When Graveyards Yawn - G. Wells Taylor (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📗

She looked offended. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I was told your husband sold cosmetic products for the dead.” I sauntered over to the piano, resisted the urge to set my drink on it.

“Now you are being ridiculous.” She turned away from me displaying a featureless back. “He was nothing of the kind.”

“Really,” I said, experiencing the kind of tight feeling I get in my stomach moments before life gets complicated. “What did he do exactly?”

“Well, he was in the afterlife business; but nothing so inconsequential as cosmetics. Goodness, no. Alan was the inventor of new life Regenerics.”

Regenerics. The term rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. “Would you mind explaining Regenerics to me?”

“You’re quite a detective.” She wandered over and placed her thin behind on the piano bench. “Regenerics is a relatively new field. Alan was the first to investigate it to any great degree. That’s what gave him so much freedom.”

“Freedom?”

“To move around. Write his own ticket—so he used to say.” She paused. “He was quite sought after. Though he complained about the fleeting aspects of celebrity.”

“And this Regenerics—what is it a preservation technique?”

“Nothing so superficial. Alan was involved in genetic…let me see—what did he call it—genetic revivification. He believed there was every possibility that the dead were not completely dead. Oh, I know they still walk around and everything, but Alan felt certain there was a way to restart their life processes. He said it would revolutionize the death industry. Can you imagine?”

I could imagine. I tried to relay this with a knowing nod.

“What was he doing up in Greasetown?”

“When he died? He worked up there—spent most of his time in Greasetown. Something on business, rest assured. Though he was always secretive with me. He got the majority of his funding from King Industries. They supplied a laboratory for Alan.”

“He did all of his work in Greasetown?”

“Oh, yes. He had an office here, but as he used to say, ‘the body’ of his work was in Greasetown. Authority has already been over the information he kept here—his office and files, I mean. They felt it necessary, considering the nature of his—demise. But, as I said, Alan spent the majority of his time at his lab working.” Mrs. Cotton did the first truly human thing during our encounter. She leaned forward, pressed a hand to her throat and grimaced as though she was trying to swallow a pill. “He tried to make it home on weekends.”

I paused a second to hate my job. “I know this is difficult for you, but how did he die?”

“You don’t know?” She finished the last of her martini. “You are a detective.” I wasn’t going to miss Mrs. Cotton. She continued: “An accident at the lab, involving one of his experimental mixtures and some faulty machinery. The explosion was quite devastating I was told. There—there, wasn’t much left.” She fell silent and again rubbed her throat. “Really, Mr. Wildclown. Must this line of questioning be pursued any further?”

“No, I’m sorry. I understand.” My mind was already tossing these tidbits into the conspiracy I was cooking. Then I shook my head, and moved around the piano to stand in front of her. “Uh—no, I’m sorry, Mrs. Cotton. But there is something you should know. Your husband was murdered.”

Mrs. Cotton looked at me hard. “What?”

“He was murdered. At the Morocco Hotel, Downings District in Greasetown. It’s a bad part of town. It’s a good place to go if you want to get killed, but what you’ve told me about your husband has me wondering what would have put him there. I have it on the word of a reporter for the Greasetown Gazette that she and her photographer discovered his body. I can’t tell you any names, but Authority immediately put a gag on the story.”

“This is impossible, Mr. Wildclown.” Her hands clawed the air.

“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Cotton, has anyone other than Authority been here to talk to you about your husband. You said Mr. Cotton was a leader in the study of Regenerics. Don’t you think that someone would come to talk to you about him if there was nothing unusual going on.” I cleared my throat, and leaned in toward her. “His colleagues, his employer, perhaps the newspaper or TV reporters.”

“There was no one, as I said, his celebrity was fleeting. He often complained about it. He knew everyone would…talk about him; know him, if his process worked. For the time being, he was not well-regarded by his peers.” Her eyes dropped. “But it’s early yet, I quite expect to hear from Mr. King, his patron, very soon—or some of his colleagues. I’m sure everyone is a little slow with the shock.”

“It’s been almost two months. That’s a lot of shock,” I sighed. “No one will come. Not Mr. King. Not the newspapers. Authority is sitting on the story for some reason.”

