The Grave Soul (10 page)

Delia Adler, wife of Kevin Adler, owner of Adler & Thompson Construction, tumbled to her death from the back deck of her home on 49 Amberwood Trail on Wednesday. The deck overhangs Gauthier Ravine. She was discovered by her husband when he came home for a late lunch.

A spokesperson for the New Dresden police said it appeared that Mrs. Adler had accidentally fallen to her death sometime during the morning hours. In a short phone interview, Evangeline Adler, Delia's mother-in-law, said, “My family is devastated, stunned by this tragic, senseless loss. Delia was a loving mother, wife, and member of our family. She will be deeply missed.”

Delia Adler is survived by her husband, Kevin, and her daughters Gracie (7) and Kira (5). Her life will be celebrated during a private ceremony to be held at the home of her sister-in-law, Dr. Hannah Adler. No wake, public viewing or funeral is planned at this time.

Brian Carmody of the Carmody & Sons Funeral Home in Union, Wis., will handle the cremation. Mr. Carmody will also be accepting flowers and donations on behalf of the family.

“If I'm remembering correctly,” said Jane, “Evangeline Adler's maiden name was Carmody. It was in the background checks you read me.”

“Small towns, small worlds,” said Cordelia.

“How does that article strike you?” Jane asked, reading through it again.

“As perfunctory. Not cold, exactly, but there's nothing personal in it, nothing but the usual token response.”

That was how it struck Jane, too. She stood up and used her cell to take a few photos of the article. “Come on. Let's give these back and get out of here.”

“Kind of a bust, huh?” said Cordelia.

“Bust? Are you kidding me? We just learned the name of the funeral director who handled Delia's remains. He
saw
her body. He knew her death wasn't accidental. That means he was part of the cover-up. In my book, that's a huge win.”

“Then let's go celebrate with a greasy cheeseburger and fries.”

And tomorrow morning, thought Jane, they would drive over to Union to pay a visit to one Brian Carmody.

 

15

Union was a town of some five thousand people located twenty-two miles southeast of New Dresden. Light snow had begun falling by the time Jane and Cordelia drew up in front of the Carmody & Sons Funeral Home the following morning.

“Let's find a cafe before we hit the funeral home,” said Cordelia.

“Work first, then rewards,” said Jane. She was itching to talk to Carmody.

“Am I supposed to survive on bubble gum?”

“Just think how much more you'll enjoy your pancakes after we get some answers.”

The funeral home was an impressive brick two-story that had once been, during an earlier incarnation, a family home. The richly paneled foyer was octagonal, the floor covered in a rose-patterned carpet. A round oak table sat directly in the center, adorned by a stunning blue-and-white flower arrangement in a crystal vase.

“This place makes me think there's serious money in death and dying,” said Cordelia, picking up one of the brochures.

For today's visit, Jane decided to disguise her normal look just a bit—to be on the safe side. She wore a pair of fake horn-rimmed glasses and had tucked her long hair up under a baseball cap. There wasn't much anyone could do to disguise Cordelia, except, perhaps, toss a tarp over her and order her to keep her mouth shut.

As they stood in the foyer looking around, a ginger-haired man emerged from what had once probably been the living room and now appeared to be a chapel. He greeted them with subdued warmth.

“Good morning,” he said, his smile muted, his tone soft. “I'm Steven Carmody. How may I help you?”

“Anybody ever told you you're the spitting image of John F. Kennedy?” asked Cordelia, openly studying the handsome, forty-something man.

His smile turned to a grin. “Actually, yes. I do a pretty fair imitation of a Boston accent, too.”

Jane handed him her business card:
Nolan & Lawless Investigations
.

Giving it a cursory glance, Steven said, “You two are private investigators?”

“She is,” said Cordelia, nodding at Jane. “Me, I'm a theater director.”

“Really,” said Steven. “What theater?”

“For the last sixteen years, I've been the creative director at the Allen Grimby Repertory Theater in St. Paul. I'm opening my own theater in Minneapolis next spring.”

