes you think I have an ulterior motive?”

“Because I know you. I've known you for years. I think I can tell when you're working your way up to ask me for a favor.”

Wren sighed. “I'm sorry, Cam. I don't mean to take advantage of you.”

“You're not. We're friends, aren't we?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that's what friends are for. What do you need?”

“I wondered if you knew anything, or could find out anything, about a man named Andrew Grey and his wife. I don't know her first name. He's the descendant of the Einstadt Brewing family and he owns the brewery where Death's brother died. He's not in control of it right now, though, because apparently he had a stroke about a year ago. His wife is his fifth wife. She's a lot younger than he is and he doesn't trust her to manage his business affairs. He has a living will and, because of that, there's a lawyer in charge of all his property. That's pretty much all I know right now.”

“I've never heard of them,” Cam said, “but I'll be glad to see what I can find out. Is there anything particular you want to know?”

“No, not really. Nothing I can think of.”

“Why do you want to know about them?”

“I don't know. It's not important. Just idle curiosity. You don't have to do it if you don't want to.”

“Hello? Newspaper reporter? Idle curiosity is my SOP. Give me a day or two to see what I can dig up and I'll get back to you.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before saying goodbye. Death had been gone a long time on his coffee and donut run and she was starting to get worried. As much as she respected his independence and his determination to overcome, as best he could, his disability, she knew he tended to push himself beyond his limits. She dressed quickly, pulled on a pair of sneakers, and was just heading out the front door when a police car pulled up in front of the house.

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart froze, but then the passenger door opened and Death got out.

A middle-aged police officer got out of the driver's side and came around the car. He was laughing and Death looked both perturbed and amused. Wren waited on the porch as they made their way up the uneven walkway, the cop trying to take Death's arm and Death impatiently slapping him away. They came to a stop at the foot of the steps and Death looked up at her. “I have the worst luck in the history of the universe,” he said.

“I wouldn't say that. The guy missed,” the cop said.

“Who missed?” she asked, alarmed. “Missed what?”

“Your boyfriend here just walked into the middle of a convenience store robbery.”

“Oh my God!”

“It's okay, sweetheart. He didn't get me.”

“Not for lack of trying,” the cop said.

Death glared at him. “I'm trying to reassure her. You're not helping here.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I was distracted by trying to figure out how I'm going to write up my report with a straight face.”

Wren went down the steps, got Death by the arm, and dragged him back up onto the porch, as if by her side was the only place he could be safe. “Why is it going to be hard to write up your report with a straight face?” she asked.

“It's just not every day that a would-be armed robber gets taken out by a badass former Marine armed with a bottle of mustard.”

ten

Wren, mindful of having
asked a favor, convinced Death to let her call Cameron and give him the convenience store robbery story. He was as delighted with it as she'd thought he would be. “This is awesome! ‘Mustard-Weilding East Bledsoe Ferry Resident Thwarts Armed Robber!' That's a front-page headline right there. Go over the description of the robber for me again.”

Wren glanced at Death to see if he wanted to take that question, but he'd nodded off. She switched off the speaker and took the phone into the kitchen so as not to awaken him. “Police are looking for a Hispanic male, slight build, pencil mustache, mid- to late-forties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He's driving a late-90s model Oldsmobile Cutlass, tan or light brown, and he has mustard all over his face.” She giggled as she said it and Cameron laughed.

“Okay,” she conceded, “so he's probably washed that off by now.”

“Can I get a closing quotation from the Colonel?”

“The Colonel? Oh, Lord! Colonel Mustard!” She slapped a hand over her own mouth to keep from waking Death. All at once her laughter morphed into tears and suddenly she was sobbing into the phone. Cameron didn't speak but waited her out. “That man was shooting at him. He tried to kill him, Cam! He could've
died
this morning!”

“I know, sweetie. Where is he? I thought he was there with you.”

“He's in the living room. I'm in the kitchen. He fell asleep. He hasn't been sleeping well since we found out about the thing with Randy's badge. This fight this morning just took everything out of him. Poor thing! He didn't even get his coffee and donuts!”

“You could make him some.”

“I don't have anything to cook with. I'd have to go to the grocery store. I guess I could—I probably should. I know the way now. I just hate to leave him alone.”

“Will it take you long? Is it very far away?”

“No, there's a little store a couple of miles from here.”

“He'll be fine. You could make him some spudnuts. And maybe a nice hazelnut latte to go with them.”

Wren laughed again, less hysterical now that the first storm of emotion had passed. “He's a Marine, Cam. He takes his coffee black and strong enough to double as metal polish.”

