Buzz Farmer picked me up at seven. We were each decked out in our finest, headed for Blau’s Mortuary where the Murphy family was receiving friends and relatives.
I hadn’t before shared any official events with him, but Buzz cleaned up well and looked impressive in a tailored black suit. He seemed a tad nervous but I attributed that to his new surroundings and lack of familiarity with local protocols.
After evading the handful of reporters who shouted questions at us from behind a hastily erected barrier, we were met at the door and quickly ushered inside by Julian Blau, the son of the mortuary’s proprietor, a longtime friend from our school days. “A terrible tragedy,” Julian volunteered.
I nodded.
“It’s a tough room in there, Buddy. I hope you’re not planning to stir the pot.”
“Why would you say a thing like that?”
“Because I know you.”
“We’re here to pay our respects.”
Julian stared at me. “You’re not going to start grilling the assembled?”
“You’ve seen too many cop shows, Julian.”
He led us into the viewing room, decorated with somber-looking drapes of muted colors. A closed walnut casket stood on a catafalque at the far end of the room, adjacent to a sitting area for the family, comprised of half a dozen armchairs, all occupied.
A thin man with thick glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit sat in the center. A pair of teen-aged boys, also in brown suits, sat on either side of him. Buzz identified them as the deceased’s immediate family.
We stood at the back of the room, watching the goings on. Numbers of mourners, many of them in tears, were doing their best to comfort the grieving family and each other.
After a while, we approached the brown-suited man who stood and looked at me questioningly when I offered my hand.
“Hal Murphy,” he murmured.
“Buddy Steel. I wanted to offer our condolences and assure you the Sheriff’s Department is putting all of its resources into the investigation of this heinous crime.”
“You came here to tell us that?”
“We came to pay our respects.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sheriff.”
I handed him one of my cards. “All of my numbers are on it. Please feel free to call at any time. We’ll schedule a more formal interview later.”
We shook hands once again and I also shook hands with each of the boys, both of whom looked at me through red-rimmed eyes.
We were watched by several mourners, many of whom nodded to us as we made our way out of the mortuary.
When we reached the lobby, we encountered Her Honor, Freedom Mayor Regina Goodnow, my stepmother, making a grand entrance, accompanied by two of her legislative assistants and several City Councilpersons.
There was nothing understated about Regina. She was meticulously coiffed, elegantly dressed in various degrees of black, and wearing only those few pieces of her vast jewelry collection she deemed appropriate for the occasion.
As usual, she regarded me warily. We have a tenuous relationship, Regina and I. In many ways we’re like sparring partners, nimbly dancing around each other in search of vulnerabilities.
“Buddy,” she erupted when she spotted me. “What a surprise.”
“Likewise.”
She kissed me on both cheeks. “You’re here because?”
“To pay our respects to the bereaved family.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“You find that strange?” I asked.
“Not in the least. It’s what your father would have done.”
Ever the political animal, her eyes darted here and there in search of anyone present whom she might want to acknowledge or impress.
Her attentions returned to me. She waved her hand. “I’ll be in touch. We need to schedule a dinner.”
After kissing me on both cheeks again, and shaking Buzz’s hand, she motioned to her acolytes and together they moved off.
As I watched her go, I was once again struck by her imperiousness. And by how different she was from my mother. I wondered how I would have turned out had I weighed my life choices in concert with my mother’s counsel, as opposed to Regina’s.
“Is it what your father would have done?” Buzz asked.
“It is, if she says it is.”