Working Murder (8 page)

“Because,” I said smugly, “it is he who escorts Martin Cavanaugh to wakes and must
therefore know where he lives. And Martin is the Cavanaugh who speaks freely of Uncle
Jim and his ‘buddies' who are buried with him in the mausoleum.”

Henry and Sadd stopped walking. Henry said: “You didn't tell me he said that! And he has
a key to the place, Sadd.”

“A key!”

“A key,” I said, pushing them on toward the car, “which he wears like an amulet around
his neck.”

"Around his neck?"

“My God, it sounds like a fetish!”

We'd arrived at the car, I, a little tipsy with success, to find Tully a little tipsy
with brandy and, as we jabbered excitedly, inclined to be a wet blanket.

“I THINK YOU'RE ALL BEING GHOULISH. Haven't we been through enough? I certainly have.”

We lapsed into rather crestfallen silence as Henry renegotiated the Long Island
Expressway and Tully scolded on.

“Why on earth would you even want to go
near
that godawful mausoleum? It's been
nothing but a source of humiliation all these—”

“Tully”—Sadd spoke with admirable mildness—"when May called us in Florida yesterday
morning (was it really only yesterday morning? I marvelled), she said that if we could
just get Lloyd buried in the mausoleum, then we'd all show up for the funeral and the
place would be opened—”

“A funeral is different. A funeral's official.”

“We weren't contemplating a midnight raid,” said Henry.

“You're contemplating going in there unauthorized with some nutty dypso—”

“Tully, the place belongs to us—it's family property.” I was trying to keep my temper
because, in addition to his churlishness, he had the front seat and the lion's share of
the heater. “What we hope to do is to go quietly into the place with Martin's key, and
if there's no sign of disturbance, and if it appears that Martin was just drunk and
wandering in the head—”

“Which he was,” said Tully, hiccoughing.

“—then we'll decide whether to forget the whole thing or whether to ask for an official
examination of the crypts. Here's a chance to lay a family skeleton to rest—”

“There is no family skeleton!” Tully was close to shouting. “That vault is empty except
for the body of James Cavanaugh. There isn't the remotest chance that anybody could have
ever entered that place and taken the stone slab from any of those crypts without the
help of cemetery workmen. You don't need a key to see that. You can just stand at the
grille and look in.”

I was suddenly surprised. “Have you seen the place?”

“Certainly. I went to Jim Cavanaugh's funeral.”

The car swerved a little, and I knew how Henry felt. Beside me, Sadd's sharp intake of
breath indicated a similar jolt.

“Fascinating,” he said in an awed tone. “I was abroad at the time. Whatever made you go?”

“We went as a favor to Sara.” Tully was sobering up into sniffles. “She wrote to Irene
and me—I told you May wasn't speaking to her—and asked us if we'd come and help make
some kind of family showing, so we did. It wasn't pleasant standing there with a handful
of relatives and a bunch of reporters in front of that ugly, vulgar pile of marble.
Believe me, I never want to see that place again.”

Had Tully stood before the mausoleum that day with macabre thoughts? Was he now reliving
the sight of the crypts, one, perhaps, with frightful contents? We had all avoided
mentioning Ellen's fate and had fastened almost jovially on Jim's “buddies.” I began to
feel compassion, and Henry's thoughts may have been the same, for he said gently:

“I wish you'd stay with us tonight, Tully.”

“Thank you, Henry, but no. May's apartment shouldn't be empty for too long. The papers
will be out in a few hours, and people will be calling. And I want to change my
clothes.”

Sadd said: “Henry, drop your mother off at home and you and I will take Tully—”

“Now, that's
really
out of the question,” Tully was scolding again, but kindly.
“When you get home, you're going to stay put. A cab brought me over and a cab can take
me back. It isn't that late.”

Bless you for that, Tully, I thought. We were nearing Brooklyn Heights, and I was
suddenly exhausted. None of us spoke for a while. Sadd hummed, a sure sign that his mind
was teeming. As we turned into Willow Street, Tully said, with infinite weariness:

“But I would appreciate a ride to White Plains tomorrow. After the service I'll get a cab
to LaGuardia.”

“Pick you up at nine,” said Henry.

The next morning I felt my age.

