The Hearse You Came in On (35 page)

“All of his money, his great big estate. And his gold-plated weenie.”

I hung my head. “Alas, I could offer her only tin.”

I could see that Peter Morgan was only pretending to be fully amused by all of this. It is an undeniable truth that people get fidgety when their fiancées and their exes banter openly about sex. The three of us moved the conversation around a little bit. Julia wanted to know what happened to the dinghy. I gave them the abbreviated version. I left out the part about a murderous ex-police detective having been seconds away from inflicting serious personal harm on my person as a result of my helping to burst the bubble by which he was being funneled five thousand dollars a month—now, eight thousand—from an organization that included on its board of directors a woman who just happened to be the twin sister of the only man in the room who could truthfully call himself a millionaire. It would have been such a mouthful. Instead I simply told them about Edie’s bottle toss and how the whole thing came crashing down on her. Morgan wanted to know if Frank and Sally were going to be liable.

“Edie was a friend,” Julia explained to the rich man. “Friends don’t sue friends.”

“Especially when they’re dead,” I added.

Julia ran her finger around Morgan’s champagne glass. “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re too litigious, Peter. That’s one of the things I’m planning to change about you.”

Morgan chuckled. “Women always want to change something about their men.”

“Julia never wanted to change anything about me,” I bragged. “I was perfect.”

“Then why did you two divorce?”

I deferred to Julia. “You tell him.”

“I was more perfect,” she said.

A certain nausea was beginning to set in. It wasn’t jealousy. It’s just that the three of us were becoming altogether too smug. Too chummy. I grabbed hold of the wheel of our conversation and yanked it abruptly in a new direction.

“Your sister is married to Alan Stuart, isn’t she?” I said.

Morgan looked momentarily perplexed. But he recovered quickly. “That’s right.”

“Twin sister, right?”

“Right again.”

“Which of you came out first?”

“Amanda did. By five and a half minutes.”

“Five and a half minutes. What were you doing all that time?”

Morgan smirked. “Packing.”

That was a good one. Though I’m sure he had used it before.

“You don’t look that much alike,” I observed.

“Brother-sister twins don’t necessarily. We’re not identical. Different eggs.”

Julia groaned. “I hate reproductive conversations.”

I asked, “How long have your sister and Stuart been married?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me think. Eleven? Maybe ten years?”

“She married young.”

“I guess. I think she was twenty. Is twenty young?”

Julia answered that one. “It’s getting younger every year.”

“And they’ve never had kids?”

“Amanda and Alan? No they haven’t. Amanda can’t have children. She’s got something screwed up and the doctors told her just to forget about it.”

“Did Stuart know about that condition when he married her?”

Julia was looking at me like I was nuts. “Don’t answer, Peter,” she said.

Morgan ignored her. “I don’t think he knew,” he said flatly. He wasn’t bothering now to disguise his growing displeasure of either the topic or his sister’s selfish lack of candor. I couldn’t be sure.

“That wasn’t very nice of her,” I said.

“If you know Amanda, you get used to that.”

“I don’t know Amanda.” Though I’ve seen her freckle-free bum.

“She’s the evil twin,” Morgan said. He laughed, though it was a flat and unconvincing laugh. Julia was flashing me eye signals like crazy now, but I purposely kept away from them. And she knew I was doing it.

I pressed. “I saw your sister a week or so ago, out at the Baltimore Country Club.” Then I embellished. “She was playing tennis.”

Julia pounced. “What were you doing out there?”

“I was out there to see a guy named Rudy. He’s the head groundskeeper. There was some talk about him taking on some work at Greenmount Cemetery. It was a business meeting. I saw your sister on the courts. She
was being coached by the tennis pro at the club. I watched him helping her on her backhand.”

“Amanda’s got a good backhand,” Morgan noted dryly.

“Then I guess the guy did a good job with her.”

“Amanda has always had a good backhand. We had a tennis court growing up. Amanda has always been very competitive.”

“Plus she gets to show off her nice legs.”

Julia cut in. “Yeah, yeah, and they’re insured by Lloyd’s of London. Look, boys, believe it or not, I can’t keep up with all this testosterone. Why don’t you two swing your clubs at each other a little longer while I go over and talk to my mom.”

As she left she caught me with one more of her eye signals.
Cool it.
I believe that was the message.

It was just the two of us now. Man to man.

“Am I detecting an inordinate interest in my sister?” Morgan asked as soon as Julia was out of earshot.

“Just making conversation.”

“She
is
married, remember.”

“Of course. To the future governor of Maryland no less.”

Morgan rapped his knuckles on the bar.

Interesting. “What’s that for,” I asked. “Don’t you think your brother-in-law is a shoo-in? Isn’t he going to bury Spencer Davis?”

“I thought that was your job. Burying people.”

“Isn’t he?”

“So far, yeah. That’s what the polls say. But you know politics. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

“Yogi Berra for president.”

“Whatever.” Morgan was doing little at this point to disguise his weariness of me. I downed my champagne and held the glass out for a refill. Morgan topped it off for me.

“So, you think Commissioner Stuart might have a weakness?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But something could turn up that tosses the election to Davis?”

“Well in theory, yes. That’s possible.”

“But in fact? Is there something factual out there that could trip him up?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Morgan said. “Why are you asking me?”

“Well, you’re his brother-in-law. You’re a big contributor to his campaign. I figure all of that makes you an insider. I also happen to be a friend of your brother-in-law’s campaign guru. The last time I talked to him he seemed to be a little worried too. I guess I’m wondering if he’s worried about the same stuff you’re worried about.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“You knocked wood.”

“Well you can never be too sure, can you?”

“I don’t know. Can you?”

He snapped. “What the hell is this about!”

Bingo. I pulled the rope. My man went up in the net.

“Did you know that the man your sister was taking tennis lessons from was murdered?”

“Of course I know that. It’s terrible.”

“Did you know him?”

“I’m active at the club. I knew who he was.”

“Is it strange that your sister was taking tennis lessons? I mean, when she already had such a killer backhand?” Killer. That just slipped out.

“How about answering
my
question first?” Morgan said angrily.

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat it?”

“What the hell is this all about?”

“I’m just making conversation,” I said.

“Well it’s not a very interesting one.”

“Really? I’m sorry. It is to me. A good-looking woman taking tennis lessons that she doesn’t need from a good-looking guy who is found murdered? The good-looking woman is married to a powerful man who is running for governor, seemingly unstoppable except when you talk to his campaign manager and his millionaire backer, who also happens to be his brother-in-law? I mean I know it’s nothing. But like I said, I’m a political junkie. It just all sounds so nice and sexy I can’t help it.”

“Maybe you should try to help it. You’re talking about real people here. Not characters in a novel.”

I set my glass on the bar. “Do you have any thoughts about who killed Guy Fellows?”

“No, I don’t. Maybe my sister did it. With her killer backhand.”

“It was a knife.”

The millionaire sighed. “Christ. Whatever.”

“Do you think she’s capable?” I asked. I hadn’t even brought it up. “I mean, we’re just talking here. Couple of guys, chewing the cud. That’s all.”

Morgan set his glass down on the bar next to mine. “Look, I think Amanda is capable of anything she puts her mind to. But let me tell you a little something about
my sister. She didn’t kill Guy Fellows. Especially if it was a crime of passion. My sister has no passion. That’s her ugly little secret, though if you know her, it’s really no secret. Amanda is the original ice queen. You’re insinuating that she was sleeping with Fellows. Maybe she was. You’re not going to shock me if that’s the case. But I can guarantee you that if she was it meant absolutely nothing to her. She’d have no motive to kill him. The lady just doesn’t care.”

“When did she sign you up as her publicity person?”

Morgan sighed again. “You forced it out of me, old man. I’m just defending her.”

“Interesting defense. ‘Too cold to kill.’ ”

“Take it or leave it. The truth is, I don’t really care.”

He picked up the bottle and refilled his glass. “Listen, I’m going to go schmooze my future mother-in-law. It’s been … well, we’ve certainly talked, haven’t we?”

“Like a couple of old biddies,” I agreed. He started to leave. “Oh. One more question. If you don’t mind.”

He stopped. He didn’t look particularly enthusiastic.

I asked, “Do you know anything about a company called Epoch Ltd.?”

Morgan did. I could absolutely see that he did. Come on, his
sister
was on the board, for Christ’s sake. Kate had given me that much to chew on.

But he lied. He shook his head slowly, as if he were really thinking it through.

“No. Can’t say I do. Now excuse me.” And he went over to charm the great big pants off of Sally.

But he had lied.

Just then the door flew open and in stepped Tony Marino—I hadn’t seen him slip away—in full Scottish
regalia. The kilt, the furry belt, the Beefeater hat. He entered piping. The acoustics in the bar were astounding. “Amazing Grace” filled every available molecule of air in what I firmly believe was Tony Marino’s most impassioned and heartfelt rendition ever. He marched solemnly, in abbreviated goose-step, across the room toward Edie, chin high, squeezing his bag, choking his pipes. He was blubbering like a baby. It was the most noble spectacle I have ever seen.

M
y head was ringing.

No. It was the phone.

Correction.

What my head was doing was pounding. The sound of distant tom-toms joined in with the mix as I fumbled for the phone on the table next to my bed. I found it, brought it near and made a noise into it, something between a groan and a grunt.

It was Kate. She was angry. She snapped, “You didn’t return my call.”

The pounding of the tom-toms increased. Not so distant at all. They were inside my head. I found my voice, enough to croak, “In my country we say hello.”

“Fine. Hello. Didn’t you get my message?”

My phone machine was blinking accusingly.

“I didn’t play my messages, Kate. I’m sorry. I… I don’t remember getting into bed. I must have passed out.”

I looked down at myself to see that I was still wearing my dress shirt and tie (loosely knotted, thank God), a pair of boxers and on my feet a pair of bright orange thermal socks that normally hibernate over the warm months in the rear of my sock drawer. I have no idea
how they found their way out of the drawer and onto my feet.

“Too much fun at the wake, huh?” Kate asked snidely.

A scene from the night before was burning into focus. Thames Street. Late in the evening. A procession. Edie’s coffin being carried aloft. The remnant of the dinghy being tossed into the harbor. I shot up in bed.

“Shit!”

This got the attention of Alcatraz, who lifted his head from the floor and let out a bark.

“What? What happened? Are you okay?” There was genuine alarm in Kate’s voice.

My memory was coming back to me in patches. Fortunately the next patch included Edie’s coffin being safely delivered back to the funeral home.

“I’m fine. I just thought for a minute … never mind.” The tom-toms were drumming even harder now. They definitely wanted out. Alcatraz barked again—he definitely wanted out too—and so I missed the beginning of what Kate was saying.

“… has really hit the fan. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“What’d you say? Kate, I’m sorry. I’ve got—”

“I don’t have time to go into it now. Listen, Hitch, I’m sorry about … about everything. I told you I didn’t want to drag you into all of this. I’m sorry.”

I scooted up in bed. “Wait. What are you talking about, Kate? Hold on for a minute. I’m awake now. Look … you’ve got to tell me, what’s going on? I’m sorry I didn’t get your message. What did you find out yesterday? What’s all this about Amanda Stuart and Epoch? I ran into Peter Morgan last night
and he pretended he had never heard of Epoch. He was lying.”

There was a pause.

“You ran into Peter Morgan?”

“Yes. Julia brought him along to the wake.”

Kate said nothing. For a moment I thought she had hung up.

“Are you still there? Kate? I—”

“I’m still here. Hitch … I want you to be careful, okay? Please. Don’t worry about me. Just do me a favor. Walk away. Turn around and just walk away. No matter what happens.”

“What are you talking about? What’s going to happen?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry.”

“Kate, you’ve got to tell me what you’re talking about.”

When she spoke, there was a waver in her voice. “I’m tired, Hitch. I’m just really … I’m tired.”

“Kate. Are you crying?”

This time when I heard nothing it was because she
did
hang up.

I immediately dialed her home number, but all I got was her machine. Maybe she was sitting there listening, I don’t know. I didn’t leave a message. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. What a miserable time to feel miserable. I had no idea what Kate was talking about. When
what
happens? Why was she telling me to walk away? Walk away from what? From her? I had nothing but questions. And nothing but pounding tom toms for answers.