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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780786865703 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Hachette Books |
| Publication date: | 03/15/2000 |
| Series: | Hitchcock Sewell Series , #1 |
| Edition description: | 1 ED |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.12(w) x 9.25(h) x (d) |
| Age Range: | 13 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Tim Cockey is the award-winning author of the Hitchcock Sewell novels, including The Hearse You Came In On, Hearse of a Different Color, The Hearse Case Scenario, Murder in the Hearse Degree, and Backstabber. He has been a story analyst for many major film and television companies, including American Playhouse, ABC, and Hallmark Entertainment. He grew up in Baltimore and now lives in New York City.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 11
The Peabody Conservatory Library is a jaw-dropping piece of work, a cozy rectangular room that soars up and up and up, wrapped with spectacular wrought-iron walkways at each flight. Narrow aisles lead off each walkway back into the stacks of books. At the dizzying top of it all is the stained glass ceiling, an octagonal moonglow of oyster white glass with chips of dazzling green and blue and blood red all held apiece with hard black spiderings of solder. With a couple of drinks and a squint up at those curlicued railings you can pretty easily call forth an entire New Orleans neighborhood drifting out from the stacks, women in their bandannas and loose cotton dresses resting their arms on the black railings, calling across the square to each other or pointing down at some silly chicanery in the courtyard down below, a pig chasing a dog, or a cop chasing a cat, or maybe just the warm sun slowly chasing shadows out of their corners. I don't know a damn thing about music--and the Peabody Conservatory is a place where they crank out musicians for a living--so I have no idea what kinds of books are up there in the endless stacks. But it's a hell of a room, and it adds more than a little touch of class to whatever function the Peabody trustees happened to rent it out for. It's no cheesy hotel ballroom, that's for sure.
It's where Joel Hutchinson had chosen to throw Alan Stuart's kickoff party.
"None of that populist crap here, eh, Hitch?"
Hutch and I were standing just inside the entrance. The place was abuzz with Alan Stuart's faithful: men and women in their elegant skins. Everyone was smiling and chatting away, being led around the room by their napkin-wrapped drink glasses. Among the glitterati, I recognized Harlan Stillman, senior senator from the Eastern Shore. Senator Stillman was a slow-talking, quick-thinking devil of a politician who had been in the state senate now for something like a hundred and fifty years, give or take a few. Most definitely old-style. A student of cornpone. Still, Senator Stillman was a shrewd and powerful player. His influence was as deep as the proverbial hills. The kind of politician who can get dead men to vote. If Alan Stuart had Harlan Stillman on his side, Spencer Davis had better just get a copy of his resume on over to Kinko's. The election was over.
I watched as the grand old man slowly loaded his tobacco pipe and got it going. We're a No Smoking Please world these days, but no one was about to tell that to Harlan Stillman. The blonde hourglass attached to his arm was either his date or his granddaughter. I wouldn't have dared to bet which. I complimented Hutch on the little quartet parked off in the corner that was providing the soiree with a classy little soundtrack. "They come with the space," Hutch said. "It's Peabody's little way to plug what they do."
Hutch hadn't been as surprised to see me as I would have thought. With no particular fanfare, he gave my hand a few pumps when I walked into the room.
"Good to see you again, Hitch. You looking for some more free sausage?"
I gave him a ha-ha. But he was already focusing on the lovely woman standing next to me.
"Hello, Kate."
"How are you doing, Joel?"
"I don't get paid to complain. How about you?"
"Besides having my arm twisted to come here? I'm fine."
"You should look at it as a perk," Hutch said.
Kate turned to me. "This is a perk."
"I don't know perks," I remarked. "I'll get a discount on my coffin when the time comes. That's about it."
Hutch grinned at Kate. "There you go. Now isn't this little perk looking better already?"
"Yes, Joel, your party is better than a funeral," Kate said flatly. "I won't argue with you."
Hutch was enjoying this. "Go ahead, Kate, argue with me. It's what you do best. Well, I mean, it's one of what you do best."
"Fuck you, Joel."
And with that, Kate stormed off. That's when Hutch had said, "None of that populist crap here, eh, Hitch?"
My gaze followed Kate. She was aiming straight for the bar. I said to Hutch, "So I take it you two have met."
Hutch laughed as he rolled his eyes. "Kate Zabriskie hates my guts."
"That was kind of my impression."
"It goes way back."
"Gut hating usually does."
"Kate's got a big chip on her shoulder." Hutch waved across the room at someone, I couldn't tell who. "I don't know if you follow the news much, but she got her fifteen minutes about five, six months ago."
I shook my head. Knew nothing about it.
"The short version is, she got some headlines. Hero cop. That sort of thing. She didn't handle it well. Understandable reasons. But that's her business. Anyway, since signing on with Alan I've been trying to get her to go along with a couple of spots. TV. Maybe print. She'd be a real asset."