All night I'd been playing Candyland with a faceless Jim Cavanaugh on Bass Rocks Beach
and was barely able to raise my head when Tina looked in and said they were leaving
shortly and Hen was watching cartoons.

“Good Lord, Tina, what time is it?”

“About eight. Jon Saddlier's here. He saw the papers and wants to go with us. And Helen
Cavanaugh called. She was shocked but thanked us for not springing it last night. Here's
the obit.”

I felt blindly for my robe. “Read it to me. God knows where my glasses are.”

Tina read:

Suddenly at her home in New York City, Jan. 20, May Saddlier Dawson, widow of Frank W.
Dawson, founder of Dawson, Hewitt, and Jerome. Services private.

“I tried to make it as noncommittal as possible. I suppose the suicide bit will leak out
eventually.” Tina looked at her watch. “Come on down and I'll give you Hen's schedule.”

I pulled on an ancient wool bathrobe of Henry Gamadge's and with my hair still in the
braid I make of it at night, got myself down to the kitchen where Sadd and Jon stood
sipping coffee. Jon kissed me and said:

“Dad says Aunt May took a powder. I feel terrible. I'm glad I looked at the paper this
morning. I wish you'd all told me last night.”

Sadd said: “We didn't think you'd want to miss Lloyd's funeral and all that glorious
chanting.”

“I hope to be back for most of it. The Mass doesn't start till eleven. Did you know I'd
been in touch with May recently, and she put some money in that opera?”

We all looked at him in some surprise. Jon added: “Even when it failed, she was nice and
said to ask her again. By the way, what becomes of her money?”

Now we looked at each other. It had not occurred—to me, at least—to ask.

Tina said: “Henry knows her lawyer. He'll call him today. Clara, Hen's lunch...” She went
on to say something about grilled cheese, but my mind had snagged on the thought of
May's will. She'd been a wealthy woman with no immediate family. How had the long, sad
years affected her thinking, her decisions? “— and chocolate milk,” Tina concluded. “No
Coke, even if he begs. And Loki's been fed, so don't let him con you, either.”

Henry came in through the kitchen door, stamping snow from his feet. He said: “Good
morning, Mom. Take your breakfast into the living room—I started a fire for you. Well,
the car's nice and warm. If we're picking up Tully, we'd better roll.”

His parents embraced Hen with admonitions to be good, and he nodded, his attention wholly
fixed on “Tom and Jerry.” They filed out, Tina saying over her shoulder: “The van comes
for him at twelve-thirty. His clothes are on his bed.”

May's will. How extraordinary that the thought of it hadn't entered my mind before. Had
it occurred to the others and they hadn't mentioned it because it might appear
calculating? I certainly had no expectations from May. Had Sadd? Had Henry? Had Jon?
We'd all been out of touch with her until recently, and surely the will was long since
made? And she had not expected to die yesterday, of that I was certain.

Loki wandered in and brushed my leg, then circled back and rested against the old
bathrobe almost as if he recognized it. I picked him up and walked into the living room.
The fire was crackling, and I sat down, holding him in my lap like a great, lovely muff.
How could I have left him? Then I reminded myself that he might not have survived the
trip south, and Hen had begged for him. Yes, Loki was better off here, still so
beautiful with his blue, near-blind eyes and glossy sable points. I wept over him a
little, remembering how Henry Gamadge had loved this cat and loved holding him like
this....

The phone rang for the first time. By the fifth time, I had my spiel down pat. Might I
ask if the
Times
had given out this number? Yes, this was the residence of Mrs.
Henry Gamadge who had called in the obituary, and I was Mrs. Gamadge, Senior. Yes, Mrs.
Dawson was my cousin. No, I could only say how shockingly sudden ... Yes, the services
would be private, as indicated. Thank you for calling. Among the callers were several
old friends. Was I back in New York for good? No, but I would be in a few months. Yes, I
was enjoying Florida.

About mid-morning, daughter Paula called to beg that I come to Boston for a few days when
all this was over. I said not now but certainly when I returned in April, and I urged
her to go up and visit an elderly, lonely relative named Tully Hewitt in Gloucester.
Paula replied that they often made day trips to the north shore and had she known she
had a relative in Bass Rocks, she'd have sponged on him long since.

