Free Working Murder by Eleanor Boylan

way, I think he looks bad.”
    As we headed for the door, Henry said: “Not only looks bad but feels worse. I had to take
     him out to the car.”
    â€œIs he ill?” I was truly concerned.
    â€œEither that or he needed a nip. And I couldn't find Martin, damn it.”
    â€œCouldn't find him?” Sadd was puzzled.
    â€œNever mind,” I said. “Father Dever saves all.”
    â€œAnd would you mind telling me”—Sadd held the door as we emerged into the piercing cold
     night air—"why I'm supposed to be impressed with that reverend gentleman's voice—which I
     have never heard?”
    â€œBecause,” I said smugly, “it is he who escorts Martin Cavanaugh to wakes and must
     therefore know where he lives. And Martin is the Cavanaugh who speaks freely of Uncle
     Jim and his ‘buddies’ who are buried with him in the mausoleum.”
    Henry and Sadd stopped walking. Henry said: “You didn't tell me he said that! And he has
     a key to the place, Sadd.”
    â€œA key!”
    â€œA key,” I said, pushing them on toward the car, “which he wears like an amulet around
     his neck.”
    "Around his neck?"
    â€œMy God, it sounds like a fetish!”
    We'd arrived at the car, I, a little tipsy with success, to find Tully a little tipsy
     with brandy and, as we jabbered excitedly, inclined to be a wet blanket.
9
    â€œI THINK YOU'RE ALL BEING GHOULISH. Haven't we been through enough? I certainly have.”
    We lapsed into rather crestfallen silence as Henry renegotiated the Long Island
     Expressway and Tully scolded on.
    â€œWhy on earth would you even want to go near that godawful mausoleum? It's been
     nothing but a source of humiliation all these—”
    â€œTully”—Sadd spoke with admirable mildness—"when May called us in Florida yesterday
     morning (was it really only yesterday morning? I marvelled), she said that if we could
     just get Lloyd buried in the mausoleum, then we'd all show up for the funeral and the
     place would be opened—”
    â€œA funeral is different. A funeral's official.”
    â€œWe weren't contemplating a midnight raid,” said Henry.
    â€œYou're contemplating going in there unauthorized with some nutty dypso—”
    â€œTully, the place belongs to us—it's family property.” I was trying to keep my temper
     because, in addition to his churlishness, he had the front seat and the lion's share of
     the heater. “What we hope to do is to go quietly into the place with Martin's key, and
     if there's no sign of disturbance, and if it appears that Martin was just drunk and
     wandering in the head—”
    â€œWhich he was,” said Tully, hiccoughing.
    â€œâ€”then we'll decide whether to forget the whole thing or whether to ask for an official
     examination of the crypts. Here's a chance to lay a family skeleton to rest—”
    â€œThere is no family skeleton!” Tully was close to shouting. “That vault is empty except
     for the body of James Cavanaugh. There isn't the remotest chance that anybody could have
     ever entered that place and taken the stone slab from any of those crypts without the
     help of cemetery workmen. You don't need a key to see that. You can just stand at the
     grille and look in.”
    I was suddenly surprised. “Have you seen the place?”
    â€œCertainly. I went to Jim Cavanaugh's funeral.”
    The car swerved a little, and I knew how Henry felt. Beside me, Sadd's sharp intake of
     breath indicated a similar jolt.
    â€œFascinating,” he said in an awed tone. “I was abroad at the time. Whatever made you go?”
    â€œWe went as a favor to Sara.” Tully was sobering up into sniffles. “She wrote to Irene
     and me—I told you May wasn't speaking to her—and asked us if we'd come and help make
     some kind of family showing, so we did. It wasn't pleasant standing there with a handful
     of