When I returned to my seat at the subterranean bar, the band was performing Every Day I Have the Blues for no audience at all. They followed with Try a Little Tenderness, which I watched in thrilled amusement as the horn players shouted back the lyrical instructions to “tell her that you love her” and “treat her real gentle,” and as they bopped and blasted out notes in a fully syncopated choreography. The number would have been a real crowd-pleaser, had there been a crowd to please. They brought it down a notch with Tell Mama, after which the singer left the stage during the instrumental Green Onions, Following her brief break, the singer returned to the stage; but rather than sing, she relieved Jimmy, the gaunt drummer, of his sticks, and he took the mike. I understood why Mia was resistant of his charms. He was something deep to the south of desirable; but when the band started up again, and Jimmy began crooning, “What would I give for just a few moments…” as the band softly played Slip Away, he suddenly became peculiarly sexy in an Iggy-Pop-cum-Mick-Jagger kind of way. I was tempted to play fairy Godmother and go drag Mia down to be swept off her feet, but the song would have been over before I could have gotten her downstairs.
After the number, Jimmy thanked me (calling me “ladies and gentlemen.”) and he told me that they would be back again for one more set after this break. I stood and met Johns as he came down from the stage. Taking his arm, I pulled him to the side and asked, “Why don’t you let Jimmy sing more songs? He’s great.”
Incredulously, as if I’d asked why they don’t just dilute the gas reserves with water to make them last longer, Johns shook his head, scrunched his face and said, “He’s the drummer.”
“He’s a fantastic singer,” I said.
“He’s a better drummer,” Johns insisted. I no longer wanted to cut his hair. Now I wanted to pull it from his fat head. “Besides,” Johns continued, “we already have a singer, and it was hard enough convincing her to let Jimmy do the one number.” Obviously, logic wasn’t going to work here, so I switched stratagem.
“If Mia could see him performing the way I just saw him performing…” I allowed a look of ribald lust to flush my face. “Wow,” I said.
Johns seemed slightly confused; as though he didn’t know whether to be jealous of my admiration of Jimmy or happy that his friend was finally even being admired. It was all I could do to keep from pinching his cheek, he was so cute. “I’ll discuss it with the band,” he said. “Anyway, on a different topic — is Schwartz having any luck with the Coneely case?”
“Don’t you mean the Hanson case?” I said. “Actually, I think he’s a little ticked off at the favoritism your department seems to be showing Coneely.”
“Favoritism?” Johns said. “What favoritism?”
“Are you aware that he’s skipped town?” I asked being intentionally confrontational now.
“He didn’t skip town. We know exactly where he is. He’s in Philadelphia at the arch diocese.”
“Would you have let any other murder suspect leave town on business?”
“He’s not another suspect. He’s a priest, a Catholic priest, a Roman Catholic priest. He’s not going anywhere to stay. The pope will see to it personally.”
“Explain that to Schwartz,” I said. “He seemed pretty upset when Donatelli called and told us.”
“Donatelli called?” Johns said. “Why didn’t Coneely call himself?”
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“Well, it’s just that Donatelli was the one who called me too, and he called the D.A. It just seems a little odd. It’s probably nothing.”
“What do you think it could mean?” I asked.
“Well, if they wanted to make sure Coneely would leave town, I guess they’d make sure it was okay with us before dropping it on him. You know, so that when he objected that he’d have to clear it with the D.A. and me, they could tell him that it was already taken care of.”
“Nobody cleared it with Schwartz. They just called and left a message that it was a done deal. Coneely was supposed to meet with Schwartz this afternoon. Maybe this whole thing was to keep Coneely from talking with Schwartz.”
“Now you’re accusing the archbishop of complicity?” Johns said sarcastically.
“Well,” I said. “I was just conjecturing. Anyway, you should probably rejoin your friends.” I’d noticed that they were watching us with toying grins on their faces.
“Yeah,” Johns said. “I’ll do that in a minute. First, though, I was wondering if you’d be free to come hear us tomorrow night?”
