The Bed Body (Gerald Bunting Book 1) Read online

  Officer Marrow threw the car in gear. “It is odd she wasn’t more upset.”

  Bunting patted his shoulder. “Yes, with her, we find the teary crocodile, stopped up when the bitter sadness arrives to party.”

  The detective clawed at a backseat window. “Can the windows be rolled places, elsewhere?” He gasped. “Or shall I be, here, stifled, stricken with stagnant air in the British autos?”

  Andrews spun a handle, but the glass held steady. “Sorry, Gerald. This car’s not far from being scrapped. Jacob, could you—"

  “I’m driving.”

  Gerald feebly reached behind Marrow’s seat, clinging to the handle. “If I could but…. Strength, fail me not. I grow weaker with each of the breaths.” He lost his grip and slumped against the window, panting.

  “Back to the station?” Andrews asked.

  “No,” Marrow said, “it’s hardly nine. I say we check in with Mrs. Sutton. See if she’s sobered up a bit.”

  “A… wonderful bit of plans, like the cake crumb hidden by the leafed lettuce,” Gerald whispered.

  “Jacob, just roll down the window,” Andrews said. “It won’t kill you.”

  Officer Marrow smiled, checking the mirrors. “I had another death in mind….”

  Chapter Nine

  Mrs. Sutton ushered the trio into her living room. The curtains had been drawn aside, bathing the antiques in warm sunlight. The rug had been recently scrubbed. Sutton fell into her usual chair, crossing her ankles. Her eyes were puffy and sunken. She was holding a fresh washcloth.

  Bunting took a seat beside her. “Madam, I have the question before the beginnings.” He lifted a shaky hand. “None for you at this hour, but may I, Gerald Bunting, have the stronger somethings to calm the spirits? I have experienced the daredevil ride on this place’s racetrack highway. It was what fiction novelties call the ‘joyride,’ but I feel none of the bliss.”

  Mrs. Sutton poured a glass of gin, offering it to the detective. He drank deeply and smacked his lips. “Bliss… yes, lastly.”

  Officer Marrow’s shoes squished on the sudsy rug. “I’m sorry to disturb you again so soon, ma’am, but we spoke with your sister this morning, and there are a few things we need to clarify.”

  She laughed. “Why am I not surprised? I’m telling you, she killed Mother. She thinks I’ve been abusing Mother. Did that come up? The truth is, I cherished Mother. I’ve cared for her for ten years! Ask anyone. She was happy here.”

  “Those matters came up in passing, yes—”

  “But it all came back to the drinking, didn’t it? For your information, constables… Mr. Bunting”—she nodded at the detective—"yes, I have a problem, but I’ve been working on it. Quentin’s been helping me. Mother was always encouraging. But Mauve….”

  “She has the viper tongue,” Gerald muttered, “the brutish—”

  Officer Andrews patted him on the shoulder. “Shh.”

  “Yes, shh…” Bunting brought a finger to his lips. “Or the tiny truths will go hiding.”

  Marrow continued, “A pension was discussed, ma’am.”

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Sutton’s heels hit the floor. “The greedy daughter, stealing from her invalid mother. I’m sure that will look perfect in the papers!”

  Gerald nodded, burbling, “Next to my several portraits, yes. Perfected.”

  “Well, ma’am?” Marrow asked. “Is it true?”

  “Yes, Mother received a small pension—just enough to cover a bit of groceries.” She retrieved a bundle of envelopes from the desk. “It’s nothing. See for yourself.”

  Officer Marrow skimmed the papers. “We’ll need to file these as evidence.

  “I still think she did it.” A string of tears ran down the woman’s nose. “Mauve’s been saying she wanted to leave the country for years. She thinks it will help her become a serious artist. That,” she pointed to the landscape over the desk, “is serious art.

  “Somewhere along the way, she started busting up bottles, gluing them down on pasteboard, and calling it art. ‘When Mother’s gone….’ She’s been saying it for years—since before Father died. Well, now she’s gone”— Mrs. Sutton sniffed—“I hope it’s worth it to her. The guilt, I mean. She called me before you came, chewed me up and down—one side, then, the other—for accusing her. Said Mother might’ve done it herself. I don’t believe it. Mother was….”

