The cool alto greeted me patronizingly. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to Mr. Humboldt about seeing you, Ms. Warshawski. I’ll make sure that he gets the message, but he doesn’t come in every day anymore.”
“Yeah, I don’t suppose you call him at home for consultations, either. In case you do, you might add to my other message that I saw Dr. Chigwell last night.”
She finished the conversation with a condescending speed that left me shouting into a dead phone. I finished dressing as easily as I could with my hands shaking and headed south once more.
Mount of Olives Methodist dated to the turn of the century, its high-backed dark pews and giant rose window evoking a time when it was filled with women in long dresses and children in high-buttoned shoes. Today’s congregation couldn’t afford to keep up the stained-glass windows showing Jesus in Calvary. Places where Jesus’s brooding ascetic face had been broken were filled in with wired burglar glass, making him look like a sufferer from an acute skin disease.
While Nancy’s four brothers served as ushers their children sat in the front pews, shoving and poking at each other despite the near presence of their aunt’s draped casket. Their harshly whispered insults could be heard throughout the nave until drowned by some melancholy bars from the organ.
I went up to the front to let Mrs. Cleghorn know I was there. She smiled at me with tremulous warmth.
“Come over to the house after the service,” she whispered. “We’ll have coffee and a chance to talk.”
She invited me to sit with her, glancing distastefully at her grandchildren. I disengaged myself gently-I didn’t want to be a buffer between her and the wrestling monsters. Besides, I wanted to go to the back so I could see who showed up-it’s a cliché, but murderers often can’t resist going to their victims’ funerals. Maybe part of a primitive superstition, trying to make sure the person is really dead, that she gets truly buried so her ghost doesn’t walk.
After I’d settled myself near the entrance Diane Logan swept in, resplendent in her silver fox. She brushed my cheek and squeezed my hand before moving up the aisle.
“Who was that?” a voice muttered in my ear.
I gave a start and turned around. It was Sergeant McGonnigal, trying to look mournful in a dark suit. So the police were also hopeful.
“She used to play basketball with Nancy and me; she owns a Gold Coast PR firm nowadays,” I muttered back. “I don’t think she slugged Nancy-she could outplay her twenty years ago. Today, too, come to think of it. I don’t know everyone’s name-tell me which one the killer is.”
He smiled a little. “When I saw you sitting here I thought my worries were over-little Polish detective is going to nab the murderer in front of the altar.”
“Methodist church,” I muttered. “I don’t think they call it an altar.”
Caroline clattered in with the group of people I’d seen in the SCRAP office with her. They had the preternatural earnestness of those who don’t often find themselves at solemn functions. Caroline’s copper curls were brushed into a semblance of tidiness. She wore a black suit designed for a much taller woman-the bunched clumps of material at the bottom showed where she’d hemmed it with her usual impatient inefficiency. If she saw me, she gave no sign, moving with the SCRAP contingent to a pew about halfway up the aisle.
Behind them came a handful of older women, perhaps Mrs. Cleghorn’s pals at the local branch of the library. When they’d passed I saw a thin young man standing in their wake. The dim light picked out his angular silhouette. He looked around uncertainly, saw me staring at him, and looked away.
The self-deprecating embarrassment with which he turned his head brought back to me who he was: young Art Jurshak. He’d made just such an effacing move in talking to the old ward heelers at his father’s office.
In the half-light from the windows I couldn’t make out his beautifully chiseled features. He sidled into a seat toward the back.
McGonnigal tapped me on the shoulder. “Who’s that alfalfa sprout?” he growled.
I smiled seraphically and put a finger to my lips-the organ had begun to play loudly, signaling the arrival of the minister. We went through “Abide with Me” at such a slow pace that I kept bracing myself for each succeeding chord.
The minister was a short, plump man whose remaining black hair was combed in two neat rows on either side of a wrinkled dome. He looked like the kind of TV preacher who makes your stomach turn, but as he spoke I realized I’d made the dread mistake of judging by appearances. He clearly had known Nancy well and spoke of her with eloquent forcefulness. I felt my throat tighten again and leaned back in the pew to inspect the ceiling beams. The wood had been painted in the blue and orange stencils popular in Victorian churches. By focusing on the intricate lacy patterns I was able to relax enough to join in the final hymn.
I kept glancing at young Art. He spent the service perched on the edge of his pew, gripping the back of the bench in front of him. When the last chords of “In Heavenly Love Abiding” had finally been wrenched painfully from the organ, he slid out of his seat and headed for the exit.
I caught up with him on the porch, where he was moving nervously from foot to foot, unable to free himself from a drunk panhandler. When I touched Art’s arm he jumped.
“I didn’t know you and Nancy were friends,” I said. “She never mentioned you to me.”
He mumbled something that sounded like “knew her slightly.”
“I’m V. I. Warshawski. Nancy and I played high school and college basketball together. I saw you at the Tenth Ward office last week. You’re Art Jurshak’s son, aren’t you?”
At that his chiseled-marble face turned even whiter; I was afraid he might faint. Even though he was a slender young man, I wasn’t sure I could break his fall.
The drunk, who’d been listening interestedly, sidled closer. “Your friend looks pretty sick, lady. How about fifty cents for coffee-cup for him, cup for me.”
I turned my back on him firmly and took Art’s elbow. “I’m a private detective and I’m trying to look into Nancy’s death. If you were friends with her, I’d like to talk to you. About her connections with your father’s office.”
He shook his head dumbly, his blue eyes dark with fear. After a long internal debate he seemed to be on the brink of forcing himself to speak. Unfortunately as he opened his mouth the other mourners began emerging from the church. As soon as people started passing us Art wrenched himself from my grip and bolted down the street.
I tried to follow, but tripped over the drunk. I cursed him roundly as I pulled myself back to my feet. He was reviling me in return, but broke off suddenly as McGonnigal appeared-years of living around the police gave him a sixth sense about them even in plainclothes.
“What’s the redhead so scared of, Warshawski?” the sergeant demanded, ignoring the panhandler. We watched Art get into his car, a late-model Chrysler parked at the end of the street, and tear off.
“I have that effect on men,” I said shortly. “Drives them mad. You find your murderer?”
“I don’t know. Your male model here was the only person acting suspiciously. Why don’t you show what a helpful citizen you are and give me his name?”
I turned to face him. “It’s no secret-the name is real well known down in these parts. Art Jurshak.”
McGonnigal’s lips tightened. “Just because Mallory’s my boss doesn’t mean you have to jerk me around the way you do him. Tell me the kid’s name.”