Masks, p.1
Masks, page 1
Masks
By Greg Hunt
Copyright © 2014 by Greg Hunt
Published by Greg Hunt at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Please remember to leave a review for my book at your favorite retailer.
ONE
Last Respects
Even dead, Edwin Raines appeared unimposing, ordinary, and utterly forgettable. His slender frame, dressed in a loose dark suit and cradled in pale satin, seemed somehow too small for the mahogany coffin, like a child sleeping on his parent's bed. Wisps of brown hair were combed across his balding head, and the makeup on his face had been so skillfully applied that the pale tones of his skin looked altogether natural. His only accessory was the gold wedding band on one finger.
The air near the coffin was a dizzying stew of dizzyingly floral odors unique to funeral environments. Gazing down at his dead friend, Danny Skerett realized that, had he not already known how Edwin Raines died, he might not have noticed the small bullet wound in his left temple. Darkish red and slightly raised, as small as a pencil eraser, it could have easily been mistaken for a mole. There was no exit wound so the small caliber bullet must have simply ricocheted around inside Edwin's skull, causing a mercifully swift death.
Others were in line waiting for a glimpse of the body, so Danny did not linger by the coffin. As he turned, he glanced toward the private seating area reserved for family. It was empty, although he knew Caulder, Edwin's wife, must have already arrived.
The chapel it was about half full. A respectable turnout, Danny thought. Most of the attendees would be business associates and social acquaintance of Caulder who felt obligated to attend the funeral. The collective amount of true grief in this room for the reclusive Edwin Raines himself probably wouldn't have dampened an average-sized handkerchief.
In truth, Danny thought, he was one of the few people here who knew Edwin Raines well, and even their friendship had faded over the years.
Walking back down the center aisle Danny recognized several faces. His and Caulder's business and social circles frequently intersected. He paused to shake a couple of hands, muttering the expected solemnities, then went to the back and took a seat beside a scruffy, lanky man in his mid-fifties.
Jack Welsh slid over a few inches. "That's the best I've ever seen Edwin look," he said in a harsh whisper. "At least his shirttail is tucked in and he doesn't look like he's waiting for some bully to steal his lunch money."
"Show some respect, you insensitive prick!" Danny hissed. Unrepentant, Welsh just shrugged.
Welsh wore his wiry gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. He shaved irregularly, and today's bristle looked several days old. He wore a brown tweed jacket, old jeans with a hole above the right knee, and sandals with no socks. This was as dressy as it got for him.
"Here's irony for you," Jack whispered. "Finally people start showing the little twerp some respect when he's too damned dead to feel good about it." Jack loved prospecting everyday occurrences for nuggets of irony. Sometimes he was so delighted by his discoveries that he couldn't resist snatching out paper and pen and writing them down.
"Your cynicism is one of your most endearing qualities, Jack," Danny said. "That and your uncanny ability to say the wrong things at completely inappropriate times."
"I am an observer of life, and I comment on the truth as I see it," Jack replied pompously. "Those who can't handle that are not my concern." His breath reeked of onions and pipe tobacco, and his jacket smelled like it had recently been wet.
Jack Welsh made a good living writing novels about angry, shrewish women who slashed and ravaged their way through the male population, but who were ultimately punished in horrific ways. Billed as suspense, most were macabre forays into abnormal psychology. In fact, it was a given that the woman always did it. Jack's ex-wife Elizabeth had threatened lawsuits several times because of the unflattering similarities between her and Jack's evil female protagonists, but she never followed through. Jack once confided to Danny that he had something in his safe-deposit box that came in handy when Elizabeth's threats and accusations became too shrill. He never had confided what it was.
"Just keep your trap shut until this is over, Jack," Danny said. "I feel like one of the rowdy kids in the back of the church."
"Well you brought me here. You should know by now that I don't behave in public."
