The Hearse You Came in On (11 page)

“Champagne?” I asked.

“Ginger ale.”

She caught me not asking the question that was floating before us. She clinked her glass to mine. “It’s one of my rules. No drinking in public places.”

“That would make you the exact opposite of a social drinker,” I observed.

She took a sip of her ginger ale, keeping her eyes on me. “That would be absolutely correct.” The message was clearer than her ginger ale. Subject closed.

We mingled. Kate didn’t really seem to know too many of the guests either, except for a few of her colleagues. She caught a couple of “Welcome backs” from her brethren. “I’ve been on a leave of absence,” she explained. She didn’t elaborate. I looked up at one point and spotted Detective Kruk, standing near one of the stacks. He was gazing down at the gathering, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. From where I stood it looked as if he had maybe ironed his wrinkles. But apparently there was nothing to be done about that hair. He might have been looking down at Kate and me. I couldn’t tell.

Kate was speaking.

“Did Joel explain to you why I was so friendly to him just now?”

“What? Oh. Um… no. Well. He told me you wouldn’t cooperate with the Stuart for Governor campaign.”

We had wandered over by the quartet. I had no idea in hell what they were playing. I just knew that I couldn’t tap my toe to it.

“He told you
that?”

“Yes. Why? Isn’t it true?”

“Sure, it’s true. But that’s not why we don’t get
along.” She took a sip of her ginger ale. “Joel Hutchinson is jealous, pure and simple. Alan … Alan took me under his wing, I guess you could say. The phrase you hear is, ‘I came up fast.’ It’s a long story. Bottom line is your college buddy is a control freak. He wants Alan all to himself and for some reason I threaten him.”

She took another sip. “Plus he made a pass at me and I told him to buzz off.”

“Hutch made a pass at you?”

“Several. Men don’t always bounce back so well after they’ve gotten rejected. Have you noticed?”

“Who says I’ve ever been rejected?”

“Who says I was saying you had? I only asked if you had noticed.”

She gave me one of those looks. Challenging. At least that’s what the bourbon in me was saying. But maybe it wasn’t a challenging look at all. Maybe, I thought, it’s a warning. Maybe she was warning me not to make a pass at her. What a shame. The prospect of completing a successful pass with this off-duty detective was striking me as a fantastic idea. Of course, I didn’t even know if she was married, or maybe had a squeeze of her own already. No rings—I had checked earlier—but these days that doesn’t always tell the whole story. Anyway, I passed on the pass.

“So, you’re telling me that Hutch the family man is a farce.”

“Ninety percent of family men are farces,” Kate said flatly. “Men are genetically programmed to stray. And to cheat. And to lie. And to—”

“Whoa, whoa, this is my fellow ape you’re smearing here. I’m bound by tribal law to defend my own.”

“I wouldn’t waste your breath.”

“Damn it, Detective, you’re not going to turn out to be one of those beautiful man-hating types, are you? It’s gals like you who really ruin the party.”

“No. It’s men like Joel Hutchinson who ruin the party. I think the first deadly sin ought to be arrogance. You can trace all the others back to that.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Are you a beautiful man-hater?”

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. But at the same time, crimson rose to her cheeks.

“Are you making a pass at me?”

“I’m just a horny arrogant ape. Programmed to lie, cheat, etc., etc.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And you didn’t answer mine.”

“It’s a draw.”

We clinked glasses. God, this was all getting too cute.

Two surprises awaited me at the party. Surprise number one appeared some half hour or so after this little buzza-buzza about the transgressions and transparencies of all men. I was three bourbons in and only a few frilly snacks down, so the evening had begun to take on a warm fuzzy glow. The women were all growing prettier and the men were all becoming much less handsome and charming than myself.

In walked a fellow about as handsome and charming as myself. I vaguely recognized him, the way you recognize a celebrity on the street simply as someone familiar, before actually making the ID. This guy was roughly my contemporary, maybe a few years younger. And about fifteen million dollars richer. He was a good-looking Joe with an easy smile. Of course, give
me fifteen million dollars and I’ll bet my smile will be easy too. He was as dashing in his tux as James Bond himself. I muttered to Kate, “Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera.” She gave me a sideways look like I was crazy.

“Who is that?” I asked.

She answered, “Peter Morgan.”

