Free The staked Goat by Jeremiah Healy Page B

coffin on the folding high stretcher into the back of the hearse. The air was dry and cold. Stasky said near zero.
    Cribbs said that Mr. Palmer had taken care of scheduling arrangements at the home. I thanked him, and he said he’d see me tomorrow. I watched him enter the driver’s side and pull away.
    I tromped back into the terminal, my exhaled breath remaining a visible cloud about a heartbeat longer than in comparatively balmy Boston. I followed signs for the passenger area and the baggage carrousels. The stores along the corridor were the usual collection of coffee shops, shoeshine parlors, silly little bars, and Steeler memorabilia stands. Only the bars were open, the rest locked with chromed gratings in front of them.
    I got to the baggage area. My three-suiter wasn’t on the nearly empty and stationary carrousel. I looked around the room. A short, chunky man with a toupee stood up from one of the plastic seats. My suitcase was on the chair next to him. He waved to me, and I walked over to him. He didn’t match Larry’s description of either of them.
    ”Mr. Cuddy?” he asked.
    I recognized his voice and extended my hand. ”John, please, remember? You’re Dale Palmer?”
    He smiled confirmation and shook.
    ”When I didn’t see you,” he said, ”I thought I’d better grab your bag.”
    ”Thanks. I was with... the undertaker.”
    The smile dropped. ”Ah, yes. Well, my car is just out front and to the right.” He turned.
    I hefted my suitcase and followed him.
     

Eight
     
     
     
    ” I F YOU DIDN’T KNOW HER, YOU’D THINK SHE WAS DOING pretty well.” We’d driven about five miles in his small Pontiac from the airport toward downtown. So far, we had determined my accommodations for the night, me insisting on a motel, him insisting that Larry and he already had made up their guestroom, me not wanting to put them out, him assuring me that it would make logistics easier tomorrow and Saturday. I relented. We had finally gotten around to Martha.
    ”I’ve never met her.”
    ”I know. That is, she told us. After the... ah, call.”
    I rubbed my eyes with my right hand. ”I’m truly sorry about that.”
    ”Listen. It wasn’t your fault.” His right hand started to leave the gearshift knob and come toward me. He stopped it abruptly and brought it back to the steering wheel instead.
    ”I appreciate your concern,” I said. ”And all you’ve done for Martha.”
    He swallowed once, hard. ”Martha was our friend. I mean from before they were married. We persuaded them to move into the neighborhood.” He paused. ”AI was a good friend, too.”
    I let out a long breath. I was too tired. And depressed. I shut up the rest of the trip.
    As we drew toward the city, Dale began speaking again. He gave a sort of nervous, pointing geographic orientation of the U of Pittsburgh, Camegie-Mellon, downtown, Three Rivers Stadium and half a dozen residential neighborhoods whose names meant nothing to me. Dale identified the bookstore where Larry worked. Dale taught piano at home.
    We pulled into an older, seedier neighborhood of party-wall townhouses, some with two stories, some with three. Most were old brick, few had bay or bow-front windows. One block had ten beautiful, restored houses, another ten burned-out shells.
    Dale explained this area was called Mexican War, each of the streets named after an event or personage in the 1840s conflict. He slowed and parked in front of a picture-perfect two-story and cut his engine.
    ”Home at last,” he said with false cheer. ”This is our place. Carol is directly across the street”— gesturing and twisting—”Martha’s the ash-toned one, two doors down from her.” He dropped the merriment. ”How do you want to handle this?”
    I glanced at my watch. Ten-twenty-five. ”Too late to see Martha?” I asked.
    ”Oh, no,” he said. ”I’m sure she’ll still be up. That’s part of the problem.”
    ”Maybe if I could drop my suitcase at your place and then we