"Is that right?"
"Sure. Women look up to her. And men want to fuck her."
"I'm glad to see you're choosing your words so carefully."
"Hey, don't get sore, Hitch. You know what I mean."
"You just said what you mean."
"That I did. The thing is, I could do a lot with this hero cop business. It's a good angle. But Kate won't have any of it."
"Maybe she doesn't support Stuart."
"Bullshit. She adores Alan Stuart. She's just got her nose out of joint on this thing." He broke off to shake someone's hand, then he went on. "It all became moot anyway. Alan pulled me back. She's a detective now, he reminded me, not a street cop. Her face shouldn't be plastered everywhere, yah, yah, yah."
"That sounds reasonable."
"It is, sure. I didn't argue. But still . . . I'm definitely not on that lady's Christmas list."
"She's Jewish."
"Whatever. You know what I mean. There's bad chemistry there."
"Sad tale."
Hutch pumped another well-heeled paw, steered it off toward the bar, then he turned back to me with a quizzical look on his face.
"So, just what are you doing here with Kate Zabriskie anyway?"
I gave him my best ear-to-ear. "I look up to her."
Hutch snickered. "Yeah. Right."
I spotted Alan Stuart off on the far side of the room. He was working his crowd, listening intently one instant, exploding with a powerful laugh the next. I scanned unsuccesfully for a glimpse of Kate.
I asked Hutch, "Was that guy ever a street cop? I mean, do they really come up through the ranks like that? Somehow I can't picture him in a blue suit swinging a billy."
"Oh absolutely. Alan Stuart was a flatfoot. Started out on the street. Clubbed his way to the top. You're looking at a hardworking self-made man there. And don't think the governorship of Maryland is the end of it. From Annapolis you can practically see the damn White House. It's just over the river. The times are very favorable for a guy like Alan Stuart. This governorship could be just the thing to line him up for the big one."
"Hutch, I don't want to be the wet rag, but isn't your Baltimore city police chief hyperventilating a little here? I mean, the guy just announced yesterday for governor and you're already picking out new drapes for the Oval Office."
"Hitch. Answer me this. Who did Nixon tap to be his veep? A no-name governor from, gee, was it Maryland?"
"You're referring to the guy who failed to pay his taxes and was drummed out of office in disgrace?"
"Alan pays his taxes. I checked." Hutch slapped me on the shoulder. "Look, I have to go and kiss some fanny. The bar's over there. Top-shelf only. Enjoy yourself. I'll catch up with you later. I'm glad you could make it."
He pumped my hand again and then waded off into the crowd. I spotted Jeff Simons, standing next to a bust of Mozart, a semicircle of admirers fanned out in front of him. It's true, he wasn't looking his usual TV-glow self. His trademark cowlick was performing superbly and he was sporting his perpetual tan, but his eyes carried a sort of watery look, certainly not the crystal-clear sparkle of trust and mirth that had kept him at Baltimore's bosom for nearly two decades. I had met the man a number of times. His mother and my aunt are old friends and ruthless cribbage players. The two meet once a week to race each other around the table. Billie and I play, too. That's usually how we decide who takes on the next funeral.
I finally spotted Kate, coming back my way. I met her halfway. She handed me a glass.
"Do you like bourbon?"
"That's damned good detective work. How'd you guess?"
"I didn't, really. It's what I like. I'm drinking vicariously."
Kate was holding a flute, popping with amber bubbles.
"Champagne?" I asked,
"Ginger ale."
She caught me not asking the question that was floating before us. She clinked her glass to mine. "It's one of my rules. No drinking in public places."
"That would make you the exact opposite of a social drinker," I observed.
She took a sip of her ginger ale, keeping her eyes on me. "That would be absolutely correct." The message was clearer than her ginger ale. Subject closed.
We mingled. Kate didn't really seem to know too many of the guests either, except for a few of her colleagues. She caught a couple of "Welcome backs" from her brethren. "I've been on a leave of absence," she explained. She didn't elaborate. I looked up at one point and spotted Detective Kruk, standing near one of the stacks. He was gazing down at the gathering, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. From where I stood it looked as if he had maybe ironed his wrinkles. But apparently there was nothing to be done about that hair. He might have been looking down at Kate and me. I couldn't tell.
Kate was speaking.
"Did Joel explain to you why I was so friendly to him just now?"
"What? Oh. Um . . . no. Well. He told me you wouldn't cooperate with the Stuart for Governor campaign."
We had wandered over by the quartet. I had no idea in hell what they were playing. I just knew that I couldn't tap my toe to it.
"He told you that?"
"Yes. Why? Isn't it true?"
