Colleen McCullough - Too Many Murders

“Hi,” said Carmine, coming to peck her rouged cheek and put her into a chair. “You look great, Netty.”

She preened. “Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”

“Coffee?”

“No, thanks, I can’t stay, I’m on my way to a women’s lib meeting in Buffo’s wine cellar.” She giggled. “Lunch and a good Italian red as well as lots of dirt.”

“I didn’t know you were a feminist, Netty.”

“I’m not,” she said, and snorted. “What I am into is equal pay for equal work.”

“How can I help?” Carmine asked, genuinely baffled.

“Oh, you can’t! I’m not here for that . I’m here because I remembered hearing Danny say you and yours were looking for people who attended the Maxwell Foundation banquet.”

“You were there yourself, Netty.”

“I was, at John’s table. None of us knew a thing about what you were looking for, I remember that.” She plunged off on an apparent tangent. “You know the Lovely Peace funeral home?”

“Who doesn’t? Bart must have buried half of East Holloman.”

“The half that matters, anyway.”

He was intrigued; this was typical Simonetta, a perfectionist at the art of gossip. Drop crumbs on the water and gather all the ducks, then produce your shotgun, that was Simonetta.

“He hasn’t been the same since Cora died,” Netty said.

“They were a devoted couple,” Carmine said gravely.

“Such a pity he didn’t have a son to take over the business! Daughters are well and good, but they never seem to want to follow in Pop’s footsteps.”

“Except, as I recollect, Netty, the older one’s husband is a mortician who has taken over Bart’s business.”

“Don’t let Bart hear you call him a mortician! He likes the old description-undertaker.”

Carmine had had enough. “Netty, where are you going?”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there! It’s eighteen months since Cora died, and Bart’s daughters worry about him,” Netty said, determined to pursue her own convoluted course. “They let him alone for the first six months, but when he didn’t start to get out and around, they pushed him. He got nagged into going to the Schumann whenever there was a new show in town, to the Chubb Rep season, the movies, public meetings-the poor old guy got no peace.”

“Are you leading up to informing me that he was at the Maxwell banquet?” Carmine asked.

She looked crestfallen. “Gosh, Carmine, you’re impatient! But okay, Bart’s daughters nagged him into buying a plate for the Maxwell banquet.” She cheered up. “I was talking to his younger daughter yesterday, and she said something about Bart’s being at the banquet. Seems he didn’t have a good time, at least when he sat down at some table he told Dolores was full of drunks and weirdos. We were sitting next to each other in Gloria’s beauty parlor, and Dolores mentioned this after I asked how Bart was doing.” She grinned. “I got a blow by blow description of Bart’s progress, we had plenty of time waiting for the lotion to set.” She got up, gathering her sweater, her car keys and her pink plastic pocketbook. “Gotta go, Carmine, gotta go! You go see Bart. Maybe he can help.”

And off she went, almost colliding with Delia in the doorway.

“Goodness! Who was that?” Delia asked.

“Danny Marciano’s wife, Simonetta. One of the most valuable resources the Holloman PD owns. In fact, if the FBI could tap into her, their worries would be over.” Carmine consulted his watch. “Nearly lunchtime. Could you find me a number for Joseph Bartolomeo, please, Delia? And an address.”

As Carmine remembered the proprietor of the Lovely Peace funeral home, he had lived in a very nice house next to his place of business, both conveniently located a reasonable walk or a short hearse ride from St. Bernard’s Catholic church. But after his wife’s death he had handed the business over to his son-in-law and bought a condominium apartment in Carmine’s old spot, the Nutmeg Insurance building just yards down Cedar Street from County Services.

After some thought, Carmine decided to have Delia make the call inviting the undertaker to lunch at Malvolio’s. He was at home, and had no hesitation in accepting.

By the time Carmine walked into Malvolio’s his guest was installed in a booth at the far end of the big diner, sipping at a mug of coffee Minnie had already produced. Though his name was Joseph Bartolomeo, everyone who knew him called him Bart, and it suited him, having few connotations of ethnic background or physical type. The world was full of Joes, from Stalin to McCarthy, Carmine reflected, but of Barts there were far fewer. Now approaching seventy, Bart looked any age from fifty to eighty, for he had an Alec Guinness quality of anonymity that meant people failed to remember what he looked like or how he behaved. His physique was ordinary, his face was ordinary, his coloring was ordinary, his manner was ordinary. Which had been great assets for an undertaker, that self-effacing person who conscientiously cares for the beloved dead, organizes and supervises their obsequies, and leaves not a trace of himself behind to mar the last memories.

“Bart, how are you?” Carmine asked, sliding into his side of the booth and holding out a hand.

Yes, even his grip was ordinary: neither too limp nor too firm, neither too dry nor too moist.

“I’m well, Carmine,” Bart said with a smile.

It wasn’t necessary to offer him condolences a year and a half old; Carmine had been at Cora’s funeral. “Let’s have our lunch, then we’ll talk,” he said. “What’s your fancy?”

“Minnie says the special’s good-brisket. I think I’ll have that, and rice pudding to follow,” Bart said.

Carmine ordered a Luigi Special salad with Thousand Island dressing. With no Desdemona at home to cook ruinous dinners, he could revert to his bachelor meals.

They ate with enjoyment, passing the time as old East Hollomanites did. Only after Minnie had cleared the pudding bowls away did Carmine become serious.

“I had a visit from Netty Marciano this morning,” he said, “and she told me that you were at the Maxwell banquet. Is that right, Bart?”

“Yes, I bought a plate. It was real well organized, but I didn’t enjoy it much, at least at first,” Bart said.

“Take me through it, I need to know.”

“Well, I was supposed to be at a table of friends, but when I got there I found out the rest had canceled-the gastric bug. So they sat me with five dentists and four wives-the odd dentist was a woman who turned her back on me. I didn’t know one of them. They had a great time, I had a lousy time.” Bart sighed. “That’s the trouble with going anywhere on your own. And with being an undertaker. The minute people ask you what you do for a crust, they look at you as if you’re Boris Karloff.”

“I’m sorry,” Carmine said gently.

“When the dessert was cleared, I decided to look for a better place to sit,” Bart went on in his soft, anything but ordinary voice. “My first try was a flop-Dubrowski the lawyer and some lawyer pals from out of town. They all talked about business, whether the clients would tolerate a raise in fees, that kind of thing. I didn’t stay past telling them I was an undertaker and getting the Boris Karloff treatment.”

“Lawyers are the pits,” Carmine said with feeling.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bart paused, furrowing an already furrowed brow.

“Where did you go next?”

“To a weird table-really, really weird! Four women and four men, but it was hard to believe that any of them were friends. One guy was a Chubber who looked down his nose at all the others-I remember he called them Philistines. One guy was so fat-I thought it wouldn’t be long before he needed a funeral home. The same for an old lady who had breathing problems and a blue tinge under her nails. A few of them were drunk, I mean really drunk, especially a tall, thin, dark guy who sat with his nose in a glass of strong booze, drinking away. There was a pretty girl who looked out of her depth, and a woman who looked so tired I thought she was going to go to sleep with her head on the table. I don’t think she was drunk, just tired. I knew the fourth woman because everyone knows her-Dee-Dee the whore. What she was doing there, I can’t even imagine.”