Danny gave his companion an exasperated look. He had driven Jack to the funeral only because Jack called asking for a ride. Three back-to-back DUI arrests had lost Jack his license, and he still owed the county several weekends at the Penal Farm.
The scattering of quiet conversations stilled as three black-clad figures filed in. They stopped beside the coffin to bid their farewells to Edwin's spiritless remains.
The woman on the left was bent with age and used a black, gold-tipped walking stick. Her black dress hung loosely on her frail shoulders, and a black lace veil concealed her face. That was Lavinia Raines, Edwin's mother.
Beside Lavinia stood her other son Martin. Martin Raines was of average height and build, and unlike his younger brother, always dressed immaculately.
Danny had known Martin for many years, but they had never been friends in the way that Danny and Edwin were friends. Boy and man, Martin Raines had always been the dominant older brother, treating Edwin as his personal minion, scapegoat and subordinate.
Standing two feet to Martin's right was Caulder Raines, Edwin's wife. She wore no veil, and the blondish highlights of her shoulder-length brown hair contrasted nicely with the black silk of her widow's weeds. The simple knee-length dress tapered smoothly, but not too tightly, over her slender waist and hips. She clutched a tiny black bag in one hand, and a lace handkerchief in the other. She made an elegant widow.
Finally Caulder turned and walked to the family seating area in a side alcove. The others followed a moment later. Despite her frail dependence on the cane, Edwin's mother moved with dignity, her eyes never straying toward the chapel. Once seated, Danny could not see the three mourners, but he doubted that they clustered together in shared grief.
Recorded organ music began. It was a droning, dirge-like rendition of "Ave Maria". People begin to squirm restlessly, but even Jack held his tongue and waited with childlike impatience for something to happen.
Finally an elderly man in priestly garb entered from the left and stopped at a podium. His head was bald except for tufts of gray above his ears. His face was fleshy, and his nose and cheeks were spackled with crimson patches of roseatia. Half-lens glasses sat well down on his nose, and he fumbled with his index cards as if trying to arrange them in some meaningful order.
"Edwin Chester Raines was born on September fourteenth, nineteen hundred and sixty-six in Memphis, Tennessee. He died at the hands of an unknown assailant on September fourth, two thousand and five." For all the empathy in his voice, the old padre might be announcing Edwin's shirt size. "He was a graduate of Riverdale High School, and earned his bachelor's degree in history at Rhodes College.
"Edwin Raines was the loving husband of Caulder Frances Raines. He also leaves his mother, Mrs. Lavinia Raines, and one brother Martin Raines."
So much for the obituary from Monday's newspaper, Danny thought.
"Although retiring and gentle of nature," the priest continued, "Edwin was a generous man, and a respected member of the Memphis business community. Together with his brother Martin, he successfully ran Raines Antiquities for over twenty years until its destruction by fire two years ago."
The priest paused to shuffle his cards, adjust the angle of his glasses, and gather his wits.
"Edwin was an enthusiastic supporter of numerous community organizations, including the Rhodes College Alumni Association, United Way, the American Heart Association, and the Memphis Chapter of the Numismatists and Philatelists Association of America." The old man's tongue stumbled uncertainly over that last pronouncement.
Jack Welsh leaned toward Danny and whispered, "I'd bet granny's garter-belt that old fartknocker never even met our dear departed pal Edwin."
Danny agreed. The priest's stilted pronouncements conveyed no warmth, no sense of loss, no real tribute to their dead friend. For all the true feeling in his eulogy, he might have been reading the warning label on an aspirin bottle.
But then, who besides his wife and family had known Edwin well? Not anyone Danny was aware of, including himself.
His thoughts strayed back to the previous Christmas when Edwin and Caulder attended the obligatory annual bash Danny threw at his home. That night was probably the last time he had seen Edwin alive, although he always seemed to be running into Caulder around town. Danny had greeted the couple at the door, shaking Edwin's small, pliant hand, and giving Caulder an affectionate hug. In his dark green sweater and black trousers, Edwin struck Danny as a man who could never find clothes small enough to fit him well.