"Sure, it's true. But that's not why we don't get along." She took a sip of her ginger ale. "Joel Hutchinson is jealous, pure and simple. Alan . . . Alan took me under his wing, I guess you could say. The phrase you hear is, 'I came up fast.' It's a long story. Bottom line is your college buddy is a control freak. He wants Alan all to himself and for some reason I threaten him."
She took another sip. "Plus he made a pass at me and I told him to buzz off."
"Hutch made a pass at you?"
"Several. Men don't always bounce back so well after they've gotten rejected. Have you noticed?"
"Who says I've ever been rejected?"
"Who says I was saying you had? I only asked if you had noticed."
She gave me one of those looks. Challenging. At least that's what the bourbon in me was saying. But maybe it wasn't a challenging look at all. Maybe, I thought, it's a warning. Maybe she was warning me not to make a pass at her. What a shame. The prospect of completing a successful pass with this off-duty detective was striking me as a fantastic idea. Of course, I didn't even know if she was married, or maybe had a squeeze of her own already. No rings--I had checked earlier--but these days that doesn't always tell the whole story. Anyway, I passed on the pass.
"So, you're telling me that Hutch the family man is a farce."
"Ninety percent of family men are farces," Kate said flatly. "Men are genetically programmed to stray. And to cheat. And to lie. And to--"
"Whoa, whoa, this is my fellow ape you're smearing here. I'm bound by tribal law to defend my own."
"I wouldn't waste your breath."
"Damn it, Detective, you're not going to turn out to be one of those beautiful man-hating types, are you? It's gals like you who really ruin the party."
"No. It's men like Joel Hutchinson who ruin the party. I think the first deadly sin ought to be arrogance. You can trace all the others back to that."
"You didn't answer my question," I said. "Are you a beautiful man-hater?"
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. But at the same time, crimson rose to her cheeks.
"Are you making a pass at me?"
"I'm just a horny arrogant ape. Programmed to lie, cheat, etc., etc."
"You didn't answer my question."
"And you didn't answer mine."
"It's a draw."
We clinked glasses. God, this was all getting too cute.
Two surprises awaited me at the party. Surprise number one appeared some half hour or so after this little buzza-buzza about the transgressions and transparencies of all men. I was three bourbons in and only a few frilly snacks down, so the evening had begun to take on a warm fuzzy glow. The women were all growing prettier and the men were all becoming much less handsome and charming than myself.
In walked a fellow about as handsome and charming as myself. I vaguely recognized him, the way you recognize a celebrity on the street simply as someone familiar, before actually making the ID. This guy was roughly my contemporary, maybe a few years younger. And about fifteen million dollars richer. He was a good-looking Joe with an easy smile. Of course, give me fifteen million dollars and I'll bet my smile will be easy too. He was as dashing in his tux as James Bond himself. I muttered to Kate, "Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera." She gave me a sideways look like I was crazy.
"Who is that," I asked.
She answered, "Peter Morgan."
Of course. Peter Morgan. Of the Baltimore County Morgans. The racehorse Morgans. The new opera house Morgans. The railroad money Morgans. This town has Morgans coming out of its ears. Granddaddy Morgan had been the last of the family to have had to actually roll up his sleeves and squeeze money out of sweat. He had made his bundle in the early part of the century working on the railroads all the livelong day, and his success had left most of the subsequent Morgans happily strumming on the old million-dollar banjo ever since. However, I did recall hearing or reading somewhere that this particular Morgan, this dapper devil who had just come into the room, was one of the ones who still kept a hands-on involvement with the family business. While most of us run our little train sets around the Christmas tree, Peter Morgan ran his around the whole country. At least a goodly portion of it. Interstate transport of goods. It can bring in a few extra bucks. All this and good looks too. Gee whiz. Peter Morgan was a pretty high-profile man-about-town. Known to be something of a lady-killer, his privileged arm was custom-built for wrapping around beautiful women.
And a particularly beautiful woman was wrapped around it this evening. Her dress was a form-fitting off-the-shoulder number that hugged her hourglass figure from her ample breasts to just below the knees, with a side split that offered a generous peekaboo of commendable thigh. The dress was an aquamarine color, with a print that featured large fishes and seahorses randomly aswim. Her hair was up in a bun and there was a silly tiara perched atop it, obviously glass and glue. Long shimmery earrings that must have set the gal back a good five and a half bucks dangled from her ears. And she was barefoot. I heard a guy make a crack about her as she and Peter Morgan swept into the room.
"Looks like Peter's got himself a free spirit weirdo."
I jabbed the guy gently in the ribs. "Careful there," I said. "That's my free spirit weirdo ex-wife you're talking about."
Julia had come to the ball.
The pair created a nice little stir. What percentage of the buzz came from the simple fact of Morgan being present and how much from the barefoot bohemian on his arm was difficult to tell. But the combination was killer. Money and art. There's something undeniably lusty about it.