Between calls, I managed to get dressed, empty the dishwasher, hack something out of the
freezer for supper, read to Hen, and finally get him into his van.

Then I sat down to make a phone call of my own.

AN ELDERLY MALE VOICE SAID: “HOLY MARTYRS Cemetery. Cassidy speaking.”

I told Mr. Cassidy my name and asked for directions to Holy Martyrs from Brooklyn
Heights. He gave them to me with admirable exactitude.

“And is the office on the grounds?” I asked.

“Yes, that would be the second gate. If you're coming by bus, it's the corner of Montvale
Avenue.”

The thought of traveling to Queens by bus in January made my blood run cold. “Are you
open every day?” I asked.

“The cemetery is. The office is closed on Sunday. Are you inquiring about a burial?”

“No, I'm interested in one of the mausoleums. The Dawson mausoleum.”

There was a pause. Mr. Cassidy's voice became a shade less brisk. “There seems to be
quite a bit of interest in that place lately. Somebody was out here a week ago asking
about it.”

“So I understand. I'm a member of the family, by the way.”

“I told Mrs. Dawson about it when she came out here to say that Mr. Lloyd Cavanaugh was
dying and we might be opening.”

“Yes, she mentioned it. You don't know who it was—the person who was asking, I mean. You
didn't get his name?”

“It was a woman.”

As the kids say—YIKES!

“I also told Mrs. Dawson”—Mr. Cassidy's voice took on a kind of resignation—"that Mrs.
Lloyd Cavanaugh probably had other plans for her husband.”

I said: “Mrs. Dawson herself died yesterday, very suddenly.”

“I know.” Resignation was now complete. “I thought perhaps that's why you were calling,
but I was pretty sure she'd go elsewhere.”

Elsewhere. Always elsewhere. An image if the “ugly, vulgar pile of marble,” as Tully had
described it, rose in my mind, and possibly in Mr. Cassidy's. He said:

“What is your particular interest in the place, Mrs. Gamadge?”

“Well,” I said, glad of the chance to use the speech I'd rehearsed, “my maiden name was
Dawson. James Cavanaugh, who, I'm told, built the mausoleum, used our name instead of
his own, and I'm curious to know why.”

I wasn't the only one who was rehearsed. Mr. Cassidy's reply was as smooth as the lines
of an actor in a long-running play: “Mr. Cavanaugh was connected through his brother
Martin to the Dawson family, which he greatly admired. As I understand it, this was his
way of honoring the family and providing a resting place worthy of them.”

I said, and meant it: “How fascinating. And I feel so fortunate that I had a chance to
speak with you, Mr. Cassidy. Have you been with Holy Martyrs long?”

“Since I was fourteen.”

“Fourteen!”

Now the voice rang with pride. “I started as a gardener back in the twenties. Cardinal
Hayes got me in—he knew my dad. I was a grave digger till ten years ago.”

“What a fine career.” I felt genuine admiration for Mr. Cassidy. “I'd love to meet you
and chat more. I definitely plan a trip to Holy Martyrs. I've never seen the Dawson
Mausoleum. By the way, would it be possible to go inside it?”

Mr. Cassidy was back to brisk. “We prefer not to open except for a burial. Our
maintenance people don't have keys to the vaults, and we ask that wreaths and flowers
and such be placed at the grille door.”

I assured Mr. Cassidy that any tribute I might want to lay on the tomb of James Cavanaugh
would be placed at the grille door. We said good-bye.

Hummm. A woman.

The troops returned from White Plains, sans Jon and Tully, about four o'clock, just as
Hen's van pulled up. It was good to be back to our original group. Tina produced
marshmallows, and Hen sprawled before the fire, making a mess, as we sat with drinks and
they described May's “service,” apparently a rather bleak and peremptory affair. Sadd
looked downright depressed, which surprised me, considering his often-voiced objections
to what he calls “the funeral circus.” He said:

“I couldn't help thinking of last night and the outpouring for Lloyd. There's something
to be said for those old-fashioned going-away parties.”

“But a recluse is a tough person to throw a wake for,” said Tina.

“Henry,” I said, “what's the story on May's will?”

“I'll have it tomorrow. I called Bob McCloud on our way home.”

I said, pulling Loki away from the toasting fork: