The Hearse You Came in On (43 page)

“When?”

“Not tonight, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You got some sort of table, Mr. Sewell?” the older cop asked. “And a chair?”

I fetched a card table from upstairs and set it up for him. I rolled in my own chair from my office. Command post. The skinny cop pulled the blanket back down so that the waitress’s face was showing, then he had everyone line up and walk slowly past her to take a good hard look at her before then stepping over to the card table to be questioned by his partner. The dead doctor’s family was still upstairs with Billie. I decided to wait until all of the guests had been interviewed and allowed to leave—out the side door to avoid further “breaching” of the so-called crime scene—before letting the police know about the others. The two cops were as unhappy with this information as they had been with the body’s being moved.

“What are they doing upstairs?” the gruff cop demanded.

I indicated the parlor. “That’s their loved one in there. It’s been upsetting enough for them even before the arrival of our mystery guest. I was giving them a little peace.”

“We have to talk to them too.”

“Of course you do.”

The gruff cop glared at me. Fetch.

The rest of the investigating unit was arriving, everybody grumbling the same thing about the body having been moved. The person with the yellow crime-scene tape wasn’t sure if she should even bother. The photographer took a few pictures of the sidewalk and the front steps then came inside and snapped off a dozen portraits of the waitress. The medical examiner arrived, and after some poking and prodding, announced that the waitress had been dead
between two to five hours. “Fresh kill” was how he put it.

I went up to Billie’s living room to fetch the dead doctor’s family. I led them back downstairs where they each took a turn looking down at the face of the dead woman. No one recognized her.

“Her name is Helen,” the skinny cop said. “Does the name Helen mean anything to anyone?”

“Her face launched a thousand ships,” the widow said wearily, then turned and went into the parlor to be with her husband. She was joined by her brother-in-law. The daughter detached herself from her husband’s arm and stepped over to me. Her eyes were puffy from crying. Even so, I could tell that she had her father’s eyes. Unfortunately she had his jaw too. And perhaps even at one point the nose, though I suspected she had had this doctored some time back. The woman was handsome at best. She wore her straw-colored hair coifed into a perfect bowl. Good skin. Pearl earrings and matching necklace. A well-maintained Guilford housewife. She took my hand—my fingers really—and pinched lightly.

“Thank you for all you’ve done, Mr. Sewell,” she said in a voice just barely above a whisper. She withdrew her fingers and joined the others in the parlor.

A short, stocky man with yellow hair and the demeanor of a congenial bulldog was coming through the front door. He was wearing a Humphrey Bogart trench coat and a Humphrey Bogart sneer. He stepped directly over to the body. I met him there.

“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

Detective John Kruk let out a soft grunt, from which
I was able to extract the words, “You again.” He was looking down at the woman on the couch.

“Did you know her?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“Any idea why she was left here?”

“Well, we’re a funeral home. She’s dead. Maybe someone was tossing us a bone?”

Detective Kruk looked up at me. “You still a smart aleck, Mr. Sewell?”

“One can never really climb all the way out of the gene pool, Detective.”

He grunted again and returned his gaze to the dead waitress. He got down on one knee—a short trip—and pulled the blanket back further, down to the woman’s waist. Without taking his eyes off her, he asked me a series of questions.

“Was she on her front or her back when you found her?”

“Her side, actually.”

“Left? Right?”

“Right.”

“Which way was she facing?”

“Sideways, I guess. Is that what you mean?”

“When you opened the door. Head to the left? The right? Facing the door? What?”

“I see. Um… her head was to my left. Her right. That would be, facing south.”

“Feet?”

“Excuse me?”

“Her feet. Her legs. Was she in a fetal position or was she stretched out?”

“Like did someone dump her off or lay her down gently?”

“You can’t know that. You weren’t present. I’m asking what you observed.”

Kruk’s warm and fuzzy style was all coming back to me now. He had moved the blanket all the way down to her feet and was looking closely at her legs. The cad.

“I’d say somewhere in between fetal and laid out,” I said.

Kruk got back to his feet. Aunt Billie had just come into the hallway. A smile blossomed on her face as she came forward.

“It’s Sergeant Kruk, isn’t it? Why hello.”

“Lieutenant. Hello, Mrs. Sewell.”

“We meet again. Isn’t it terrible? The poor girl. Can I offer you anything to drink, Detective?”

“No. Thank you.” Kruk told us that he and his gang would be there another hour or so. “You might as well go on about your business,” he said. I stepped over to say my good-byes to the dead doctor’s family, who were finally leaving. They all looked terrible. The widow summed it up.

“It’s a rotten night all around.”

The dead doctor’s brother gave me a lousy handshake as they were leaving. He took one final glance back toward the coffin, then joined his family at the door. They left, huddled together like a family of turtles. I watched them disappear into the snow. Forty minutes later the dead waitress was hoisted onto a gurney and taken away. She was being referred to now as “Jane Doe,” though it seemed to me that “Helen Doe” would have been—technically—closer to the truth. Kruk’s
minions began drifting away. I went into the parlor and battened down the hatches on the doctor’s coffin. That’s when I discovered what the son had been doing when he had reached into the coffin. There on the dead man’s chest was a silver dollar. One of the old ones. This one was dated 1902. I had no idea of the significance, but I’m accustomed to people dumping various memorabilia into their loved one’s coffins at the last minute. My favorite was a small alarm clock, set to go off every day at four in the morning. Billie and I debated all through breakfast the morning of the funeral whether or not to turn off the alarm. In the end, we left it.