“Blech. Well, to each his own, I guess. Listen, I haven't had much chance yet to look into the Greys. It's Jubilee Days this weekend and I had to cover the turtle races. I did find out that Andrew Grey is loaded. After Prohibition shut down the brewery, the family switched their focus to medicinal liquor they made at another location. From there, they went into pharmaceuticals. Andrew's worth billions. He had a stroke fourteen months ago. There was a big stink at the time because one of his ex-wives tried to get a court order to force his current wife to allow her access to him. It dragged on for several months before they eventually settled the matter out of court. There hasn't been anything in the news about him since. I'll go further back and see what else I can find after the weekend.”

“Thanks! I appreciate it.”

“I appreciate this great story! I'd say give the Colonel a kiss from me, but that would probably weird him out. I guess, instead, I'll just tell you to take care. Of
both
of you.”

_____

Wren and Madeline were two different women with different backgrounds and upbringings and outlooks on life. It wasn't at all fair to compare and contrast them and yet, sometimes Death couldn't help but do just that.

If the convenience store robbery had happened while he was married to Madeline, she would have gotten hysterical. It would have taken all his energy and focus to calm her down. She'd have blamed him for going into the store in the first place and she'd have been embarrassed by the police bringing him home and mortified by the publicity afterward. Wren had fussed over him. She'd settled him on the couch and brought him water and ibuprofen. She'd bragged about him to her hometown newspaper and when he'd fallen asleep, she'd braved the city traffic he knew she hated so she could shop for him.

He took another spudnut from the bowl on the table. Wren's lightly glazed potato donuts were dark brown on the outside and creamy on the inside with a silken texture. She refilled his coffee and he studied her face. He could tell she'd been crying after he fell asleep, but she'd hidden the traces as best she could with powder and makeup and he didn't call her on it. When Madeline abandoned him it had felt like the end of the world. Now it seemed the greatest blessing he'd ever received.

“We're going to need clothes to wear down in the cave,” he said. “I didn't bring anything suitable and I'm betting you didn't either. We'll need jeans and sweatshirts, the older the better. This is apt to be a messy expedition. We should probably hit the thrift shops and see what we can find this afternoon.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her gaze drifted past him toward the bedroom. He knew she was thinking of the boxes full of Randy's clothes that were stacked in a corner, waiting to be delivered to charity. The idea of taking that step hurt his heart.

“Not today, okay?”

She glanced at him, caught his meaning, and nodded. “There's no hurry. You don't have to be the one to do it at all.”

“I know.” Death sipped his coffee. This had been his grandfather's place, the head of the table. Grandpa had always seemed decisive and authoritative—the man who knew what needed to be done and how to do it. Sitting in his chair now, Death tried to assume that mantle of capability, but he just felt like a little boy wearing oversized shoes. “I'd like to talk to Sophie Depardieu again, too,” he decided. “I just—”

“You're just not completely convinced that it was really Randy?”

“I am,” he said, “but … but there's so much about this that doesn't make sense. I know my brother's gone. I've accepted that. I have. I don't like it. I'm not happy with it. But that's the way it is. Captain Cairn and the other firefighters saw his body. Sophie saw his body. They even matched his dental records. I should let it go.”

“But you never saw his body.” Wren's voice was understanding and not patronizing. (Madeline would have been patronizing.) “You never even got to go to the funeral. Of course you're having a hard time finding closure.”

“You know, I didn't come here on purpose.” He read confusion in her eyes and tried to explain himself. “To St. Louis. After I was out of the Marines and out of the hospital. I knew I should come, visit my family's graves, talk to my brother's friends, make sure that everything was taken care of. But I didn't. I deliberately stayed away. I made excuses. The drive was too long. I couldn't spare the time. I couldn't afford the gas money. And, yes, there was some truth to all those things. But under all that, the bigger truth was that I didn't come back because it hurt so bad.”

Without a word, Wren rose. She circled the table and planted herself on his lap, laying her head on his shoulder and wrapping him in her arms. He returned the embrace, resting his cheek on her soft, red hair. “Wherever I was, for months, I was always conscious of where St. Louis was. It sat like a bruise on the eastern horizon and I didn't dare look at the sunrise for fear of the pain.”

“We'll go talk to Sophie again,” Wren said. “We'll find out why he was wearing that badge. We can get a boat and go out on the river where they scattered his ashes. Have another service, if that's what you need. We'll do whatever we have to do and then, when it's all over, you'll come home with me and I'll do everything in my power to keep you from ever being sad like this again.”

_____

The thrift shop Death took them to was enormous—it had a footprint bigger than the courthouse back home. Half an hour of digging through tables of footwear and racks of used clothing netted a pair of battered sneakers for Death and faded jeans and tattered
sweatshirts for both of them. Wren, whose job might include tromping through barns and outbuildings at any time, had a pair of old, worn work boots in her truck.

“I'm washing this stuff before we wear it,” she informed him as they left, clothes stuffed into secondhand plastic bags.

“You know it's already been washed, right? And we're just going to get it dirty again.”

“I don't care. I'm washing it anyway. With bleach. Especially those shoes.”