“I
love
the Allen Grimby. What's your name?”

“Cordelia Thorn.”

“Oh my god,” he said, his eyes popping. “I can't believe you're standing here … that I'm talking to you. I'm such a huge fan.”

“How lovely of you to say that,” said Cordelia, attempting but failing to look demure.

“I lived in New York for a few years, acted in a couple off-Broadway productions. That was before I followed my boyfriend to San Francisco. You know how it is. It was silly, but I was young and in love.”

Cordelia turned to Jane and lifted an eyebrow.

“How did you end up here?” asked Jane.

“Oh,” he said, adjusting the silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit coat. “That's a long story.” He spread his hands under the flower arrangement and fluffed the bottom flowers.

“Do you do the flower arrangements yourself?” asked Cordelia.

“Twice a week,” he said, plucking off a brown petal. “My brother thinks I'm spending money needlessly, but I believe fresh flowers, especially in winter, create a certain mood. I mean, nobody wants to come to a funeral parlor. At least in ours, you're met with something fragrant and
alive
.”

“Did you ever watch the TV show
Six Feet Under
?” asked Cordelia.

“I had
such
a crush on Michael C. Hall. Then he turned into Dexter.” He grimaced as he flipped the business card back and forth in his hand. Switching his gaze back to Jane, he said, “So you must be the PI. Is there some problem?”

“We just need information,” said Cordelia.

Jane was delighted that Steven was in awe of Cordelia. It might make this much easier. “In December of 1995,” she began, “a woman named Delia Adler died.”

“Sure, Kevin's wife. I remember. Kevin's my cousin. Evangeline, his mother, is my father's sister.”

“Delia was cremated?”

“I'm not sure. I was living in New York then. My brother, Todd, was in Milwaukee that year, getting his degree in mortuary science. I assume Kevin used our funeral services. Most family members do. My father would have handled everything.”

“Is his name Brian?”

He nodded.

“Is he here?” asked Jane. “Could we talk to him?”

“We lost him to a heart attack four years ago.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said.

“I'm not. He was a nasty bastard. Made my life miserable growing up. He was the kind of guy who thought he got his marching orders straight from the Almighty. After he was gone, Todd asked me to move back and work the business with him. Since things had fizzled with my boyfriend by then and I was financially at loose ends, I took him up on it. You know, as I think about it, I do remember that Delia was cremated. That's very unusual in our family.”

“How does cremation work?” asked Jane. “The body arrives at your facility. And then what?”

“Dad would have contacted the crematorium over in Pine River and sent her remains there. The ashes would have come back here and we would then return them to the family.”

“Do you have a record of Delia's cremation?”

“I'm sure we do. Technically, I'm supposed to get the family's permission before I release any information to a nonfamily member.”

“Can't we bypass that little detail?” asked Cordelia.

He grinned. “I shouldn't. But for you, anything.” He opened the paneled doors directly across from the living room and led them past an ornate carved buffet to a hallway, then into a business office. Along the rear wall were six tall filing cabinets. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning them to leather chairs in front of a massive oak desk. “That was 1996, right?”

“Ninety-five,” said Jane. “December.”

He flipped through the files until he came to what he wanted. Removing a folder, he sat down behind the desk and began to leaf through the documents. “Here we go,” he said, lifting out a page. He read it over and then said, “Huh.”

“What?” said Cordelia. “Something wrong?”

“No, not really. It's just … we have a form that we generally use. These are my dad's personal notes. Guess that, since it was a cremation, he dispensed with the usual protocol. Of course, he was the one who would have written the coroner's report. I don't have that here.”

“Why would he write the coroner's report?” asked Jane.

“My dad was the county coroner from 1990 through 1998. It's an elected office in Wisconsin.”

“Wait a minute,” said Cordelia, raising a finger. “They give the job of county coroner to a funeral director? Isn't that like putting a fox in charge of security at a henhouse?”

“Like I said, it's an elected position. The guy who's the current coroner is a schoolteacher. When I was a kid, the coroner was a plumber. I remember he was bald. Looked like Mr. Clean.”

