Death & the Brewmaster's Widow (3 page)

“He doesn't really have Down syndrome,” Sam's wife Doris guessed. “It was just a cover for him to break in and steal all their data.”

Death grinned at her. “Nope. He's just exactly what he seems to be. A fifty-four-year-old man with Down syndrome living in a group home and working as a janitor.”

“So …?”

“So remember how I said the guy responsible for the information was a jackass? Just imagine how someone like that treats someone with a physical or mental impairment. Boyd didn't steal the information in order to sell it. He took it to get back at the engineer for being hateful to him. They couldn't figure out how he got the flash drives out of the building because he didn't. He just threw them away.”

“But how did he get them out of the safe?” Sam asked. “Did the engineer go off and leave the safe open?”

“No. But he opened it in front of Boyd. It never occurred to him that Boyd would be able to remember the combination. And when he opened the safe, Boyd just used a dust cloth to keep from leaving fingerprints. He's handicapped. He's not stupid.”

“Is he going to be in a lot of trouble?” Wren asked, concerned. “Boyd, I mean?”

Death smiled at her and reached out to trace one fingertip down her cheek. “Nah, not so much. They're mostly relieved the information didn't wind up with their competitors and they figure he didn't understand what he was doing. I'm not so sure of that bit, myself, but the engineer really isn't a pleasant person so I'm not sorry he's the one who's going to suffer. He got taken down a peg for being careless with his safe combination, plus he's got to re-do all the work that was destroyed.”

“People always underestimate the handicapped,” Leona said.

“The invisible demographic,” Death agreed. “Also, with a lot of people, there's a broad tendency to overlook service personnel. The janitor, the waitress, the kid mowing the grass.”

“Tell me about it!” Rory Keystone, gangly and awkward, leaned over from a table full of teenagers to join in the conversation. “You know, I got a job at the market doing carryouts. Yesterday I was taking out a cart of groceries for these two ladies and they were having this conversation you would
not
believe. It was like I wasn't even standing there. I just wanted to run away screaming.”

“Really?” Death asked innocently. “What were they talking about?”

Rory's ears turned red and he stammered. “Stuff,” he managed
finally.

“Stuff ?”

“You know. Woman-ey stuff. Really graphic woman-ey stuff.” His blush deepened as his peers and elders merely watched him expectantly. “One of them was having problems. You
know
.”

“Woman-ey problems?”

“With her stuff,” Leona nodded. “Her woman-ey stuff.”

“Her lady parts,” Roy clarified. Rory was aghast. “Grandpa!”

“What? You're shocked that I know about lady parts? Let me tell you something, son. If I didn't know about lady parts, half the people in this building wouldn't exist.”

“Can we have a moment of silence,” Sam said, “so that I can pray for salvation for my brother? Or possibly from my brother?”

“You can act like an old maid all you want,” Roy said, “but you've had the occasional brush with lady parts yourself, and I can point out a dozen or more pieces of evidence without even turning my head.”

“Perhaps. But I don't talk about it at the dinner table.”

“Maybe I just know more to talk about.”

“You do know about lady parts,” Leona agreed placidly. She reached over and patted her husband's hand. “Just don't go imagining that you're an expert.”

three

The town square surrounding
the Rives County courthouse in downtown East Bledsoe Ferry consisted mostly of tall, old stone buildings. The late eighteenth-century architecture was so predominant here that the handful of newer structures stood out like scars against their older counterparts. Death's office and the connected studio apartment where he slept were located in one of the oldest buildings, above the Renbeau Bros. Department Store.

Wren was alone in the apartment. She was packing clothes into a duffel for Death to take with him to St. Louis when the bell rang, announcing that someone had opened the door from the street. “Oh, Death!” a woman's light, melodic voice called. “Sweetie? Are you up there?”

Wren took a deep breath.
I will not kill the ex-wife
, she told herself.
I will not kill the ex-wife. Unless she's thinking she's going to get him back, in which case I might very well kill the ex-wife
.

She went to the top of the steep, narrow staircase that led from the sidewalk up to the office. “He's not here, Madeline.”

Madeline was waiting at the foot of the steps. She wore a light summer frock and sandals, her hair was perfectly styled and her makeup flawless. She was a tiny, elegant, exquisitely beautiful woman and Wren never failed to feel like an ox next to her. She carried her infant son in his carrier, her pose such that the first thing a person's eyes were drawn to, if they were standing at the top of the steps, was the baby's innocent face.

Benji had been conceived while Death was fighting overseas. Death adored him, even though he was not his, and Madeline was not above wielding him as a weapon. Madeline's pretty face puckered into a bitter grimace. “Where is he?”

“He had some errands to run. Is there something I can help you with?”

Madeline huffed an impatient little sigh. “I brought over the carton with his brother's things. It's in the back of my car, but I can't lift it. Do you know when he's coming back?”

