Witch House (27 page)

“Aye,” said Carlos, in thespian fashion.
“Thou art drunk with lust, for her smile doth affect thee as strong
drink. Be not lost so poorly in thy pity that thou heart lies like
lead upon thy chest. It is by good fortune thou hast found thy love
verily. Take hold and know wherefore we depart hence without thee,
fair kinsman.”

“Wow!” I turned to Carlos and smiled large.
“That was good. Did you just think that up?”

“Yeah,” he said, surprised at his own wit.
“Methinks I did.”

“Just for that, I’m buying.”

“Well then, leadith the way, m`lord.”

“Okay, really you can stop that now.”

It was nearly three in the afternoon before
Spinelli met Carlos and me at the cemetery with a backhoe to exhume
Johnny (Buck) Allis’ casket. A formidable black sky of cumulonimbus
clouds rolled in just as we arrived, supporting forecasters’
predictions for rain. I promised Spinelli that if it held off long
enough for us to finish our work I would have him over for dinner
with Lilith and Ursula. The rain held off for exactly five
minutes.

“This sucks,” said Carlos, stuck again with
the pocket umbrella from the car. “Why do we have to stand here and
watch this? Can’t we wait inside the funeral home?”

I pointed with my umbrella toward the poor
fellow operating the backhoe. He wore a bright yellow raincoat and
hat, the kind Gloucester anglers wear out in the Atlantic. Still,
that was not keeping his hands and face warm against the cold rain
coming down in a torrent. “If he can stick it out,” I told Carlos,
“then so can we.”

He grumbled something about Noah’s ark before
making Dominic switch umbrellas with him. A few minutes later, we
were watching the bucket on the backhoe hoist the casket up out of
the earth on chains. It rode from there on a flatbed to the service
entrance at the funeral home. Once inside, Dominic and I hopped up
on the truck and opened the lid. I do not know what Dominic
expected to find, perhaps a perfectly laid out skeleton, its head
resting on a pillow, hands folded neatly upon its chest. Had there
been a body, then maybe that is exactly what he would have found. I
knew better, though. A pile of charred bones means a closed casket
funeral. Shy of just shoveling the bones into the casket, the
mortician makes little effort to reconstruct the skeleton in
detail. Sure, he will lay out the larger leg bones down at the base
of the coffin; maybe arrange some of the rib bones somewhere in the
middle. Apart from that, the only thing likely to find a home close
to its natural position is the skull. That, anyway, was resting on
a pillow, front and center as expected.

“He looks small,” Dominic commented.

“Well, he is dead,” I said.

“No, I know that. I’m just saying….”

“I know.” I pointed at the skull’s upper
alveolar ridge. “Lilith was right. Look at that. This guy had a
million dollar smile.”

“More like a six million dollar smile.”

“Good one.”

Carlos called up, “What do you see?”

“Bones,” said Dominic.

“I figured that. Are they Johnny Buck’s?”

“Don’t think so.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We make sure,” I said. I looked to Dominic.
“Let’s get some x-rays of this skull. Compare the dental work with
any known x-rays of Johnny Buck’s.”

“And when we find out it’s not him?”

I thought about it a moment. Looking down at
the bones I said, “This has to be someone.”

“Maybe the third robber.”

“Francis Nanchákey?”

“Indian men are kind of small.”

“See, I told you,” Carlos said, pointing at
the casket. “I told you there was a third man.”

Spinelli countered, “What about the spirit at
the séance last night? He said his name was John, and Ursula saw
the name Allis out front on the mailbox.”

“I know. That is true, but John and Allis are
common names in New England. It could be coincidence.”

“Yeah? What about the sack with the casino
name stenciled on the side?”

“That is a good one, I’ll admit, but clearly,
the bones in this casket do not appear to be those of Johnny Buck
Allis’. Until we find out otherwise, we have to assume that Johnny
Buck is still alive.”

“And what if we find out that this guy is not
Nanchákey? What then?”

“Then we take one setback at a time.
Meanwhile, check your x-rays against Johnny Buck’s dental work and
that of Nanchákey’s, too.”

“What are you two going to do?”

I smiled at Carlos. “If he does not mind
driving in the rain, Carlos and I will head out to see Mrs.
Allis.”

