Read Online Working Murder by Eleanor Boylan - Free Book Online Page B

was buried there once, but I believe her body was transferred. Other than that, the
     place hasn't been opened since Jim died.”
    â€œI open it. I open it all the time.”
    Martin clawed at his neck and got his fingers around a piece of filthy string. A key
     dangled from it. I thought I knew how Lord Carnarvon felt at the door of King Tut's
     tomb. I wanted to run yelping to Henry and Sadd. Martin was still talking as he tucked
     the key back carefully.
    â€œThat's where I'm going to be buried, you see. Father Dever took me to the doctor just
     the other day and you know what he said? He said I'd probably be a holy martyr myself
     real soon, and they'll lay me away with Uncle Jim and his buddies. Of course”—Martin
     grew tearful—"I won't have the lovely Mass that Lloyd promised me. He always said he'd
     bring me over to St. Bernard's and give me the whole works—choir and all. Now he's
     gone.”
    Martin pulled a gruesome handkerchief from his overcoat pocket and wiped his eyes. He
     added: “I'd better go home.”
    Dear God, we mustn't lose this treasure. “Perhaps we could give you a ride,” I said.
     “Where do you—I mean—how did you come?”
    â€œFather Dever brought me.” Martin stood up, listing. “He said as soon as he finished
     saying the rosary he'd—”
    â€œMartin,” I said, “do sit down again for a minute.” I gave his arm a mere touch which, in
     Martin's condition, must have been the equivalent of a push, for down he plopped. “I
     have some friends who would love to meet you. Let me find them—and I'll find Father
     Dever for you, too.”
    I threaded my way back to the stairs and went down them on something of a run. From the
     slight elevation of the bottom step, I gazed around the crowd. Sadd and Henry were
     nowhere to be seen, and there were Father Devers everywhere. Then I sighted Sadd talking
     to Helen Cavanaugh beside her husband's coffin. Barbaric to interrupt there; better go
     back and check on my treasure. I hurried up the stairs again and over to the
     corner—Martin was gone. Oh, damn, damn. Back to the stairs and down them (I'm certain
     there were people who returned from the wake to describe an old woman who spent the
     evening running up and down the stairs) and met Henry midway.
    â€œHenry,” I said in his ear, “Martin has a key to the mausoleum—but I've lost him.”
    â€œI just saw him”—Henry looked over his shoulder—"going out the door with a priest. A key ?” Henry had caught the fever. “Let me see if I can find them.” He took
     off.
    I made my way over to Sadd and Helen Cavanaugh, and she held out her arms to me.
    â€œClara, dear, you were wonderful to come.”
    I embraced her, a tiny woman and a darling person. “Helen, we're all so sorry—and so
     proud. Lloyd was a great person. I hear nothing but his praises on all sides.”
    Sadd said: “I always thought that Lloyd fit Cardinal Newman's definition of a gentleman:
     One who never knowingly inflicts pain.”
    â€œOh, Sadd, how well you knew him!” Helen, who was no dope, knew that Sadd scarcely knew
     him, but was herself one who never knowingly inflicted pain. “Lloyd would be so honored
     to think you came tonight. Now I want to hear about Florida.”
    I suppose we chatted on the subject, but my mind was on Henry searching for
     Martin-of-the-Key. Now Henry was coming toward us, shaking his head. My heart sank. I
     said:
    â€œHelen—that nice priest who led the rosary—who was he? Sadd was so impressed with his
     voice.”
    Sadd looked nonplussed.
    â€œOh, Father Dever,” said Helen. “He's our pastor at Saint Agnes's in Hollis. Yes, a
     wonderful speaker. Henry Gamadge, you are the image of you father! And now you'd better
     take these dear folks home—it may snow again. Say good night to Tully for me. By the