older.”
“Ma’am,” Ewing interrupted, “just touch on the high spots. I mean, we don’t need to know everything.”
“Oh, I thought you wanted to know what we did yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ewing grew resigned; there was nothing he could do about her meandering in any case.
“Then we read the papers. The
Harris sighed audibly. Mrs. Quinn remained undeterred.
“Then there was the pregame show. We never watch television on Sunday unless Henry’s team is playing. And with that man who talks all the time, we wouldn’t watch it at all if it were not for Henry. Then the game started and we watched. Who won the game, Grace?”
“I think the other team.”
“Whatever. Then we turned off television and listened to records. It was the Beethoven symphonies, wasn’t it, Grace?”
“Yes. . no; it was Brahms.”
“Yes, that’s right. It was Brahms. And before the Fourth Symphony we had dinner. We made frozen dinner so we didn’t have to cook. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to watch the game. You had the roast beef dinner and I had chicken. . isn’t that right?”
Mrs. Hunsinger nodded.
“Then, after dinner, we listened to the radio. We always listen to the classical music station, WQRS. . although we can’t stand the modern composers. It’s just noise. Not like Beethoven, Brahms, and Chopin. Then, after that-”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Ewing interrupted, “but that would bring you up to about eight o’clock yesterday evening, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Well, it just so happens that’s all the time we need accounting for.”
“Oh.”
“So we’ll be leaving now.”
The two officers rose and started hastily for the door. They were stopped in their tracks by Mrs. Hunsinger’s anguished tone.
“Where’s my son?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Where’s my boy?”
“Mr. Hunsinger? I would guess the medical examiner is finished with h-uh. . I suspect the body has been delivered to the mortician. You do have one, don’t you?”
“Yes. The Hackett Funeral Home across the street on Vernor.”
“Well, then, that’s probably where the b- where your son is now.”
Ewing opened the door and Harris preceded him out.
“Will you be coming to the funeral?” Mrs. Hunsinger asked.
“The funeral?”
“Yes. I suppose it will be on Wednesday. There’s no reason to postpone it. Everyone who might attend is already here in the Detroit area. Will you be coming?”
“We’ll certainly try, ma’am. Depends on what our schedule will be then. And, thank you, ma’am, for your time. And”-his look bore pity-“our condolences, ma’am.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Quinn to Mrs. Hunsinger. “You’ll catch a chill.”
3
Father Koesler arrived at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars at 11:30 a.m., fifteen minutes early.
The habit of being early for appointments had begun, as nearly as he could recall, with his mother insisting that he not keep others waiting. By now, the habit was so ingrained that it was virtually impossible for him to be late. At times, embarrassed at his reputation of being the only person on time for meetings, parties, whatever, he would plan elaborately to arrive exactly on time. But on those occasions, something unforeseen, such as a rapid traffic flow, would occur and he would find himself ringing the doorbell just a few minutes early.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the Cellars’ quiet lighting. When he could see, he found himself gazing into the smiling face of Joseph Beyer, proprietor and, by choice, maitre d’ of the Wine Cellars.
“I’ve been wondering about you, Father,” Beyer greeted Koesler. “You’ve been away entirely too long. Been keeping out of mischief?”
Koesler smiled. Beyer was the only one of Detroit’s famous restauranteurs Koesler not only knew personally but on a first-name basis. They had met by accident socially and had liked each other from the outset. It helped that each of them liked most people they met.
“Trying my best, Joe,” said Koesler. “I’d tell you more, but you’re not my regular confessor.”
“So what brings you downtown, Father?”
“I’m supposed to meet Inspector Koznicki for lunch. But I’m early.”
“So what else is new?”
Until now, Koesler had not known that his reputation had reached to Joe Beyer.
“In this case, my time of arrival was on purpose. Lunchtime here is the survival of the earliest.” He glanced around the nearly empty room, which would soon be filled to overflowing, “So, got a table?”
“For you, yes. But we don’t serve Polish people.”
The knack of a dry sense of humor is the ability to keep a straight face while saying something utterly ridiculous. Joe Beyer had the knack.
“I’m glad that you, not I, will be the one to tell that to Walter Koznicki.”
Beyer chuckled as he led Koesler to a corner table where things would be somewhat quieter.
“Molly here today?” Koesler’s reference was to Mrs. Beyer.
“Uh-huh. Working on the books. She’s the smart one.” Beyer supervised the seating of Koesler. “Get you something from the bar?”
“I think I’ll wait for the inspector.”
“Okay. The waiter’ll be along in a minute.”
Koesler did not have long to wait. It was 11:40-he had just checked his watch-when he saw the inspector enter. Koesler really could not have missed Koznicki’s arrival. The inspector was a very large man. Though roughly Koesler’s height, Koznicki had a much heftier build. Actually, it was more his aura that gave him the appearance of being larger than life.
Koesler noted that there was no hesitation on Beyer’s part in leading Koznicki to the table. “Change your policy?” the priest asked as Koznicki was seated.
“Yes,” Beyer chuckled. “I checked with Molly. The policy is intended for only very small Polish people. And not even then if they are accompanied by large Polish people.” Placing two menus on the table, Beyer returned to the door as the luncheon crowd began to assemble.
“What was that all about?” asked Koznicki.
“Oh, just another example of Joe’s fey sense of humor.” He smiled, recalling the time he had arrived at the Wine Cellars expecting to meet
“Good of you to join me on such short notice, Inspector.”
“Not at all. It was good of you to set aside your schedule yesterday and assist in our investigation. I have spoken with Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing. They tell me you were of significant help.”
“Thanks. I don’t know how much help I was, but whatever, I paid for it last night. Just couldn’t get to sleep