Of course. Peter Morgan. Of the Baltimore County Morgans. The racehorse Morgans. The new opera house Morgans. The railroad money Morgans. This town has Morgans coming out of its ears. Granddaddy Morgan had been the last of the family to have had to actually roll up his sleeves and squeeze money out of sweat. He had made his bundle in the early part of the century working on the railroads all the livelong day, and his success had left most of the subsequent Morgans happily strumming on the old million-dollar banjo ever since. However, I did recall hearing or reading somewhere that this particular Morgan, this dapper devil who had just come into the room, was one of the ones who still kept a hands-on involvement with the family business. While most of us run our little train sets around the Christmas tree, Peter Morgan ran his around the whole country. At least a goodly portion of it. Interstate transport of goods. It can bring in a few extra bucks. All this and good looks too. Gee whiz. Peter Morgan was a pretty high-profile man-about-town. Known to be something of a lady-killer, his privileged arm was custom-built for wrapping around beautiful women.

And a particularly beautiful woman was wrapped around it this evening. Her dress was a form-fitting off-the-shoulder number that hugged her hourglass
figure from her ample breasts to just below the knees, with a side split that offered a generous peekaboo of commendable thigh. The dress was an aquamarine color, with a print that featured large fishes and seahorses randomly aswim. Her hair was up in a bun and there was a silly tiara perched atop it, obviously glass and glue. Long shimmery earrings that must have set the gal back a good five and a half bucks dangled from her ears. And she was barefoot. I heard a guy make a crack about her as she and Peter Morgan swept into the room.

“Looks like Peter’s got himself a free spirit weirdo.”

I jabbed the guy gently in the ribs. “Careful there,” I said. “That’s my free spirit weirdo ex-wife you’re talking about.”

Julia had come to the ball.

The pair created a nice little stir. What percentage of the buzz came from the simple fact of Morgan being present and how much from the barefoot bohemian on his arm was difficult to tell. But the combination was killer. Money and art. There’s something undeniably lusty about it.

Julia was just as surprised to see me there as I was to see her. She gave me the Mae West once-over.

“Nice suit.”

“So this is the man you’ve told me so little about.” She introduced me to Peter Morgan. “She’s been keeping you a secret,” I said to the millionaire.

Julia gave a fake blush. “Well, you know, I don’t like to brag.” She leaned in to me and stage whispered for all to hear, “He’s loaded!”

I shook hands with the loaded man. Solid grip. He
looked me dead in the eye. Seemed friendly enough. I didn’t like him.

“Nice to meet you, Hitchcock.”

“Please,” I vamped, “call me Hitchcock.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “Hitch and I were married briefly,” she offered. “It wreaked havoc on our friendship, so we hurried out of it.” She cocked her head and gave me her Audrey Hepburn smile. Everything but the batting lashes.

“Thank you for sharing that lovely story.” I introduced Julia and Peter Morgan to Kate.

“Like Zabriskie Point,” Peter Morgan observed.

Julia’s eyes flashed. She was clearly having fun. “Oh, are you one of the Death Valley Zabriskies?”

“Kraków,” Kate said in perfect deadpan. “By way of Hampden.” She turned to Morgan. “Blue blood. Blue collar. We’re quite a diverse little crowd, aren’t we?”

Morgan actually blushed at this. I guessed it was a little sore spot, his being filthy rich and socially superior. Who would have guessed?

“Where are your shoes, Julia?” I pointed at her toes. “You have no idea when they last cleaned this floor.”

Morgan answered for her. “They’re out in the car.”

“You should see this car, Hitch,” Julia said. “It’s the size of a small country.” She touched her fingers to her tiara. “You like?”

“Nice. You’ve got a whole Cinderella-at-the-ball motif going on here. Except you’ve lost both your slippers.”

“Funny. Isn’t this a great dress? I found it in that
vintage flophouse on Aliceianna Street and I fell in love with it.”

“I think it’s pretty,” Kate offered. Julia smiled at this.

“Thank you. Yours too.”

Kate shrugged. “Thank you.”

I didn’t want to be left out of this, so I said to Morgan, “Hey, you look swell too.”

Morgan gave me sort of a sideways snicker. He took hold of Julia’s arm.

“It was nice to meet you both,” he said. “We’re going to circulate.”

