Marigolds, Ch 22

22

I agreed to go to work with Michael in the morning. I felt I could wait to talk to this Boban guy, though I took the number with me. Someone on Marblehead Neck had something rummaging around in the attic and not appraising the antiques. Irish I Were Pest-Free to the rescue.

Mr. And Mrs. Leland Pickering were both at home when we arrived. Mr. Pickering’s Boston commodities firm “could run itself for the morning,” and Mrs. Pickering said the Marblehead Historical Society “would just have to make due for a few hours.” The Pickerings were going to be here when we caught whatever it was to be caught. It took ten minutes for me to track and half that for Michael to sack the raccoon.

“Whatever shall you do with it, Mr. Devlin?” Asked Mrs. Pickering as her husband bid us farewell with a half-regal wave through a half-opened window of the rear seat of a very long car. I saluted him.

“They’re darn fine eating from the barbecue, ma’am.” Michael kissed the tips of his fingers sending them away from his mouth with a flourish. The raccoon was buzzing and squirming against the canvas.

“You shall do no such thing, Mr. Devlin.”

“Would you want that I loose it in your neighbor’s yard, Mrs. Pickering?”

“I believe you are having sport at my expense, are you not, Mr. Devlin?” It was apparent Mrs. Pickering had chided the help before.

“He is, ma’am. I’ll make him stop.” I offered.

Michael turned toward me. He hoisted the sack over his shoulder. I waited until he was perfectly still.

“Stop, Michael.” I said with feint conviction.

“We’ll take it out to Old Salem Road in Swampscott and let it go there. It’ll be fine.” I said.

“There’s a fraternity of the critters we’ve taken there, ma’am,” said Michael. “They come a-scampering down the hill when they see the van because they know there’s a new member coming.”

My phone chirped on my belt as Michael was settling accounts with his client. I had left a message for McClain on his cell’s voice mail.

“McClain here.”

“Morning Detective.”

“Here’s the latest, Finn. Your dead woman down here was Ivana Grdesic. Franjo Salata at the consulate recognized her and we sent a picture to her family in Croatia. I have spoken with her father and the body is to be flown back as soon as the medical examiner releases it, probably no later than tomorrow.”

“Anything unusual or out of place about any of this to you, Frank? It was supposed to be Ivana Grdesic’s father who identified and claimed the body found on the beach up here.”

“Yeah, well, on that front, we heard from our guy at the Mass state cops…”

“Bevilaqua?’

“Umm hmm. It was the guy what's-her-name killed down here who identified and claimed that body up there. Bevilaqua confirmed from the photo we sent him.”

“So how do we know there isn’t more funny stuff afoot? How can you be sure that the guy in Croatia who’s having the body shipped there is really her father?”

“ Afoot? Man.” I could feel McClain shaking his head two hundred miles away.

“Well, for one thing, he’s with the Croatian ministry of health. Our friend Franjo at the consulate confirmed it and I got a document faxed here from the ministry this morning. The documents are in order at any rate.”

“One more question, Frank, if I might? Where’s the body Niko Matulich claimed under pretense here in Boston?”

“Beats the shit out of me and it’s not my problem.”

“And why did Matulich do it? Who sent him?”

“You said one more question.” And he was gone. My news for him would have to wait.