Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

"That's one way of putting it. " He stroked his mustache. "Yeah, like a code name. I like that."

They had wandered back to the living room and Kathy sat on the sofa, pulling David down beside her. "But what if CANCAN is simply shorthand for both Turkish cities?" she asked.

As the possibility sunk in, David raised one eyebrow in a questioning slant and said, "C'mon, Kath, why go and complicate things?"

When David awoke early Friday morning, he was cold in bed and couldn't understand why he had slept so soundly until he recalled adding sweet vermouth to another double Canadian Club the night before. There was a misty remembrance, too, of poking at some kind of goulash, and, afterward, of admonishing Kathy that she would freeze in the nude. Everything else that may or may not have transpired was a blank.

Feeling dumb that he wore only shorts, he lifted the blankets and saw Kathy curled up and still nude. He kissed her awake and neither spoke as they did what he later referred to as "The thing they did or didn't do last night." He also called it, "Filling in the blank," and received Kathy's stoneface and sharp elbow.

After breakfast, David said, "I'm behind in my computer entries and look outside because there go the tire tracks."

Kathy regarded him critically. "Now that's a sentence for posterity. I hope your mind isn't as scrambled."

"Right now? Yes. Sorry, what I meant was … you know I like to keep a diary of sorts … who knows? It might come in handy someday … and I think I'll bring it up-to-date now. Second, more snow fell, maybe two inches, so now we can forget tire impressions from yesterday."

"That's better. I know your mind's awhirl, David darling, but you have to slow down. And while you're trying to figure out how, I'm calling headquarters to change Spritz's APB to an arrest warrant."

David went to his computer and Kathy to the phone. After making his entries, he called Musco at the cab company.

"I have a strange request," David said. "Do you know of anyone who's a handwriting expert?"

"Sure. She reads everything: handwriting, palms, faces. Name's Madame Alicenova over there in Center City. We call her Madame Alice for short or sometimes just Alice."

"It sounds like she does handwriting analysis. I need handwriting identification."

"What's the difference? You'll get your money's worth."

"One's a science. The other isn't. I don't want some guess about personality traits. I want a positive identification of something."

"Believe me, David, my boy, this gal knows her potatoes. Even the FBI uses her."

Reluctantly, David took down her address and phone number and said, "Musco, thanks much for referring me to a goddamn fortuneteller."

"You wait. You'll see."

David called and scheduled an appointment for later, at four-thirty. He had expected Madame Alicenova to ask for details but she didn't. He had expected to hear an accent but there was none.

At eight-thirty, he and Kathy decided she would skip Ted Tanarkle's funeral later that morning but would attend the noon reception at Alton and Nora Foster's. He would go to both.

As he motored to St. Xavier's Roman Catholic Church, David pictured a lighted sign swinging in a cavity of his brain. It read, "CARCAN and CANCAN." He concentrated on what the last three letters of each word could possibly stand for and whether they stood for the same thing. He said them aloud-"Canada? Canvas? Canal? Candy? Candidate?" — and thought that once they hauled Spitz in, he would throttle the answer out of him.

He also thought he was becoming most proficient in two things: whipping out his Minx semiautomatic and attending funerals. Even luncheon receptions after funerals. He had not gone to Tanarkle's wake, and, flashing back to the rifle barrel on the hillside, decided to forgo the cemetery scene as well. He wanted, however, to pay his respects to an old friend and mentor at the funeral mass and, of more importance, to see who was there, a sleuthing necessity that he was sure Tanarlde would understand.

It was a summery morning in January and David found the downtown church's parking lot stuffed with cars in uneven rows and with mourners he knew: white-clad residents, nurses in uniform, department heads, an administrative contingent, and every doctor and pathology employee he had ever met. He wondered who was minding the hospital as he pulled to a stop on a crusty side street.

By the time he arrived at the church steps, the crowd had thinned, and inside, he was given one of only two or three remaining seats in the largest and most ornate church in the city. It was a middle seat in the last row which David thought was just as well, for he would have felt embarrassed if he sat up close and blocked the view of not only the officiating priest but also the statues above the altar.

The air was thick with incense, and organ music was so loud, it drowned out its own echoes. David could see clear to the front and, as he eyed each row, was not surprised by anybody's attendance: the Tanarkle family, the Fosters, Belle, Sparky, Dr. Castleman from the E.R. But then, two rows ahead of his: Bernie Bugles and Marsha Gittings from Pathology. They sat side by side. Coincidence?

The attache case, Friday, grew heavy on David's lap. He had discovered all he could and was tempted to leave but reasoned it was too early for the luncheon anyway. He stayed seated until the casket was rolled out past him and he had bowed his head and whispered, "Bye, old buddy. I wish you peace." He miscalculated, thinking his would be the first row to be guided out. Instead, others preceded him and it was a full ten minutes before his turn, but only ten seconds since the unlikely couple left in a hurry. As they passed by, Bernie had Marsha by the arm and had glanced back at David.

David blasted out, hoping to intercept them before they arrived in the parking lot. But it was too late. He spotted them though and gained on them, reaching the early model Ford he recognized as Marsha's. Bernie was in the driver's seat and was about to close the door when David held it back with the full length of his body.

"Hi there," David said.

"Why, Dr. Brooks, hello," Marsha said from the passenger side.

David looked at one, then the other. "I didn't realize you two knew each other."

Bernie made a feeble attempt to close the door. "May I?" he said.

David didn't answer, nor did he move. Bernie slouched and exaggerated a stare out the windshield.

Finally, Bernie turned slowly and said, "I understand you sneaked into my father's place." He pulled up the collar of a patterned windbreaker.

"I didn't sneak in. Robert let me in."

"My brother's an idiot."

"That's not my fault. At least I didn't break in. On the other hand, did my brother let you in my place yesterday?" David was an only child.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bernie said, arching his back.

David glared at Bernie and had difficulty disregarding the possibility he had broken into his home. He wanted to drag him from the car and shake him into admission. Instead, he said, "Then how about this? Where do you keep your motorcycle?"

"I don't have a motorcycle, and what's with the third degree?" Bernie tried the door again.

David stood as solid as a nearby stanchion. "Okay," he said, "you don't have a motorcycle." He grinned at Marsha. "You're going to the reception, I assume?"

"Yes," she said.

"Good, I'll see you there." He released the door.

At Nora and Alton Foster's, David had left Friday in the car and, inside, swayed from foot to foot, itching to have the man in the ascot take his scarf and gloves. Barely in the door, he had to wait in one of three lines this time, and while he waited, harked back to the reception for Charlie Bugles when he thought the music, the noise, the liquor, the ostensible merriment were more suited to a political fundraiser. Not now, he observed, casting his eyes into the living room, over still heads and touching shoulders. Wagner replaced Gershwin, it was church quiet and there was no bartender. Even the sweet cakes he sampled from the table in the foyer tasted bland.