“No, damnit! Aren’t you listening? There is absolutely no way you can duplicate Hudson’s reasoning and follow a trail two days cold.”
Cilla looked at him coldly. “I can try.”
“Why?”
The temperature dropped still lower. “I’m his wife.”
“And what about the FBI people? Loni is in the witness protection program. Hudson had to make this trip to Marblehead because they wouldn’t tell him where she’s being hidden.”
Cilla chewed her lip. “Frances is having John Krestinski call me. How come the FBI hasn’t noticed Hudson’s gone?”
“They’re guarding the house not imprisoning us here.”
“But they must have noticed his absence.” She turned to him. “Unless you...”
“There has been...some pretense.”
“Well, there’s about to be more. When John calls tell him you don’t know where I am.”
“When Mr. Krestinski calls he’ll get no answer.”
“You won’t be here?”
“No. I’m coming with you.”
Josiah O’Connor shifted uneasily in his padded leather chair. “Everything was in order. We originally received instructions that the ashes would be kept here until an unspecified future date. Not at all unusual. Often loved ones after a cremation are uncertain what to do with the urn; our clientele is somewhat conservative and unused to having such a decision thrust on them. With a burial they always know where the loved one has gone, at least the physical remains. They’re not used to...ah, the portability.”
“Get on with it,” growled Wally. “What
Josiah O’Connor was pained. “We received a call from a Miss Dora Fender saying she was representing Mr. Sturgis’ daughter, whom I have known for years, and that she would be bringing the urn to Alexandra.” He peered at Cilla. “As a matter of fact, I thought you were Alexandra when you walked in. A remarkable resemblance.”
“And did she? Pick up the urn?” asked Cilla.
“Yes. She brought a letter from Miss Sturgis authorizing her to do so.”
“Was Mr. Sturgis’ executor, Hudson Rogers, present for the service?” The funeral director changed positions again under Wally’s have-we-a-legal-infraction-here stare.
“Well, yes and no. You see Miss Fender asked us to move the service up a half hour, to nine-thirty. Mr. Rogers arrived a few minutes before ten, just as it was ending. But was coming to take care of the bill, he didn’t let me know he was coming for the service, or...”
“Did he arrive before the Fender woman left?”
“Just before. He...ah, went out quickly after her.”
“Who made the arrangements for the funeral?”
“A federal office.”
“The FBI?” Cilla and Wally were alternating rapid-fire questions that pummeled O’Connor like an artillery barrage.
“You...ah, obviously know the answer to that question.”
“What reason did the Fender woman give for changing the time?”
“She was on a tight schedule. I believe she said she had to catch a plane.”
“A plane for where?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Do you have the note she brought from Miss Sturgis?”
“Yes.” He reached in a file and pulled out a paper. It was undated and merely asked to have the urn given to the bearer. Wally pointed to the salutation.
“It’s addressed to `Josh’. Is that you?”
“That’s how I knew the letter was genuine. Only someone who’d known me twenty years ago would be familiar with it.”
“Or someone who’d done five minutes research,” Wally was unimpressed. “Who in the FBI gave you your original instructions for the cremation?”
“A Mr. Tieger.”
“Did you check with him before releasing the urn to Miss Fender?”
“Why, no. I didn’t think I needed to make a federal case of it. Ha, h...” He hurried on. “They were only ashes after all, no hidden drugs or diamonds. Who had a better right to them than Miss Sturgis?”
“Did you see how Miss Fender arrived here? By taxi or private car?”
“She had her own car. A white one I think.”
“What does she look like?”
“Well, I don’t...fortyish, I’d say, wore a quite stylish camel hair overcoat. Seemed very efficient. I...ah, get the impression you feel there may have been some sort of impropriety...?”
“Good thinking,” said Wally, putting on his alpine hat.
They parked the car at a Logan Airport meter and went to a lineless ticket desk in the terminal.
“I’d like a schedule of flights,” said Cilla to the clerk, “that left Logan Thursday morning between say ten forty-five and noon.”
“Two days ago?” The clerk raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. They may or may not be the same as your flights today. And that’s for all airlines, not just yours.”
“Do you have any idea how many...?”
“Yes,” growled Wally. “So let’s get started.”
“I know this isn’t a usual request,” softened Cilla. “A relative left on one of those flights; we don’t know where he’s gone. He’s not quite...” She made a circular motion with her hand next to her head.
“Oh, I see. That
“Not quite what?” growled Wally at Cilla.
“Bald.”
“Here we go.” The clerk checked over the paper. “That’s quite a list. Don’t know how you go about narrowing them down.”
“Thanks. Neither do we.”
In a coffee shop Carver examined the list, then handed it to Cilla. “Assuming Hudson followed the Fender woman onto a plane, that he has not telephoned me indicates he is unwilling or unable to.”
Cilla closed her eyes tight for a moment. Then drew a breath. “Maybe I should call John Krestinski after all.”
“And say what? You’re following Hudson who’s following an FBI agent? He’ll invite us to butt out. Perhaps send someone to make sure we do.”
“And herd us back to Bartlett.” She looked down the list of flights. “But which of these flights did they take? We need more information.”
“That’s why I’m along. To do the thinking. We go to the airport garage and look for his car.”
He was right, but Cilla could have kicked him for the superior way his dry voice enunciated each word, as though she was five years of age and lost her balloon. It took a little over half an hour, but finally they found the Subaru on one of the upper floors.
“Since Hudson was following this Fender person, we look for a white car ahead of his,” pronounced Wally.
