“John Daggett was the biggest asshole who ever lived so get it straight!” came the jeering voice again. Heads whipped around. Lovella had gotten to her feet near the back. The people turned to stare, their faces blank with amazement.
She was drunk. She had the little bitty pink eyes that suggest some high-grade marijuana toked up in addition to the booze. Her left eye was still slightly puffy, but the bruising had lightened up to a mild yellow on that side and she looked more like she was suffering from an allergy than a rap up the side of the head from the dead man. Her hair was the same blonde bush I remembered, her mouth a slash of dark red. She’d been weeping copiously and her mascara was speckled under her lower lids like soot. Her skin was splotchy, her nose hot pink and running. For the occasion she’d chosen a black sequined cocktail dress, low cut. Her breasts looked almost transparent and bulged out like condoms inflated as a joke. I couldn’t tell if she was weeping out of rage or grief and I didn’t think this crowd was prepared to deal with either one.
I was already headed toward the rear. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Billy Polo make a beeline toward her on the far side of the tent. The minister had figured out by now that she was not on his team and he shot a baffled look at Mr. Sharonson, who motioned the ushers to take charge. We all reached her just about at the same time. Billy grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms back. Lovella flung him off, kicking like a mule, yelling “Fuck-heads! You scum-sucking hypocrites!” One usher snagged her by the hair and the other took her feet. She shrieked and struggled as they carried her toward the road. I followed, glancing back briefly. Barbara Daggett was obscured by the mourners who’d stood up for a better look, but I saw that Marilyn Smith was loving every trashy minute of Lovella’s performance.
By the time I reached Lovella, she was lying in the front seat of Billy Polo’s Chevrolet, hands covering her face as she wept. The doors were open on both sides of the car and Billy knelt by her head, shushing and soothing her, smoothing her rain-tangled hair. The two ushers exchanged a look, apparently satisfied that she was under control at that point. Billy bristled at their intrusion.
“I got her, man. Just bug off. She’s cool.”
Coral came around the car and stood behind him, holding the umbrella. She seemed embarrassed by Billy’s behavior, uncomfortable in the presence of Lovella’s excess. The three of them formed an odd unit and I got the distinct impression that the connection between them was more recent than Billy’d led me to believe.
The graveside service, I gathered, was drawing to a close. From the tent came the thin, discordant voices of the mourners as they joined in an a cappella hymn. Lovella’s sobs had taken on the intensity of a child’s-artless, unselfconscious. Was she truly grieving for Daggett or was something else going on?
“What’s the story, Billy?” I said.
“No story,” he said gruffly.
“Something’s going on. How’d she find out about his death? From you?”
Billy laid his face against her hair, ignoring me.
Coral shifted her gaze to mine. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“How about you, Coral? You want to talk about it?” Billy shot her a warning look and she shook her head.
Murmurs and activity from the tent. The crowd was breaking up and people were beginning to move toward us.
“Watch your head. I’m closing the car doors,” Billy said to Lovella. He shut the door on the driver’s side and moved around the front to catch the door on the passenger side. He paused with his hand on the handle, waiting for her to pull her knees up to make clearance. Idly, he surveyed the mourners still huddled under the cover of the tent. As the crowd shifted, I saw his gaze flicker. “Who’s that?”
He was looking at a small group formed by Ramona Westfall, Tony, and the Smiths. The three adults were talking while Tony, his hands in his pockets, passed his shoe over the rung of a folding chair, scraping the mud from the sole. Barbara Daggett was just behind him, in conversation with someone else. I identified everyone by name. I thought Wayne was the one who seemed to hold his attention, but I wasn’t positive. It might have been Marilyn.
“How come the Westfalls showed up for this?”
“Maybe the same reason you did.”
“You don’t know why I came,” he said. He was agitated, jingling the car keys, his gaze drifting back to the mourners.
“Maybe you’ll tell me one of these days.”
His smirk said don’t count on it. He signaled to Coral and she got in the back seat. He got in the car and started it, pulling out then without a backwards glance.
Chapter 18
Barbara Daggett invited me back to her mother’s house after the funeral, but I declined. I couldn’t handle another emotional circus act. After I’ve spent a certain amount of time in the company of others, I need an intermission anyway. I retreated to my office and sat there with the lights out. It was only 4:00, but dark clouds were massing again as though for attack. I slipped my shoes off and put my feet up, clutching my jacket around me for warmth. John Daggett was in the ground now and the world was moving on. I wondered what would happen if we left it at that. I didn’t think Barbara Daggett gave a damn about seeing justice done, whatever that consisted of. I hadn’t come up with much. I thought I was on the right track, but I wasn’t sure I really wanted an answer to the question Daggett’s death had posed. Maybe it was better to forget this one, turn it under again like top soil, worms and all. The cops didn’t consider it a homicide anyway and I knew I could talk Barbara Daggett out of pursuing the point. What was there to be gained? I wasn’t in the business of avenging Daggett’s death. Then what was I uneasy about? It was the only time in recent memory that I’d wanted to drop a case. Usually I’m dogged, but this time I wanted out. I think I could have talked myself into it if nothing else had occurred. As it happened, my phone rang about ten minutes later, nudging me into action again. I took my feet off the desk for form’s sake and picked up on the first ring. “Millhone.”
A young-sounding man said hesitantly: “Is this the office or an answering service?”
“The office.”
“Is this Kinsey Millhone?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Yeah, well my boss gave me this number. Mr. Donagle at the Spindrift Motel? He said you had some questions about Friday night. I think maybe I saw that guy you were asking about.”
I reached for a lined yellow pad and a pen. “Great. I appreciate your getting in touch. Could you tell me your name first?”
“Paul Fisk,” he said. “I read in the paper some guy drowned and it just sure seemed like an odd coincidence, but I didn’t know if I should say anything or not.”
“You saw him Friday night?”
“Well, I think it was him. This was about quarter of two, something like that. I’m on night desk and sometimes I step outside for some air, just to keep myself awake.” He paused and I could hear him shift gears. “This is confidential, isn’t it?”
“Of course. Strictly between us. Why? Did your girlfriend stop by or something like that?”
His laugh was nervous. “Naw, sometimes I smoke a little weed is all. Place gets boring at two A.M., so that’s how I get through. Get loaded and watch old black-and-white movies on this little TV I got. I hope you don’t have a problem with that.”
“Hey, it’s your business, not mine. How long have you worked at the Spindrift?”
“Just since March. It’s not a great job, but I don’t want to get fired. I’m trying to get myself out of debt and I need the bucks.”
“I hear you,” I said. “Tell me about Friday night.”
“Well, I was on the porch and this drunk went by. It was raining pretty hard so I didn’t get a real good look at him at the time, but when I saw the news, the age and stuff seemed pretty close.”
“Did you see the picture of him by any chance?” “Just a glimpse on TV, but I wasn’t paying much attention so I couldn’t say for sure it was him. I guess I should have called the cops, but I didn’t have anything much to report and I was afraid it’d come out about the … about that other stuff.”