  She took a sip of water.

  “How was your Mother yesterday morning?” Marrow asked. “Her emotions, I mean.”

  “Fine! She was the same as always. My husband saw her at breakfast. She was totally normal, completely herself.”

  “She didn’t seem worried or fearful?”

  “No, she was cheerful. When I cut open a roll for her, she commented on the rain the night before. She went back upstairs after that. Mother always took a nap in the late morning—has for as long as I can remember. Then, Mauve stopped by and went up to see her. When she came back down, we had a fight.”

  “And, when you were through arguing, what happened?”

  “She left.”

  Officer Marrow reviewed his notebook. “Did your mother have any close friends? We aren’t trying to be tedious, ma’am, but since the suspicion of violence has been raised, we must be thorough.”

  “Mrs. Wilkins next door.” Mrs. Sutton pointed up the street. “I wouldn’t bother with Mrs. Stephens on the other side. She’s lost her senses. Thinks her roof is always leaking. She’s had it shingled twice already this year. I think it’s her brain that leaks.”

  Gerald began snoring softly. “Sultan, it is… I, G. Bunting. Yes, this Cornish detective man. I am welcoming chances to solve the great….”

  Chapter Ten

  Officer Andrews gave the door knocker two strikes.

  “Wake up, Gerald!” Marrow shook the sleeping detective. “You should’ve never had that gin.” He leaned Bunting against a lattice. “That’s all we need, a tipsy Cornishman. He smells like a hobo.”

  An elderly woman in a floral apron cracked open the door. “Yes?” Officer Marrow loosened his grip on Gerald’s lapels. She shouted, “What are you doing to that poor man? Who are you? Are you one of those insurance scams? I’ll call my grandson and have you put away—the lot of you! He’s a solicitor.”

  Marrow flashed his badge. “Mrs. Wilkins? I’m Officer Marrow, and this is my colleague, Officer Andrews.”

  “What of it?”

  “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Mildred Wembley.”

  “Who’s he?” she asked, gesturing to the sleeping detective.

  “Don’t worry,” Marrow replied, “he’ll tell you. He loves to tell people who he is. Marcus, fetch him, would you? He’s shadowing us this week. A work exchange with a Welsh department.”

  Mrs. Wilkins stood aside. “I see. I wondered why he was bundled up like that. I suppose Wales gets colder in the fall—you know, sitting so close to the ocean. In the kitchen please,” she shouted. Officer Andrews winced. “So sorry. It’s these hearing aids. They’ve been giving me trouble!”

  “That’s quite alright.” Marrow joined her at the kitchen table. “Andrews,” he called. “Get Bunting in here. We’re waiting.”

  “He’s fighting back. I’m doing my best!” Andrews lurched into view, steering the drowsy detective into the room.

  Officer Marrow fished for a pen. “How long have you known Mrs. Wembley?”

  “Oh, I’d say about eighty years. She was one year older than me at school. Our families knew each other.”

  “And how often did you see her?”

  “We had tea most days. She didn’t come yesterday, so I went over in the afternoon to see if something was the matter. I found her daughter, crying at the sink.” Mrs. Wilkins shook her head. “It was sad to see. She’d spilled rum all over the rug.”

  “Was this before the body had been removed?”

  “No, after I think.”

  “Did you see Mr. Sutton?”

  “He wasn’t there. Not tha
t I saw, anyway.” She fumbled with a dial behind her ear. “Odd man! A bit perplexing, I suppose. But we all have our flaws.”

  “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Wembley?”

  “Sunday for tea.”

  “How did she seem to you?”

  “Happy. But, then, it’s hard, getting old, constables. Don’t do it if you get the chance. Mildred took it all in stride, did the best she could. She was in pain, but it was manageable.”

  Mrs. Wilkins paused to refold a napkin. “Mildred wasn’t the first friend I lost this year. I’m afraid there aren’t many of us left, now, from school.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry for the loss.”

  Gerald’s head fell toward the table, but Officer Andrews caught him before the collision. “Loss, the grim friend who enters without a knock, who scarfs the nut bowl without the offers to—loss….”

  “Is he ill?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.