“But why…” She gave the floor between my boots a searching glance. “Why would…”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Cotton, but I’d like to. I have a feeling that this is somehow wrapped up with another case I worked on. I want to know how.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.

“But, no. This is ridiculous.” She shook her head, ran her eyes over me again. “You come in here, dressed as a-a clown of all things, and then begin to tell me this incredible story of Alan being murdered. I never should have let you in.”

“I understand your skepticism.” I smiled weakly. “And to help get you over that, I’d like you to do this for me. If there is nothing unusual about the accident, Authority would be glad to help you out. Am I right?” I bent, placed my hands on my knees and leaned even closer. “I suggest you call them, and ask for a tour of your husband’s lab. Tell them your doctor ordered it as part of the grieving process. Ask the investigating inspectors to take you to the place where Alan died. I’ll bet they won’t take you. I know what they’ll try to do. Calm you down. Oh, you’re upset. Poor widow. But, I’ll tell you this. Authority won’t take you because he didn’t die in his lab.”

“I have been curious about this. I just assumed that these things take time.” She held her face with broad, red hands.

“Another thing, ask them about a rumor. Tell them you heard that Alan was murdered at the Morocco Hotel. Don’t mention me, that would just tie my hands or kill me.” I straightened, but didn’t move back. “I know how Authority works. They’re a big powerful body. So why would they hide the truth? Well, they would only hide something that would damage them.”

“Why are you—did you, come here.” Tears glimmered in her eyes.

“I like the truth. And, to be honest, I need work. If, after you speak to Authority, you feel confident that your husband died in an accident at his lab—fine. I’ll be gone, and out of your hair. But, if the conversation raises the smallest doubt, I suggest you hire me to find the truth. I’m not expensive and I’m house broken.” I released a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I just can’t stand extended periods of seriousness.”

My joke went unheard. Mrs. Cotton’s forehead had become a farmer’s field of furrows. She rubbed her teeth lightly with a knuckle.

“I’ll make a call.” She looked at me. “It must have been the shock. I should have found out more about it anyway. I guess it was just so unexpected. Maybe I’ve been denying it. The insurance money was paid—and they always investigate…I was in shock!”

“It’s understandable.” I moved over, leaned against the piano.

“Funny,” Mrs. Cotton said, lost in thought. “I remember the day he left for Greasetown. He would usually stay away for a week at a time. I remember the last day. I asked him what he was working on. He said, ‘You know I don’t like to talk about my babies. Especially this one.’ He always called his projects ‘babies.’ I always thought that was silly, really. Anyway, there was something about his expression that day…” She fell silent. “Well, I intend to make that call, Mr. Wildclown.”

“Remember. Don’t mention me, yet.” She nodded. I continued. “While I wait, would it be possible for me to view his office. I know Authority is thorough, but there is always the possibility…”

She tilted her head at me. “They took his files, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t see his office.”

“Edward!” She called down the hallway. A familiar waspish form moved toward us.

“Yes, Madam.” The butler bowed stiffly.

“Take Mr. Wildclown to Alan’s office. Allow him to look around. I don’t know why…” She searched my eyes with hers, “but I trust him and I really have no reason to.” She giggled.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cotton.” I felt a little guilty. Sensitivity was something suppressed by life in Greasetown.

“What makes you so sure he was murdered and that Authority is somehow involved?” She watched me earnestly.

“Certain actions, facts and behaviors. To be honest I don’t have much more than hearsay. No evidence. Just a feeling. Something unexplainable—like you trusting me.”

She smiled with real humor. “Thank you, Mr. Wildclown. Your efforts will be appreciated.”

I nodded, and followed Edward along the hallway. There was a major cover-up going on, I knew that much. But how hard should I push? It was very easy to disappear in my neighborhood. I had heard of other detectives that dug too deep and struck lava. And here I was investigating the death of man whose murderers had almost liquefied his body. Greasetown wouldn’t miss me any more than I would miss Greasetown.

I didn’t want to be a story in the Murder and Death section: Some nobody’s mangled remains were found…