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  He climbed in, squeezing himself into the front seat. His wife began to protest, then shrugged and smiled wanly at Alan, who stood watching grimly with his arms folded.

  Homer tried winding down the window. The handle worked. He looked up at Alan. “Was Rosie a tall woman?”

  Alan shook his head. He didn’t have any idea.

  “Because the seat’s pushed pretty far back. The driver must have been fairly tall.”

  Homer tried the windshield wipers. They didn’t budge. He swabbed at the face of the clock. It showed the wrong time, but maybe it had never worked. The horn beeped. There was a tape deck, its black plastic surface bubbled by the heat. Homer touched a button, and a cassette slid out silently. The label was barely legible—it was a Haydn horn concerto—but the tape itself was congealed into black strings. He put the cassette back and tried the radio. At once a huge racket boomed out of the loudspeaker, an immense roar, SHE TOLE ME! SHE TOLE ME! SHE TOLE ME I-I-I WAS HER LOVER MAN! SHE TOLE ME! SHE TOLE ME!

  “Turn it off,” shrieked Mary. Homer turned it off, then sat staring at the radio dial in the pulsing silence. “You’d think she’d listen to one of the classical stations,” said Mary. “I mean, a girl with her musical background.”

  Alan put his pale face into the car and looked at the radio. “She would never have been tuned to that station. It’s hard rock all day long.”

  “But you didn’t know her,” Homer reminded him, looking him in the eye. “Maybe she liked all kinds of music.”

  “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Well, the fact is,” said Homer, struggling to get his big frame out of the car, “neither can I.”

  “Oh, Homer, look at you.” Mary made a feeble attempt to brush some of the black from his trousers, then laughed and gave up.

  Boozer Brown came back and grinned at them proudly, the lordly proprietor. “Hey, how you like it?”

  “Oh, fine, Boozer,” said Homer, “just fine. No, really, you’ve been a big help. Thanks so much.”

  On the way back to Boston, Homer waxed eloquent on the subject of the music in the air. “Here it is, all around us. I mean, look at it, the air looks empty, right? But it’s full of electromagnetic radiation billowing in all directions, and all you have to do is stick up a little wire and you can hear it. I mean, it’s not just radio stations, it’s short-wave messages from around the world, it’s cosmic rays, it’s random noises from outer space, and it’s all right here in this car.”

  “She wouldn’t have been listening to that station,” insisted Alan, who had a one-track mind. “There’s just no way she would have turned it on. Somebody else was driving.”

  When they dropped him at the corner of Russell Street, he galloped upstairs and called Barbara Inch.

  She was surprised by his question, but she knew the answer. “How tall was Rosie? Oh, not very tall, not very short. She was a couple of inches shorter than me. Five feet four, maybe? Why do you want to know?”

  “Oh, nothing special. Thanks, Barbara.”

  Five feet four, thought Alan with satisfaction. Too short for the seat of the burned Escort—and then he couldn’t help adding, but not too short for me.

  CHAPTER 29

  Ah, loving God, defer not thy coming. I await impatiently the day when the spring shall return.

  Martin Luther

  The fading winter continued to be dry. Homer and Mary began to hope they might creep through the rest of the season without a snowstorm if they kept their heads down. One Wednesday afternoon Homer arranged to meet Alan Starr and little Charley Hall in the Public Garden.

  “He certainly is a cute little guy,” said Homer, bending down to smile at Charley. Charley smiled back.

  Homer melted, feeling a pang at being childless himself, a twinge that came over him now and then. Fortunately the feeling vanished whenever other people’s children fought with their siblings or screamed in supermarkets. Mary and Homer had settled the matter long ago, telling themselves to look upon their shelf of books as offspring. The books weren’t cuddly and cute, but on the other hand they didn’t keep them awake at night and they weren’t about to be arrested on a drug charge. It was only when some particularly plump cherub came into view, gurgling cheerfully, chuckling when prodded, that Homer’s equilibrium was upset.

  Charley Hall was just such a child. Homer and Alan stood beaming down at him beside the duck pond, while pigeons waddled around them on pink feet, looking for handouts. Other pigeons flew over the pond and landed on the roof of the little Chinese temple. “Next month,” said Homer, “the swan boats will be out of drydock. I’ll take him for a ride.”

