An Accidental Corpse Read online

  “My goodness, you are a cynic. Surely his close friends and family are sincere.”

  “Even they are ambivalent. I don’t mean his mother—she’s heartbroken, though she won’t show it in public. I went to her room to check on her last night, and I found her sitting in a chair, sobbing. When I tried to comfort her, she pulled herself together and I knew she’d not break down again. Like his brothers, she realized Jackson was more or less living on borrowed time. She tried to look the other way when he went off the rails, but she’s no fool.

  “Still, in spite of the heartache he caused her, Stella is enormously proud of Jackson. Even though she’s just a simple countrywoman, she understands the importance of what he achieved. After she composed herself, she looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘His work is done.’”

  “I don’t think Fitz and I should go to the house,” said Nita. “We just want to pay our respects.” They had not been in contact with Lee, and didn’t want to intrude. Their real reason for attending the funeral was to see if anyone might qualify as a suspect in Metzger’s murder—someone with a face wound, or with scratches like Ted’s on his arm.

  “Earl Finch, the police officer who supervised the accident scene, has offered to let TJ stay at his house during the service. He lives nearby, so we can drop him off and pick him up afterward. How long do you think it will be?”

  “At the chapel? Half an hour at most. Another hour if you go to the cemetery. There will be plenty of cars, so it will take them a while to get there, even though it’s only a mile or so away. Then I’m sure several people will want to say something at the graveside. By six o’clock everyone will be hungry. And thirsty.” Anticipating as many gatecrashers as invited guests, he and Ted had laid on plenty of refreshments, solid and liquid.

  Ossorio knew what to expect. “Many sorrows—some real, some feigned—will be drowned tonight. Lee’s antennae will detect the difference.”

  Armed with directions to the Finch residence—north on Fireplace, left on Gardiner, third on the left, look for the yellow mailbox—the Fitzgeralds headed out.

  “Earl says he’s got chickens in his yard,” TJ informed his parents, “and a dog I can play with.” The only chickens he had ever seen up close were lying dead in the butcher shop window. And as much as he would have liked a dog of his own, pets were not allowed in their Stuyvesant Town apartment.

  Finch’s wife, Grace, greeted them as they parked in the driveway.

  “Glad to know you, Nita, Fitz, TJ. I have to apologize for Earl. He’s on duty today—you’ll see him at the funeral, but in an official capacity. They’re expecting quite a crowd, so he has to direct traffic.”

  Sensing TJ’s disappointment, Grace added, “But he’ll come home as soon as the service is over. You folks’ll stay for dinner, I hope.” They accepted the invitation gratefully.

  “Meanwhile,” she continued, “I’ve got some fresh-baked cookies in the kitchen.” She addressed TJ. “How about you tuck into ’em, and then I’ll introduce you to Sally and her pups.”

  TJ’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got puppies?” he cried. “¡Qué maravilloso!”

  Nita explained that her son spoke playground Spanish, especially when he got excited. “Maybe the puppies first,” she suggested, “then the cookies.”

  “Okay, off we go,” Grace said, and led TJ to the backyard, where a kennel held the Finches’ yellow Labrador bitch and her four offspring.

  Fitz and Nita waved goodbye and headed back to the car. “I wonder if we’ll be able to get him to leave,” said Fitz. “The Finches may just have to adopt him.”

  The service was not due to start for a quarter of an hour, but already the chapel’s small parking lot was overflowing, and cars were parked at Ashawagh Hall and along Amagansett Road and Fireplace Road. Finch spotted their Chevy and moved aside a sawhorse barrier so they could park in the reserved section.

  “We dropped TJ off at your place,” Fitz told him. “Thanks to Grace for looking after him, and for the invitation to dinner.”

  “Happy to have you,” said Finch. “Maybe you’ll have some more ideas about the Metzger business by the time we sit down tonight.”

