Whoa. I hadn’t seen that coming. “Excuse me?”
“You probably are shocked, but you didn’t know Eugene. He was a self-?centered troublemaker all his life. Even when I was a kid. I know I shouldn’t speak bad of the dead, but that’s how I feel.” She stuffed her arms into a heavy knit sweater she’d been carry ing. “What I know is that Eugene caused his own death. He did something bad one time too many, and it caught up with him. He was a real smart man, but he wasn’t a nice man.”
“I should introduce myself,” I said. And I handed her my card.
Gail checked her watch. “Roberta said she spoke to you. Unfortunately, I have to get home. I have a lot of mouths to feed.”
“Where’s home?”
“I’ve got a patch of land in the Barrens.”
“Do you know Martin Munch?” I asked her. “Do you know a man called Wulf ?”
“No,” she said. “I have to go. I can’t talk anymore.”
“One more thing,” I said, but she waved me off and hurried away.
Diesel moved next to me. “Well?”
“Nothing. She said she had to get home.”
Diesel and I went to the door and watched Gail get into an old Army surplus Jeep and ease into traffic.
Diesel grabbed my hand and pulled me to the Escalade. “Let’s see where she goes.” He took the wheel and jumped from the curb. “She’s going to be easy to follow in that Jeep. She hasn’t looked in her mirror once to see if she has a tail.”
“She’s anxious to get home.”
“And home would be where?” Diesel asked.
“Down a dirt road.”
“Good to know. In case by some freak chance I lose her, all I have to do is look for a dirt road.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. That’s all she said.”
“Nothing else?”
“She said her brother was a miserable person. And had always been a miserable person. And that he probably deserved what he got.”
Diesel shook his head. “Man, that’s severe. Imagine what she would have said if it wasn’t his memorial ser vice.”
Gail hit the 95 and went south to the Tacony-?Palmyra Bridge. We were a couple car lengths back, rolling at the speed limit. Gail wasn’t a rule breaker on the highway. Diesel was relaxed at the wheel. I was thinking about the doughnut I didn’t get at the ser vice, wishing I’d been quicker at the buffet.
I was raised in the Burg, where death is more a social opportunity than a tragic event. Viewings and wakes hold the potential for a decent food spread and free-?flowing alcohol. It’s one of the few occasions when throwing back whiskey at ten in the morning is in good form. It’s guaranteed that on occasion grief won’t be easily set aside by a plateful of meatballs, but no reason to let that unhappy thought ruin a perfectly good time at the viewing for a distant acquaintance. Personally I’d rather be at a mall.
“What do you think about death?” I asked Diesel.
“I like the buffet. After that, it’s not my favorite thing.” He looked over at me. “What do you think about death?”
“I think carnations should be banned from funeral parlors.”
We rode in silence after that. I mean, what was left to say? Gail still showed no sign of noticing our behemoth black SUV close on her tail. She sailed over the bridge and took 73 south. Miles later, I was thinking I was on the road to nowhere. And then Gail slowed and hooked a left off 73. She wound around some, and after a while the road turned to dirt and narrowed. We dropped back as far as possible, although I doubt we could be seen through the dust cloud Gail was kicking up. There were scrubby bushes on either side, and the rutted road twisted around trees and chunks of rock.
Diesel powered forward, into a stand of scruffy pines, and BAM! Something bounced off the front bumper, and we were blinded by a blizzard of feathers and blood.
“Omigod,” I said, my heart beating in my throat. “What was that?”
Diesel stopped the car and looked at the windshield, which was plastered with what could only be bird guts.