Max Collins - No Cure for Death

“Not bad. Wait’ll you see what I brought back with me.”

Rita elbowed me, but in a nice way.

John said, “Listen, I got to get back to the table before certain parties get wise. I know you were trying to corner Brennan last night and this morning-well, now’s your chance. He’s stuffing his face right now, and if you hurry over here you’ll be able to catch him.”

“Be right over.” I slammed the receiver into the hook.

Rita’s eyes said, “What?”

I said, “The town sheriff’s finally available.”

“You gonna go talk to him?”

“Yeah. You want to wait here for me?”

She nodded, eyes wide.

“This’ll give you some time to think about that phone call.”

“Okay, Mal.”

“More beer in the fridge. But don’t get bombed, I heard how you people get when you get bombed. Or is that Indians?”

“Mal.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll have the call made by the time you get back. Either that or I’ll be ready to go home.”

I nodded. “Either way, kid,” I said, and stroked her shoulder, got up, grabbed my jacket and headed out to the Rambler.

Brennan choked on a bite of pumpkin pie when he saw me come in. He was the only one left sitting at the table eating; John and Lori’s husband Frank were sitting on the floor in the far left-hand corner of the room watching yet another football game. John looked up as I entered and started to rise, but I motioned at him to stay put. Lori pulled out one of the empty chairs at the table and told me to sit. I did, and she brought me a big slice of pie with a heap of whipped cream on it.

“Hey, this is unnecessary,” I said.

“You better eat it before Brennan does,” she said. “He’s on his third piece.”

“I all of a sudden lost my appetite,” Brennan said, and got up and went out into the kitchen.

I sat and ate my pie. I didn’t hurry. John came over and I told him about Rita and also about Stefan Norman. Then I thanked Lori for the pie and got up and went after Brennan.

He was sitting at the kitchen table smoking. He was wearing a blue sport shirt and tan slacks and seemed insecure out of uniform.

I sat down by him. “Got something against me, Brennan? I get this weird feeling you been trying to duck me.”

“I got a lot against you,” he said, sucking nervously on his cigarette, “not the least of which is you’re a goddamn pain in the ass.”

“I been trying since last night to see you.”

“I didn’t know that, or I’d come running.”

“You going to tell me about Phil Taber, or do we play games?”

“You’re the one playing games, Mallory. You’re the mystery story writer playing private eye. And you’re going to get your butt burned doing it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus Christ, Mallory. It’s Thanksgiving, for God’s sake. Can’t a man have some peace Thanksgiving, spend a little time with his relatives and have some peace?”

“ Some people get peace imposed on them.”

“They die, you mean. Yeah, that happens to people.”

“Sometimes they get killed.”

“And sometimes they’re in accidents. See? You’re playing games again, Mallory, it’s you who’s playing games.”

“Tell me about Phil Taber.”

“What about him? He came to town because his wife was dead. He left. What about him?”

“You told John no immediate member of the family was available to okay the autopsy, that you got the court’s permission to do it. Obviously it was Taber’s permission you got, not the court’s.”

Brennan shrugged.

“Why’d you lie to John about it?”

“Because he’d tell you about it. Because he’d tell you about it and you’d go running after this poor guy and hound him in his… his, you know, hour of grief.”

“Hour of grief, hell. I’d find out he was a doper, you mean.”

“That wasn’t it at all.”

“Why didn’t you bust him? You aren’t exactly known for being soft on dopers around here.”

“I won’t claim I didn’t realize he was a user, but he was from out of town, and doing us a favor, and it was a delicate time for him and he was told if he’d stay clean while he was in town and leave by the next morning, there wouldn’t be no trouble.”

Lori came in from the living room, clearing dishes off the table in there, and started stacking them up by the sink. Brennan gave me eye signals to keep my voice down.

I said, “What about Janet Taber’s mother? Mrs. Ferris. And don’t say, ‘What about her?’”

“She was buried yesterday. So was her daughter.”

“Buried?”

“The girl’s husband paid to have them buried out at Greenwood Cemetery. Didn’t have funerals for them, but I understand he laid out quite a sum for having some real nice stones put up for them.”

“Nice stones. Phil Taber arranged all that?”

“He had a lot of money, and he was wearing a nice suit, and he seemed pretty straight, outside of that long hair and the pot smell on him. The nice suit didn’t fool me, though. I knew what he was. He needed a bath.”

“Are you looking into the mother’s death?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is Mrs. Ferris was beaten half to death before she was burned up in that house.”

“That was the girl’s story. Told to you. That makes it hearsay by the time it’s reached my ears.”

“Don’t screw around with me, Brennan. A doctor up at the University Hospital told that to Janet. Check up there and you’ll find out.”

“Why should I? I don’t go nosing for trouble like some people I know. It comes my way, fine, I take care of it, otherwise I leave well enough. Believe you me, I got plenty on my hands just taking care of what comes my way.”

“My God. What about the house? It was arson, wasn’t it?”

“That isn’t the way the fire chief sees it. Chief Nelson and his people looked into it yesterday morning and traced it down to some old papers and rags and cans of old paint out on the back porch. The building was a firetrap, too, one of them old wooden jobs, must’ve been near fifty, hundred years old.”

“Brennan.”

“What?”

“Are you covering up for somebody?”

Brennan bit down on his cigarette and gave me that practiced slow look of his and said, “I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t say that.”

“Then I’ll have to say it again: are you covering up?”

“Before I break you in half, Mallory, how about you tell me just who I’d be covering up for?”

“Simon Norman, maybe. Stefan Norman? Both of ’em?”

“Come off it.”

“You come off it. It’s no secret the Normans controlled local politics for a long time, at least while Richard Norman was alive. Maybe they still do. Norman money, anyway.”

“Don’t you believe them fairy tales. You probably run across that shaggy dog about how old man Norman’s supposed to be back of all the businesses in town. That’s bull, all of it, bull.”

“I saw Phil Taber last night.”

“Good for you.”

“He had five thousand dollars in his billfold.”

“He did?” Brennan sat up, tried to cover his show of surprise by getting rid of his old cigarette and replacing it with a fresh one. “So what?”

“Where would Phil Taber get five thousand dollars?”

“How should I know? I don’t know anything about him. Yesterday was the first and last time I ever seen him and that was for about ten minutes.”

“The Normans could afford something like that, if they were buying him off. What would five thousand be to them? What did Phil Taber tell you in that ten minutes you spent with him? Outside of giving permission for the autopsy.”