  Officer Marrow shook his head. “Cornish, ma’am. I was as surprised as you, but his story checks out.”

  “No, sick, I mean.”

  “I certainly think so, but the doctors aren’t in agreement. They’ve run out of tests. We may never know what’s ailing him.”

  “Tea,” Bunting muttered. “Tea for—”

  “Marcus, could you take our friend here for a walk while I finish the interview?”

  “Two friends in the rowing boats….”

  Officer Andrews pulled Gerald out of his chair. “You’ll be right as rain, Mr. Bunting, without that tea. I can’t imagine you could be too thirsty now after all that… all that tea you drank at Mrs. Sutton’s. You just need some fresh air.”

  The detective sniffed the air. “The air, yes! I missed the thing. The soils, the waters, too, tell the tales only I, Gerald, am hearing.”

  His babbling faded down the hall.

  Officer Marrow turned back to the witness. “Mrs. Wilkins, was Mrs. Wembley fearful of violence against her life?”

  “Not that she ever told me. I sat, doing my needlepoint last night, wondering if she’d given me some sort of sign, but I couldn’t recall anything.”

  “Mrs. Wembley’s daughters had a fight before her passing. Did you hear anything?”

  “I was at church most of the morning. Even if I’d been here, these hearing aids give me so much trouble, I’m not sure I’d hear an argument if it was in the other room.”

  Marrow pushed back his chair. “Thank you for your time. I wish we had more information to share.”

  Mrs. Wilkins nodded. “Mildred was a good, Christian woman, Constable. I take heart knowing she’s no longer in pain.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “There—no, there. Now, lower him… slower, Jacob!”

  Gerald Bunting’s limp body fell on the bench with a sharp creak.

  Officer Andrews leaned over the detective. “Hello, can you hear us?”

  “… Hazel? At last….”

  Marrow pulled his colleague out of the way. “Hey! Wake up!” Gerald buried his face in a stack of newspapers. “The reporters are here for an interview.”

  Bunting rose, straightening his scarf. “Yes? Send them. Who is? No mat. I, G. Bunting, have done the case solving, as foreseen by—aha! How did? No frets, journal writers. It was the dump man. Only my mysterious nose could detect the thing. Bunting alone!”

  “Feeling better?” Andrews handed him a cup of water.

  “That glass of gin really did you in,” Marrow chuckled.

  Gerald coughed, patting his hat. “I have the peculiar Cornish sensitivities. If it comes not from the keg, I must be cautionary.”

  “Why’d you drink it, then?”

  Bunting spat out the water. “You drove me like the hog for slaughtering with all this honk-honk, sirens driving! I am lucky to live. Grateful I am that sleep found my persons on the returning journey.”

  “If you’d like,” Andrews said, “I’m sure there are some pastries in the kitchen.”

  “There’ll be nothing to do here for a bit. Take your time,” Marrow said.

  ***

  Officer Marrow glanced at the clock and picked up the phone. A man answered. “Hello?”

  “Marrow here.”

  “I was about to call.”

  “Mildred Wembley—anything unusual?”

  “I should say so, Jacob. Are you sitting?”

  “I can be.” Marrow dropped into his desk chair. “I am now. Why the theatrics?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Dead? I knew that, David. It’s a possible murder case. Why are you wasting—"

  “The corpse was picked up this morning by mistake.”

  “What?”

  “The funeral director was due in to pick up another woman, but the freezer numbers were mixed up on the form. Jacob… he’s cremated Mrs. Wembley.”

  “Surely, you had a look at her—”

  “I never got the chance.”

  Marrow hurled a dart across the room. It missed the board and lodged in the plaster.

  “… Jacob?”

  “I’m thinking, David! Do you understand the bind this is going to put me in? This thing was already an uphill battle, and now, I haven’t even got a body to stand on. This funeral director, what’s the name?”

  “Riddle & Thatch. Harold, Jr. He’s Thatch.”

  “Do you think he could’ve done it on purpose—messed up the papers, I mean?”

  “I don’t think he’s the sort. He’s been making these pick-ups for years. Eyesight’s never been the best and getting worse all the time. This Wembley woman bore a resemblance to the other body, so he said he didn’t think twice.”

