CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: A Bum Like Blair
It was more than Blair could bear seeing Detective Mikel Smith standing down there pretending to be one of the mourners. He kept glancing around, his face speckled with cuts and contusions from the gin bottle he’d kissed. Jumpy to be sure, he looked as if he was about to be nabbed at any minute. But the world couldn’t be that lucky.
Blair didn’t feel compelled to go to the police about what he knew; he was too afraid that Smith and his boys would purposefully misconstrue what he had to say to cover their own asses. Obviously Smith would like nothing better than for a bum like Blair to get blamed for everything.
Smith spotted Blair and Horace standing over on the side of the hill and passed the word on to Jeremy Driscall. That was the first time Blair realized that the two men even knew one another. Jeremy looked up at Blair, and then cut his eyes away as if he had better things to think about; he never looked at Blair again. Lack of good judgment like that was going to be his downfall, especially if Blair were to find any connection between Driscall and everything that had transpired.
Vanessa Cravat was there, and she wore a plain, black dress. Standing behind the Maxwells, she held her hands at her sides and looked on quietly. She never saw Blair, and he relished the chance to study her without her noticing him. Her hair looked almost blonde against her black hat. As her dress danced in the wind, the black, cotton pleats tightened against the calves of her legs. It was hard to tell if she were crying from that distance, but she was definitely upset. Although she and Cynthia hadn’t been close, she could probably feel for what Cynthia had gone through during the last minutes of her life, and in that way, felt connected to her.
Calvin Maxwell sat in one of four chairs that had been placed beside the grave. Corinne was sitting on his right, and the next two chairs were occupied by Cynthia’s grandmothers. The crowd of mourners standing around Calvin obscured him from view for awhile, but eventually Blair was able to catch a glimpse of the man.
Although Calvin usually looked distinguished in a sleek, expensive suit, today he slouched in his chair, resembling a much older man. His cheeks were sunken, hollow shells, and dark circles hovered under his eyes. All Calvin did was stare down at the oak casket in front of him. As he sat there, he would stretch the gloves on his hands over the fingers again and again, one finger at a time. He looked as if his whole world had been lost with Cynthia’s passing. Having been married for over thirty-five years, he and his wife had conceived only one child. One child to fill the rooms of a gargantuan house. It was the house of a man whose love for children was endless, and was matched only by his love for establishing the finest private gem collection in the country. And now that his only child was gone, his collection was all he had left.
Corinne had a veil over her face, but it wasn’t hard to imagine how she looked. Her eyes were probably puffy and red, and her tears, endless.
Even while covered in what seemed like layer upon layer of black, the one thing Blair noticed about Corinne’s spirit that really defined the woman was her poise. Unlike her husband, all bent down low in his seat, Corinne was sitting tall, unflinching, with her back as straight as an honor guard’s. She held her head high.
The service moved along quickly, and everyone put a single flower on Cynthia’s grave before leaving. Wherever Jeremy Driscall went, there was Detective Smitty clinging to him like the smell of excrement under the fingernails. Jeremy didn’t seem to appreciate all of the attention he was getting from someone he wasn’t supposed to know.
Soon the crowd of mourners dispersed with very little fanfare. It was beginning to drizzle, and most looked anxious to get in out of the rain. As the last car moved away, Blair looked at Horace.
“Well, what did you think of that?” Blair asked him.
“What? The funeral?”
“Yes, and the people who came.”
“I didn’t know Cynthia Maxwell, but I can tell by that crowd I probably didn’t miss much. I’ll never understand why folks go to funerals when they really don’t wanna be there.”
“Showing respect for the dead doesn’t have much to do with convenience,” Blair said.
“Yeah, but most of them people didn’t even show no respect. So why’d they even bother?”
“They’ve got to keep up appearances. That’s important to everyone, and especially to affluent people.”
“Damned if that makes any sense,” Horace said, looking past Blair.
Blair followed his gaze and found a well-dressed man with a very familiar face walking up to them. It was Connery, the affable beat officer who’d been replaced by that contemptible Officer Follen. The suit and tie he was wearing threw Blair off; he was used to seeing Connery in his standard issued blues. As soon as Blair recognized him, he walked over to greet him. They shook hands vigorously. “Officer Connery. How’s it going?”
“Pretty good,” he said. “I’ve been promoted.”
“No kidding? That’s great. So you’re not walking a beat anymore?”
“Nope.”
“You must be happy about that.”
Officer Connery smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, I am.”
“So what are you doing now?”
“I’m a homicide detective.”
Blair stared at him for a moment, wondering if their meeting like this was more than just a coincidence. “Congratulations,” he finally said.
“Thanks.” Connery looked down at the ground, playing with a clump of grass under his foot. “Blair, I’m investigating the murder of Thomas Abbott and Ingrid Deitweiler.” Glancing up again, he watched Blair for a reaction.
“Thomas and Ingrid are dead?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry. I heard that they were friends of yours.”
Blair nodded, trying to act surprised.
“I’d like to take you down to the station and ask you a few questions.”
“Questions? About what?”
“Like who would have wanted Thomas and Ingrid killed.” Connery looked at Horace for a moment. “Why don’t you come on in and help us out.”
At the edge of the hill stood another well-dressed man, apparently Connery’s partner. Unlike Connery, the heavyset man with the thick mustache and thinning hair was watching Blair as if he wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
“Sure,” Blair said. “Could you give Horace a ride, too?”
“No, no,” Horace said, backing up a bit, “that’s all right. Blair, you go on. I like to look at police vehicles from the outside, not the inside.”
Detective Connery smiled, shaking his head.
“See you later,” Horace said, plucking the cigarette from his fingers and walking off. Horace hopped on his bike and then let it coast down the hill. Placing a bright red cap on his head, he pedaled off past the tan sedan the policemen had driven up in. Blair would have given anything to have been sitting on Horace’s handlebars just then, getting away from the law as fast as that rattly, old girl’s bike would take him.