“Mrs. Allis?” I could see Carlos’ bushy brows
crowding low on his forehead. “I didn’t know Johnny Buck was
married.”

“Not his wife, his mother.”

“Johnny Buck has a mother?”

“Of course,” said Dominic, with a snort to
his laugh. “Everyone has a mother.”

“Oh.” He turned away, as if reconciling that
thought, before looking back perplexed.

“What is it?” I asked.

His befuddled face softened. “Do you suppose
Mrs. Allis has bucked teeth, too?”

I said to Dominic, “You will let me know as
soon as you have something?”

“Probably won’t be till morning.”

I looked back at Carlos. He was making rat
faces again in the truck’s door mirror. I shook my head. “The
sooner the better.”

Dominic smiled. “I’ll call you.”

Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in
Elizabeth Allis’ parlor sipping tea and breaking stale cookies into
small pieces to make it look like we were eating some. The old
woman lived in one of the units at River’s Edge condominium
complex, the same complex where Stephanie Stiles lived. Like
Stephanie’s apartment, Mrs. Allis’ unit also faced the river.
Naturally, I wondered if the two knew each other. It seemed
possible, though they hardly had more in common than their
proximity in domicile. Whereas Stephanie was a chain-smoking, booze
drinking woman of social decadence and promiscuity, Mrs. Allis;
bent, feeble and dependant on a cane to get around, derived her
pleasures through cats, crochet and Catholicism. Everywhere we
turned, Carlos and I faced either calico or crucifix. Over every
doorway hung a rosary and on every table a statue of the Virgin
Mary.

I began by asking Mrs. Allis about the house
on East Monroe. “The mailbox out front has your name on it,” I
said. “Is it your house?”

“Oh, heavens no, not anymore,” she said, and
her stare fell onto a distance speck somewhere out the window. “It
is a shame, isn’t it? It has been up for sale nearly eighteen
years. The bank owns it now. I could not keep up the taxes and
insurance and whatnot.” She returned her gaze to me, and I could
see that she truly had no idea about the condition it was in. “I
don’t know why it won’t sell. It’s a marvelous old house.”

I smiled warmly at that. “Yes, it is. It is a
marvelous old house, indeed.” I sat up and took a sip of tea to
wash down a bit of cookie that I had to eat after Mrs. Allis caught
me breaking it in two. Afterward I asked her, “Did your son live in
the house up until his death?”

“My Bucky? Of course he did. He loved that
house. It would still be ours if he were here today.”

That got Carlos and me exchanging glances.
“Yes, of course, about that. Mrs. Allis, this is difficult for me,
however I must ask you. Do you think it is possible your son is
still alive?”

“Bucky? Oh no. That’s impossible.”

“How can you know for sure? You never saw his
body.”

“I saw them bury his casket in the ground out
at the cemetery. That’s good enough.”

“What if it was not him inside?”

“What do you mean? Of course it was him. I
know my Bucky. He was a good boy. Sure, he may have been a little
slow in the head, but he was good to his mother. He was a choirboy
at St. Vincent DePaul you know.”

“Was he?”

“Yes, so don’t go spreading bad rumors about
my son. He could not go without showing his face to his mother
every week. That is how I know he is with our Heavenly
Farther.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Do you think he went to the other
place?”

“No, I don’t mean that. I meant—”

“I told you. I know my Bucky. There is no way
he would stay away from his mother for so long without calling or
writing. He is gone. He is with the Lord.”

“Yes, of course he is.” I looked around the
apartment, past all the cats and the statues of Mother Mary, and I
noticed that the furnishings looked new and expensive. She
mentioned that she had lost the house because she could not keep up
the taxes and insurance, yet I knew that a riverfront apartment at
River’s Edge did not come cheap. At the risk of upsetting her
further, I said, “This is a nice apartment you have here, Mrs.
Allis. I imagine it must be difficult maintaining it on a fixed
income these days.”

She looked at me cross, and I knew I had
struck a nerve. “That is really none of your business now is it,
Detective?”

“No, Ma`am.” I shook my head. “I suppose it
is not, but in a way it might be. I mention this because my partner
and I are investigating a case, one that involves your son.”

