The Accidental Pallbearer by Frank Lentricchia Page A

in black was taller, he had a moustache and heavy black hair, thick, you know, and sort of … he had high hair.”
    “Italian hair? Is that the idea?”
    “You could say that, although your Italian hair is a lot nicer and I’d even say it was – well, Jed, his hair was almostblond and quite fine. No body to it. A woman notices a thing like that. This man had a swarthy complexion and was broader in the shoulders and I’d say a couple of inches taller. My husband’s height. White dress shirt, black tie, black shoes. Dark glasses.”
    “He was leaving?”
    “Yes.
    “Morning? Afternoon?”
    “Morning, I’m sure of it because I’d just finished watering the poor flower garden when he came out.”
    “Did you speak to him?”
    “I said good morning, but he said nothing in reply. No manners, Detective.”
    “Did you see him arrive?”
    “No.”
    “Did he come back?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “You never saw him again?”
    “Never again.”
    “Did you notice the car he drove off in?”
    “No. It’s hard to park on Chestnut. Jed had to park on the street, for instance, but not necessarily in front of the house, unless he was lucky.”
    “Other visitors over the years he lived with you?”
    “As I believe I said, I never saw anyone in the eight years. No women, if that’s on your mind. He paid the rent. He was clean. He even raked the yard one autumn when my husband’s back went out, which he did without us asking, of course. My husband’s back went out a lot, believe me. Not to mention the headaches at bedtime. Jed was the best tenant Iever had. You know what I mean? He paid the rent and it was like he wasn’t even there. You can’t beat that.”
    “I hear you, Janice.”
    “A cup of coffee?”
    “I’d love one.”
    They drink coffee and gossip about the epic intradepartmental feud between Brown and Nathan. When he takes his leave, he gives her his card and says, “You’ve been very helpful, Janice. If you think of anything at all, no matter how –”
    “Oh, I watch all those detective shows! I’ll call you immediately, no matter how trivial it may seem! And if you, Detective Conte, can think of something that I might do to assist your inquiry, will you feel free to call me?”
    “You can count on it, Janice.”
    She goes to the door with him. Gives him quite a hug – her body not angled back as women will do, with men other than spouses and lovers, but up close, tight against him.

CHAPTER 11
    Conte pulls out of the college’s Visitor Parking lot – heads home – anxious, overwhelmed. Until 3:00 A.M. Saturday morning, when he’d been awoken by the call from Laguna Beach, his work had been undemanding – rarely was there ever more than one case on his schedule in any given two-week period. Sometimes none at all. Now, in three days’ time, first his children, then Jed Kinter, then Michael C, and pressure, heavy pressure from the Robinsons – then the call from Joan Whittier. And since lunch with Catherine Cruz in Troy, his stomach has suffered an invasion of butterflies.
    He makes dinner. A small salad, a grilled cheese sandwich, glass of cold seltzer. (Head over heels: guaranteed weight loss.) His private motto: I can juggle one ball at a time, but only with difficulty.
    Kinter’s criminal past, as such, is not his major concern. It is the fear that Antonio was not wrong to suggest that his intervention might shove Kinter, his manhood in question, over the edge. Conte feels responsible for the safety of the woman and child. (The flawed but noble Conte.) He wants to do something (but what?) to neutralize Kinter, somehow put him out of play – ram the fear of Our Lord et cetera,so that, what? So that Kinter would forever after become a good father and husband? As if that could be assured, short of killing the man. Who killed his girls? He had a thought, but was on the wrong side of the country to do anything about it. On a whim of overheated speculation fly out to California and kill