When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) đ
- Author: G. Wells Taylor
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She looked offended. âDonât be ridiculous.â
âI was told your husband sold cosmetic products for the dead.â I sauntered over to the piano, resisted the urge to set my drink on it.
âNow you are being ridiculous.â She turned away from me displaying a featureless back. âHe was nothing of the kind.â
âReally,â I said, experiencing the kind of tight feeling I get in my stomach moments before life gets complicated. âWhat did he do exactly?â
âWell, he was in the afterlife business; but nothing so inconsequential as cosmetics. Goodness, no. Alan was the inventor of new life Regenerics.â
Regenerics. The term rang a bell, but I couldnât place it. âWould you mind explaining Regenerics to me?â
âYouâre quite a detective.â She wandered over and placed her thin behind on the piano bench. âRegenerics is a relatively new field. Alan was the first to investigate it to any great degree. Thatâs what gave him so much freedom.â
âFreedom?â
âTo move around. Write his own ticketâso he used to say.â She paused. âHe was quite sought after. Though he complained about the fleeting aspects of celebrity.â
âAnd this Regenericsâwhat is it a preservation technique?â
âNothing so superficial. Alan was involved in geneticâŠlet me seeâwhat did he call itâgenetic 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?â
I could imagine. I tried to relay this with a knowing nod.
âWhat was he doing up in Greasetown?â
âWhen he died? He worked up thereâspent 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.â
âHe did all of his work in Greasetown?â
âOh, yes. He had an office here, but as he used to say, âthe bodyâ of his work was in Greasetown. Authority has already been over the information he kept hereâhis office and files, I mean. They felt it necessary, considering the nature of hisâdemise. But, as I said, Alan spent the majority of his time at his lab working.â 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. âHe tried to make it home on weekends.â
I paused a second to hate my job. âI know this is difficult for you, but how did he die?â
âYou donât know?â She finished the last of her martini. âYou are a detective.â I wasnât going to miss Mrs. Cotton. She continued: âAn accident at the lab, involving one of his experimental mixtures and some faulty machinery. The explosion was quite devastating I was told. Thereâthere, wasnât much left.â She fell silent and again rubbed her throat. âReally, Mr. Wildclown. Must this line of questioning be pursued any further?â
âNo, Iâm sorry. I understand.â 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. âUhâno, Iâm sorry, Mrs. Cotton. But there is something you should know. Your husband was murdered.â
Mrs. Cotton looked at me hard. âWhat?â
âHe was murdered. At the Morocco Hotel, Downings District in Greasetown. Itâs a bad part of town. Itâs a good place to go if you want to get killed, but what youâve 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 canât tell you any names, but Authority immediately put a gag on the story.â
âThis is impossible, Mr. Wildclown.â Her hands clawed the air.
âIâm 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. Donât you think that someone would come to talk to you about him if there was nothing unusual going on.â I cleared my throat, and leaned in toward her. âHis colleagues, his employer, perhaps the newspaper or TV reporters.â
âThere was no one, as I said, his celebrity was fleeting. He often complained about it. He knew everyone wouldâŠtalk about him; know him, if his process worked. For the time being, he was not well-regarded by his peers.â Her eyes dropped. âBut itâs early yet, I quite expect to hear from Mr. King, his patron, very soonâor some of his colleagues. Iâm sure everyone is a little slow with the shock.â
âItâs been almost two months. Thatâs a lot of shock,â I sighed. âNo one will come. Not Mr. King. Not the newspapers. Authority is sitting on the story for some reason.â
âBut whyâŠâ She gave the floor between my boots a searching glance. âWhy wouldâŠâ
âI donât know, Mrs. Cotton, but Iâd like to. I have a feeling that this is somehow wrapped up with another case I worked on. I want to know how.â I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.
âBut, no. This is ridiculous.â She shook her head, ran her eyes over me again. âYou 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.â
âI understand your skepticism.â I smiled weakly. âAnd to help get you over that, Iâd 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?â I bent, placed my hands on my knees and leaned even closer. âI suggest you call them, and ask for a tour of your husbandâs 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. Iâll bet they wonât take you. I know what theyâll try to do. Calm you down. Oh, youâre upset. Poor widow. But, Iâll tell you this. Authority wonât take you because he didnât die in his lab.â
âI have been curious about this. I just assumed that these things take time.â She held her face with broad, red hands.
