Dying in the Dark by Valerie Wilson Wesley Read Free Book Online Page A

nightmare.
    When she spoke, the woman's voice carried to the back of theroom, but she didn't seem to give a damn. She studied indifferently the rough, uncarpeted floor, red velvet pews, and stained-glass windows, which were designed to make the Rose Chapel, where the funeral would be held, look like a church even though there was nothing holy about the place. I was thankful she didn't spot me. Dressed as she was in her scruffy boots and cheap leather jacket, she looked like the kind of woman who would call me out by name before she knew it, and I sure didn't feel like getting into it with somebody like her today. Just walking into Morgan's Funeral Home had put me in a bad mood.
    I'd buried half my family in this place, perched as it was between a gasoline station and convenience store on a busy street in the middle of town. Old Man Morgan, whose mournful expression could bring a clown to tears, spotted me and waved as he headed in my direction.
    “Tamara Hayle! How are you, my dear. Has life been treating you well?” Morgan's voice always seemed to be on the verge of a sob, each sentence punctuated with a sorrowful nod. ‘And here I am again, putting away another one. Boy was just in here a month ago, burying his mama. Put her away a month ago, and here I am again.”
    My ears perked up. “So Cecil was the one who buried his mother?”
    He looked at me as if just remembering I was there. “So you knew his mother?”
    “We were friends.”
    “I don't remember seeing you at the service.” He scowled with disapproval over his half-framed glasses.
    “I was out of town,” I stammered unconvincingly then added truthfully, “I didn't know about it or I would have been here.”
    “Should have sent some flowers,” he mumbled.
    “Were there many people here?” I changed the subject.
    “Not many. The boy. Two or three others. Not many at all. Violent deaths are always dreadful, but Celia Jones's was particularly bad. Poor woman was shot right through her—” He dropped his eyes as if embarrassed.
    “Right through her what?”
    “Well,” he sighed and added after a beat, “near her belly. Not belly exactly, but her womb, the center of a woman's being. I figure that whoever did it was trying to make some kind of statement. I've never seen anything like it, to shoot a woman right through her privates.”
    “Do you mean that somebody put a gun—”
    “I don't know how he did it, Miss Tamara.” Morgan avoided my eyes as if the mere mention of the subject distressed him. “Maybe you should ask the police. They're the ones who did the autopsy. I just got the body, that's all I do—clean ‘em, fix ‘em, dress ‘em up. I made her presentable so her son could say his last good-bye, but I sure could see where she'd been shot.”
    “Was she shot more than once?” I'd read as much, but I wanted Morgan's confirmation.
    “I don't know, Miss Tamara. All I know is that the poor woman is dead. That's all I know and that's all I will say.” He pursed his lips, indicating that he was uncomfortable with the subject. I wasn't about to let him go, but in deference to his discomfort went in a different direction.
    “Do you see anyone here today who came to Celia's funeral?”
    “How am I supposed to remember something like that?” He eyed me suspiciously trying to figure out what I was up to.
    I broke out my professional voice. ‘As you know, Mr. Morgan, I make my living as a private investigator. I'm not just asking you these questions because I'm nosy, but because I've been hired to find out who killed Celia Jones, and in the process I may be able to find out who killed her son. I'd appreciate any help you could give me, anything at all.”
    “Who hired you?” Even after my little speech, Morgan was still skeptical.
    “I'm not at liberty to say.”
    “Didn't the cops find out who did it?”
    “No.”
    “Isn't that their job?”
    “Often people are uncomfortable talking to the police, so they'll talk to me. Could