  They started around the pond. “Tell me about autopsies,” said Alan, pushing the buggy along the asphalt path. “Suppose the burned body hadn’t been cremated? Could they have identified it, even when it was all charred like that?”

  “Oh, yes. They can determine how the skull corresponds with photographs, and how the teeth compare with dental records. And what’s more—”

  “Wait a minute.” Alan swerved the stroller out of the way while a flock of small children toddled past, roly-poly in their snowsuits, sporting orange tags. They were led by a stout young woman in a purple jacket. Another woman held hands with two of the children in the middle, and a third brought up the rear.

  Alan waved at the woman in the purple jacket, and explained to Homer as the small crowd trudged by, “It’s Ruth Raymond, from the new daycare center in the church. All those little kids spend the day in the basement.”

  Ruth Raymond was blowing a whistle, shouting at her charges. “Okay, you guys, time to feed the ducks.” The little kids shrieked with joy and followed her to the shore of the pond. At once a fleet of mallards paddled up to them, expecting to be fed.

  One of the children clung to Ruth Raymond’s legs. Homer had seen the little girl before. It was Martin Kraeger’s daughter Pansy.

  “Where was I?” he said. “Oh, I was going to say there are ways you can tell whether or not a person was killed by smoke inhalation and fire, or if she was already dead when the fire occurred.”

  “You can?” Alan turned the stroller so that Charley could see the ducks. The three women were passing around a bag of bread crumbs, and the children were throwing handfuls into the water with delighted cries.

  “They test the blood and see if it contains carbon monoxide from inhaling the fumes, and look for soot in the air passages and for vital reactions in cutaneous burns. It’s tricky, but a good pathologist knows how to do it.”

  “I see,” said Alan. “You mean the body in the car might have been dead before the car burned up? Somebody might have put the corpse in the car and set fire to the whole thing?”

  “That’s right, only now we’ll never know, because it was cremated before the pathologist could get his hands on it. I must say, it seems a little strange. You know, I’ve got a morbid fascination with morgues, cadavers in drawers, labels on frozen toes, dissecting tables, livers plopped onto steel trays. The pathologist said it was a regrettable mistake, but you can’t help but wonder.”

  Alan trundled the stroller to the edge of the pond. “See the ducks, Charley? Ducks, Charley, ducks.”

  Charley obligingly said his second word, “Doggy!”—embracing all zoological species under one stupendous heading, and they laughed.

  “Just a minute, guys,” cried Ruth Raymond, “Pansy needs the ladies’ room,” and she went rushing off, dragging Pansy by the hand.

  “It’s time to take Charley back,” said Alan. Turning the stroller, he led Homer across the bridge and along the path in the direction of Charles Street. Above them the tall trees were still leafless. They bore signs, Ulmus Hollandica Belgica, Fagus sylvatica. Alan stared at the path, then glanced sideways at Homer. “Do you believe Rosie really said she wanted to be cremated?”

  “I don’t know. Who called the morgue and told them that? It wasn’t either of her great-aunts.”

  “I’ll tell you why I don’t believe she said it. S
he was young. I mean, she was about my age, and I never give the matter a thought. Oh, I can see you might start thinking about it at your age, Homer, but I’m only twenty-nine.”

  Homer took the insult graciously. “Well, maybe she was more philosophical than you are, Alan, and she had a skull on her desk like St. Jerome, and contemplated her own end, the terminus ad quem, the last days, the final judgment, the eschatological conclusion to—”

  “Oh, Homer, I don’t think she’d think of stuff like that. I doubt she said anything to anybody about it at all. Somebody wanted the body cremated before it was examined, so they wouldn’t discover that it wasn’t Rosalind Hall, it was somebody else.”

  “So this mysterious person called the morgue and told them it was what she wanted, is that it? And then it was just good luck that they made a mistake and got the stiffs mixed up and cremated her anyway?” Homer shook his head doubtfully, and reached for the stroller. “My turn now.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The devil does not need all the good tunes for himself.