“No, I don't. Let me see if I can get it.” Wren clattered down the stairs, ignoring the sour look Madeline was giving her.

Madeline raked her stare up and down Wren's body, face a picture of disapproval, and Wren involuntarily glanced down at herself. She was wearing sneakers, ragged blue jean cut-offs and—oh, yeah!—one of Death's old USMC T-shirts.

Ha!
she thought.
Suck on that, Hooker Barbie!

A large, white shipping carton sat on the back seat of Madeline's car. Madeline opened the door and Wren pulled it out carefully. It weighed no more than five or ten pounds and she canted an eyebrow at Madeline.

“It must be nice to be so strong and manly,” Madeline said snidely.

“Strength is not gender-specific,” she replied pointedly and led the way upstairs. Madeline followed, lugging Benjamin. Wren thought it ironic that the baby in his carrier surely weighed more than the carton she was carrying.

Death's desk was a sturdy old wooden affair that had probably come out of a classroom. Every time Wren looked at it, she expected to see a chalkboard on the wall behind it. She set the carton on it now and hopped up to sit beside it. Madeline dropped into one of the two visitor's chairs and looked around with interest. The connecting door to Death's apartment stood open, the clothes Wren had been sorting for him spread across the bed. A pair of Wren's own underwear was mixed in with them. It was only there because it had been static-electricitied to one of his shirts in the dryer, but Madeline didn't need to know that.

She drummed her fingers on the top of the carton. “What's in here, do you know?”

“Just Randy's uniform and his helmet. All that heavy outer stuff—”

“His turnout gear?”

“I guess. All that was issued by the department. My mother sorted through it and sent it back to them. She also washed his uniform before we packed it up and put it away. Mother adores Death, you know.”

“Well, Death's an adorable guy.”

Madeline fidgeted. “Where does he think the extra badge came from?”

“Best guess is that someone at the coroner's office realized it was missing and thought they'd lost it. Rather than admit to misplacing it, they somehow got another one to replace it with.”

“Cover your ass,” Madeline observed.

The bell rang again and Wren heard the distinctive sound of Death's heavy breathing as he struggled his way up the stairs. Madeline made as if to jump up and go help him, but Wren stayed her with a fierce look. “Don't!”

“But …”

“No. Don't.”

He reached the top and stood for a moment braced against the doorframe, catching his breath. Wren beamed at him. “You only had to stop twice! You're getting better!”

He shrugged and came over to lean against the desk beside her. “Well, I saw both your cars out front. I thought there might be a girl fight going on.”

“And you didn't bring popcorn?” she asked tartly.

“I've got cheese curls in the cupboard.” He made faces at the baby, then glanced at the white carton and his face sobered. “Randy's things?”

Wren rubbed his upper arm. “Are you sure you're up for this?”

Instead of answering, he took out his pocket knife and slit the tape holding the carton closed. He opened the flaps and the air that rose out carried the scents of dust and fabric softener and the ghost of burning things.

“I can still smell a hint of smoke. Am I just imagining it?”

“No.” Death shook his head. “Gramp's things were the same way, years after he retired.”

“But Mom washed his uniform,” Madeline objected.

“It'd be in his helmet lining.” Death lifted a typewritten letter from the box and glanced over it before passing it along to Wren. It was an official letter from the coroner's office, expressing condolences and listing the original contents of the carton. The letter noted that Randy's turnouts were the property of the St. Louis Fire Department and that Death would need to contact them about their disposition. In the contents list someone had placed a neat check mark in blue ink next to each item of turnout gear.

Randy's badge was on the list, between his station pants and a flashlight. Death had taken a second letter from the box, this one handwritten.

Dear Sergeant Bogart, We've never met, but I've heard so many stories about you that I feel as if I know you well. My job includes responding to fatality incidents such as fires and traffic accidents. It was in this capacity that I met your
brother. Though I never told him so, and I'm sorry now that I
did not, I was always impressed with Randy, with his charm and his sense of humor and with his integrity. Though I saw him at the worst of times and under the most difficult circumstances, I never knew him to act without courage and compassion. I know I don't need to tell you that he was a credit to his department and to this city. To me, he was a dear friend and I shall miss him greatly. Please accept my deepest condolences and, if ever there is anything I can do for you, do not hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely, Sophie Depardieu
Assistant Medical Examiner, City of St. Louis

“She was sweet on him,” Wren said.

“Do you think so?”

Madeline nodded; for once the two women were in agreement.

“She'd be the one who polished the badge and put it in the jewelry box,” Wren added. “She probably thought his original badge was lost in the fire and she wanted you to have one.”

“She's put her phone number on the letter. I'll call her when I get there tomorrow. I expect you're probably right.”

Randy's helmet lay on top of the items still in the carton. Death lifted it out reverently and set it aside. Beneath it was a uniform, a dark blue-gray polo shirt and matching cargo pants. A heavy metal flashlight lay across the neatly folded shirt. Wren leaned over and frowned into the box. “What's the matter?”

