“Good morning,” Pendergast said to the gathering. “My name is Special Agent Pendergast, and my associate is Special Agent Coldmoon. Thank you for coming.”
There were some nods and shifting of feet. Coldmoon could tell from their body language these people did not know each other, and he guessed they hadn’t expected to be a part of a group.
“The reason I asked you to come,” Pendergast said, “—beyond, of course, the opportunity to pay your respects to Ms. Baxter — was because I understand you’re the people in the immediate area, outside her family, that knew her best. I wanted to see if any of you could think of a reason her grave was, ah, chosen in this way, and to hear why you think Ms. Baxter took her own life.” He turned to the closest person: a stout, middle-aged woman in a floral dress with blond highlights. “If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, ma’am?”
The woman looked around at the others. “I’m Claire Hungerford.”
“And how did you know Ms. Baxter?”
“I worked with her at Sun and Shore Realty.”
Pendergast said, “Thank you.” His voice was an almost tangible unguent of southern gentility and charm. “How did you become acquainted?”
“We both specialized in Coral Gables real estate. I still do. We were the two real estate agents in the office who got the Silver Palm in back-to-back years.”
“The Silver Palm?”
“It’s an award from the franchise for the agents with that year’s highest increase in sales volume.”
“I see. And is that why the two of you were chosen for the Maine conference?”
The woman nodded.
“Looking back on it now, what was your impression of Elise Baxter’s state of mind at the time of the convention?”
The woman played nervously with her hair. “Nothing stood out. She was just her usual self.”
“She didn’t act unusual in any way? Especially quiet or moody, for example?”
“No. But she was always rather quiet. I mean, I worked in the same office with her for two years, but I still didn’t know her that well. She was never what you’d call the life of the party, although—”
“Yes?” Pendergast pounced.
“Well... I think she might have had a little too much to drink that night.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because she left the banquet a little early. Before the final presentations. She spoke to me a moment as she was leaving, and I noticed her walk was a little unsteady.”
“What did she speak to you about?”
The woman blinked at the question. “She asked if I’d be joining her on the bus trip to L.L. Bean in the morning.”
“I see. And that was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes.”
The next three inquiries proceeded in a similar fashion. A college roommate; a childhood friend from the neighborhood; a man she’d often partnered with at Arthur Murray. They all, Coldmoon observed, had relatively vague and unremarkable memories of Elise Baxter: she’d been a pleasant young woman, ambitious but reserved. She’d demonstrated nothing to indicate suicidal behavior, but nothing to rule it out, either.
At last, Pendergast thanked them profusely and bid them good day. As the group began to break up, he raised a hand to stop the fifth person, who had so far been silent: a man of perhaps sixty, a bit scruffier than the rest, wearing a weather-beaten sun hat, a white T-shirt, and faded green pants.
“Carl Welter?” Pendergast asked.
“Yes,” the man replied. He had a husky voice that bespoke years of unfiltered cigarettes.
“Do you know why you were asked here?”
The man kept looking from Pendergast to Coldmoon and back again. “I wasn’t no friend of the dead woman.”
“No. But you were the watchman on the midnight-to-eight shift the night before last — when the object was left on her grave.”
“I already spoke to the police about that yesterday. Twice.”
“I’m aware of your statement. And you told them—” here Pendergast reached into his suit pocket, took out an official-looking piece of paper, and consulted it — “that you were in the vicinity of the groundskeeper’s shed, sharpening a lawn mower blade, when you heard the creak of metal, as if a gate was being opened. This was—” another exaggerated examination of the paper — “between two and two fifteen AM. You naturally investigated, but it was a dark night, the moon was veiled, the front gate was closed and, in short, you found nothing amiss.”
“That’s what I told them,” the man said a little belligerently, nodding to underscore the statement.
“And it was a lie,” Pendergast said in the same buttery voice.
“What in—?” the old man croaked, then fell silent.
“A transparent lie, easily exposed. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t received a third visit from the authorities as a result. But, Mr. Welter, if you’re honest with me, I can promise that we will all overlook your indiscretion.”
The man opened his mouth to protest, but Pendergast folded the paper, returned it to his pocket, and continued. “Please don’t waste our time with protests. I bring it up at all only as a formality — to make sure this graveyard has nothing more to tell us. The item was not left on Elise Baxter’s grave at two AM, you see — for the simple fact that, at that time, it was still in its owner’s chest. Ms. Montera was not killed until four.” He paused, watching the groundskeeper’s reaction. “In truth, Mr. Welter, you heard nothing that night. The only real question is: why did you lie about it?”
The man began looking between them again, only now his expression had become hunted.
Pendergast let the pregnant silence grow. Then, just as he drew in breath to speak, Coldmoon suddenly interjected. “You were sleeping one off,” he told the groundskeeper.
Now both Welter and Agent Pendergast turned toward him.
Coldmoon went on. “Your shift began at midnight. Given the two six-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon you drank, I’d say that by midshift your blood alcohol concentration must have been around 0.2 percent, leaving you in no condition to notice any disturbance, much less investigate it.”
“You—” the groundskeeper began again, then fell silent one more time.
“The fact is, you lied about hearing something because you didn’t want the management to know you were drunk on duty. Isn’t that right?”
Nobody moved.
“Just nod your head if that’s right, Mr. Welter,” Coldmoon said. “Once will be enough.”
After a moment, the groundskeeper gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Very good,” said Coldmoon. He glanced at Pendergast. “Anything else you want to ask?”
“No, thank you,” said Pendergast.
The car was quiet while they drove south. As they passed through North Beach, Coldmoon finally asked: “Where are you staying?”
“The Fontainebleau. And you?”
“Holiday Inn.”
“You have my sympathies.”
“So, I gotta ask, the Bureau’s picking up your tab—?”
“No, it is not. Since I believe your hotel is farther along than my own, would you mind dropping me off? I’ll have Lieutenant Sandoval send over a second copy of the case file for your review, along with any new lab reports. We can reconvene this afternoon. Will that suit you?”
“Sure.”
After another minute or two, Coldmoon felt Pendergast’s pale eyes swivel toward him. “Do you know why I asked those people to speak to us as a group, rather than individually, and at the grave site?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Pendergast settled back in his seat.