  Martin Luther

  Next morning, lying in bed in the dawn light, Alan tried to put the lost Rosie in the back of his mind. But she kept surging forward, sometimes as a woman on fire in a blazing car, sometimes as a dreaming image in a filmy nightgown like the one in her bedroom closet, sometimes as an ordinary girl in a flannel bathrobe brushing her teeth somewhere right now. At last, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he told himself he had no choice but to depend on Homer Kelly’s inquisitive nose.

  At the moment he had enough to do on his own—practicing for Sunday services in the Church of the Commonwealth, voicing the organ, repairing a gasping wind chest in King’s Chapel, adding a rank of Krummhorns to the organ at Annunciation, and now there was this daunting new undertaking, the rehabilitation of Harold Oates.

  Alan was trying to arrange a series of concerts for the great man, beginning at Commonwealth. And maybe the Boston Globe would do a story on his musical resurrection. Come to think of it, why shouldn’t there be appearances on television? Then, pulling on his clothes, Alan changed his mind about television. Better not. Much better not.

  This morning Oates was to face his first challenge. He was to play for Edith Frederick. The all-powerful Mrs. Frederick would decide whether or not to grant Oates a festive, well-advertised concert, a celebration welcoming back into the world the most distinguished organist in the United States since E. Power Biggs. Her decision would have to be rubberstamped by the other members of the Music Committee, but the deciding voice was always that of the Great Provider of All Funding.

  The man would have to look respectable. Once again Alan ransacked his closet, looking for something tweedy. He pulled out a gray suit he had bought in college for a court appearance on a pot charge, six years back. He had never worn it since.

  It didn’t look too bad, although there was a moth hole on the collar of the jacket. Alan groped in his bureau drawer and found a tin button with the legend, SAVE OUR RIVERS. He pinned it over the hole. He found an Oxford-cloth shirt and a regimental necktie, more gifts from his ever-hopeful mother. At the last minute he threw a shoe-polishing kit into the paper bag and set off for the Church of the Commonwealth.

  He had arranged to meet Oates fifteen minutes before the appointment with Mrs. Frederick, but Oates was late. “Overslept,” he said jauntily, showing yellow teeth. Two were conspicuously missing. He looked awful. Alan rushed him into the men’s room and made him take off his loud shirt and sleazy polyester pants. Oates fumbled with the shirt buttons and protested.

  “Look, do you want a concert here or don’t you?” Alan grinned, remembering scenes like this with his mother. “Let’s see your shoes. Christ, Mr. Oates, where are your socks? Oh, God, I didn’t bring any socks. Here, you can have mine.”

  Alan whipped off his shoes and tore off his socks. Oates put the socks on reluctantly, while Alan gave his shoes a quick swipe with the polishing kit. “Now, let’s take a look at you. God, you look like a stockbroker.” Alan laughed, wishing there were some way to spruce up the sagging face, the wicked little eyes, the hideous grin with its missing teeth. “The next thing we’ve got to do is get a dentist to fill in those gaps.”

  “Damn you,” said Oates.

  Mrs. Frederick was waiting for them on the balcony, graciously pretending they weren’t late.

  “Sorry,” said Alan. He introduced Oates to her again, then hustled him onto the organ bench, hoping to keep silent the vile tongue of his great protégé. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Mrs. Frederick sat down nervously and gripped the clasp of her handbag, as Oates pulled out stops and began to play. There had been an argument over the music. Alan had nagged him into performing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” because he guessed it would be familiar to Mrs. Frederick. Oates had objected. “Oh, for shit’s sake, why not the C Major Prelude and Fugue? Something every kindergarten kid can’t play while wiping the snot off his nose?”

  “Look, all we’re doing right now is persuading one old woman. I tell you, Mr. Oates, this is what will do it.”

  Oates played it briskly, without sentimental languishing. The triplets danced up and down, his shiny shoes moved with certainty up and down the pedals, and at the beginning of the cantus firmus the Spire Flute and Violin Diapason serenely played their part. With a wink at Alan, Oates added a light Mixture and pulled out the stop that promised Divine Inspiration.

  As he finished, Alan glanced at Mrs. Frederick. It was clear that she was overcome. “Oh, Mr. Oates,” she said, rising from her chair, “that was simply magnificent.”

  Oates slid off the bench and lunged toward her. “Kind of makes you shit your pants, right?”

