Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

52

Jesse was angry to see how few people came to the wake for Ginny and Maxie. It was held at the same funeral home where Mary Kate O’Hara had been laid out. Along with Jesse and Molly, only Al Franzen, Stu Cromwell, Bill Marchand, and an old priest from Sacred Heart had turned out. Jesse could hear the excuses in his head, the stuff about how small towns dealt with their shame and their secrets. But today he wasn’t in the mood for excuses or for rationalizations. There was one person’s absence in particular that bothered him: Alexio Dragoa. He was nowhere in sight. Given Jesse’s suspicions about the fisherman and Dragoa’s confrontation with Maxie at the bar, he was sure Dragoa would turn up. Maybe at the church, Jesse thought, like with Mary Kate.

Molly elbowed Jesse. “That’s so Maxie.”

“What is?”

“Her coffin... the lid is open. God, even in death the woman is vain.”

“Don’t blame her. Check out Franzen. It’s his doing. I’m sure of it.”

Al Franzen, looking frail and distraught, had moved a chair to within a foot or two of the coffin.

“He really loved her,” Jesse said. “He fed off her energy. No matter what you thought of Maxie, she was full of life.”

Molly resisted the urge to argue with him.

Marchand leaned over to Jesse, said, “Sorry about yesterday. I don’t enjoy playing the heavy.”

“I figured the warning was coming. Might as well have heard it from you.”

“You going over to the church?”

“Uh-huh. You?”

“Can’t,” Marchand said. “Business. Sometimes that earning your daily bread gets in the way.”

“Tell me about it.”

Marchand patted Jesse on the shoulder. “Again, sorry about yesterday.”

About five minutes later, the insurance broker knelt down by both coffins, mouthed silent prayers, crossed himself, and slipped out.

With all eyes on Marchand, Jesse walked over to the back row, where Stu Cromwell was seated. Cromwell looked in worse shape than Al Franzen. Cromwell was in his sixties, but he was one of those people who, because of their energy, was kind of ageless. But the newspaperman looked every bit his age that morning.

“Another rough night with Martha?” Jesse said.

“What? Huh?” Cromwell sounded as if he had been very far away. “Yeah, it’s rough. She’s in so much pain.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Following up. The missing cabbie is front-page news today, or haven’t you seen the paper?”

Jesse nodded. “I’ve seen it.”

“You seem POed, Chief.”

“There’s no one here.”

Cromwell said, “After our talks, that surprises you?”

“Disappoints me.”

“I’m a newspaperman, so I’m cynical by nature. My view is that if you give anyone ample opportunity, they will disappoint you. The people of Paradise are no better or worse than anywhere else.”

Jesse was willing to leave it at that, but Cromwell seemed to be in a particularly philosophical mood that morning. And Jesse could smell the alcohol on the newspaperman’s breath.

“They’re not monsters,” Cromwell said. “I had a writing professor who once told me that everyone is the hero of his or her own story. I’m sure most folks got up this morning and were more concerned about the dramas in their own lives than whether or not they should come to this. Even monsters don’t see a monster reflected in the mirror. I always try to remember that when I do my work.”

Jesse found that last bit of Stu’s ramblings out of place and out of character, but he let it go.

He sat back next to Molly. The old priest stood up. He said a few words about the church service and about the burials. Then led the assembled in a prayer. Al Franzen willed himself to lean over the open coffin and to kiss his wife on her cold, lifeless lips. Jesse and Molly headed out to where Molly’s cruiser was parked.

“I know you wanted the day off,” Jesse said, settling into the cruiser next to Molly. “But you know how short we are.”

“Forget it, Jesse. My big sister’s taking my mom to the church. And it’s about time I started pulling my weight again.”