Caulder plowed into the crowd of guests, dispensing hugs, pecks, and holiday greetings with every yard she gained into the room. She was personable, quick-witted, self controlled, and always an entertaining guest. She seemed to know everybody in Memphis, or at least everyone that Danny knew.
By contrast, Edwin haunted the fringes of the rooms, hardly more noticeable than a potted plant. Once Danny spotted him in the kitchen interrogating the chef about the seasonings in a lobster dish on the buffet. Later Danny saw him again in the library examining a Frederick Remington bronze of a cowboy clinging frantically to the back of a fantastically twisted bucking bronco. They discussed the piece, both uncomfortable despite their decades of friendship. Danny explained that he'd bought it in an antique store on Royal Street in New Orleans. Edwin knew the store and its owner, which provided the grist for a few more moments of labored conversation.
The exchange had saddened Danny. Gone forever was the easy camaraderie of two adolescent friends, boys on the fringes of the activities and social circles that seemed so urgently important in the Riverdale High microcosm. They had pulled each other through some difficult times.
As they talked that night at the Christmas party, Danny remembered reflecting on the odd union between a beautiful, outgoing businesswoman like Caulder, and an unimposing, bookish, man like Edwin. What had brought them together, and what mysterious glue kept them joined in their unlikely union? It didn't make much sense, particularly from Caulder's perspective. What did she see in this man that kept her with him for fifteen years?
However, Danny knew that there were no reliable rules to this sort of thing. There was no magic formula for the bonding of personalities that warded off failure and guaranteed enduring happiness. After all, hadn't he and Shelby seemed the perfect match? When they married, he felt like the planets had aligned to bless their union. But look what happened there.
When the priest exhausted his canned background material, which didn't take long, he rambled into a theological dissertation on the sacred contract between God and man. As he defined the agreement, man should worship and serve God here on earth, and in return God provided a place of eternal joy and rest in the afterlife. Standard funeral boilerplate.
An old man several rows up nodded off, then jolted awake with a loud, startled snort. The priest seemed to take that as a sign that he was losing his audience. He started wrapping things up, charging the family to accept God's will and trust that Edwin was now in "a more glorious place."
He droned through a final prayer, announced that a graveside service would be held for family members only, and dismissed the assemblage.
Jack Welsh rose, packing his stained Meerschaum with richly-scented tobacco even as they started out. "Funerals always make me thirsty," he announced, his voice inappropriately loud. "What say we stop on the way back and raise a glass in Edwin's honor?"
"It's a little early to start drinking, isn't it?" Danny asked. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was not yet two.
"Who's starting?" Jack asked. "I knew I wouldn't be working today, so I had a couple of Heinekens for breakfast." As soon as they stepped outside, he lit the pipe with a wooden match and drew deeply. Plumes of aromatic smoke jetted from his mouth and nose.
They drew aside, watching the crowd stream out of the funeral home. A few people nodded or spoke, but nobody paused to chat. Most were eager to get back to work at this hour on a Wedesday afternoon, Danny thought. Neither death nor the planners of its rituals respected work days and busy schedules, but once the dead were honored, life must continue.
"So Danny, how long did you know Edwin?" Jack asked.
"Since high school," Danny told him. "He was one year ahead of me. We were close buddies for about two years, but we didn't see much of each other after he graduated and started at Rhodes."
"If you hung around with him, you must have been a dull penny yourself."
"I was," Danny said offhandedly. "But there was more to Edwin that most people ever realized."
"Do you think there's anything to the talk that Edwin might have engineered his own demise, so to speak?" Jack asked. "The flapping tongues are saying that Caulder's indiscretions finally got to him, and that a bullet was his method of escape."