Julia was just as surprised to see me there as I was to see her. She gave me the Mae West once-over.
"Nice suit."
"So this is the man you've told me so little about." She introduced me to Peter Morgan. "She's been keeping you a secret," I said to the millionaire.
Julia gave a fake blush. "Well, you know, I don't like to brag." She leaned in to me and stage whispered for all to hear, "He's loaded!"
I shook hands with the loaded man. Solid grip. He looked me dead in the eye. Seemed friendly enough. I didn't like him.
"Nice to meet you, Hitchcock."
"Please," I vamped, "call me Hitchcock."
"Hitch and I were married briefly," Julia offered. "It wreaked havoc on our friendship, so we hurried out of it." She cocked her head and gave me her Audrey Hepburn smile. Everything but the batting lashes.
"Thank you for sharing that lovely story." I introduced Julia and Peter Morgan to Kate.
"Like Zabriskie Point," Peter Morgan observed.
Julia fished. "And that would be . . . ?"
Morgan explained that it was a place in Death Valley. Julia's eyes flashed. She was clearly having fun. "Oh, are you one of the Death Valley Zabriskies?"
"Krakow," Kate said in perfect deadpan. "By way of Hampden." She turned to Morgan. "Blue blood. Blue collar. We're quite a diverse little crowd, aren't we?"
Morgan actually blushed at this. I guessed it was a little sore spot, his being filthy rich and socially superior. Who would have guessed?
"Where are your shoes, Julia?" I pointed at her toes. "You have no idea when they last cleaned this floor."
Morgan answered for her. "Hell, she wanted to wear flippers. I'm serious. To go with her dress. They're out in the car."
"You should see this car, Hitch," Julia said. "It's the size of a small country." She touched her fingers to her tiara. "You like?"
"Chintzy. Nice. You've got a whole Cinderella-at-the-ball motif going on here. Except you've lost both your slippers."
"Funny. Isn't this a great dress? I found it in that vintage flophouse on Aliceianna Street and I fell in great big love with it."
"I think it's pretty," Kate offered. Julia smiled at this.
"Thank you. Yours too."
"Mine's not supposed to be pretty," Kate said. "But thank you."
I didn't want to be left out of this, so I said to Morgan, "Hey, you look swell too."
Morgan gave me sort of a sideways snicker. He took hold of Julia's arm.
"It was nice to meet you both," he said. "We're going to circulate."
"Mill," Julia corrected, mugging a big face. She couldn't resist a thoroughly silly over-the-shoulder wave as Morgan tugged her away. A seahorse wiggled on my ex-wife's fanny as she sashayed off. Alan Stuart had spotted them and was making his way over.
"Would you mind if we left now?" Kate said. "I'm looking at those railings up there and beginning to imagine throwing people off of them." Kate gave me a terse look. "That's the sign of a girl no longer having a good time, don't you think?"
As we started for the door, surprise number two made her appearance. She came into the room and made her way directly over to Alan Stuart and was immediately drawn under his arm as he kissed the offered cheek. She was blonde, an extremely pretty blonde woman. Former debutante. Perfect teeth. Perfect poise.
"She looks familiar," I observed.
"That's Alan's wife. She's another Morgan," Kate said. "Amanda Morgan. Amanda Morgan Stuart. She's Peter Morgan's twin sister."
"Small world."
Amanda Stuart was performing with all of the grace and charm to be expected of her in her role as the wanna-be next first lady of the State of Maryland.
"She doesn't look like her brother," I remarked. "Except maybe in the teeth."
"Boy/girl twins aren't identical."
"She does look familiar though," I said for the second time. I was certain now that I had seen her before, but I just couldn't place it.
"Well, she looks a little like Grace Kelly, doesn't she? Maybe that's it."
Amanda Stuart was laughing at something that her husband had just said. Even across the room I could hear the laugh, like the tinkle of shattering crystal.
That was it exactly. Grace Kelly. Crossing in front of me and disappearing into the Baltimore Country Club's mansion. A cool sliver of ice on a warm day. One half of a recent doubles pair.
Not the half so recently stabbed to death.
What People are Saying About This
If you've never held your breath and laughted at the same time, get ready. The Hearse You Came In On takes you on a fun and frantic ride.
— (Janet Evanovich, author of High Five)
Tim Cockey affectionately captures the cockeyed grace of Baltimore with a funny and perceptive screwball mystery. A strong and welcome debut, as satisfying as a bushel of crabs and a cold six of Natty Bo.
—(George Pelecanos, author of Shame the Devil)
The Hearse You Came In On is a witty, punchy, snappy, well-written and dang funny debut. Take a ride on Tim Cockey's, er, uh, 'Hearse.' You'll be glad you did.
—( Harlan Coben, author of The Final Detail)