“What are you going to wear?” asked Fitz as he watched Nita rummaging through the closet. He had laid out the white long-sleeved shirt, striped necktie, sports jacket, and navy blue trousers he had packed for evenings out; although, until now, with everything here so informal, he’d had no occasion to wear them.
Sighing with frustration, Nita examined and rejected item after item of clothing.
“Everything I have is too, I don’t know, too cheerful,” she said. “Maybe I should run down to that little department store in town and buy something black, or at least a dark color.” The various church funerals she had attended in Spanish Harlem led her to expect heavy solemnity and acres of mourning clothes, especially on the women.
“Maybe you should ask Ossorio,” he suggested. “He’ll know what’s appropriate.” That seemed like a good idea to Nita, so she walked over to the inn and used the office phone.
Ossorio told her that Fitz could forget the jacket and tie, and that her summer clothing would be fine. No one was going to dress in black, and no head covering was required for the women. The service would be brief and informal, without organ music or hymns.
“Nothing like the Roman Catholic funerals you and I are used to,” he explained. “Lee tells me that the casket will be closed, so there will be no viewing, no parade of mourners. The minister will say a few words, perhaps one or two others will speak, then the hearse will take the body to Green River for burial. I expect that’s where the real grieving will take place. Then a lot of people will go back to the house, where crocodile tears will flow as freely as the whisky.”
“My goodness, you are a cynic. Surely his close friends and family are sincere.”
“Even they are ambivalent. I don’t mean his mother—she’s heartbroken, though she won’t show it in public. I went to her room to check on her last night, and I found her sitting in a chair, sobbing. When I tried to comfort her, she pulled herself together and I knew she’d not break down again. Like his brothers, she realized Jackson was more or less living on borrowed time. She tried to look the other way when he went off the rails, but she’s no fool.
“Still, in spite of the heartache he caused her, Stella is enormously proud of Jackson. Even though she’s just a simple countrywoman, she understands the importance of what he achieved. After she composed herself, she looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘His work is done.’”
“I don’t think Fitz and I should go to the house,” said Nita. “We just want to pay our respects.” They had not been in contact with Lee, and didn’t want to intrude. Their real reason for attending the funeral was to see if anyone might qualify as a suspect in Metzger’s murder—someone with a face wound, or with scratches like Ted’s on his arm.
“Earl Finch, the police officer who supervised the accident scene, has offered to let TJ stay at his house during the service. He lives nearby, so we can drop him off and pick him up afterward. How long do you think it will be?”
“At the chapel? Half an hour at most. Another hour if you go to the cemetery. There will be plenty of cars, so it will take them a while to get there, even though it’s only a mile or so away. Then I’m sure several people will want to say something at the graveside. By six o’clock everyone will be hungry. And thirsty.” Anticipating as many gatecrashers as invited guests, he and Ted had laid on plenty of refreshments, solid and liquid.
Ossorio knew what to expect. “Many sorrows—some real, some feigned—will be drowned tonight. Lee’s antennae will detect the difference.”
Armed with directions to the Finch residence—north on Fireplace, left on Gardiner, third on the left, look for the yellow mailbox—the Fitzgeralds headed out.
“Earl says he’s got chickens in his yard,” TJ informed his parents, “and a dog I can play with.” The only chickens he had ever seen up close were lying dead in the butcher shop window. And as much as he would have liked a dog of his own, pets were not allowed in their Stuyvesant Town apartment.
Finch’s wife, Grace, greeted them as they parked in the driveway.
“Glad to know you, Nita, Fitz, TJ. I have to apologize for Earl. He’s on duty today—you’ll see him at the funeral, but in an official capacity. They’re expecting quite a crowd, so he has to direct traffic.”
Sensing TJ’s disappointment, Grace added, “But he’ll come home as soon as the service is over. You folks’ll stay for dinner, I hope.” They accepted the invitation gratefully.
“Meanwhile,” she continued, “I’ve got some fresh-baked cookies in the kitchen.” She addressed TJ. “How about you tuck into ’em, and then I’ll introduce you to Sally and her pups.”
TJ’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got puppies?” he cried. “¡Qué maravilloso!”
Nita explained that her son spoke playground Spanish, especially when he got excited. “Maybe the puppies first,” she suggested, “then the cookies.”
“Okay, off we go,” Grace said, and led TJ to the backyard, where a kennel held the Finches’ yellow Labrador bitch and her four offspring.
Fitz and Nita waved goodbye and headed back to the car. “I wonder if we’ll be able to get him to leave,” said Fitz. “The Finches may just have to adopt him.”
The service was not due to start for a quarter of an hour, but already the chapel’s small parking lot was overflowing, and cars were parked at Ashawagh Hall and along Amagansett Road and Fireplace Road. Finch spotted their Chevy and moved aside a sawhorse barrier so they could park in the reserved section.
“We dropped TJ off at your place,” Fitz told him. “Thanks to Grace for looking after him, and for the invitation to dinner.”
“Happy to have you,” said Finch. “Maybe you’ll have some more ideas about the Metzger business by the time we sit down tonight.”
“I hope so,” said Nita. “I called the hospital this morning, and Kligman’s memory hasn’t improved. Until it comes back, we’re kind of grasping at straws.”
“How about the lab report on the skin fragments?”
“They’re still waiting for that, too. It can take up to a week.”