Coming Unclued (18 page)

Yeah, it probably was Douglas. Rose was right. He was just the type. Slipping into my condo, killing Mr. Potter and pinning it on me. It’d be just like him. “How do I catch him?”

“He’ll slip up. They always do.” She tapped her chin. “Plus time of death. That’s important.”

That’s right. Time of death was important. But why exactly?

“Was he killed right away when you got back from that party, or was it closer to when you woke up? That might tell us if it was someone who came home with you, or someone who showed up later.”

Exactly! Rose was brilliant.

From deep in my pocket Andrew’s cell phone rang. It was Julie. “Where are you?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you picking up Diane’s phone?”

“On the toilet,” I said. “I turned on the cell phone in case you called while I was on the toilet.”

“Call me when you finish,” said Julie.

“No. I’m good to talk. How are you progressing? What did the cab companies say? Have you found anything out?”

“I left messages with all of the big ones,” she said. “I said I had a reward for the driver who picked up a passenger from 948 Kingston Rd. in the wee hours of Sunday morning. A reward if he gave me a call.”

“You didn’t say it like that did you?” I asked. “The wee hours of Sunday morning?”

Julie ignored the comment. “I’m on my way to the funeral. Taking the subway. It’s easier to ditch the cops that way. I’ve been researching, looking at Who Dun Its, trying to get my head around all this. Why did he come home with you? That’s the question. You couldn’t have been that drunk. Now we both know you would pass out face down in a pool of your own vomit before you’d bring your skeevey boss home for a quickie. Not to speak ill of the dead.”

She was right. Even when I was young and fun and firm of thighs, I’d never been so drunk that I’d sleep with just anyone. And the late Mr. Potter definitely fell into the category of just anyone.

“And time of death?” I told her. “That is imperative to know.”

“I’m going to ask some questions when I’m at the funeral. Make a real pest of myself. Someone has to know something. Clearly we have to find out why he was at your place and in your bed. And we need to know who knew he was there. And time of death. I’ll call you after the funeral. Stay put. I’m heading downtown. St. James Cathedral.” With that she hung up. The new Julie, detective with a mission.

I tossed the phone back in my pocket. “Who was that?” asked Rose.

“Julie,” I said. “She’s the only one who knows where I am. Well she doesn’t exactly know where I am. She thinks I’m still hiding out in a house on her street. She’s on her way to the funeral.”

“The funeral is today?” said Rose in surprise. “Well doesn’t that just tell you something? The Adulteress can’t get that body in the ground fast enough.”

“Julie is going to see what she can souse out.”

“Good idea,” said Rose. “We’re not going to solve anything sitting around here.” She gave me a good looking over. “The orange hair is kind of a disguise, but it’s not enough. You still look like you. An older, sallower you, but folks will still be able to recognize you. I guess I’ll have to go alone. You might be safe, hide in plain sight and all, but we better not risk it.”

Rose gave a little grunt and hauled herself off the couch, then rolled her eyes and sat back down again. “Whew. Felt a little dizzy there. Low blood pressure.” She propelled herself forward again, picked up her cane and started thumping toward her bedroom. “Where exactly are you going?” I asked.

“I told you. The funeral. Julie’s a nice girl but she doesn’t know anything about solving a murder. You mark my word, the killer’s going to be at that funeral, all satisfied, saying
The Lord’s
Prayer
, thinking he got away with it. Where they having it anyway? Some fancy Forest Hill church?”

“St. James. Downtown.”

“Hmmm,” snorted Rose. “His local church wasn’t good enough for him?”

This was ridiculous. “You’re not going to the funeral Rose. How are you going to get there? And what’s the point?”

“Saving your sorry butt is the point. I have experience. I know what to look for.”

“Reading mysteries is not exactly the same as experience.”

“I am an astute observer of human nature. Not much gets past me.” Rose turned around and gave me a quizzical gaze. “I’m not as spry as I could be. I’m thinking I could fix you up a little. Disguise you, so to speak, and bring you along. You can be my legs. You’re a sturdy thing. With my brain and your brawn we could be quite a team. I’ve got some old wigs from the seventies. We have to cover up that new hair of yours. Makes you stick out too much. A wig and some dark glasses and maybe a nice pantsuit and no one will be the wiser.”