  “I hope so,” said Nita. “I called the hospital this morning, and Kligman’s memory hasn’t improved. Until it comes back, we’re kind of grasping at straws.”

  “How about the lab report on the skin fragments?”

  “They’re still waiting for that, too. It can take up to a week.”

  Thirty-five.

  People later remarked that the day of the funeral was incongruously beautiful for such a sad occasion—one friend of the family called it a day for swimming and beach umbrellas, not for mourning. Even with the doors and windows open and a couple of large ceiling fans running on high, the chapel was oppressively hot.

  By the time Fitz and Nita squeezed in to stand at the back, there must have been a hundred people already in attendance. The children were fidgety, and the adults who had neglected to bring paper fans were using whatever they could find, including notices pulled off the bulletin board.

  The men wisely wore short-sleeved sports shirts and T-shirts, and Nita was relieved to see that the women were in summer clothing—cotton dresses or skirts, even a few in slacks, with sleeveless blouses or halter tops, none of them somber. The only exception was the elderly woman in the first pew on the right. They assumed she was Jackson’s mother, Stella, whose midnight-blue dress had doubtless seen other funerals. Flanked by three of her four surviving sons, she sat in silence as even more people tried to force their way inside and many others peered in through the open windows.

  Nita and Fitz recognized several of the people in attendance. In the row behind the Pollocks sat Alfonso with Jim, Charlotte, and Cile. Beside Cile was a tall man they guessed was her husband. Across the narrow aisle they spotted Tom Collins with his wife and son Mike, and Dan Miller with his family. Pete and Nina Federico from Jungle Pete’s were also there.

  Soberly dressed in a gray blouse and navy blue skirt, a solitary woman sat in the front left pew. Nita realized that she must be the deceased’s wife, Lee Krasner. Odd, Nita thought, why is she all on her own? If, God forbid, it were me at my husband’s funeral, I’d want my family beside me.

  Lee’s tactic was carefully calculated to insulate herself as much as possible. Her sister, brother-in-law, and their children were seated behind her instead of at her side. She was determined not to show any emotion, but in case her lips trembled or a tear escaped, her face would not be visible to the crowd and neither her family nor Jackson’s would see.

  She had chosen an expensive walnut casket. No one would be able to criticize her for skimping on Jackson’s send-off. Thank goodness Alfonso had offered to pay for it—she’d returned from Europe to find a mere $350 in their bank account. Of course she intended to pay him back, once the will was probated and she could start earning money from Jackson’s estate. But that would take a while, and she was wondering how she’d manage in the meantime.

  Maybe Irving would tide her over. He knew how much the estate was worth. The larger paintings were selling for thousands, and he had written the policy that covered them. If he could just help her get through the next few months, she would return his money with interest.

  Having delayed the service while the chapel filled to overflowing, at four forty-five Reverend George Nicholson stepped to the lectern beside the casket. The chatter in the room subsided.

  Never having met the deceased, the pastor was forced to rely on platitudes.

  “We are gathered here today to bid farewell to our neighbor Jackson. I am told he was a good man; a loving husband to Lee; a son who revered his mother, Stella; a proud brother of Charles, Jay, Frank, and Sanford; kind and generous to his many friends; and a great artist. As we commit his body to eternal rest, his spirit shall live on in his paintings and shall find everlasting life with Christ.”

>   Lee had let it be known that Nicholson would be the only one to speak—no spontaneous words from the floor would be permitted. Anyone with something to say could wait until they got to the cemetery. Frankly, given the heat and the crowd, everyone was relieved by that decision, yet many found it strange that Lee had chosen a clergyman to deliver the eulogy.

  Wasn’t Jackson an atheist? Or at least a nonbeliever? “Fuck all the God shit,” that’s what he’d said more than once. “Leave that to the Salvation Army.” How ironic that a man of God was about to close the book on him.

  The pastor opened the book and read from the New Testament, Romans 8—a singularly unfortunate choice of scripture.