"I've heard that talk, and I think it's bullshit," Danny growled. "Why would a desperate, suicidal man go out in his driveway a few feet from the street to shoot himself? And my contact with the MPD said no gun was found at the scene."
Danny also considered challenging the implied indictment of Caulder in Jack's question, then decided not to bother. People had been passing around that trash talk for years.
"The problem is that just being shot during a robbery is altogether too boring," Jack said. "The piranhas are never going to swallow that story, not when there's this meaty infidelity and suicide angle to feed on. Damn the facts."
"Let them say what they want," Danny said. "I've never seen Caulder worry about that kind of talk, so I won't either."
Jack was distracted by the rear end of a young woman walking past. He grunted appreciatively, smoke swirling around his head like a pale hood. It was pathetic the way he gawked and flirted with young women. But what was remarkable was how often his targets responded receptively to his leers and lewd advances. Jack never seemed to lack female company.
Neither of them could probably have said how long their unlikely friendship had existed, but it dated back to Danny's early days at the Memphis Scene, long before he purchased the bankrupt publication, renamed it the Bluff City Beat, and made it successful. In his youthful zeal to become a journalist through and through, (meat, bone, hair and hide, as his grandfather used to say) Danny made a Midtown bar called Printer's Alley his second home. Then and now, hard-drinking reporters and editors from both daily newspapers hung out in that smoky, run-down sanctuary, along with a colorful amalgam of starving artists, actors, writers, and fringe characters of every persuasion.
Jack Welsh had also been a regular at Printer's Alley, though for different reasons. Still married to Elizabeth, the bar was his refuge from a marriage that was already a sad, bitter battleground. An insurance salesman by day, he adopted the author's persona among his nighttime beer-bar compatriots.
Fifteen years Danny's senior, Jack affected the world-weary wisdom and brutal cynicism of a Jack Kerouac or Lenny Bruce. Over countless beers, their crowd bemoaned the sad decline of American literature, scorned the profit-takers who cheapened the arts, and plotted fanciful adventures to Pamplona, Malibu, and the Alaskan wilderness.
The world-weariness and cynicism were still there, but wanton years of alcoholism and careless living had robbed Jack Welsh of much of his former charm and vitality. After his inevitable divorce, he actually became the successful novelist he yearned to be, but the interesting paradox was that much of the raw clay for his works came from the married life he previously lived.
Danny had moved beyond that lifestyle years ago, but his friendship with Jack Welsh survived. Jack popped up everyplace when you least expected him, usually half drunk, always ready to editorialize and scandalize.
"When I go, I think I'll specify that my body should be thrown into a wood chipper," Jack commented. "I don't mind dying so much, but I despise the idea of being laid out in a box and put on display in front of a room full of dipshits."
"If it's any consolation, Jack," Danny told him. "I don't think the room will be all that full. I doubt if I'll show up unless you leave me some cash or a car or something."
"That's what I like about you," Jack said. "You're practical. Now about that drink. I think it's our solemn duty to raise a glass to our dead-by-whatever-hand friend Edwin."
"No, I want to stick around and see if Caulder needs anything," Danny said. "But I saw Lynne Furbusch heading over to the parking lot. I bet you could get her to drop you off at some convenient watering hole. Or you could call a taxi."
"Alright, but you're proving to be a disappointment to me as a drinking buddy, Danny Skerett."
"I'll try to live with the shame, Jack."
As Welsh ambled off in search of a ride to Midtown and liquid nourishment, Danny turned in the opposite direction. Rounding a corner, he saw two funeral home workers preparing to load Edwin's coffin into a hearse for the short ride to his permanent resting place. Both men were about fifty, solemn, nondescript, dark-suited individuals.
Edwin's coffin remained on a gurney nearby, waiting to be loaded. But they were having a problem with some mechanical contraption in the back of the hearse. One of them fumbled with a screwdriver and wrench while the other supervised, speaking in the same grave tone he probably used in his financial negotiations with the bereaved.