She gave a cheerful little laugh — more of a cackle really — “Oh this is going to be a bit of fun.”

Twenty minutes later there I was, the brawny fugitive heading out the door, wearing a grey wig styled into a limp bouffant, sunglasses with a dark green cat’s eye frame, a pale blue 100% polyester pant suit, and a mink coat that seemed to be molting. “Keep the glasses on,” advised Rose. “Even when we’re in the church. Everyone will think you’re trying to hide your tears.”

“I’m not sure about this mink coat. I don’t wear fur.”

“Oh cry me a river,” said Rose. “That minks been dead for fifty years.”

“And it smells a bit off.”

Rose sniffed the air. “It smells fine. Don’t be such a princess.”

We made our way down to Kingston Rd. and managed to hail a cab almost immediately. “A good omen,” said Rose. “I can feel it.”

I waited on the street, keeping my back to pedestrians on the sidewalk, while Rose loaded herself into the backseat. “Lordy, why do they make cars so low?” she said as she heaved herself down on the seat and I climbed in after her. “I’m going to need a crane to get me out of here.” She tapped the driver on the shoulder. “St. James’s Cathedral on Church St. Church and King. And don’t take Queen. Up Main to Mortimer and then over to Bayview and down.”

The driver checked his mirror with a faint smile and pulled out.

“Sometimes they try to take advantage of women over sixty,” she whispered to me. “Now listen to me. You just keep quiet and let me do the talking. I’ve got this under control.”

I’d never seen Rose so enervated. She and Julie both. My potential incarceration had given them both a new purpose. A certain joie de vivre that had been lacking in their lives. “I’m going to poke around a little,” said Rose. “Ask a few questions. You just stay out of the way; let me take care of business. I’ll do something — I’ll stamp my foot twice if I need you. Otherwise you just loiter on the fringes and keep your ears open.”

“It’s a funeral Rose,” I said. “I’ll be sitting in a pew.”

“Afterwards at the reception. That’s what I’m talking about. At the reception I’m going to ask some questions and I don’t want you drawing attention to yourself. You just stay back and stay focused on my feet.”

I sat back in the seat and stared out the window, watching carefree people ambling along the sidewalk. Rose had her eyes shut and appeared to be having a nap. She wasn’t. Without opening her eyes she tapped me on the leg and said, “One stomp means I might be on to something. Two stomps means I need you, drop everything and hightail it over to me. Three stomps means cops — get the hell out of there. Got it?”

My safety hinged on a seventy-four year old woman doing her best Michael Flatley impression. “I’ll be doing some snooping around as well Rose. I’m not going to have time to keep my eyes on your feet.”

“Wonder if they’ll serve alcohol at this thing?” mused Rose. “I always enjoy a nice cocktail after a funeral. You’d think with all their money they could cough up for a few bottles of Dubonnet. You never can tell with the rich though. Awful misers some of them.” She opened one of her eyes and peered at me. “That’s how they got so rich. They’re cheap.”

I leaned back in the seat and contemplated my next move. “What if someone recognizes me?” I asked in a low voice. “I don’t look that different.”

Rose peered at me over her glasses. “You look different enough. No one’s going to be looking at you anyway. Here’s a tip. You’re entering the invisible years so you might as well get used to it. People don’t take any more notice of an old lady than they do a tramp. You see a poor homeless fella lying on a sidewalk grate — how closely do you look at him? You’d never be able to pick him out of a lineup would you? That’s how carefully anyone looks at old ladies like us.”

“I actually look quite good for my age,” I said. “A number of people have mentioned that.” A small number, but still.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Rose. “Sooner or later that age train pulls into the station and your face is on it. And don’t give me that fifty is the new thirty-five garbage. That’s just pathetic and desperate.” We were pulling up to the church. “Twenty-seven dollars,” said Rose. “Highway robbery.”

I handed the driver thirty dollars, which left me with ten dollars and change and helped Rose out of the car. I was going to have to get hold of some more cash. “Don’t act too perky,” said Rose. “Hunch a little, like you didn’t drink enough milk in your childbearing years. And don’t get too close to anyone you know. Just in case.” She poked me with her cane. “Now watch me carefully. I may have to use my cane to signal you.”

