“Hey, B.H.” I’m nice in church.
He leaned over and whispered, “So, you goin’ out to the cemetery?”
“Yeah.”
“So you goin’ to Burns’ house?” He tried to enter the pew.
“Yeah.” I didn’t let him.
“Can I go with you?” He tried again.
“No.” I didn’t budge, ignoring the stares of those around us.
He stopped whispering. “Sam, let me go. I need to go, but can’t go as a cop. Everyone would clam up. I gotta go with a friend. C’mon.”
“Okay, but two things. Number one, you must tell me some of the stuff you know.”
“And two?”
My voice finally rose above a whisper. “Number two is you can’t, under penalty of death, pretend you’re my date. Got it? That is vitally important.”
He grinned. “Afraid O’Dear will get jealous.”
I didn’t let him make me mad. “Yes or no?”
“Yes, but it looks like O’Dear is pretty busy with Mrs. Burns.”
“Getting smart with me will not get you invited.” I returned the intimidating look of a dowager in front of me.
“Okay, Sam. We’re just old friends and that’s the way I’ll play it.”
“Okay.” I tired of being mean, finally relented, and allowed him to join me in the pew.
I resumed my reverent posture. It wasn’t entirely for B.H.’s benefit. I was praying that Michael would like me best.
B.H. and I called a temporary truce and stood, knelt, and sat on cue. I found it hard to concentrate during Mass and wondered if Carolyn would like to trade “dates” with me. B.H. could be her bodyguard—they deserved each other—and Michael could sit with me. Of course, I didn’t act on my impulse. The ghost of Sister Nicholas was a strong presence in that church and I could just picture her with hands on her hips, threatening me with eternal purgatory if I didn’t pay attention during Mass.
When the service ended, Michael and Carolyn walked down the aisle following the casket. Michael saw me and mouthed something. It looked like, “I love you, Sam,” but I couldn’t swear to that. Maybe I was fantasizing again. Maybe what he really mouthed was, “I want to talk to you.”
The town’s Catholic cemetery was only a few miles away. In small towns, distance is measured by miles and not by minutes. You know that if the distance is ten miles and you drive 60 mph it will take you ten minutes. If you drive 30 mph it will take you twenty minutes. It’s simple in a location that has no real rush hour. In fact, rush hour in Quincy meant we all drove fast to miss the train at the crossing and also miss all the tractors on the highway.
We got in my car.
“Listen, B.H., I never really thanked you for taking my car to the shop and getting this car for me.”
“You still haven’t.”
“Okay, thanks.” That was hard.
“See that wasn’t so bad was it? You’re welcome.”
“Put your seatbelt on or we won’t go anywhere.” I used my best “mommy voice” for this.
He complied and sarcastically thanked me for caring about his well being.
I pulled into line behind a Mercedes. “We’ve only got a few minutes. I really want to talk to you.”
“Hey, that’s my line. I need to talk to you too. I want to find out what you know…” He relaxed into the generic seat of the generic rental.
“And tell me what you know.”
“And tell you
some
of what I know.”
I relented. “Okay, here’s the deal. You and I can go to dinner tomorrow night. You buy. Separate cars. Don’t tell anyone. No touching.”
“Deal. Let’s go to The Rectory.”
The Rectory had nothing to do with the church. It was a popular restaurant and watering hole located close to St. Francis University. Stained glass windows were the closest it got to church related matters. Most of the students from SFU hung out there. The downside was that it was in my old neighborhood and I was sure to see people I knew. The upside was that it had the best onion rings in town and cheap beer.
“I’ll meet you there. Six o’clock, tomorrow night. Now that’s Tuesday, George.”
“I know, Sam. And thanks for calling me George.”
Like he cares. He hadn’t objected to my calling him B.H. And he kept acting like a Butthead.
At that moment we pulled up behind the line of cars at the cemetery and Michael came over to the window. I didn’t have the opportunity to tell B.H. that I’d called him “George” accidentally. But if it made him feel better, I would continue. Maybe I could get more information from him that way.
I spent a few minutes smiling at Michael as I struggled to get the window down. It wouldn’t budge. I felt stupid and was sure that Michael did not find my struggle attractive.
“You have to have the engine running to use the automatic windows.”
