Murders at Hollings General

as if, coatlike, they had concealed the black double-breasted suit and straight necktie he wore uneasily. He stepped into a sunken living room and raised an eyebrow whose slant questioned why a piano player had chosen Summertime-at a funeral reception in midwinter. Abstracts in gaudy frames cluttered each wall. The guests, noisy in their late morning excuse for Bloody Marys, mingled like politicians working a crowd. David shook his head at some who leaned back, their shoulders shaking as they laughed. A bartender in a red blazer cracked jokes.

He knew most of the guests who were packed in there: board members, department heads and their spouses, several private physicians, a few nurses dressed for work, administrative types, area industrialists. And one secretary he recognized: Marsha from Pathology. He spotted Kathy balancing two drinks an arm's length away from her slate turtleneck dress. She dodged her way toward him and, extending a glass, said, 'Here, I saw you come in. Sorry, I couldn't make it to the church after all. Something came up.'

'You weren't alone,' he said, taking a sip and looking around. 'Quite a reception. See anything interesting?'

'Just that Foster, Tanarkle and Spritz are avoiding each other. At least I think it's Spritz from your description. Reddish hair, always smiling-kinda fake?'

'That's him.'

'Tanarlde brought his wife. She's all gussied up. Giant hoop earrings. Quite a knockout. Is Spritz married?' 'Are you kidding?'

'Oh.'

Above the gathering, David could make out Betty Tanarkle talking with Foster and tossing her head about in rich laughter. David couldn't resist thinking his pathologist friend had married a bon vivant whose main goal was to cha-cha through life. He wandered over.

'Well, David, glad you could make it,' Foster said. 'Nice party, unfortunate reason.'

'Really?' Foster said. He paused for a response which he didn't get.

'You know Betty Tanarkle, here.'

'Yes, of course,' David said. 'Good to see you again. How's Ted holding up?'

'As well as could be expected, thank you, David.' Her over-painted lips hardly moved as she spoke. 'It's quite a strain, you know. Ted and Charlie go way back.'

David was referring to something else but didn't pursue it. She misinterpreted, he thought, or maybe it was a lame attempt at deflection.

Betty was taller than her husband or Foster, more so in cranberry platforms. Even David believed the androgynous look of blonde hair clashed with her black bollero and full skirt. And even he felt embarrassed by her neckline, confining his eyes to one brief sweep.

'Excuse me,' he said, moving aside, 'there's Everett Coughlin. I think he's about to leave. See you in a bit.' He reached Bowie's pathologist and key booster at the front door. 'Dr. Coughlin, wait.'

'Oh, hello, David.' He removed his brown beret and twirled it in his hands. An older muttonous man, Coughlin appeared as vinegar-lipped as David had always pictured. If the old coot tried to smile, his face wouldn't cooperate, David opined under his breath.

'I just figured out why Bugles was cremated,' Coughlin said. 'Not because he thought a normal burial was a wasteful use of land as his sons over there claim.' He waited to be prompted.

'Why, then?'

'Because he wanted his ashes rubbed in everyone's face.' Coughlin said impassively.

'You didn't take to him much, did you?'

'Take to him? I suppose it's proper to say it's too bad he's gone, but I must admit, I hated being in a room with him. He contaminated the air around me.'

David didn't remove the notepad from his pocket for fear Coughlin would clam up.

'I hear your hospital's referring its transplant cases out-of-state,' David said.

'That-is-correct. Wouldn't you?' Coughlin said. His marinated face took on a dark, fierce look.

'I'm glad I don't have to make those decisions.' On a roll, David decided not to letup. 'How about Hollings you're still sore, right?'

'Sore? I'd say gangrene has set in.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Too bad I have to put it that way, but it's the way I feel. They have no conscience.'

'You still giving lectures there?'

'Yes, until they kick me away. I have one tomorrow, in fact. At nine-why not try to make it. I've entitled it, DNA. What Next?'

'That's right up my alley. I'll be there. You game for a few questions afterward.'

'I'm always game for questions after I speak.'

'About anything?'

Coughlin's nostrils distended. 'About anything,' he said. He put on his hat and stormed out the door. There had been no handshakes.

David believed he had felt the vibrations from a volcano but chose not to dwell on it. He had not learned anything new except for the Saturday morning lecture and the depth of Coughlin's animus.

He returned to the living room and put his unfinished drink down at the back of a table filled with sardine canapes, salted nuts, assorted cheeses and minced chicken pate. Eying Nora Foster leaving the piano player, he headed her way, chewing on a single nut. First thank her, then her husband, then mosey by the Bugles men. The Way We Were hung in the air.

'Nora, thanks for the invite. I preferred your other parties, but it was nice of you to do this.'

'Thank you for stopping by.' She held out both hands with a flourish. David shook one. 'Horrible, ghastly killings,' she said in a cavernous voice. 'They've made it so difficult for everyone connected with the hospital, especially for Alton.'

He thought the incongruity between Nora Foster's anorexic face and her spherical body had increased since he saw her last. Her black hair was thin, her heavy makeup jagged as if she had applied it in the dark. She wore glasses framed in mottled brown. A brown caftan was sashed at the waist. How did she have enough to make the knot? In their brief encounter, he saw her twice feel for the knot and tighten it. See, even she wonders. They nodded and, as they exchanged picture smiles, he noticed speckles of dandruff on her shoulders.

He small-talked as he picked his way among hospital friends until he found himself standing before the only two guests who were sitting. They were the two black-clad figures he had seen at the funeral. He stared at them and they stood. Neither reached David's stratosphere, although the thinner one appeared to be six-feet tall, the other, a couple of inches shorter and chunky.

'You must be Charlie's son,' David said after introducing himself and grasping the outstretched hand of the shorter and younger looking of the two. He realized he had also shaken the sleeve of the man's jacket. He pegged one son's age at thirty, the other's at forty-five or so.

'Yep, I'm Robert. This here's my brother Bernie.' Bernie's hand felt like a wilted dandelion.

David thought Robert looked familiar. 'Where do I know you from?' he asked.

'Bruno's karate classes. I took them for two years. I saw you there sometimes.'

'Of course, now I remember. That was awhile ago. Did you end up with a belt?'

'Mine's brown.' Robert sounded disinterested. Intermediate, David thought.

Robert's eyes appeared moist and red. He blew his nose. 'I'm glad Mom doesn't know how my Dad died,' he said to the floor, shoulders collapsed.

'Oh?' David said, turning to look at Bernie.

'Mother passed away ten years ago,' Bernie stated.

David was struck by how much Robert resembled his father: droopy lids, omelet eyes, mottled, dark complexion. And, except for a bold nose, his face was as flat as a painter's canvas. A linear port-wine stain wrapped around the angle of his right jaw. In contrast, one could make a case that Bernie's features were a softened version of his brother's and father's. David couldn't label his bearing. Regal? Mysterious? It was something he did with his eyelids-turning his blue eyes inanimate-like bottle caps. But, his left earring clashed with the bearing. David rubbed his decision scar.

'I give you both my condolences,' he said, mustering a measure of sincerity.