Free Dutch Blue Error by William G. Tapply

folding chairs arranged to facilitate meditating upon the corpse. Most of them remained unoccupied, as well. The mourners evidently preferred to stand together in small clusters, conversing in hushed tones—to facilitate their escape, it seemed to me.
    I was anxious to verify whether this Shaughnessey was, in fact, my friend Daniel Sullivan, I moved along the row of chairs against the wall, stooping to take the hand of an elderly woman who clutched a lace handkerchief in her lap.
    “I’m so sorry,” I muttered, or something similarly lame. I was grateful that the woman neither looked up nor bothered to respond.
    Then I found myself standing by the coffin looking into the paraffin face of Francis X. Shaughnessey. The phrase, “They did a real nice job on him. He looks so natural,” came to my mind. They had done a good enough job so I could tell that this Shaughnessey had undeniably been the Daniel F. X. Sullivan of my acquaintance. Beyond that, he resembled all the other examples of the mortician’s art I had seen. He was a piece of wax sculpture somewhat smaller than life. It always startled me how bodies laid out in caskets could remain so motionless.
    And, of course, he didn’t look “natural” at all. He didn’t look as if he had ever lived. His mouth had never smiled or sneered, his nostrils had never twitched, his eyebrows had never lifted or frowned. There had never been wrinkles playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Blood had never rushed to flush those rouged cheeks. Even his nose seemed to have been reshaped into someone’s concept of an ideal form, although in Shaughnessey’s case the ideal had been compromised considerably.
    I had the sense that the real Daniel Sullivan was hiding under a mask, smirking at me. As I stared down at his shell, it seemed to me that old Dan Sullivan had somehow had the last laugh on me. Not only had he conned me into participating in this barbaric ritual of “visiting” his eviscerated husk, but he had also managed to win our little cat-and-mouse game with the Dutch Blue Error. No matter the price of his victory.
    I imagined the eyes of the others in the room upon me, so I knelt beside the body and rested my forearms on the railing. “Where’s that stamp, you old rascal?” I whispered.
    After I had knelt there long enough to have recited a couple of Hail Marys and a leisurely Our Father, I stood and moved away from the coffin. I figured if I slid inconspicuously toward the back of the room, I could ease myself out without anyone’s noticing. My mission had been accomplished.
    Then I felt a hand on my arm. “I’m Deborah Martinelli. He was my father.”
    Vanilla skin, shiny black hair worn long and straight, high cheekbones, and gray eyes like polished silver. With makeup she would be beautiful, I thought. She wore a black sheath which hinted at roundnesses that were not revealed. Her grip on my arm was firm.
    “Brady Coyne,” I said.
    She steered me toward the back of the room, away from her father’s body. We sat on a couple of folding chairs.
    “I don’t know you.” Those pewter eyes searched mine.
    “No. We’d only met recently. We were in the middle of a business transaction.”
    She nodded. “You and a hundred others. He was always in the middle of a business transaction. Do you sell paintings?”
    I smiled. “No. I’m an attorney.”
    “Ah,” she said, as if that explained it. Her eyes drifted away from my face. I figured she had done her duty, greeting me, and it was time for me to leave. Which suited me fine. I had found out what I needed to know.
    I started to stand. “Well, Mrs. Martinelli…”
    “Stay a minute.” It was a command. I sat down again.
    “I didn’t know him that well,” I said, “but…”
    Her head jerked up. Her eyes were razors. “Then don’t say something insincere, Mr. Coyne.”
    I shrugged. “I just…”
    “You were going to tell me how natural he looks, maybe?”
    I gave an embarrassed little laugh.