Chapter 7-2
1229 Words
I hurried back to Frank’s viewing room, where Garrett was waiting for me, and so were more well-wishers.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Go to the Farriers’ room and look at the display case. I’ll explain later.”
“It’s a weird request, but okay.” He patted my arm. “I think you’d do better to ask for a scotch.”
“Better not now.” Considering what I just saw, I wanted to keep a clear head.
* * * *
An hour or so later, we were walking across the slushy parking lot, Garrett allowing me to take his arm under the pretense that he was supporting me—not that I was protecting him from a fall.
We were talking about the tea set. And Claire Farrier. When Garrett had returned from the Farriers’ room, we’d agreed not to discuss it until we were alone.
“Interesting how Claire was pushing Gregg Grolier about the cremation,” he said.
“Wasn’t it.” I took a breath. “I don’t like what I’m thinking.”
“I don’t either.”
“Garrett, tell me I’m crazy. That this is some kind of new-widow paranoia.”
“I don’t think it is.” He met my gaze squarely. “I looked at that tea set and came to the same conclusion you did. And you’re the expert.”
“Well, then, I’d better make a phone call.” Joe Poli was a little surprised to hear what I had to say, but he didn’t dismiss it.
* * * *
Two days later, Garrett and I were walking into Grolier’s ahead of Frank’s funeral. We arrived early to get ready for the service; Ed and Henry would be coming right on time. We wanted to protect Henry as much as we could.
In the entrance hall, Gregg Grolier was talking to a man and a woman in plain dark suits. “Major Crimes,” Garrett whispered. He would know. Before Ed and Garrett married, Ed spent twenty years on the state police, retiring as a detective. He still kept in touch with his old buddies, including the very kind detective who’d called me after I spoke with Joe Poli. My connection to Ed had carried at least as much weight as my professional expertise when I explained my concerns.
“The woman’s Mary Wingfield, Ed’s trainee his last year.” Garrett gave her a quick nod.
“Well, doesn’t that make life interesting,” I replied.
A sharp rush of air, the sound of the smooth automatic door being roughly pulled open, made us turn to see Claire Farrier marching in, apparently loaded for bear.
“Even more interesting,” Garrett said. Gregg and the detectives turned too.
Claire Farrier didn’t seem to register Garrett and me, or the detectives. She was on a mission to confront Gregg.
“Well?” she snapped. “When will it be done?”
“Mrs. Farrier,” Gregg began in his most soothing tone, “I told you it might take longer.”
“I don’t care about your Presidents’ Day holdup. This needs to be done, and we need to have the service. Now.”
Mary Wingfield and her partner exchanged glances.
“Mrs. Farrier,” Gregg tried again. “This isn’t the time.”
“Don’t tell me about the time,” she snapped. “You need to get this done.”
“Uh, ma’am?” Wingfield asked.
Only now did Claire Farrier notice the detectives.
“What?” She tossed off the syllable with a dismissive glance.
“We’re here from State Police Major Crimes, and as it happens, we’d like to talk to you about your grandmother’s death.”
“You can’t think I—”
“Ma’am,” the male detective said, “we have the autopsy results.”
“Autopsy?” Claire paled. “There’s been no autopsy.”
“There has now.”
“You had no right.”
“We had every right when we have reason to believe a death didn’t happen naturally,” Wingfield said, staring her down.
“You can’t think…There must be some kind of mistake. Why would I—” Claire shook off the hand Wingfield tried to put on her arm.
“You are mistaken, young woman!” she snapped. “I had no reason to harm my grandmother.”
“The tea set.”
Everyone turned to me. Frank always said my voice carried. I liked to think it was a good lecture-hall voice. Whatever it was, I had their attention.
“It’s more than three hundred years old,” I said calmly. “It’s priceless, and more than enough motivation for murder. To the right person.”
Mary Wingfield shot me a tiny smile before turning back to Claire. “And then there was your push to speed the cremation. That bothered a couple of concerned citizens. Even before today.”
“I am the custodian of the body.” Claire huffed.
One of Gregg Grolier’s bushy blond brows flicked. Just another concerned citizen.
“Fine,” she snapped. “We’ll straighten this out with my lawyer.”
Mary Wingfield took her arm. “Good choice.”
Claire sniffed.
Wingfield nodded to me. “Thank you.”
“Glad to do what I can to help.” I took a breath. The sight of Claire and the knowledge of what she’d done—especially right now—made my stomach lurch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go bury my husband.”
* * * *
A few days later, Garrett and I were going through the sympathy cards when a business-size bright-white envelope fell out of the pile. The name “Poli” was written in a bold hand in midnight-blue ink over the State’s Attorney’s Office address. Inside, an actual handwritten note in the same strong, but very legible, print:
Dear Dr. Shaw,
Just wanted to thank you for coming forward.
I’m sure it was incredibly difficult in the midst of your grief, but please know you’ve helped a family get justice. I knew your husband well enough to know that he’d be glad you did.
Joe Poli
He was right. Frank would have been proud. My eyes filled. “Oh, hell.”
“What?” Garrett asked. I handed him the note, too choked up to speak.
Wry smile. “He’s right, you know.”
“Yep.” All I could manage.
“Good going, kid. If you have to go through hell, at least you did the right thing along the way.”
“Yeah.” I coughed, shook my head. “It doesn’t help much right now.”
“But it will. Promise.”
“I have to believe that.”
“You okay?” Garrett asked.
“No.” I took a breath. “But I will be.”
Kathleen Marple Kalb describes herself as an Author/Anchor/Mom…not in that order. An award-winning weekend anchor at New York City’s 1010 WINS Radio, she writes short stories and novels including the upcoming Old Stuff mystery, The Stuff of Murder, from Level Best Books. Her stories have been published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, online, and in anthologies. She lives with her husband and son in a Connecticut house owned by their cat.
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