“My Bucky?”

“Yes. You see, someone killed an old friend
of his the other day, and in the course of investigating that
death, we began digging up some old clues that…well, I don’t know
exactly how to put this.”

Mrs. Allis put her hand out to stop me.
“Detective, please don’t tell me you dug up my boy.”

Carlos was quick to answer. “No, ma`am. We
are mostly certain that we did not dig up your son.”

He was not lying. We had no idea whose bones
were in the grave marked for Johnny Buck Allis, but we were
reasonably sure they were not his. I sat back in my seat and
collected my thoughts. I was going about things all wrong. Whatever
the disposition of Johnny Buck, one thing was for sure. Mrs. Allis
believed her son was dead. She had buried him along with the bones
that she believed were his and the only thing living now was his
memory. Carlos did the woman a great service by answering her
before I could, and I made a mental note to thank him after we
left.

Hoping to salvage the interview, I said,
“Would it be getting too personal, Mrs. Allis, if I asked you if
you had a secret benefactor?”

“A secret benefactor?”

“Yes, you know, do you find an occasional
check in the mail that you were not expecting. Does your bank
statement sometimes come up with a higher balance than what you
thought?”

“You mean is someone paying me off,
Detective?”

“No! I don’t mean that at all.”

“You think my son is still alive. You think
he robbed a casino with that hooligan, René Landau and now he is
paying for my apartment with blood money, don’t you?”

“Mrs. Allis, I don’t—”

“My son was murdered, Detective Marcella.
René Landau killed my son and tried to frame him for that robbery.
Well, I have news for you. My son did not stand trial for robbing
that casino. No one found him guilty of anything. He went to heaven
with a clean heart and a pure soul and I will not have you sit
there, slandering his good name.”

“Mrs. Allis, we mean no disrespect.”

She struggled to her feet with the aid of her
cane and pointed it at the door. “I think you both should leave
now.”

I looked at Carlos, who gave me a heads up,
almost as if to say, nice going old man. Only I was not an old man,
not anymore, and that was the problem. Ever since my return to
prime, I have noticed how poorly sometimes my interviews with older
folks go. Perhaps I come across too brash for a young cop. The
technique worked well when I was older. I suppose people expect
that from seasoned veterans. I am thinking that in the future I
should let Carlos take the lead in questioning the elderly. After
all, he is practically one of them.

Outside the apartment, Carlos gave me his
assessment of Mrs. Allis, saying that she was obviously lying to
cover up for her son. “Did you see how defensive she got? She’s
hiding something, you can bet.”

“You are kidding,” I said. “That sweet old
lady?”

“Yes, that sweet old lady. You don’t see
it?”

I shook my head. “Carlos, the woman is a
devout Christian. I counted five Mother Mary statues, three
rosaries and a crucifix just in the living room alone.”

“See what I mean? She is overcompensating.
She is living a lie.”

“No, she is living in denial, maybe, but she
is not lying. I’m sorry; I’m going the other way on this one. I
think if Johnny Buck is still alive, then Mrs. Allis is in the dark
about it. I don’t believe he has tried to contact her since the
robbery.”

“Yes, so where does that leave us?”

We started toward the car. “Get Dominic on
the phone, will you?”

Carlos took out his phone and hit speed dial.
“What are you thinking?”

“Something Mrs. Allis said.”

He handed the phone to me. “It’s
ringing.”

“She said that her son could not go without
showing his face to his mother every week.”

Spinelli picked up. “Hey, Carlos, what’s up?
Did you and the old man talk to Johnny Buck’s mother?”

“Yes we did,” I said, and I heard him swallow
down the lump in his throat.

“Oh, Tony, hey. I thought you…. I didn’t mean
that just now. I thought Carlos—”

“Yeah, yeah, forget it. Listen. Are you
working on those dental record comparisons?”

“I am, but I can tell you already one person
whose records won’t match.”

“Oh? Wait a minute.” I turned the phone on
speaker. “I have Carlos here. Say that again.”

“The bones in Johnny Buck’s grave, I can tell
you definitively they do not belong to Francis Nanchákey.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, in looking up Nanchákey’s records,
I found out that he was a she.”