The Body in Bodega Bay: A Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery

Chapter 9

120 9 L EAVE IT TO TOBY to have a rational explanation for everything. It sometimes bothers me that there’s so little room in his makeup for the mysterious side of life. In this instance, though, he probably was right. “You’re going to the cemetery today for Charlie’s funeral. The grave will have a headstone. Get it? That’s your unconscious dreaming self at work. Head. Stone. You’re upset that he’s really dead. So am I.” Toby spooned out a helping of scrambled eggs and poured another cup of coffee. Yes, that was it. I was steeling myself for Charlie’s funeral. “And the bit about the headstone walking upright, tipping from side to side? Remember the documentary we saw on Nova a few weeks ago about Easter Island? They tested a theory about how those giant stone heads could have been transported from one side of the island to the other.” I did remember. An archaeologist had a theory that teams of men could have moved the statues by beveling the bottoms and attaching ropes to either side. As each team pulled in turn, the big stone moved 121 along in an upright position, tipping from side to side, like an awkward giant walking. “There you have it,” Toby concluded. “And the trees? Well, that’s from last night watching the movie and trying to figure out where the house was. Charlie was trying to tell you something, but he couldn’t.” It made sense to me, but my mood stayed gloomy. I wasn’t going to feel better till the funeral was over. I poured a second cup of coffee. Angie was still asleep. I’d promised to take her out to lunch and shopping when we got back from the service. Bad funerals are dull and painful. Good ones are original and cathartic. Charlie’s friends saw to it that he got a good one. Annie arranged to have the gathering at the Guerneville Tavern, where many of Charlie’s friendships had been made and nurtured. She was serving coffee at the bar. The closed casket was right in the front window. From nine to nine-thirty, people poured in the door, paused before Charlie’s coffin, and shook hands in the short receiving line—Charlie’s brother, Jim Halloran, and his wife, and beside them, Tom Keogh. Tom was standing up as the bereaved partner, in spite of the rift before Charlie’s death. Among the crowd, I recognized the two friends who had been sitting with Tom at the bar at River’s End, as well as the owners of art and antiques galleries all around the Russian River Valley. Our friends Ken and Gloria were among them. Some of the staff from River’s End were there, along with workers from the Cape Fear Café and the Applewood Inn. The majority were men I didn’t know, chatting together in friendly knots. I spotted Dan Ellis in the back of the room. He waved, and I walked over. “Interesting to see who’s here,” he observed. “For instance, see that guy over there in the suit? That’s Arnold Kohler.” “The gambler Charlie owed money to?” “The same.” He was a husky, middle-aged man with dark, thinning hair, sideburns , and a mustache. Everyone else was in casual clothes, which made 122 Kohler conspicuous in his blue pinstripes. He was standing in the back talking to a nervous-looking man who surreptitiously passed him a thick envelope. Kohler rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, and slipped it inside his jacket. Dan had been watching them. “I haven’t been able to tie him to the murder, but it’s interesting he’s showed up.” “Do killers really go to the funerals of people they murder?” I asked. “Some do,” said Dan. His eyes swept the rest of the room as Tom Keogh stepped forward to speak. At first Tom sounded frail, but his voice strengthened as he went on. “This is not going to be a formal service. This is just a little bit of time when you can say what you’d like about Charlie, or to Charlie, so that we can say goodbye before we put him in the earth. For myself, I just want to say one thing about Charlie. We had our problems, but he was a lovely man. He was tender...