“Shouldn't there be boots in there?”

“Boots are part of turnout gear. They'd have gone back to the department. Somebody else is wearing them now. His helmet's theirs, too. I probably need to return it as soon as possible.”

“Oh, no,” Madeline said. “The helmet's yours. The department told Mom that you could have it. They said they'd normally present it to you at the funeral, but—” she broke off and looked away. Death was focused on a point on the opposite wall and Wren, sitting next to him and between the two, felt but did not understand the sudden tension between them.

“Okay, look,” Madeline clicked perfect nails against the chair arm. “I handled everything really crappy. I know that. And I'm sorry, Death. I am so sorry. But you have to understand that none of it meant that I didn't love you.”

“I know,” he said softly, and Wren felt suddenly as if she had been set adrift. Death put his hand over hers on the desk, anchoring them together, and continued. “But everything that happened … happened. There's no point now in regrets or recriminations.” He turned his attention to Wren. “Madeline claimed Randy's body. She had him cremated and asked the fire department to do something with his ashes.”

“But surely they would have waited for you.”

“I asked them not to,” Madeline said. “I thought he was going to have enough to deal with when he woke up. If he woke up. Some of the doctors didn't think he would, you know.”

“His station had a nice ceremony,” Death said. “There were pictures in with the papers Captain Cairn brought me. They took him out on a fire boat and sprinkled his ashes on the Mississippi, just below the confluence where the Missouri comes in.” With her free hand, Wren picked up the helmet, cradled it in her lap, and looked down at it, wondering about this man who had meant so much to the man she loved. As she focused on what she was seeing, she frowned.

“Death? Honey?”

“Mmm?”

“There's a sort of a little badge-thingie on here, made out of leather, with a number on it.”

He laughed a little. “The badge-thingie on his hat would be his hat badge. It's a matched set with his regular badge.”

“And the numbers on them, they would match too, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

She turned the helmet so he could see the front. The number on it was 4183. “It matches the wrong badge.”

_____

Belle Fontaine Cemetery, under a cloudless summer sky, looked more like a painting than like something that should really exist. Death guided his Jeep through the main entrance and followed well-known lanes that led to the Bogart family plot.

It had been raining the last time he was here, he remembered. He and Randy, riding in the back of a funeral home limousine, followed the hearse that carried their parents' coffins. It had been a closed casket funeral—the car accident that killed them quick and brutal. Madeline had ridden with her mother, several cars back. He'd come home on bereavement leave and she'd stayed apart from him almost the entire time. Even then she'd been distancing herself, though he didn't realize it at the time.

At the time, he'd been too caught up in his grief and in taking care of his brother. Randy's experience with car accidents had served him poorly. He was too able to imagine the crash and its after effects and he'd had nightmares nearly every night. They'd also had their parents' estate to deal with. Only in their late forties, the elder Bogarts hadn't been prepared for sudden death. In the end it was necessary to sell their house to settle their debts.

Randy had felt particularly bad about that. He'd inherited their grandparents' place and their parents' house was supposed to eventually go to Death. He'd offered to sell his house and split the profit with Death, but Death had declined. The Corps had promised him a permanent assignment at Whiteman after his tour was over and he and Madeline were buying a house just off base.

That was Madeline's house now. Death had let her keep it on the understanding that she would be responsible for the payments. They'd had a pre-nup—his grandmother had convinced them to do that—and he hadn't been required to give her anything. He had done it, though, even though it left him homeless, so that Benjamin would have a safe place to grow up.

Death pulled over when he was as close to the plot as the road would take him. Wishing he'd thought to pick up some flowers, he jumped down and paced across the green grass, skirted a larger monument, and stopped beside a stone that read BOGART. His grandparents were buried to the left, his parents to the right, each couple sharing a stone. Nonna (Terhaar) Rogers, his maternal great-grandmother, was buried next to her husband down in Ste. Genevieve. All five of them had died within the last three years.

There was no stone for Randy, of course, and it occurred to Death that he should set one. His brother deserved a memorial, even if there was no body to go under it.

Death didn't know why he had come here. A sense of responsibility, maybe? The idea that it was his filial duty, and a duty that he left too long undone? He opened his mouth to apologize, for not coming for so long, for not bringing flowers, for not taking good enough care of Randy or, at the very least, seeing that he was properly laid to rest.

The words wouldn't come. He didn't feel his family's presence here. There was nothing in this tranquil green and growing place but sorrow and loss. In the not quite two years since their funeral, the soil of his parents' grave had subsided. The outline of the grave was sunken, with a deep crack running around one corner. He thought, with a frisson of horror, that if he stepped closer he would be able to look down into the earth and see the concrete vault in which their broken bodies were interred.

The cemetery darkened as a cloud drifted across the sun. A chill breeze sent a shiver through him. He sighed and closed his eyes. Bowed his head. Then he returned to his Jeep and drove away.