  There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has made me free from the law of sin and death.

  For what the law could not do, in that it was weak through the flesh, God sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh, and for sin, condemned sin in the flesh: That the righteousness of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.

  For they that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit the things of the Spirit. For to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.

  He closed the book to a stunned silence. Not a single amen followed the reading.

  Reverend Nicholson punted. “Let us pray.”

  Many voices, some full-throated, others muted, joined his as he intoned the Lord’s Prayer. Fitz and Nita, both lapsed Catholics, recited the prayer quietly. Even those who did not speak bowed their heads. This time there was a chorus of amens at the end, and several people crossed themselves.

  Lee stood, marched down the aisle and out to where the hearse was waiting. She had remained dry-eyed and outwardly calm, even as stomach acid flooded her throat and her bowels churned. She’d been afraid her chronic colitis would act up, and sure enough it had, brought on by Nicholson’s embarrassing eulogy. What an idiot she had been to imagine that a minister would be the right choice. How could he go on about sinful flesh, when that was what got Jackson and that other little tramp killed? Christ Jesus, indeed! It would have served him right if Jackson had jumped up out of the coffin and decked him.

  People began to file out past Nita and Fitz, who were unobtrusively checking the men for telltale wounds. None were apparent, so they went outside to mingle with the crowd and see if they could spot anything on those who had watched through the windows. Only the Pollock family and Jim Brooks stayed behind. As he and Jackson’s brothers carried the casket to the hearse, Stella thanked the pastor for his comforting words, respectfully suspending her antipathy to organized religion and politely ignoring his biblical faux pas.

  The group gathered outside felt no such compunctions.

  “Carnally minded is right,” snorted Cile’s husband, Sheridan. “Screwing Ruth is all Jackson thought about, and talked about, for the past five months. Couldn’t get enough of her, or so he said. Wishful thinking is my guess. Just like his painting lately—all talk, no action.” There were murmurs of agreement, especially from the women, while some of the men were more willing to give Pollock the benefit of the doubt.

  Paul Brach, one of the younger artists who hung around him, genuinely looking up to him but also hoping to absorb some of his luster, upheld the majority opinion.

  “I’m inclined to agree with Sherry. He loved to brag, but when it came right down to it, I think it was bullshit. Were any of you at the Cedar Bar in January when we turned the tables on him?” Apparently no one in the group had been, giving Brach the green light to tell a story he relished.

  “A few of the boys were getting sick of him coming on to our wives and girlfriends, slobbering all over them and propositioning them, just to make us jealous and provoke a scene. He was good at that, loved to watch the girls squirm and the guys fume, maybe even take a slug at him. That was his idea of fun.

  “So we chipped in and hired a prostitute—a nice-­looking call girl, not a streetwalker. We told her what to expect, and how to react. We escorted her in, sat her down, bought her a drink, and acted like she was a new girlfriend. Sure enough, Jack takes the bait. He starts sweet-talking her and insulting us, calls us a bunch of fucking ass-kissers and second-rate followers of Jackson Pollock, the great genius in the studio and in bed. He says, come over to the Earle with me, honey, and I’ll show you why they all envy me.

  “We’d heard this line before, and it didn’t work on our real dates—as he knew it wouldn’t. But to his amazement, she says okay, I’ll get my coat. The look on Jack’s face was priceless. He mumbles something about having to go to the john and disappears. Poof, gone, just like that, apparently out through the kitchen. The whole table is in stitches.”

  The following week, much to everyone’s surprise, Pollock was back at the Cedar, carrying on as if nothing humiliating had happened to him. Brach surmised that, in the time-honored way of drunks, he had actually forgotten the incident. But the patrons of the bar had not, and there were snickers and snide remarks behind Pollock’s back—that is, until he latched onto Ruth, or rather she attached herself to him. Then the young bucks wanted to hit on his date.

  Thirty-six.