  Alan closed his eyes, but Mrs. Frederick seemed not to have heard. She beamed. “Of course I have to bring it before the Music Committee, but I know they’ll agree. We must pick a date. We must advertise and let everyone know.”

  Alan saw her out to the street, singing the praises of Oates on the way. To his surprise he saw that she was looking down and frowning. Perhaps Oates had insulted her after all. But as she said goodbye the truth came out. She wasn’t dissatisfied with Harold Oates, she was disappointed in Alan Starr. “Really, Alan, I’m shocked. Coming out without your socks! It won’t do, dear, it just won’t do.”

  CHAPTER 31

  By these monstrosities I am driven beyond modesty and decorum.

  Martin Luther

  Like Alan Starr, Mary Kelly was rummaging through her closet. In her case it was a matter of finding a new persona. She had sent away to the Morgan Memorial her jacket with the silver buttons, the one that was so much like Mrs. Frederick’s, along with her pleated skirt and her shoes with the pompoms. Everything else in the closet now seemed suspect. Her entire wardrobe was excessively respectable.

  Abandoning the closet she looked through her dresser drawers and pulled out a snaky black garment and a pair of black tights. On the floor of Homer’s closet she found a pair of black sneakers that had once belonged to her nephew John. As a last touch she twisted a red bandanna around her forehead.

  In the meantime Homer was on the phone, trying to find the cranny of the Boston Police Department in which Rosalind Hall’s burned pocketbook was lurking, along with its identifying credit cards and driver’s license. After eight calls, he succeeded.

  “The faceless bureaucracy has yielded up its secrets,” he told his wife as she came out of the bedroom. Then his jaw dropped. “My God, woman, what’s that?”

  Mary hunched down and hurried past him, heading for the kitchen. “Oh, it’s just my new outfit.”

  “My dear, you look like a pirate.”

  “Good. Just so I don’t look like that woman at church the other day. You know, Mrs. Frederick.”

  “My dear, if there’s anyone on earth you do not resemble, it’s Mrs. Frederick.”

  “Will you be ashamed to be seen with me?”

  “Good Lord, no. My insane wife, I’ll say, and everyone will
nod their heads and smile and be kind to me, saddled as I am with an unsuitable mate.”

  “Oh, Homer, you do see, don’t you? You see what I mean?”

  “Of course I do, my darling.” Homer embraced her. “And I don’t care what you wear. You always outqueen everybody else, just by being yourself. Damn them all.” He backed off and looked at her again. “It’s true, you look really swashbuckling. All you need is a cutlass. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Oh, no, thank you, Homer.” Mary made nervous dashes around the room, collecting coat, bag, car keys. “I’m going to lunch with Ham Dow. He’s invited some of the women faculty to lunch.”

  “You’re having lunch with the president of Harvard?”

  Mary looked down at herself again. “Oh, don’t worry. Professor Dalhousie will be wearing her shroud, like Emerson’s aunt, and Jane Plankton will be there in a velvet gown, the one that trails along the floor, and Julia Chamberlain will be wearing something smashing. I couldn’t wear my prim little Johnny Appleseed outfit in that company. Thank God, I’ve burst out of my chrysalis at last.”

  “Well, congratulations, Mary dear. The butterfly flaps her wings.”

  The Evidence Locker for the Boston Police Department was housed in a building on Berkeley Street. Homer found the right door and walked in and put his hands on the counter and smiled ingratiatingly at the police officer in charge, a shapeless woman with dull eyes and a gray face.

  Her voice was flat. “You got a form?”

  “Yes, I do.” Homer produced his request for AUTO FIRE 986702, Exhibit H, Rosalind Hall, deceased victim; handbag. The form was signed by Francis Xavier Powers, District Attorney of Suffolk County.

  “Just a minute.” The woman strolled out of the room with the form. From the next office he could hear her in lively conversation. She had been on a winter cruise. There had been dancing and shuffeboard, a shipboard romance. Homer heard envious squeals. At last the gray woman came back and dumped a large plastic bag on the counter. A tag was attached, CHAIN OF POSSESSION OF EVIDENCE, with the signatures of the several officials through whose hands it had passed.