“Speaking of your note, ma’am, just how often did you visit your son’s apartment?”
“Irregularly. Perhaps once every other week. There wasn’t much to do, though. Henry kept everything in pretty good order. Used to let the refrigerator get kind of empty. I’d bring him milk. He’d never get it on his own. Then he wouldn’t eat a nourishing breakfast with cereal. I’d call first, though.”
“Ma’am?”
“Never knew when he’d have. . company over. Ran into a hussy there once. Wasn’t wearing a stitch. And not a bit ashamed or embarrassed about it. I certainly was. Didn’t want that to happen again. So, I’d always call first.”
“But you had a key? Your son gave you a key?”
“Of course. How else would I get in when he wasn’t there?”
Ewing looked at Harris. Once again communicating wordlessly, Harris indicated they should wrap up this interview.
“One final question, ma’am. Can you tell us what you did yesterday?”
Mrs. Hunsinger exhibited a small, self-conscious smile. “It’s one of the things that goes when you get older. Usually I can remember things that happened ages ago clear as a bell. But the closer we get to the present moment, the harder it is. . Mary Frances. . Mary Frances!”
Mrs. Quinn had dozed off. Her head drooped down near her bosom. The officers had quite forgotten she was there. When Mrs. Hunsinger called her name, it startled everyone, including Mrs. Quinn.
“Oh! Oh. . yes. . what is it?”
“These gentlemen want to know what we did yesterday.”
“Yesterday. Yes. .” Mrs. Quinn was slowly coming out of her nap. “Well, let’s see. We got up about eight as usual and got over to church for nine o’clock Mass. We never eat before we go to communion. Everybody else does now. That doesn’t show the proper reverence for our Eucharistic Lord. So we don’t have breakfast until after Mass.”
Harris began to think that it would take Mrs. Quinn all of today to recount yesterday.
“Then, after the nine o’clock Mass, we stayed for the ten o’clock. We always hear two Masses at least. One in thanksgiving for the other. Then we came home. It was harder than usual getting back across Junction. Do you remember, Grace? The traffic was really unusually heavy yesterday.”
Mrs. Hunsinger nodded agreement.
“Then we had breakfast. Just cereal and coffee. We eat lightly, you know. It’s better for you when you get older.”
“Ma’am,” Ewing interrupted, “just touch on the high spots. I mean, we don’t need to know everything.”
“Oh, I thought you wanted to know what we did yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ewing grew resigned; there was nothing he could do about her meandering in any case.
“Then we read the papers. The Free Press didn’t get here until late. Now that was strange because the Free Press is the morning paper and the News is the afternoon paper. But yesterday the News got here before the Free Press.”
Harris sighed audibly. Mrs. Quinn remained undeterred.
“Then there was the pregame show. We never watch television on Sunday unless Henry’s team is playing. And with that man who talks all the time, we wouldn’t watch it at all if it were not for Henry. Then the game started and we watched. Who won the game, Grace?”
“I think the other team.”
“Whatever. Then we turned off television and listened to records. It was the Beethoven symphonies, wasn’t it, Grace?”
“Yes. . no; it was Brahms.”
“Yes, that’s right. It was Brahms. And before the Fourth Symphony we had dinner. We made frozen dinner so we didn’t have to cook. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to watch the game. You had the roast beef dinner and I had chicken. . isn’t that right?”
Mrs. Hunsinger nodded.
“Then, after dinner, we listened to the radio. We always listen to the classical music station, WQRS. . although we can’t stand the modern composers. It’s just noise. Not like Beethoven, Brahms, and Chopin. Then, after that-”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Ewing interrupted, “but that would bring you up to about eight o’clock yesterday evening, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Well, it just so happens that’s all the time we need accounting for.”
“Oh.”
“So we’ll be leaving now.”
The two officers rose and started hastily for the door. They were stopped in their tracks by Mrs. Hunsinger’s anguished tone.
“Where’s my son?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Where’s my boy?”
“Mr. Hunsinger? I would guess the medical examiner is finished with h-uh. . I suspect the body has been delivered to the mortician. You do have one, don’t you?”
“Yes. The Hackett Funeral Home across the street on Vernor.”
“Well, then, that’s probably where the b- where your son is now.”
Ewing opened the door and Harris preceded him out.
“Will you be coming to the funeral?” Mrs. Hunsinger asked.
“The funeral?”
“Yes. I suppose it will be on Wednesday. There’s no reason to postpone it. Everyone who might attend is already here in the Detroit area. Will you be coming?”
“We’ll certainly try, ma’am. Depends on what our schedule will be then. And, thank you, ma’am, for your time. And”-his look bore pity-“our condolences, ma’am.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Quinn to Mrs. Hunsinger. “You’ll catch a chill.”
3
Father Koesler arrived at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars at 11:30 a.m., fifteen minutes early.
The habit of being early for appointments had begun, as nearly as he could recall, with his mother insisting that he not keep others waiting. By now, the habit was so ingrained that it was virtually impossible for him to be late. At times, embarrassed at his reputation of being the only person on time for meetings, parties, whatever, he would plan elaborately to arrive exactly on time. But on those occasions, something unforeseen, such as a rapid traffic flow, would occur and he would find himself ringing the doorbell just a few minutes early.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the Cellars’ quiet lighting. When he could see, he found himself gazing into the smiling face of Joseph Beyer, proprietor and, by choice, maitre d’ of the Wine Cellars.
“I’ve been wondering about you, Father,” Beyer greeted Koesler. “You’ve been away entirely too long. Been keeping out of mischief?”
Koesler smiled. Beyer was the only one of Detroit’s famous restauranteurs Koesler not only knew personally but on a first-name basis. They had met by accident socially and had liked each other from the outset. It helped that each of them liked most people they met.
“Trying my best, Joe,” said Koesler. “I’d tell you more, but you’re not my regular confessor.”
“So what brings you downtown, Father?”
“I’m supposed to meet Inspector Koznicki for lunch. But I’m early.”
“So what else is new?”
Until now, Koesler had not known that his reputation had reached to Joe Beyer.
“In this case, my time of arrival was on purpose. Lunchtime here is the survival of the earliest.” He glanced around the nearly empty room, which would soon be filled to overflowing, “So, got a table?”
“For you, yes. But we don’t serve Polish people.”
The knack of a dry sense of humor is the ability to keep a straight face while saying something utterly ridiculous. Joe Beyer had the knack.
“I’m glad that you, not I, will be the one to tell that to Walter Koznicki.”
Beyer chuckled as he led Koesler to a corner table where things would be somewhat quieter.
“Molly here today?” Koesler’s reference was to Mrs. Beyer.
“Uh-huh. Working on the books. She’s the smart one.” Beyer supervised the seating of Koesler. “Get you something from the bar?”