Chapter 13
A date with the city’s chief homicide investigator – if my dad could only see me now. He’d disown me. Then he’d re-own me again just for the pleasure of disowning me a second time. During the final set, the waitress tapped me on my day-dreaming shoulder to tell me that Mia had sent her after me. I waved to Trevor (my Ishmael,) who sat idle as the trumpet player wailed It Never Entered My Mind to the gentle accompaniment of the keyboard.
As we drove back to Schwartz’s house, I asked Mia to describe for me what she was looking for in a man. She grinned, licked her lip, and said, “Money, brains, humor, strength, wisdom, integrity, caring, and a genuine awe of all things real and beautiful. Mostly money though. Why?”
“Seriously,” I said avoiding her question. “What about talent, raw sex appeal, an innate charm? Don’t those things appeal to you at all?”
“Talent is okay if it pays the bills, sex appeal fades, and charm is a lie. I want a man who will appeal to me as much in twenty years as he does today. Now, tell me why you’re asking? Do you want me to double with Jimmy on your date with Johns?”
I hadn’t been thinking about a double date; but still, this was one smart cookie. “How’d you know?” I asked.
“I live with a detective,” she said coyly. “Come on. I’m not stupid. You spent the whole night down there, and you told me that you were talking with Johns about me and Jimmy. Yeah, okay. I’ll do it. When’s the big night?”
“Tomorrow,” I said, “unless you have other plans.”
“Nah,” she said. “Tomorrow’s fine. Are we going to see them play?”
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re playing at some club in Oakland called The Century.”
“The Century?” Mia said impressed. “How’d they manage that?”
“Is that a prestigious club?” I asked.
“Depends on what you consider prestige? Do you like Stevie Ray Vaughan? Springsteen? Cindy Lauper?”
“You mean they all played there? Wow, FdP must be good,” I said. “That’s how they got the gig. They’re opening for them. Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”
***
At breakfast the following morning, Schwartz reminded me that we would be attending the pre-noon viewing at the funeral home. That would leave me the early morning to try to arrange for a local music critic to attend the evening’s jam session. Once Schwartz and Mia had retired to the garage, I called Jana at the Gamut offices to get the phone number for her contact at the local paper. She gave me the information and told me to say “hello” for her “to that nice Mr. Schwartz.”
The man at the number Jana had supplied was named Freling. He was pleasant, but he seemed put-out by the amount of information I wanted for a simple mention in the magazine article I was writing. I explained that this had nothing to do with the article I was writing, but that I was hoping he could simply put me in touch with the paper’s local music critic. He gave me the number, but suggested that we owed them special consideration when the case finally broke. I told him that I had no authority to make promises for Schwartz, but said that I would see what I could do.
Clement “Mother” Fuyer answered on the eighth ring. His constricted voice sounded as though he was speaking through a trumpet mute as he said, “Mother Fuyer, what do you want?”
“Mr. Fuyer,” I said, “Hello, my name is Cat Hoskin. I’m with Gamut Magazine. How are you this morning?”
“Sleepy,” he said. “I was out late working, s
moking and drinking last night. Mostly smoking,” he chuckled. Then he added, “Leastly working. What can I do for you, Cat? And please, call me ‘Mother.’”
“Well, Mother,” I said. “Have you ever heard of a group called FdP?”
“Sure,” he said. “They’re pretty good. Is Gamut doing something on up-and-coming bands or something?”
“No,” I said. “Are they up-and-coming?”
“Sure,” he said, “if they can stay fresh. They’ve got a bit of an albatross to shake first though.”
“Albatross?” I said, not liking what I was thinking he might be meaning.
“Well,” he said, “they’re young, you know? And some of them have parents in a blues band, you see. Now, I’ve never heard them myself, but who wants to hear a blues band anyway? Anyhow, the kids feel a certain loyalty to these geezers; so any gig they get, they invite the oldies to tag along.”
“And that’s an albatross?” I asked.
