Working Murder (3 page)

“There's no such word,” growled Sadd. “You ‘make final,' you don't ‘finalize.' Damn
garbage words they use.”

I said, still trying to fill in the gaps of the story:

“So Jim Cavanaugh married Maura Dever in 1918 during a trip back to Ireland with his
mother.”

“His ‘sainted' mother. All Irish crooks have ‘sainted' mothers.”

I remembered a picture of this bride in an album. “Wasn't Maura very pretty?”

“She was very beautiful.”

“Why would she marry such a creature?”

Sadd shrugged. “A chance to come to this country? And Jim may have been handsome or
dashing. Also, remember that some of his more charming traits might not have surfaced
till Prohibition. That was a fertile ground for a lot of vices people didn't even know
they had.”

“And when Sainted Mother died he built that mausoleum in Holy Martyrs Cemetery.”

“Yes, but he really built it for himself.”

“Then why”—this had always baffled me—"did the name Dawson go on it and not Cavanaugh?”

Sadd smiled. “There isn't a spiteful bone in your body, Clara, so you probably won't
comprehend this. Jim's brother, Martin by name, had, as the expression goes, ‘bettered
himself' by graduating from law school. He then further bettered himself, if you'll
allow me to say so, by marrying Sara Saddlier, May's sister. Sara was the beauty of the
family and her brother Will, my father, claimed she ‘threw herself away.' Unfortunate
expression—and not true, as it transpired.”

Voices discussing this marriage echoed in my head from across the years.

Sadd went on: “May had just married a wealthy WASP, your uncle Frank Dawson, and they
undoubtedly snubbed the Irish Catholic Cavanaughs. Jim, it seems, never forgave them. He
knew that Holy Martyrs Cemetery in Queens was the last place on earth any Dawson would
want to be buried. So he had their name emblazoned on the mausoleum. His pretext, we
were told, was that he was magnanimously providing a resting place for the whole family
and using their more distinguished name rather than his own humble one. Brother Martin
was mortified, but what could he do?”

I couldn't help laughing. “You have to admit, Jim was ingenious as well as spiteful.”

“Oh, very. But just
how
spiteful even he couldn't know, because he had to die
himself to really set them up. Damn, my ears are killing me. Are we coming down?”

I said loudly, over seatbelt instructions: “You mean the rumors about the place being
haunted or something?”

“Haunted? Where did you get that old-fashioned scenario? That isn't the rumor.”

I said dutifully: “Then what is?”

Sadd snapped his seatbelt. “You know, I suppose, that Jim Cavanaugh is buried in that
mausoleum alone?”

Alone? No, I hadn't known that.
Alone?

“There are twelve crypts in the place, and he's the only one in there.”

Snow was beating thickly against the window beside me as the plane sank and sank toward
the earth. I envisioned whiteness enveloping the great pile of marble with its single
occupant ... about which someone had recently been asking questions....

I said: “There must have been Cavanaugh relatives who wouldn't have minded being buried
in Holy Martyrs.”

“Oh, there were. Plenty. But not with Jim. Everywhere but with Jim. Nobody wanted to be
buried with that viper.”

“Sainted Mother is.”

“Not even her.” The plane bumped twice and we were down. “Martin had her removed and
buried in his plot in Woodlawn.”

“What about Jim's wife—the beautiful Maura?”

“Oh, she'd left him. She went back to Ireland when the booze started to get to her and
died there.”

“Then what
are
the rumors?”

In my exasperation I spoke too loudly. Heads turned as passengers jammed the aisles, and
a plaintive, amplified voice begged them not to yet. Sadd said in my ear:

“That Jim Cavanaugh had used some of the crypts to house the remains of enemies.”

“Enemies?” I was trying to take all this in. “Did he have so many?”

“Oh, come on, Clara, does a dog have fleas? Jim was a bootleg czar—remember?”

“Mother!”

It was too good to be true. Henry, who'd said he couldn't meet us, was waving from across
the sea of heads at the baggage turntable.

I said: “Thank God. Things can't be too bad if he was able to get away.”

Sadd said, winking at me: “There's a burr attached to my leg, and it's wearing a red hat
and a pair of wet mittens which are soaking me. Please detach it.”

“Darling!” I picked up little Hen and hugged him. “You won't find Gran complaining about
wet mittens. Hug me tight!”

“I'm six and a half now.” His damp embrace was heavenly. “I have a lot of new riddles.
What do you call two banana skins lying on the floor?”

“I give up. Quick—there's my bag—grab it!”

“A pair of slippers!” yelled Hen, diving onto the conveyor.

“And there's my bag,” said Sadd. “After it! Hello, Henry.”

I turned to find my son behind me and reached my arms up to him. Why was he shaking?

“Mom, Sadd, I have ghastly news: May's dead.”

I think Sadd took it in before I did. I remember seeing his Florida tan turn sort of
beigy. Then I remember feeling a pain in my big toe. Hen had dropped a suitcase on it
and was saying: “Do you give up, Gran?”

“Give what up, dear?” I was able to say.

“Why do baby elephants never eat breakfast?”

To this hour I don't know why baby elephants never eat breakfast, for my son hoisted the
child in his arm and said:

“Hold the riddles, Hen. We'll go get the car, and Gran and Cousin Sadd will wait for us
outside.” He looked from Sadd to me, his face stricken. “I'm sorry to hit you with it
like that, but I couldn't bear any chit-chat. You had to know quick.”

Sadd said: “Before you go—how?”

“She took an overdose of sleep stuff last night. Have you got all your baggage?”

“Not possible,” I heard myself say, then realizing they were both staring at me, I
amended it: “Not possibly—I'm sure there's one more.”

Henry made a move toward the turntable as Hen said: “What is the difference between an
alligator and a—”

“Get the car, Henry,” said Sadd. “We'll collect it all and meet you outside.”

“Look for the red Datsun. I might be a few minutes. The snow's getting worse.”

Henry swung his son onto his shoulders, and they disappeared in the crowd. I stood still,
feeling Sadd's eyes boring into me. He looked like an aggravated troll glaring out from
between his bedraggled cap and scarf. I might have smiled except that I was feeling a
little sick. People pushed and shoved around us.

Sadd said: “And pray, what does
that
mean?”

“What does what mean? Let's move. I need air.”

“And that mythical other bag we're waiting for?”

“Is mythical.”

“So ‘not possible' means May's overdose?”

“Of course it does.” We were making our way through the throng. “I don't believe May
wanted to die last night. Tonight or tomorrow night, maybe—I don't know what the poor
thing's problem was—but last night, no. She was too anxious to see us.”

“When you say she didn't ‘want' to die, I assume you mean the overdose was accidental.”
Sadd's short legs were going like pistons trying to keep up with me. I tried to slow
down but I was feeling distraught. “I don't know of an alternative, do you?”

“Of course I do, and so do you.” I was wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. We'd arrived at
the automatic doors, which kept opening to admit blasts of arctic air. I said: “Do you
want to take turns going out there to watch for Henry?”

“I do not. Madam”—Sadd turned to a woman behind him—"would you mind removing your child
from that spot unless you want to die of pneumonia, which I do not.”

The poor woman dragged the child away, and I said, peering out through the white haze: “I
suppose we can see him from here. I wish there weren't so many red cars—I keep getting
my hopes up.”

Sadd plucked the cap from his head, causing his hair literally to stand on end. He said:

“I have a new riddle for Hen: Why does anybody named Gamadge always suspect the sinister
worst?”

“I give up,” I said. “There's Henry.”

“GRAN, DID YOU KNOW AUNT MAY WENT TO heaven?”

“Yes, dear.”

Hen had eschewed the front seat and squeezed himself between Sadd and me in the back of
the Datsun.

“What we would like to know”—Sadd removed Hen's potato chip-filled hand from his knee—"is
whether anybody suspected she was planning on going.”

We were approaching a slushy ramp to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Henry flashed us an
apologetic look in the rearview mirror. “I know you must both be in a fog about all
this. I'll fill you in as soon as we get home. Tina will have lunch for us, and Hen goes
to afternoon kindergarten.”

“I go to school now,” said Hen. “I can pigeon evens.”

