I asked you if they had been there all night? I mean, I know they were, but did anyone figure out how long before they were discovered?”
“Mr. Finn picked up their sandwich orders at The Dot, so we know they were alive the night before. They must’ve been overcome between dinner and when the paperboy arrived. It wasn’t really important to pinpoint the exact time of death”
“I guess,” said Sunny wanly, “that you only have to do that if there’s a murder.”
“So they tell me.” Joey checked his clipboard. “Mr. Finn’s next of kin? Fletcher?” He looked up. “Has he been any help?”
Sunny said, “Not so far.”
“Is he here?”
“He’s coming up for the funeral, but he’s too busy to come any earlier.” She stood up and said, “I’m sure you’re busy, too.”
“Busy putting ice on my hematomas,” he said. When she didn’t respond, he added, “No one told me to do that, but it feels better when I do.”
“Did they catch the man who shot you?”
Joey said firmly, “They will, any second. Nothing to worry about.” He reached for his hat, grimaced in pain at the stretch. “C’mon. I’ll walk you back.”
“No. I’m fine. You’re working.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Friday morning. The wake is tomorrow night.”
“Dickie been okay? Helpful and all that?”
Sunny shrugged. “He wanted the wake at the funeral parlor, but I insisted. He said he’d need a permit for the theater, but I said, ‘Give me the name and number of the custodian and I’ll make one phone call.’ It turned out it was his sister’s husband—”
“Roland LaPlante.”
“So that took all of thirty seconds.”
“Everyone wants to help. The whole town feels responsible.”
“Responsible?”
“Like someone should have noticed. Or if someone had invited them over for dinner that night, then when they didn’t show, they could have called…. Or maybe we should have made carbon-monoxide detectors mandatory.”
Sunny’s eyes filled.
“You gonna be able to sleep? The King’s Nite’s not famous for its Sealy Posturpedics.”
“Probably not.”
Joey walked over to a wooden coatrack, patted the pockets of a navy blue windbreaker, and came back with a bottle of pills. “How about if I give you one or two?”
“Don’t you need them?”
He held the amber vial up to eye level. “There’s four in here. I might use one or two. But then I’ll forget about them and they’ll expire.”
Sunny held her hand out. “It must be legal if they’re being dispensed by the chief of police.”
Joey laughed. “You remember what a genius and scholar I was in high school, right? Well, I went to medical school nights. Or was it pharmacy school? I forget. I’d better go check my diploma.”
Sunny didn’t smile. She said politely, “I think we were in study hall together but not any classes.”
“Because the only time kids like us got thrown together was in study hall. Or maybe driver’s ed.”
“But here you are,” said Sunny. “Chief of police. You probably visit elementary schools and tell all the students how to be good citizens.”
“I do. I’m good at it. I can make quarters come out of their ears, and I can turn balloons into dachshunds.”
“When I teach at that level,” Sunny began. “Actually, when I taught—”
“That’s it? Past tense? You’re done with it?”
Sunny said, “I had a one-year contract.”
The phone rang. Joey put his hand on the receiver but didn’t pick up. “Does that mean fired?”
Sunny said, “Maybe it’s an emergency.”
Joey rolled his eyes. “King George Police Station, Chief Loach speaking.” He closed his eyes and kept them shut as he recited, “Only in winter. After April thirtieth you can park on either side.” He hung up. “That’s what I do: I give directions and I answer the questions people would ask the D.P.W. If we had one.”
“Then let me ask this,” said Sunny. “Off the record, is there a place I could hit a bucket of balls where I wouldn’t run into anyone who knew I was doing it the morning of my mother’s wake?”
“Why not at the club?”
“I’m not a member, and I just want to hit a bucket of balls. Preferably within walking distance.”
Joey pointed. “Route 12A North—maybe a mile past the Creamery. There’s a little hut on your left shaped like a hamburger and a bun. Opens at nine A.M.”
“Thanks,” said Sunny.
“Seriously: I can call a half a dozen guys who are members and would be happy to take you out as their guest. Believe me, they’d understand.”
Sunny said, “I know those guys. No thanks.”
“I can drive you. It’s not exactly next door.”
“A mile’s nothing,” said Sunny. “A mile will feel good.”
“Watch the oncoming traffic,” said Chief Loach.
No-nonsense Mrs. Angelo, famous for adding figures in her head, who rarely climbed down from her stool at the cash register, did so to enfold Sunny in a bosomy hug. “It’s a miracle that you walked in here! We were just saying that we wanted to send some platters over; some sandwiches, some pasta salad, the tricolor rotini, and an assortment of cookies—we do anise and pignoli beautiful.”
“I wasn’t planning any kind of reception,” said Sunny.
“You have to invite people back to the house after the funeral. They want to be with each other.” She led Sunny to the booth next to the cash register, despite the fact that it was already occupied by a woman in a white tennis sweater and maroon velvet headband. The woman removed her reading glasses, folded them into hinged quarters, and offered her hand.
“Sunny? I’m Fran Pope. You don’t know me, but I directed your mother in Watch on the Rhine, and