“Sure, it cheeses off the club bosses, you know? Even if they play for no money, they expect free drinks. That costs the owners plenty.”
“Do any of the owners try to capitalize on the opportunity?”
“What opportunity?” Foyer asked.
“The opportunity to attract a cross over clientele; blues fans, parents. These clubs are always trying to attract the same crowd, the 21 to 35 year olds, right? But FdP is young and cute and Humpback and the Whailers is more mature and really talented. Their shows could be like N’Sync meets The Rolling Stones.”
“Well,” Foyer said, “it’s more like Gwar meets the Alligator Allstars, but I see your point. So you want me to write up a review as though the shows were planned as family get together nights?”
“Well,” I said, “not exactly. More like family cross-culture/trans-generational night.”
“Interesting,” he said. “And exactly what does Gamut magazine have to do with all of this?”
“Like I said — I work for Gamut. I could show your article to my editor. Maybe he’ll like it. Maybe he won’t. That part depends on how good an article you write.”
Foyer was no dummy. He got it, and soon he was promising to be in the audience at The Century Club that evening. Shortly after getting off of the phone with Foyer, I was in my room, dressing for an afternoon at the funeral home. Soon after that, I was zipping down the Blvd. of the Allies with Schwartz in a 1970 Jensen FF.
Schwartz smiled convivially and asked me if we’d had fun the night before. “Pardon?” I asked.
“Mia and you; did you have fun last night?”
“Sure,” I said. “I guess.”
“I understand you ran into Detective Johns.”
“Yes,” I said. “Did you know he was in a blues band?”
He nodded. “Would a report be helpful to me?” Schwartz asked.
I was surprised. “What?”
“Did you discuss the case with him at all?”
“Well, yes, a little. We discussed Donatelli’s calling you instead of Coneely…”
“From the beginning please,” he said, and soon I was telling him the whole story of the evening. Frankly, I thought he might have had an ulterior motivation for wanting to know what Mia and I had done that night, but jealousy is a tricky thing.
***
The line to kneel before the Hanson corpse was long — stretching all of the way out to the parking lot. Some were genuine friends of the family; others were more probably curiosity seekers anxious to steal a peek at the murdered man. Odd that they were more fondly greeted by Peggy when finally they reached her than was Schwartz, who was there only to find the killer of her father. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you said you understood that Coneely was the killer.”
“I never said that at all,” Schwartz said.
“Yes, you did,” Peggy insisted. “And you said that you wouldn’t have to talk with us again.”
“What I said was that I thought the possibility seemed remote. However, that was before I acquired certain information. Can you please collect your siblings and their spouses and meet with me in the office off of the anteroom?” Schwartz turned and stalked off to the office where he had interviewed the Hansons the day prior. It was a large room with a sunny window and an oversized mahogany table. Schwartz asked that I stand near the door, and he sat at the head of the table near the phone. Gradually, the room filled with the bereaved family.
He folded his arms tightly across his chest and gestured with a quick head motion for me to close the doors. “What information could you possibly have?” Lewis asked.
“First, I’d like to ask a question,” Schwartz said. “Which of you informed the church about the comments I made concerning confession?”
Nobody said a word, but fast glances passed between several of the family members. The Melhornes’ eyes met for a fraction of a second. Peggy caught the attention of Lewis as he caught hers. Carl quickly shifted his gaze to Sam who was looking at Melissa who was looking at Sam; all as Sara tried to capture the attention of Carl. Meanwhile, Matthew’s head tilted around the room like a pigeon trying to locate some grain. Peggy’s eyes found Schwartz fast, and she said, “What makes you think one of us called the church?”