Sadd and I looked at each other blankly, and Henry said:

“I think we're trying for ‘pledge allegiance.' You're probably both exhausted. After
lunch I want you to take a rest. Then I'm afraid it's back out to Queens for Lloyd's
wake.”

I'd almost forgotten poor Lloyd.

Sadd said: “Lloyd's been rather upstaged by all this. By the way, what verified May's
overdose?”

“A stomach check. And her doctor confirmed his prescription. No question it was suicide.
She's at Campbell's. No visitation.”

Sadd had flashed me a triumphant look but my only sensation at the moment was one of
relief at the words “no visitation.” Thank heaven. I was beginning to feel as they must
have during the Great Plague—a death a day. Who had found poor May? I wondered. Sadd
said:

“Are we still expected to railroad Lloyd into Holy Martyrs?”

“No.” Henry slowed to a squishy crawl on the congested expressway. “Helen is definite
about that. After the Mass tomorrow, he'll be flown to Ohio. She said it's what he
wanted.”

“Good for her. Damn!” Sadd massaged the side of his head. “That bloody pressure from the
plane is still with me. And May? Shall we practice what she preached and open the spooky
portals for her?”

Henry shrugged and said he guessed it was out of our hands.

“Her brother-in-law, what's his name—Tully—he's here for Lloyd's funeral, and he found
poor May this morning—he says she goes to White Plains Memorial next to her husband.”

“Wonderful!” Sadd chuckled. “The shunning continues. Jim Cavanaugh's curse prevails!”

I said: “Have you heard that bizarre story about the mausoleum, Henry?”

“Yes, May told me. Bizarre is right.” The car swerved slightly but sickeningly. “God,
it's slick as glass!”

“We shouldn't distract you,” I said. “No more talking till we get home.”

Sadd put his head back and closed his eyes.

Hen said: “Can I just
whisper
some riddles, Gran?”

“Of course, darling.”

He and I began exchanging hushed riddles and “I-give-ups” while a name nagged me: Tully
Hewitt. May's brother-in-law. He figured somewhere—somberly, I felt—in the tragedy of
May's daughter, but how? The family oracle dozing beside me would know, but I hated to
rouse him. When the familiar streets of Brooklyn Heights, elegant with snow, began to
appear, I knew Sadd would have to come to anyway. I touched his hand and kept my voice
low.

“Sadd, what do I connect Tully Hewitt with?”

His head jerked up and he looked at me with wide, staring eyes. I was contrite. “I'm
sorry. I didn't realize you were so sound—”

“Not asleep at all. Just ... groggy. This thing itches.” He pulled the cap off his head.
“Tully and his wife spent the summers next door to May and Frank in Gloucester. Their
daughter disappeared from his house.”

Of course. Tully and Irene Hewitt. Baffled ... frantic ... one day a pretty niece is a
houseguest, the next she is off the map. Irene, May's sister, had died shortly
afterward, never fully recovering from the shock.

Sadd said: “When Tully retired, he went up to live in Gloucester year-round. Nobody knows
why he wants to stay in that big old ark of a house especially with Irene gone, but he
won't budge.”

Henry said, unexpectedly: “His garden there is his one interest in life.”

How would Henry know that? I wondered briefly, then Hen said something like “there's the
sachew of ribalry” and sure enough there she stood like a distant black pin across the
snow-veiled water. Henry turned into Willow Street.

“Here we are. You must be starved.”

“I could use a drink,” said Sadd.

I said: “Henry, did May's problem have anything to do with a certain disappearance years
ago?”

“It had everything to do with it.”

Sadd and I looked at each other with the proverbial “wild surmise,” and at that instant,
Hen requested a transfer to the front seat so he could be “first out.” A boot-waving
hoist followed, and Henry stopped before what he and Tina always called Nice Ugly, a
high, narrow old home of no particular style. Hen leaped out of the car and scrambled up
the snow-covered stairs to where his petite, bright-eyed mother stood waving, a parka
clutched around her shoulders.

Henry said: “Be careful of the curb—there's a foot of slush. I'll get the bags.”

He opened the rear of the car, admitting waftings of snow in upon us. Sadd swore softly
and pulled his cap back on. He said:

“Henry, go in and get out the bourbon. I'll see that your mother makes it without
breaking her hip.”