  “Goodbye, David.” Officer Marrow hung up and rested his head on the desk.

  Gerald found him several minutes later. “They have many sugary good things in this constables’ kitchen—three are there still. Quicker, go sign the name with a lick, or they shall be gone. I shall do the taking.”

  Marrow sighed. “I’ve got bigger problems than a doughnut.”

  “This case? Wembley, the woman? It is nothing, I give the assurances. The clues will piece the pirate map. An ‘x,’ it will mark the spot yet, surely.”

  “Wembley was cremated.”

  The detective scratched his neck scruff. “A strangeness.”

  “It was a mix-up. A mistake, apparently.”

  Officer Andrews walked in with a mug of coffee. “I’ve just heard the best joke. Come on, Jacob, straighten up. This’ll get you laughing.” Marrow slowly raised his head. “It’s all about this man who goes around, selling feathers. And…”—Andrews choked on his drink—“he tells this woman he’d like to marry her, okay? And, then, she tells him—”

  “She’s been cremated, Marcus.

  Officer Andrews dropped his mug, staining Bunting’s overcoat.

  Chapter Twelve

  The funeral home was an austere painted lady. It sat conspicuously on a double lot, surrounded by modern structures of brick and glass. The flower beds were dusted with paint chips.

  “Bunting,” Officer Marrow barked, “would you stop blathering? Eat the rest of your pastry and be quiet.”

  Gerald swallowed a mouthful of doughnut. “I am not used to this harsh speaking, Marrow. Now, release me from this auto. I shall not die in the sun, trapped by the locking.”

  “Quiet!”

  The detective simmered. “We duel. I have fenced and beaten the greater man. You shall take the thrust to the heart and be dying!” He pawed at the door. “Andrews, be helping. And procure me the épée!”

  Marrow killed the engine. “Only fencing place I know is closed on Tuesdays. Sorry about that. Small town, I’m afraid.”

  Gerald flapped the folds of his coat. “Oh, to return to Bude, the place ever in my dreaming. There, the men and lady folks may duel for killing and blame the surly cow. Justice, served with the boat for gravy, as is best.”

  “Ready, boys? See, Marcus? I’ve nearly got him tuned out.”

  The men reconvened on the funeral home steps. “L
et me do the talking,” Officer Marrow said.

  “But what if words, they spring forth?” Bunting asked. “It is the danger, always, to bite onto the tongue.”

  “You can talk in the car.” Marrow pressed the doorbell.

  A man in a lime-green blazer ushered them into the foyer. “Yes, constables?”

  Gerald stepped forward. “Sir, I, the Cornish man, am no such officer. I follow the laws, yes, but I receive not pay from them.”

  Marrow stabbed a pen in his thigh.

  “Who are you, then?” the man asked.

  Officer Marrow jumped in front of the detective. “He’s a very famous man. Apparently, he’s in all the papers... even if I’ve never seen him in any. Oh, and he’s met the Queen.” Gerald nodded. “Can we move along, please? It’s almost time for lunch. Are you the funeral director, Harold Thatch—Harold, Jr.?”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s my father. He’s in the study, just down the hall. Please keep your voices down. The ceremony in the parlor will begin shortly.”

  ***

  Harold, Jr., a slight man in his late seventies, sat at his desk. Urns of various shapes and styles were stacked around him. The blinds were shut, but stray rays of light spread across the faded carpet.

  Officer Marrow paused in the doorway and knocked lightly on the frame. “Hello?”

  The old man closed a ledger. He stood and offered a hand. “Are you with the Perkins family?”

  “No, we’re with the police. Well, he and I are.” He entered, nodding at Andrews.

  Mr. Thatch nudged his spectacles further up his nose. “And what about this man with the sweaters? A bit warm, I should wonder, for September.”

  Gerald took a dramatic step, but Marrow shoved him into a chair. “He’s Cornish. He’ll speak later. I’ll speak now. I received a call from the medical examiner that there was… a mix-up at the morgue.”

  “Yes, a dreadful thing,” Thatch muttered, thumping his knuckles on the ledger. “In fifty years, it’s never happened. If you’d put me in contact with the deceased’s family, the least I can do is hold the funeral for free. Have they been told?”