“If they’re found.”
“If they’re found,” she nodded. “I’m… I’m so embarrassed by this poor excuse for a service. I called Edward last night, and he said he’d made the arrangements, and when I got here this morning-flew in from Philadelphia; that’s where we live, where my husband and my two boys and I live-when I got here this morning, this shabby little graveside affair is all Edward had arranged. He was… excuse me for being frank, but… he was just too damn cheap to arrange anything better.”
“Well,” I said, “it won’t matter to your mother. The funeral racket is pretty lousy anyway. I don’t blame anybody for resisting that stupid an expense.”
She said, “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but it won’t do any good. I was raised traditionally, raised to believe in ceremony and respect, and so was Edward. Mother would have wanted a nice service, a church service. She even had a program written out for the service as she wanted it: the songs she wanted sung, a eulogy for old Clancy Rogers to read, the retired Methodist minister who married Sam and me….” Something caught in her throat; her face reddened. She dug into her purse, found a Kleenex, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose.
“I… I want to thank you for being nice to Mother. She wrote about you in her last letter. About what a nice young man you were, and how she enjoyed talking to you. And… and let me say that I think it was very sweet of you to come today.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s a lot. You care more about her death than that fat, spoiled son of hers.” Her face reddened again, this time with rage. “I… I want to apologize for what… what Edward did yesterday. He told me about it-I don’t know what the real story is; probably even more embarrassing than the one Edward told me. He told me he confronted you with this idea of his that you… stole….” She stopped, let out a feeble smile, and shook her head.
“Listen,” I said, “it’s okay. He’s bound to be upset.”
“Upset! He’s a damn fool. Excuse my frankness. I talked to Sheriff Brennan about you, and he told me how utterly ridiculous Edward’s suspicions are, and he told me how extremely hurt you were by my mother’s death.” She managed another, less feeble smile. “And not just the physical injury those toughs gave you-not just the physical abuse, and the abuse my brother gave you yesterday. But that you were moved by her death. That you cared. Thank you for that, Mr. Mallory. And I’ll do my best to see my brother doesn’t interfere with your life again.”
I smiled back at her. “You know something, Mrs. Bloom?”
“What?”
“You remind me of your mother. And that’s the nicest compliment I can think of to pay you.”
Her eyes clouded up, but she was still smiling. Quickly, she kissed my cheek, then turned and walked over and joined her brother.
I headed back to the grassy parking area inside the cemetery gate, trying not to trip over too many of the stone reminders of the people underfoot. Only one person of those who had attended the service was still around: Sheriff Brennan. He had stood directly across the grave from me during the would-be preacher’s slipshod hocus-pocus, and now he was leaning against his official car (or “unit,” as we ex-cops call it), and he seemed to be waiting to talk to me.
“Howdy, Brennan.”
“Mallory,” he nodded.
“What were you doing here today?”
“Same thing as you.”
“Oh?”
“Watching faces. Checking reactions out.”
I grinned. “Come up with any conclusions?”
“Nope. An opinion, though.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Edward Jonsen is a horse’s ass.”
“Agreed. But his sister is a fine lady.”
“Agreed. A fine lady. Spoke to her this morning.”
“So I gathered. Sounds like you even said some nice things about me. What’s the matter, Brennan? You slipping?”
“Maybe. Just pay attention to what I have to say next.”
“Which is?”
“Nothing you haven’t heard before. Just that I don’t want you nosing into this.”
“I haven’t been.” And that was true, really. Hadn’t done anything much yet. Oh, I’d been beat up twice and threatened with guns and knives. But nothing active.
“What were you doing here, then, Mallory?”
“We already went over that.”
“That’s right. And you admitted you were here to study the people, see their reactions, which means you’re nosing around.”
“Did I admit that?”
“I believe so.”
“I don’t remember admitting that. Brennan?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you cracked the case yet?”
“Sure. That’s why I’m standing here telling you to lay off it.”
“Well what have you come up with?”
“The only thing I got to tell you is this: stay home like a good boy. Okay?”
“Oh, sure. So what have you come up with so far?”
Brennan sighed. “Not much, to be truthful. I thought we had something; we tied three of the break-ins to a travel agency. I mean, three of the families were on vacation when their homes were broke into, and all three had the same travel agency.”
“But then Port City only has one travel agency.”
“Right. So I end up with a handful of air. If the travel agency is the source of their information, why would it turn up only three times?”
“Maybe they’ve got more than one source.”
“Maybe. If they were pros, I’d think so. But these people are amateurs-look at that poor old lady dying. An accident. The kind a pro would avoid.” He grunted. “Like I said, any time you want to swap theories, look me up. But otherwise, keep your damn nose out. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He glanced out across the cemetery toward where Mrs. Jonsen was resting. His son John was buried here, too. “Hell of a thing,” he said. His jaw got firm, and he climbed in his car and pulled away.
I stood and thought for five minutes or so, then did the same.
17
After the nine-thirty service for Mrs. Jonsen, I headed straight back to Debbie’s and got there by ten-thirty for a late breakfast. Debbie hadn’t wanted me to leave, still fearing what Pat might pull, and on my return I found that she had surrounded herself with company (or protection); daughter Cindy was back from her overnight stay with Debbie’s mother, and a friend of Debbie’s was there, too: a busty frosted blonde of about thirty in a sheer white blouse and dark blue ski pants. She was a good-looking woman, but wore rather severe makeup that gave her a hard look. Teeth stained from tobacco further took the edge off her mostly attractive appearance. Her name was Sarah Petersen, and she and her husband “ran a business.” She didn’t have much to say to me beyond that.
Something was in the air, and I couldn’t tell what. Tension of some sort. Sarah had a sour expression, and even the cute Cindy, looking like Debbie must’ve at eleven, seemed ill at ease. I began to sense I’d come in on the middle of something. An argument, probably.
Everybody else had already eaten their breakfast, but Debbie had kept some rolls warming in the oven for me and proceeded to scramble a couple eggs for me while I sat at the table and made a few vain attempts to engage Sarah in conversation. She wasn’t buying. Like Debbie, Sarah wasn’t exactly a chatterbox, but it was more than that, and I began to feel certain both women were mutually ticked off. As Debbie handed me the plate of scrambled eggs and breakfast fast rolls, Sarah rose suddenly and stalked out of the apartment.
“What’s with her?” I asked Debbie.
“Cindy,” Debbie said, “go to the living room, will you? Go in the living room and read your book.”
“Can I watch TV instead, Mommy?” The little girl’s eyes were as blue and saucerlike as her mother’s. She was a tiny thing and looked good in the lacy pink little dress she was wearing.