“I was supposed to meet with Coneely last night, but before he could come to my house, he was called out of town by the archbishop — in the middle of a murder investigation no less. I suspect that when he returns he’ll have been told not to hear any confessions for a while. Is anybody going to confess to making the call? No? Very well. It doesn’t really matter anyway. I believe I know exactly what happened to your father and why, but I can’t prove it yet. It was something that Mrs. Melhorne said in front of Miss Hoskin that clued me to the motive, but I’ll need to talk more with one of you before that can be considered evidence. You can rejoin your company now. I’ll be in touch after the funeral. I believe that’s on Monday. The person I need to speak with can expect to hear from me on Tuesday morning. Until then, I suggest that the party be extremely cautious. I believe you know who you are.” He stood and headed for the door. Sara Hanson spoke first, saying, “Wait,” but before she could say more the others had all chimed in with their own demands of Schwartz. He merely waved a dismissive hand and said, “Try to be a unified family, won’t you? Your father’s corpse is in the other room with a collection of mourners and a mythic chorus of the morbid and moribund. Tuesday will come soon enough.” I pushed open the door as he rushed toward me. Sam Hanson suddenly became irate, and he shouted, “What gives you the right?”
Schwartz turned and walked back into the room. In a level and respectful tone he said, “I’m working at the request of the City of Pittsburgh. I have an investigator’s license from the state of Pennsylvania, and the reputation of a potentially innocent man gives me even further moral authority. My methods may prove faulted, but I have my reasons for them, and I am under no compulsion to explain them to any of you.”
“You’re suggesting,” Sara said coolly, “that one of us has information that could point to another one of us as the killer, that he or she knows it, that the killer knows it, and that the person with the information is in danger. That’s preposterous. And if it’s true, then aren’t you taking a chance by announcing it and then leaving for several days?”
“The person who has the information also has access to the phone system and thereby the police. Protection is a phone call away,” Schwartz said. “You should all be safe. None of you will be alone for the next several days. Funerals tend to be the kinds of events where everybody congregates for days.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Melissa asked as tears ran down her face. “What if the person has to be alone with the killer?”
“Melissa!” Peggy said scolding. “There is no killer except Coneely. This is another bluff of his. Dad died the way the priest said he would — at the house that night.”
Schwartz gestured again, and I shut the doors. He retook his seat as he said, “Let’s discuss that night again. I
’d like to know exactly who said what and when.” He looked around the room at the whole Hanson brood. None of them was offering any assistance, so he cajoled them. “As I understand it from Coneely, a reporter from the paper was there and another from the radio. Is that right?” The general consensus was that it was correct. “He also tells me that Peggy wasn’t told that they were going to be there; that you intentionally called the conference for when you knew she would be at work.”
“They knew I’d disapprove,” Peggy insisted. “I didn’t want Coneely using my father’s illness for his own gain.”
“It was Dad’s wish too,” Marjorie said. “He believed in euthanasia. He wanted the church’s rule changed.”
“Because they brainwashed him into it,” Peggy said.
“What’s the point here, Mr. Schwartz?” Carl asked agitatedly.
“Can we do this later?” Sam asked.
“Certainly,” Schwartz said. “’Til Tuesday then?”
Chapter 14
Schwartz and I left the funeral home and went directly to St. Bart’s eating cold pork salad sandwiches (which Beverly had packed in Schwartz’s picnic basket) on the way. Once parked, the next thing he did was ask for my cell phone. Since this had become a trend, I had already secreted it from my purse and had it hidden in the folds of my skirt, so that the instant he asked for it I was able to magically produce it before he’d finished the requesting sentence. I’d been hoping to engender a look of surprise, but all I got was a slight eye roll.
He called information. (An especially expensive call from a cell phone, but it was his dime — I hoped.) He asked for and received the number of the Coroner’s office. He then called and asked to speak with Wanda Corwin. Remembering the way he’d collapsed into himself like an imploding pumpkin the first time he’d met this woman, I expected his telephone demeanor to be reminiscent of that episode. To my surprise, he was as bloated with her as he had earlier been with the Hansons. After some salutatory remarks void of even a hint of romance, he got to the gist of his call. “Can you tell me exactly how Chlordane was administered in its function as a termite killer just prior to its banishment?” He later filled me in on her side of the conversation. Her reply was, “Well, according to the website for the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry, it was pumped into the ground around contaminated sites.”