“Shut up, George.”
I stopped bothering with the window and opened the door. Michael seemed glad to see me and the feeling was very mutual. I explained to him that George just needed a ride and then patiently waited for him to explain why he was with Carolyn Burns. He didn’t.
“Michael, why are you with Mrs. Burns?”
“Carolyn asked me to accompany her. She has no family and since the murderer is still at large, she feels a little uncertain and alone. So she hired me to be her bodyguard as well as investigate the murder. Any more questions?”
God, he was gorgeous.
“No, just curious. But I told you she’s the murderer. And I need you to believe me. She killed her husband.”
George leaned over the console and said, “Sam thinks she knows everything about the murder. In fact she…”
I slammed the door in his face without acknowledging his childish taunt.
Michael seemed interested. “How do you know that?”
“I just know and I can’t tell you why. At least not here. I’ll tell you later. Tonight. Do you think we can have dinner, after the thing at Burns’ house?”
“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll see if one of my men can take over. Right now I need to be with Carolyn. See you at her house later?”
I smiled and nodded. I also tried to control the dizzy feeling that the thought of Carolyn Burns brought on.
After Michael left, George got out of the car with another stupid grin in evidence. He had quite a repertoire of ignorant looks.
I wanted to be silent, but couldn’t. “What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what?’”
“What are you grinning at?”
“Nothing,” he lied. “Just smiling.”
George and I walked over well-tended graves and settled at the edge of the large crowd. He watched everyone and I watched Michael. And Carolyn. I mean, I’m a nice person and normally I’d feel sympathy for a woman whose husband has just been killed. But, my God, she killed him and I couldn’t feel any sorrow for her. Not only did she kill her husband, but she was also trying to steal my boyfriend. My potential boyfriend anyway.
The burial was strictly by the book. Almost everyone from the church was at the cemetery. I didn’t know if they were there out of respect for Dr. Burns or because murders were rare in Quincy.
The priest said lots of familiar phrases. “Pillar of the community.” “Quincy’s loss.” “Sympathy to Mrs. Burns.” “Meet in heaven.” And so on. Heard it before.
It was cold. The wind whipped around the tent and people huddled together, whether from grief or from the cold, I couldn’t tell. I snuggled down into my coat and thought about how Burns died. Sliced in the neck with a scalpel. It was an ignominious end for a doctor.
The memory of Burns’ phone conversation while I was waiting in the hall for my interview suddenly surfaced and caused me to hit myself in the forehead. I grimaced as I made contact with a still-tender spot. “Shit!” Heads turned to stare at my outburst. “Sorry,” I whispered to no one in particular.
I swear George chuckled. It was almost enough for me to call him B.H. again.
My interview with Dr. Burns had interrupted a phone call. Who had he been talking to? He said, “I’ll have it for you next week.” After a few moments he’d blurted, “Leave me alone or you’ll be sorry.” That didn’t sound like something he would say to his wife.
I was sure she killed him. Absolutely one hundred percent sure. But that didn’t mean she had done it alone. She could have had an accomplice. Maybe that’s who Burns had been talking to that morning. I’d mentioned this to George right after the murder, then promptly forgot about it. I wondered if he remembered. I’d bring it up again tomorrow night, after he gave me some tidbits.
After the burial, George and I joined the many cars heading out to Burns’ house. The sedan seemed out of place amidst the Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, and Porsches. Earlier I’d thought that the nondescript car would be ideal for a stakeout. But not in this crowd. It stood out like a Darling at a Debutante Ball.
We got to the house and went inside. I didn’t even hesitate as the butler took our coats and led us into the drawing room. I was getting used to this.
George tried to take my arm. “No way. Remember our deal. I said you could come with me and we’d walk in together. We’re here now and you’re on your own. And I specifically said ‘no touching.’”
“Sorry, Sam. Guess I forgot your rules.” Was he being sarcastic or sincere? I couldn’t tell and I didn’t care.
I separated from George at the first opportunity and looked around for Michael. He and Carolyn Burns were conspicuous by their absence. I wanted to talk to him, and look at him, so I started nosing around. I had a cover story all prepared. If questioned, I’d say that I was looking for a bathroom. That wasn’t original, and perhaps I didn’t think it through very thoroughly, but I thought it would work. After all, we were at a wake and people certainly wouldn’t suspect me of any nefarious activity. So I ventured into the kitchen. No one there. I grabbed a few snacks off a silver tray and went up the back stairs.