I replaced the silver dollar on the doctor’s chest and closed the lid of the coffin, then I shut off the lights and left the doctor to his last night on Earth. Billie was looking tired and I sent her off to bed. “I’ll lock up,” I told her. Which I did. Then I put on my coat and headed back down the dark street to my place. The wetness had finally gone out of the snowfall. It was down to wind-whipped flurries, silver brush strokes in the gusty night air. And
cold. Goddamn
it was cold.

There was a leggy blond woman in my bed when I climbed the stairs to my place. She had a big, sad, bruised look on her face.

“I hate my goddamn job,” she pouted.

I shrugged, getting out of my clothes as quickly as possible. “Oh you know, you win some, you lose some.”

I slid between the sheets. The warmth coming off her body was a rapture. She turned to me.

“I didn’t just ‘lose some,’ Hitch. I called for light fucking flurries and lows in the upper twenties. Have
you seen it out there? It’s a goddamn disaster. I fucking stink.”

I love a woman who swears like a sailor. Bonnie Nash rolled into my arms. Fronts collided. High pressure dominated. We were in for a wild one.

I
don’t know if some of the people whose names follow qualify as immensely patient, bullheaded or delusional for the certainty they had that this book would eventually be written and published. All I can say is that it feels great to prove them right (such a smart bunch), and I want to thank them for the numerous enthusiasms and encouragements that they have tossed at me over the years: Jim McGreevey; Ted Manekin & Lisa Hayes; Aimee-Sawyer Philpott, who would be singing these acknowledgments if this were a movie and not a book; Kate (Crazy Woman) Horsley, who can’t spell my name but who otherwise writes cyclones; Michele Kragalott, Kathleen Kelly, Joanne Bennett (thanks for buying hardback, Jo), Rick Pantaleoni, Evelyn Rossetti, Clay Squire, Stephen Dixon, Gram Slaton, Paul Bennett, Caroline Davis Chapin, Steve Blizzard, Rick & Helen Feete; Judy Scheel and Howard Kogan, for helping me locate my missing pen; Annette Kramer, Melissa Proctor Carroll, Peter Close, Linda Russell Selway, Rennie Higson, Espen & Patty Brooks; Francine Murray, G2 Toth, Lynn Holst, Regina Porter, Kate Clark, Monica Goldstein; forty-four cheers and counting to my ever-loving Ma and her ever-loving Powell; to Idaho’s finest, Jim Cockey, and
his finest, Bernie Cockey; Charlie Cockey of San Francisco’s Fantasy, Etc. (official nepotistic plug); Chris & Alice Cockey, John, Gloria, Suzie and Ellie Merry-man; Mama Grace and all them Hartmans; thanks to Jennifer Barth, my incisive and insightful word surgeon at Hyperion; special thanks to Marie Edwards, who stood at the rail cheering this one on; to literary midwife extraordinaire, Alice Peck (thank you, Alice); to my agent, the cool, calm killer herself, Victoria Sanders; and finally, last but first, the one and ornery Wendy Barrie-Wilson, who has enough faith, heart and tenacious belief within her to start a whole new religion … thank you, masked man.

“If you’ve never held your breath and laughed at the same time, get ready.
The Hearse You Came In On
takes you on a fun and frantic ride.”

—Janet Evanovich, author of
High Five

“In
The Hearse You Came In On,
author Tim Cockey affectionately captures the cockeyed grace of Baltimore with a funny and perceptive screwball mystery. A strong and welcome debut, as satisfying as a bushel of crabs and a cold six of Natty Boh.”

—George Pelecanos, author of
Shame the Devil

“The Hearse You Came In On
is a witty, punchy, snappy, well-written and dang funny debut. Take a ride in Tim Cockey’s, er, uh, hearse. You’ll be glad you did.”

—Harlan Coben, author of
The Final Detail

“A delightful first novel. Cockey possesses a terrific comic touch, and his spot-on evocation of working-class Baltimore calls to mind a Barry Levinson film. Elmore Leonard fans are sure to like Cockey’s dry wit.”

—
Booklist

“If you like mysteries with an attitude, heroes with a shtick, and a good-hearted adventure … then
Hearse
is a hit. Many surprises, a good amount of fun and a mystery that’s worth its weight in bodies.”

—Houston Chronicle

“Great fun. A jaunty first novel (and Cockey’s) attraction for the eccentric people and places of Baltimore is palpable.”

—Seattle Times / Post Intelligencer

“Read this book, crossing your fingers that it will be only the beginning of a long and beautiful relationship.”

—San Jose Mercury News

“A promising … debut. Shrewdly observed.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

“Refreshingly different.”

—
Los Angeles Times

“Engaging.”

—
Baltimore Sun

“What fun!
The Hearse You Came In On
is one of the best mystery debuts in a long, long time. Cockey’s story is strong, but what makes the book exceptional are his characters and setting. Let’s hope we don’t wait long for a sequel.”

—Kansas City Star

“With this novel, Tim Cockey and Hitch, mortician extraordinaire, make a welcome entrance.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Entertaining … amusing … fun.”

—Jonathan Yardley,
Washington Post

During the writing of this book, the author painstakingly deleted from his memory all details of any person he has ever seen or met, anywhere, anytime. Any resemblance to any persons walking the earth, not walking the earth, or lying really, really still is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2000, 2001 Tim Cockey

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EPub Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 978-1-401-39698-5

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