“What if you stomp three times and point your cane? Does that have any special meaning?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” said Rose. “Now look around you — don’t look up! Just look around you without looking up and try and see if you can spot the murderer. We’re looking for someone smug like he got away with it and a little nervous because he’s afraid he might get caught. Lord. Look at all these fur coats. You fit right in.”

I brushed my arm and a chunk of matted fur fell softly to the frozen ground. There were hundreds of people milling about. Who would have thought that quiet, mild mannered Mr. Potter knew so many people?

“Rubber neckers,” said Rose, as if reading my mind. “Nothing people enjoy more than a nice, high profile funeral. I’ll bet you half of these people never even met the deceased. Terrible. People will do anything for a little entertainment.”

I looked around me, carefully though, without looking up. How many of these people really cared about Mr. Potter? He didn’t really have much of a personality, and what he did have wasn’t all that delightful — how many real friends could he have had? And there was Sophie, standing on the limestone steps, looking strained, yet lovely, accepting condolences.

“There’s his wife,” I said to Rose. “The pretty blonde on the steps”.

Rose eyed her over. “I know the type.”

“Oh — and there’s Douglas. He just put his hand on her arm.”

“Jackpot,” muttered Rose. “I don’t like the look of him.”

We had to shuffle along with the crowd, me averting my eyes, Rose glaring carefully at everyone to see if they looked like the murdering type. There was a logjam at the bottom of the stairs and we stood there for a moment, waiting our turn. I was pumped with adrenaline, expecting any minute someone was going to grab me with a “Val, what are you doing here?” but Rose was right. No one gave me a second look. Or a first look for that matter.

“Look at Sophie,” a woman standing beside me said to a friend. “She’s looks fantastic. Slimmer than ever. That’s a Prada suit. Last season.”

Rose took my arm and we shuffled up the stairs into the church, caught up in the forward motion of the crowd. I didn’t see anyone from the office, though I was sure they would be there. Even Angie wouldn’t consider skipping Mr. Potter’s funeral. The church was beautiful, a huge, high ceilinged edifice with gorgeous stained glass windows. I felt a poke in my back as Rose prodded me with her cane. “In here,” she said as she pointed to a pew well to the back. “I can get a gander at everyone from here. And hunch, you’re looking too perky.”

Too perky. Not something I’m normally accused of.

“Rose,” said a quivery voice from behind us. Rose and I turned to see a very old, very frail looking woman who still showed the last vestiges of the beauty she must have once been. “Hilda,” said Rose. “What are you doing here? You knew the deceased?”

“I knew him all right,” said the woman. “He stole poor David’s money and I came to spit on his grave.”

“Sit with us Hilda,” said Rose cheerfully. “We’ll catch up. This is my friend Ruth.”

The three of us sidestepped into the pew as the organist played a somber ode to death.

“Why do you want to spit on his grave?” I whispered to Hilda.

“Pardon?” she asked.

“Why do you want to spit on Mr. Potter’s grave?” I repeated, getting as close as I could without actually putting my mouth on her ear.

Hilda looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. “That’s a terrible thing to say. And at a funeral.” She shook her head. “Terrible. What kind of person are you? He was a lovely man. So sad for his wife.” Hilda gave a little sniff, and settled back in her seat.

Rose, who had been listening, leaned over me and tapped Hilda on her leg. “You should try Sudoku Hilda. Helps to keep you sharp. Can’t give up the fight. Where’s my cane?” Rose picked up her cane, reached over Hilda and poked a man in the next row in the back of his head. “Barry? Is that you?”

An elderly man with a face full of deep crevices and a sour, pinched look turned around. “Barry. Lord, I haven’t seen you in probably fifty years. How have you been?” Rose sounded quite cheered to have run into him after all these years. Barry, however, if indeed it was Barry, was less thrilled, as he simply pursed his lips and turned back.

Rose leaned into me, a smile on her face. “Barry MacLean. A real ladies man. Wonder if that’s his wife?” She shook her head sadly. “He’s sure isn’t the looker he used to be. Hilda, isn’t that Barry MacLean? What’s he doing here?”

In an awfully loud voice for such a tiny woman, Hilda answered, “Barry MacLean has been dead for thirty years. Drank himself to death. What would he be doing here?”

At this comment the alleged Barry turned around again. “Excuse me?”

“Oh you know it’s true,” said Hilda. “There’s no hiding it. It was a real blessing for your wife when you finally passed.”