At the top of the stairs lay two small bedrooms. Probably servants’ rooms originally. One was made into a sewing room and the other contained a treadmill, stair stepper and weights. The far wall was covered with a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I bet Carolyn Burns spent hours staring at herself.
Next was a bathroom. After that, two doors on either side of the hall led to two larger bedrooms, both a little too frou-frou for my taste. At the far end, past the front staircase, was a closed door. Probably the master suite. It looked like it took up the whole front of the house.
As I stood there wondering if I should go inside, I heard voices. Those voices needed listening to, so I volunteered.
No one was around so I pressed my ear against the door.
“Listen, if you just keep your mouth shut, nothing will happen. There is no proof and there won’t be any proof. Just shut up and we won’t have any problems.” That sounded like Carolyn. Sure didn’t sound so refined and uppity now.
“Mumble, mumble.”
I’d heard that mumbling voice before. Who was it?
“I beg your pardon, Ma’am. May I help you?”
The butler.
“Yes, I was looking for the bathroom.”
“It’s down the hall, Madam. Would you like me to show you?”
“Certainly not.” I tried to “harrumph” but couldn’t quite pull it off. So I sashayed to the bathroom.
TWELVE
I
avoided George but
noticed he managed to speak to a lot of people and apparently didn’t ruffle any feathers. Being from Quincy had its advantages. He was “one of us” and could get away with being a guest—and a pest—without attracting undue attention.
Once I found Gus, he made my visit palatable. We sat on a couch and he entertained me with stories about our fellow guests. He speculated on possible suspects and motives. I wasn’t ready to let him in on my absolute assurance that Carolyn did it, but I did want to know what he thought.
“Who do you think killed Dr. Burns?” I tried to make the question sound innocent.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it and he wasn’t a very popular character. He’s been involved in some shady business deals and…”
I interrupted, “Shady business deals? What kind?”
Gus continued as if I hadn’t spoken, “…he’s treated lots of folks pretty badly. I’ve heard complaints about his therapy practice too, but for years he was the only game in town.” He moved on to another thought. “You told me you don’t think Gwen Schneider did it. Have you changed your opinion? Everyone’s talking about how she confessed to you.”
“I’m sure she didn’t do it. For lots of reasons, including that she didn’t have a motive. She and the doctor were close. Very close.” I raised my eyebrows and elbowed Gus in the ribs so he would understand my meaning. “Also her brother Charlie confessed and I’m equally sure he didn’t do it.”
Gus grinned at my hint, but then became serious when he asked, “Why are you so sure that Charlie Schneider didn’t do it?”
“I’m just sure. Let’s talk about something else; what did you mean Burns was involved in shady business deals?”
Gus bit into a mini-quiche, chewed for a moment, swallowed, and took a sip from his beer before answering. “Nothing in particular, just heard some things that told me he wasn’t on the up-and-up. Insider trading, prescriptions for friends without examining them, things like that.”
That wasn’t worth waiting for. Then the conversation took a turn for the worse when he changed the subject to Carolyn Burns.
“You’ve read her books, right?”
“You know I don’t read trash.” I said it with a straight face, but Gus is not easily fooled by my fabrications.
“You already told me you’ve read her books. And just because you don’t like her, doesn’t mean her books aren’t worthwhile.” He smiled at me as one does at a much-loved, but errant child.
“Okay,” I grudgingly admitted, “I’ve read a few…”
Gus stared at me, unbelieving and silent.
“All right, I’ve read all of them. I didn’t like them much.”
The maddening silence and stare continued.
“God, Gus, stop with the third degree, will you? I read them all and I liked them all, but that was before I knew Felicia Greene is Carolyn Burns.” Blecch! I still shivered at the thought that Carolyn Burns wrote the books that had been scattered all over my house.
An idea struck and I almost pounded on my fellow crime solver. “You know, one reason I like the books so much is that they’re realistic. I mean the criminal mind with its emotional disturbances…it’s almost as if the author was either a therapist, a criminal, or crazy herself.” Two out of three wasn’t bad.