“Mill,” Julia corrected, mugging a big face. She couldn’t resist a thoroughly silly over-the-shoulder wave as Morgan tugged her away. A seahorse wiggled on my ex-wife’s fanny as she sashayed off. Alan Stuart had spotted them and was making his way over.

“Would you mind if we left now?” Kate said. “I’m looking at those railings up there and beginning to imagine throwing people off of them.” Kate gave me a terse look. “That’s the sign of a girl no longer having a good time, don’t you think?”

As we started for the door, surprise number two made her appearance. She came into the room and made her way directly over to Alan Stuart and was immediately drawn under his arm as he kissed the offered cheek. She was blonde, an extremely pretty blonde woman. Former debutante. Perfect teeth. Perfect poise.

“She looks familiar,” I observed.

“That’s Alan’s wife. She’s another Morgan,” Kate said. “Amanda Morgan. Amanda Morgan Stuart. She’s Peter Morgan’s twin sister.”

“Small world.”

Amanda Stuart was performing with all of the grace and charm to be expected of her in her role as the wanna-be next first lady of the State of Maryland.

“She doesn’t look like her brother,” I remarked. “Except maybe in the teeth.”

“Boy/girl twins aren’t identical.”

“She does look familiar though,” I said for the second time. I was certain now that I had seen her before, but I just couldn’t place it.

“Well, she looks a little like Grace Kelly, doesn’t she? Maybe that’s it.”

Amanda Stuart was laughing at something that her husband had just said. Even across the room I could hear the laugh, like the tinkle of shattering crystal.

That was it exactly. Grace Kelly. Crossing in front of me and disappearing into the Baltimore Country Club’s mansion. A cool sliver of ice on a warm day. One half of a recent doubles pair.

Not the half so recently stabbed to death.

K
ate Zabriskie decided to become a cop on an evening in July when she was eight years old. It was one of Baltimore’s typically miserable Julys, a choking humidity, thick and doughy from the very moment you fall out of bed in the morning until you finally collapse back into it at night.

The houses in Hampden sit pretty close to one another, so it could have been any one of several neighbors who called the police to complain about the racket next door. Len Zabriskie’s naturally short temper was popping off like Chinese firecrackers in the hopeless July heat. Kate would not be able to recall with any true accuracy what flashpoint events of that particular evening set her father off. Len Zabriskie was apparently a simple man, about as complex as a square box. There didn’t require any intricate pathway from cause to effect. Born stupid and raised dull, he maintained a fairly primal approach to life and especially to life’s obstacles and irritations. Translation: He beat the living crap out of his wife and daughter if they so much as sneezed funny.

Kate didn’t entertain me with a wealth of details,
so I won’t either. When the police came into the little house this particular July evening—not their first visit—Kate’s mother was unconscious on the floor, a tiny red river making its way from the nasty cut on her head to a newly forming pool on the carpet. Len Zabriskie was sitting on a chair in the little linoleum kitchen, crying his eyes out and refusing to give up to the police the dark-haired eight-year-old daughter he was bear-hugging so hard she could barely breathe.

“That was his version of being tender,” Kate said ruefully. “Hugging me so tight that he literally cracked one of my ribs. I heard it pop. So did he. It only made him squeeze me tighter.”

Len Zabriskie had no intention of releasing his daughter as he sat there blubbering and babbling. Kate implored him to let her go, and she implored the two police officers to help her. But it was when they grabbed at the big man’s arms that he had crushed his daughter tighter and cracked her tiny rib. So it was a standoff. The older of the two cops went back into the front room to tend to Kate’s mother, and the younger cop pulled up a chair—setting it some five feet away from Len Zabriskie—and began to taunt him. In a calm, steady monotone the young police officer called Len Zabriskie every name in the book, as if he were reading from a list of one thousand insults. He held a steady cadence as he pounded away against the man’s character, race, nationality, sexual proclivities, the whole seven, eight and nine yards. Whether it was in the relentless hammering itself or whether the young man finally hit upon a specific insult that
inflamed Len Zabriskie to the erupting point, Kate honestly doesn’t know. What she does know is that suddenly she was being dumped on the floor and her father was all over the young cop, one hand on his throat, the other slamming into his face. “Run!” the officer managed to gurgle, but Kate had remained right where she had been dropped, transfixed and horrified that the stranger coming in off the street had offered himself up as red meat to her rabid-dog father.