“You don't need some sort of training?”

“I believe some requirements are being considered by the state legislature,” said Steven, “but I doubt it will be much.”

“Crazy,” said Cordelia, lifting her sack purse into her lap. “This calls for stiff piece of bubble gum.” She removed a pack and popped a lump into her mouth.

Steven smiled at her. “You're going to have to tell me all about your new theater.”

“I'll do better than that. If you give me your address, I'll send you comps to the first production.”

His smile grew even brighter. “This is so cool.” Returning to the page, he continued reading.

Cordelia winked at Jane.

“Okay, here's what happened. Walt Olsen—he was the chief of police in New Dresden for many years—called Dad and asked him to come over to Kevin's place.”

“Is Walt still alive?”

“Last I heard, he was in a nursing home. Not sure where. His daughter would know. Her married name's Bauer, but I think she went back to her maiden name when she got divorced a few years ago. Katie Olsen. She lives in New Dresden.”

“Is Walt another member of your family?” asked Jane.

“No. No relation. Anyway, Dad ruled the death accidental. Looks like Delia fell from the deck of her house. Cause of death was exposure. Boy, that's a sad business. The body was removed from Gauthier Ravine and brought here. No viewing. Cremation was ordered. The cremains were returned on December 22, 1995. No notation about selling a burial urn. That's usually part of the service we provide, but I would assume they probably had a family heirloom they wanted to use.” He looked up. “So, that's what I can tell you.”

“This is much appreciated,” said Jane.

“It's probably none of my business, but I have to ask: Why are you so interested in Delia Adler's death?”

Before Jane could answer, another ginger-haired man, this one older, heavier, and less Kennedy-esque, popped his head into the room.

“Oh, Todd,” said Steven, closing the file folder and folding his hands on top of it. “I didn't think you were coming in today.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” said Todd, using the same fakey soft tone Steven had when they'd first walked in. “I need to talk to you when you get a second.”

“We were just leaving,” said Jane.

“You were?” said Steven. “I thought we could talk a while longer.”

“Don't worry,” said Cordelia, tossing her gum wrapper in the garbage can next to the desk. “I'll send those comps here. Maybe we can have lunch when you come to Minneapolis next spring.”

“Really? I would absolutely adore that.”

Jane shook his hand. “Again, many thanks.” She waited for Cordelia to move in front of her, then nodded to Todd on her way out.

*   *   *

On their way back to the Honda, Cordelia asked, “Do you think Steven thought he'd get in trouble with his brother for giving us that information?”

“He sure covered up that file fast,” said Jane. She opened the doors with the remote. “Which works in our favor. The fewer people who know we're looking into this, the better.”

They followed traffic to the main drag—Elm Street. “There's a restaurant,” said Jane. “The Corner Cafe.”

“An oasis,” said Cordelia, clutching her sweater like the ingenue in a silent film.

“Probably won't give us ptomaine poisoning.”

“You have such faith in the restaurant profession.”

“I'm a realist.”

“You're also in a good mood.”

“When I'm getting somewhere on a case—and when I know I get to sleep in my own bed tonight—I sure am.”

“Such simple needs you have. Simple Jane. Simple, basic, reliable Jane.”

“Aren't you afraid you'll turn my head with such magnificent praise?”

Lowering her sunglass, Cordelia shot her a half-lidded look. “Buy me breakfast and a vat of life-sustaining coffee, and I'll come up with some better adjectives.”

 

16

“Hasn't anyone ever heard of cell phones in this town?” demanded Cordelia, tapping frantically on her iPhone's keypad. “I had service when we were in Union. A bunch of texts downloaded, but now that we're back, nothing. And I've got a stage manager at the theater who's freaking out. If I don't talk him down off the ledge in the next few minutes, I'm afraid he's going to jump.”

“I'll take you back to the motel,” said Jane. “You can use the landline. You can also pack up for both of us. Just to be on the safe side, why don't you ask at the motel office for a late checkout.”