Pushing Up Daisies

CHAPTER 43

Mike O’Malley once told me Springfield had everything the big city had, just less of it. I wasn’t so sure Springfield didn’t have more than its share.

After talking to Lucy, I poured myself a drink and made a fire. It wasn’t that cold, but there was a chill in my bones I couldn’t shake. I wanted to blame it on my snooze in the ditch, but as I settled in with my wine and a yellow legal pad in front of me, I knew that wasn’t it.

I made three columns-Yoly Rivera, Guido Chiara-monte, and Baby. Then I sat and stared at the blank page, filling in the things I knew, or thought I knew, about each of them. I scribbled down thirty different scenarios, but no amount of English would make all the cherries line up.

I was putting a few more logs on the fire when I heard the fax machine chugging in my office; I went to investigate. Printed on Springfield police department letterhead was a typed note from Sergeant Guzman.

Dear Ms. Holliday,

Six companies/entities are authorized to enter and use the facilities of the Springfield Recycling Center during off- hours. They are:

UConn at Springfield Extension Services

Harleysville Raceway

Aardvark Refuse

Morning Glory Cemetery

Fairmont Lawn Funeral Home

Springfield Historical Society

Yours truly,

Sgt. Rosaria Guzman

Springfield Police Department

The raceway I could understand. The town couldn’t be cruel enough to make someone open the gates for a dump truck of steaming horse manure and then force him to spend the entire day babysitting it. The sanitation company probably had a contract with the town- Gerald could find out. Presumably, the funeral home and the cemetery were dumping faded floral arrangements and nothing more sinister. That left the university-shredded term papers, probably. But why should SHS need to dump anything after hours?

I gambled that Gerald Fraser would be one of the few Sunnyview residents still awake at the ungodly hour of 11 P.M.

The switchboard operator kept me on hold for twelve minutes before returning to tell me, “He’s gone.”

“You mean he’s out?”

“No, ma’am, he’s gone.”

Stay calm, I told myself. If your voice betrays the fact that you think she’s an idiot, she’ll be even less helpful, if that were possible.

“Gone where, dear?” I said, through clenched teeth.

“Well, usually they go across the street.”

The fax from Sergeant Guzman made me ask the next stupid question. “To the recycling center?”

“No,” she said solemnly. “Morning Glory. The cemetery.”

“But Mr. Fraser didn’t, did he? He went somewhere else.” This conversation was going to be work.

“The main office is closed. I really don’t know anything. You can call back tomorrow, during regular hours,” she added.

And relive this? No, thanks. I thought fast, What the hell was her name?

“What about Genevieve? The attendant? Is Genevieve there?”

“Genevieve Barkley?”

“Yes,” I said, exhausted. It was a small facility; how many Genevieves could they have?

“Why didn’t you say? I’ll get her.”

After another ten minutes, Genevieve came to the phone. Mr. Fraser was indeed gone. Genevieve had helped him pack up two suitcases and three boxes of his belongings.

“Just about everything he had,” she said. “He left most of his books to our library here. He gave me his stereo and a very generous gift as well.”

Fraser’s forwarding address was on file in the office, which was, as the excruciating switchboard operator had told me, locked. His belongings were to be shipped the next morning and I could practically hear Genevieve crane her neck to read the address on the shipping label.

“It’s definitely New York, but that’s all I can see. The lights are off and the box isn’t facing the door. I can call you with it in the morning, if you like. We start at six.”

“That would be great, Genevieve. Thanks so much.” I gave her my cell number. “I was just a little worried.”

“Don’t you worry none about Mr. Gerald. He looked very happy when he left here. If that lady takes as good care of him as she does of that car, he’s got no problem.”