Death had called Sophie to set up an appointment before they left Randy's house and, after they killed forty-five minutes at a fast-food joint, he drove them to the Medical Examiner's building.

There were handicapped parking spaces available and Death had a handicapped tag buried way in the back of his glove box, but Wren didn't say anything when he drove past and found an empty slot halfway across the lot. They met at the front of the Jeep and she put her arm around his waist, both offering herself as a crutch if necessary and anchoring herself to him. The city was so big, so crowded and so busy, that she felt at times as if she were drowning in it. She had an irrational fear of getting lost and never being found again.

The warm, humid morning had given way to a cloudy afternoon. East winds brought in cooler air and the scent of rain. Lazy thunder rumbled on the horizon. “Is it going to complicate our caving if it rains?”

Death screwed up his face in dismay. “It could, if it rains hard. Parts of the caves are probably flooded anyway. We'll keep an eye on the weather. We might need to postpone it, but I'd like to at least get ready, so we can go as soon as it's safe.” He held the glass door for her and they went into a small lobby. The young man at the reception desk looked up and his face lit up.

“Hey! It's the walking dead guy again!”

“You're hilarious,” Death said drily. “I think Ms. Depardieu is expecting us.”

The guy checked his computer. “Yup. You remember where her office is?”

“I think I can find it.”

“OK, you can go on back. She might be a few minutes late. She's performing an autopsy, but she should be about finished.” He pushed a button to unlock the double doors and Death led Wren down the hall to Sophie's office.

At her door, he paused. “We should probably wait out here.”

Wren tried the door, found it open, and led him inside. “I don't think she'll mind if we come in and sit down.” Death fidgeted and Wren looked around the office. “That's a nice picture of Randy.”

“Yeah. She had a flat tire on the freeway and Randy and Rowdy stopped and changed it for her.”

They'd only been sitting there for a couple of minutes when Sophie Depardieu came in. Death and Wren rose to meet her. “The door was open,” Death began. “I hope you don't mind …?”

She waved aside his concern, shook hands with Wren, and made a beeline for the coffee maker. The carafe was empty, so she started a pot, then circled her desk and sat down. Her hair was wet and she carried with her the scents of commercial disinfectant and blood and a hint of decay.

“Have you figured out what happened with Bogie's badge and helmet?” she asked.

“No, I haven't. Honestly, the more I find out, the less sense it all makes. That's why I wanted to talk to you again. I know you positively identified his body—”

“We did, Death.” She reached across the surface of her desk to lay her hand over his. “I saw him myself. His captain saw him, his friends saw him, we matched his blood type and dental records.”

“I just wondered if there were anything else you could do. Could you run his DNA maybe?”

“From what?”

“I'm sorry. I thought,” Death floundered and Wren moved her chair closer to him, offering silent support. “I thought maybe you could check his DNA against mine. Just to be thorough, because of the mystery surrounding his death.”

“But where would we get his DNA?” Sophie asked gently.

“Don't you keep blood and tissue samples when you do an autopsy?” She was shaking her head before he'd finished speaking.

“In cases of murder or suspected murder, sure. In death by natural causes, no. Bogie died of an aortic aneurysm. That's about as natural as it gets, barring death by old age.”

“But he was so young, and in such good condition—”

“And that makes it unusual, but hardly unheard of, I'm afraid.”

“Oh.” He drooped a bit, disappointed.

“What if we could get some of his ashes?” Wren asked.

“They were scattered in the river,” Sophie said. “I went to the memorial.”

“But, maybe if we could find out what happened to the container they were kept in. There could still be trace amounts—”

“It wouldn't do any good.” The assistant medical examiner's voice was sympathetic, but definite. “You can't get DNA from cremains.”

“Oh.”

“If you'd like to,” Sophie offered, “I can help you put in a request for the full autopsy report.”

“I wouldn't like to,” Death said, “but I think I need to, if only to be thorough.”

“Of course. I've got a copy of the paperwork you'll need to fill out. When the report comes in, I'll go over it with you and answer any questions you may have.”

_____

It rained while they were in the Medical Examiner's office, but only a little. The sky was still overcast, but it was a pale, milky cloud cover. The first wave of storm clouds had moved on across the river to Illinois and toward the distant Atlantic.

Dressed in their new old clothes and carrying a bulging, red backpack, Death led Wren across the wet grass of a small park. A deep gully passed through behind the playground, its walls covered in thick underbrush. At the bottom of the gully ran a small stream. A high chain-link fence across the top of the opposite side protected the back lot of a large factory built of dark red brick, unmarked by any company logo or indication of purpose.

“Randy actually found this entrance,” he told Wren. “I went in after him. If he'd gotten caught, I'd have been the one in trouble for not keeping an eye on him. I dragged him out kicking and screaming but then, about a week later when Grampa was on duty and Dad was out of town at a seminar, we grabbed a couple of flashlights and snuck back in.”