Free Working Murder by Eleanor Boylan Page B

nice and warm. If we're picking up Tully, we'd better roll.”
    His parents embraced Hen with admonitions to be good, and he nodded, his attention wholly
     fixed on “Tom and Jerry.” They filed out, Tina saying over her shoulder: “The van comes
     for him at twelve-thirty. His clothes are on his bed.”
    May's will. How extraordinary that the thought of it hadn't entered my mind before. Had
     it occurred to the others and they hadn't mentioned it because it might appear
     calculating? I certainly had no expectations from May. Had Sadd? Had Henry? Had Jon?
     We'd all been out of touch with her until recently, and surely the will was long since
     made? And she had not expected to die yesterday, of that I was certain.
    Loki wandered in and brushed my leg, then circled back and rested against the old
     bathrobe almost as if he recognized it. I picked him up and walked into the living room.
     The fire was crackling, and I sat down, holding him in my lap like a great, lovely muff.
     How could I have left him? Then I reminded myself that he might not have survived the
     trip south, and Hen had begged for him. Yes, Loki was better off here, still so
     beautiful with his blue, near-blind eyes and glossy sable points. I wept over him a
     little, remembering how Henry Gamadge had loved this cat and loved holding him like
     this....
    The phone rang for the first time. By the fifth time, I had my spiel down pat. Might I
     ask if the Times had given out this number? Yes, this was the residence of Mrs.
     Henry Gamadge who had called in the obituary, and I was Mrs. Gamadge, Senior. Yes, Mrs.
     Dawson was my cousin. No, I could only say how shockingly sudden ... Yes, the services
     would be private, as indicated. Thank you for calling. Among the callers were several
     old friends. Was I back in New York for good? No, but I would be in a few months. Yes, I
     was enjoying Florida.
    About mid-morning, daughter Paula called to beg that I come to Boston for a few days when
     all this was over. I said not now but certainly when I returned in April, and I urged
     her to go up and visit an elderly, lonely relative named Tully Hewitt in Gloucester.
     Paula replied that they often made day trips to the north shore and had she known she
     had a relative in Bass Rocks, she'd have sponged on him long since.
    Between calls, I managed to get dressed, empty the dishwasher, hack something out of the
     freezer for supper, read to Hen, and finally get him into his van.
    Then I sat down to make a phone call of my own.
10
    AN ELDERLY MALE VOICE SAID: “HOLY MARTYRS Cemetery. Cassidy speaking.”
    I told Mr. Cassidy my name and asked for directions to Holy Martyrs from Brooklyn
     Heights. He gave them to me with admirable exactitude.
    â€œAnd is the office on the grounds?” I asked.
    â€œYes, that would be the second gate. If you're coming by bus, it's the corner of Montvale
     Avenue.”
    The thought of traveling to Queens by bus in January made my blood run cold. “Are you
     open every day?” I asked.
    â€œThe cemetery is. The office is closed on Sunday. Are you inquiring about a burial?”
    â€œNo, I'm interested in one of the mausoleums. The Dawson mausoleum.”
    There was a pause. Mr. Cassidy's voice became a shade less brisk. “There seems to be
     quite a bit of interest in that place lately. Somebody was out here a week ago asking
     about it.”
    â€œSo I understand. I'm a member of the family, by the way.”
    â€œI told Mrs. Dawson about it when she came out here to say that Mr. Lloyd Cavanaugh was
     dying and we might be opening.”
    â€œYes, she mentioned it. You don't know who it was—the person who was asking, I mean. You
     didn't get his name?”
    â€œIt was a woman.”
    As the kids say—YIKES!
    â€œI also told Mrs. Dawson”—Mr. Cassidy's voice took on a kind of resignation—"that Mrs.
     Lloyd Cavanaugh probably had other plans for her