âAnother thing, ask them about a rumor. Tell them you heard that Alan was murdered at the Morocco Hotel. Donât mention me, that would just tie my hands or kill me.â I straightened, but didnât move back. âI know how Authority works. Theyâre a big powerful body. So why would they hide the truth? Well, they would only hide something that would damage them.â
âWhy are youâdid you, come here.â Tears glimmered in her eyes.
âI 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 labâfine. Iâll be gone, and out of your hair. But, if the conversation raises the smallest doubt, I suggest you hire me to find the truth. Iâm not expensive and Iâm house broken.â I released a sheepish grin. âIâm sorry, I just canât stand extended periods of seriousness.â
My joke went unheard. Mrs. Cottonâs forehead had become a farmerâs field of furrows. She rubbed her teeth lightly with a knuckle.
âIâll make a call.â She looked at me. âIt must have been the shock. I should have found out more about it anyway. I guess it was just so unexpected. Maybe Iâve been denying it. The insurance money was paidâand they always investigateâŠI was in shock!â
âItâs understandable.â I moved over, leaned against the piano.
âFunny,â Mrs. Cotton said, lost in thought. âI 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, âYou know I donât like to talk about my babies. Especially this one.â He always called his projects âbabies.â I always thought that was silly, really. Anyway, there was something about his expression that dayâŠâ She fell silent. âWell, I intend to make that call, Mr. Wildclown.â
âRemember. Donât mention me, yet.â She nodded. I continued. âWhile I wait, would it be possible for me to view his office. I know Authority is thorough, but there is always the possibilityâŠâ
She tilted her head at me. âThey took his files, but I donât see why you shouldnât see his office.â
âEdward!â She called down the hallway. A familiar waspish form moved toward us.
âYes, Madam.â The butler bowed stiffly.
âTake Mr. Wildclown to Alanâs office. Allow him to look around. I donât know whyâŠâ She searched my eyes with hers, âbut I trust him and I really have no reason to.â She giggled.
âThank you, Mrs. Cotton.â I felt a little guilty. Sensitivity was something suppressed by life in Greasetown.
âWhat makes you so sure he was murdered and that Authority is somehow involved?â She watched me earnestly.
âCertain actions, facts and behaviors. To be honest I donât have much more than hearsay. No evidence. Just a feeling. Something unexplainableâlike you trusting me.â
She smiled with real humor. âThank you, Mr. Wildclown. Your efforts will be appreciated.â
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 wouldnât miss me any more than I would miss Greasetown.
I didnât want to be a story in the Murder and Death section: Some nobodyâs mangled remains were foundâŠ
The search through Alan Cottonâs office had turned up nothing. Edward had been an annoyance throughout the inspectionâhumming distractedly as he checked the top surfaces of furniture for dust. The office itself was a large oneâroom enough for a long couch and easy chair around a low coffee table. At one wall by a bay window, the prerequisite desk, chair and filing cabinets. It was one of those kinder, gentler officesâall fuchsia and pastelâthat prompted an urge in me to butt my cigarette on the carpet. Authority had been thorough all right. I tried to turn the computer on but it blinked and beeped like it was short-circuiting then quietly died. Edward assured me that Mr. Cotton did not use or trust computers, but kept this one in the hope that scientists could find a way to repair them one day. I dug around, but there was nothing left in the way of records except for a scratch pad. I tried the old detective pencil shading over paper trick to reveal any impress from former notes, but even that had come up blank. I left the office, rejoined Elmo in the foyer, and was met there by Mrs. Cotton. Her protuberant eyes were red. She dabbed at them intermittently with a silk handkerchief.
âYou were right, Mr. Wildclown. I had a difficult time finding someone who would talk to me about it. Finally, they gave me to an Inspector Borden. He told me to calm down. When I pushed him, he said the lab had been badly damaged and there would be no point in viewing it. He said I could see it if I had to, but he thought it might be dangerous considering some of the chemicals Alan used in his experiments. He felt it was an unnecessary risk.
âWhen I asked him if he knew of a rumor about Alan being murdered at the Morocco Hotel, he became very interested. He
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