  “That was quite a performance,” said Fitz as he and Earl, each working on a can of Schlitz, sat at the Finches’ kitchen table while the women busied themselves preparing dinner. Grace had laid on a mess of bluefish, nicely scaled and gutted, which they were stuffing with breadcrumbs, onions, and fresh herbs from the garden.

  “I couldn’t hear what the reverend said, but I got an earful from the folks comin’ out,” Earl told him. “The ones who weren’t laughin’ their heads off were shakin’ ’em in disbelief. What did he say that got everybody so riled up?”

  Fitz gave him a summary. “He read from scripture about sinful flesh, a topic I’m sure Mrs. Pollock didn’t want raised under the circumstances. No doubt he didn’t mean to, but he rubbed her nose in it.”

  Just then TJ appeared in the doorway, with Sally at his heels. They both were peppered with twigs and leaves, and were panting in unison.

  “¡Mira lo que encontré!” TJ shouted, then apologized to his non-Spanish-speaking hosts. “Oh, sorry, I mean look what I found.” He held out his hand to Fitz and opened it to reveal a necklace of blue glass beads.

  “Where did you get this?” his father asked.

  “I found it in the woods. Grace said I could take Sally for a walk, but to stay off the road, so we went out behind the house. There are trails back there—it’s really neat. Grace said we wouldn’t get lost ’cause Sally knows her way home, so I just followed her. Pretty soon we got to a road and I started to turn back, but then I recognized it. It was where the accident happened—you can still see the skid marks. And a couple of little trees are all bent and broken where the car ran over them.”

  He stopped to catch his breath, and to see if his parents would disapprove of his returning to the scene, but they simply waited for him to continue. He couldn’t have known that his ramble would take him to Fireplace Road.

  “Sally was rooting around in the leaves, so I went over to look at what she was digging for and I found the necklace. I guess maybe it came off the dead lady that was under the car.”

  Fitz beamed at his son. “I think he has the makings of a detective. Just might be following in his mother’s footsteps.” He winked at Nita, who rolled her eyes.

  “Let’s have a look,” she said, and TJ handed her the necklace, which was crusted with dirt. “I don’t think we have to worry about fingerprints,” she said. “The only ones on there now will be TJ’s.” She took it to the sink and ran it under the tap. The beads sparkled in her hand.

  Grace spread a dishtowel on the table, and Nita laid the necklace on it. Everyone crowded around to
look. The clasp was broken, but the string was intact.

  “You could be right, TJ,” said Nita, “or maybe it was the other lady’s, the one in the hospital. Hmm, that gives me an idea.” She paused. “If I take this over to the hospital and show it to Ruth, maybe it will jog her memory.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes,” said Fitz, “but it’s worth a try if Doc Abel says it’s okay. You told me he wants her to stay calm, so here’s another maybe—maybe he won’t like the idea.”

  “One way to find out,” Earl said, and showed Nita to the phone in the front hall.

  Abel listened with interest to Nita’s proposal, but advised waiting until the next day.

  “Actually she looks worse—the bruises are turning yellow—but her overall condition has improved a lot. She’s resting nicely now, and I’ve taken her off the morphine, so she’s more coherent. I’ll check on her in the morning and let you know if I think she’s ready to be questioned again. I’ll call the Sea Spray after I finish my morning rounds.”

  Nita thanked him and rang off. Earl volunteered to drive her to Southampton if Abel gave her the go-ahead. “Just call headquarters and Fred will radio me,” he told her.

  Eager to pursue her inquiries discreetly, she asked him, “Did you say anything to Grace about the cause of Metzger’s death?”

  “No, I didn’t mention it, thought it was better not to. Wouldn’t want it gettin’ all over Bonac before we have more to go on.” Grace was one of the more active operators on the gossip hot line, so Earl generally kept his mouth shut when it came to police business, even if it was only petty crime. In a case like this, with a homicide victim and no suspects, it would be extremely unwise to encourage speculation.