Free Working Murder by Eleanor Boylan Page A

relatives and a bunch of reporters in front of that ugly, vulgar pile of marble.
     Believe me, I never want to see that place again.”
    Had Tully stood before the mausoleum that day with macabre thoughts? Was he now reliving
     the sight of the crypts, one, perhaps, with frightful contents? We had all avoided
     mentioning Ellen's fate and had fastened almost jovially on Jim's “buddies.” I began to
     feel compassion, and Henry's thoughts may have been the same, for he said gently:
    â€œI wish you'd stay with us tonight, Tully.”
    â€œThank you, Henry, but no. May's apartment shouldn't be empty for too long. The papers
     will be out in a few hours, and people will be calling. And I want to change my
     clothes.”
    Sadd said: “Henry, drop your mother off at home and you and I will take Tully—”
    â€œNow, that's really out of the question,” Tully was scolding again, but kindly.
     “When you get home, you're going to stay put. A cab brought me over and a cab can take
     me back. It isn't that late.”
    Bless you for that, Tully, I thought. We were nearing Brooklyn Heights, and I was
     suddenly exhausted. None of us spoke for a while. Sadd hummed, a sure sign that his mind
     was teeming. As we turned into Willow Street, Tully said, with infinite weariness:
    â€œBut I would appreciate a ride to White Plains tomorrow. After the service I'll get a cab
     to LaGuardia.”
    â€œPick you up at nine,” said Henry.
    The next morning I felt my age.
    All night I'd been playing Candyland with a faceless Jim Cavanaugh on Bass Rocks Beach
     and was barely able to raise my head when Tina looked in and said they were leaving
     shortly and Hen was watching cartoons.
    â€œGood Lord, Tina, what time is it?”
    â€œAbout eight. Jon Saddlier's here. He saw the papers and wants to go with us. And Helen
     Cavanaugh called. She was shocked but thanked us for not springing it last night. Here's
     the obit.”
    I felt blindly for my robe. “Read it to me. God knows where my glasses are.”
    Tina read:
    Suddenly at her home in New York City, Jan. 20, May Saddlier Dawson, widow of Frank W.
     Dawson, founder of Dawson, Hewitt, and Jerome. Services private.
    â€œI tried to make it as noncommittal as possible. I suppose the suicide bit will leak out
     eventually.” Tina looked at her watch. “Come on down and I'll give you Hen's schedule.”
    I pulled on an ancient wool bathrobe of Henry Gamadge's and with my hair still in the
     braid I make of it at night, got myself down to the kitchen where Sadd and Jon stood
     sipping coffee. Jon kissed me and said:
    â€œDad says Aunt May took a powder. I feel terrible. I'm glad I looked at the paper this
     morning. I wish you'd all told me last night.”
    Sadd said: “We didn't think you'd want to miss Lloyd's funeral and all that glorious
     chanting.”
    â€œI hope to be back for most of it. The Mass doesn't start till eleven. Did you know I'd
     been in touch with May recently, and she put some money in that opera?”
    We all looked at him in some surprise. Jon added: “Even when it failed, she was nice and
     said to ask her again. By the way, what becomes of her money?”
    Now we looked at each other. It had not occurred—to me, at least—to ask.
    Tina said: “Henry knows her lawyer. He'll call him today. Clara, Hen's lunch...” She went
     on to say something about grilled cheese, but my mind had snagged on the thought of
     May's will. She'd been a wealthy woman with no immediate family. How had the long, sad
     years affected her thinking, her decisions? “— and chocolate milk,” Tina concluded. “No
     Coke, even if he begs. And Loki's been fed, so don't let him con you, either.”
    Henry came in through the kitchen door, stamping snow from his feet. He said: “Good
     morning, Mom. Take your breakfast into the living room—I started a fire for you. Well,
     the car's