Read Online The Gravedigger's Ball by Solomon Jones - Free Book Online Page B

This was the first time since he lay down that morning that he realized the knocking was real.
    Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked toward the ten-foot ceiling, blinking as a shaft of sunlight knifed between the drapes in his study. He raised his hand to block the light and squinted at the leather-bound volumes of Frost, Thoreau, Dickens, and Poe that lined the bookcases on the other side of the room.
    Peeling himself off the couch, Clarissa Bailey’s husband smacked his lips and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Then he sat there with his head in his hands, trying to wake up.
    The knocking came again, more insistently this time, and Ellison cursed under his breath before crossing the room and turning on his laptop to make it look as if he’d been working on his never-ending novel.
    “I’m coming!” he yelled as he walked down the winding staircase and through the cavernous rooms and hallways that led to the front door of the four-story, thirty-room home.
    The knocking became more persistent. It was annoying, just like Clarissa. The sound reminded him of why he wanted to be rid of her. By the time he arrived at the door, he was downright angry, and it showed when he snatched open the door and yelled in his clipped British accent, “What is it!”
    He was greeted by an outstretched hand holding a badge. “Detective Coletti, Philadelphia Police. Are you Ellison Bailey?”
    Ellison nodded, looking at the detective and the officer who stood at the bottom of the steps, near a parked police car with another cop in the driver’s seat.
    “We’ve been trying to reach you all morning, Mr. Bailey. It’s about your wife.”
    “What about her? Is she all right?”
    Coletti paused to look at Ellison Bailey, whose sprayed-on tan and dyed brown hair starkly contrasted the two-day growth of gray stubble that lined his wrinkled face. Dressed in driving loafers, jeans, and a slept-in designer shirt, Ellison appeared to be fighting a losing battle against age.
    As they stood there looking at each other, several of the Baileys’ neighbors peeked out their windows and doors.
    “Maybe I should come in, Mr. Bailey,” Coletti said, nodding toward the patrol officer. “It might be a little more private.”
    “Oh, of course,” Ellison said, standing aside. “We can talk in the den.”
    Coletti told the officers to stay outside. Then Ellison led Coletti through a labyrinth of halls and rooms that were lined with prominently displayed sculpture and paintings. They passed through the living room, with luxurious furnishings and Fabergé eggs strategically placed beneath banks of recessed lighting. They passed through the drawing room, with rich oils by impressionist masters encased in ornate frames. The dining room was equipped with a marble table whose velvet and silk runner was a deep royal purple. The den was appointed with plush wingback chairs, earth-toned African carvings, a giant flat-screen television, and most importantly to Ellison, a bar.
    “Please sit down,” Ellison said as he mixed himself a martini and took a sip. “Can I get you anything?”
    Coletti had neither the time nor the inclination to socialize, so he got to the point quickly. “Your wife’s dead, Mr. Bailey.”
    Ellison stopped in mid-sip. There was no grief, no shock, and no joy. There was only acceptance of the grim news. A moment later he gulped down the martini and mixed himself another.
    “How did it happen?” he asked as he popped an olive into the glass and fell into a chair directly across from Coletti.
    “Someone pushed her into a grave and stuffed her mouth with dirt. We think she choked to death.”
    “Really?” Ellison asked, sounding surprised, but not grieved. “That’s dreadful.”
    Coletti knew what it was to lose a woman he loved, and what he saw from Ellison Bailey didn’t compare to the grief he felt each time he thought of Mary. The question came out of his mouth before he could stop it. “You didn’t care about her at all, did