Chapter 13
The first thing Perla did, after poking her head into the room and seeing that Nepomuceno was indeed not simply drunk and asleep in his chair as usual but dead, was order Fito to head to the church with a message for the priest.
“What a mess,” she muttered, gripping the collar of her robe closed with one hand. “We’ll have to telegraph his brother.”
“His brother is dead,” Inés said.
“Since when?”
“He passed away last year.”
“He must have cousins or nephews.”
The dog was barking again. Perla rubbed a hand against her temple.
“I don’t think he had anybody.”
“That’s perfect. Who will pay for the funeral?” Perla grumbled. “Go knock on Dr. Carrel’s door and tell him his presence is required. He’ll have to sign a death certificate. And Beto must come over here too.”
“Why do we need the police?” Ulises asked.
“Because Dr. Carrel is coming, Beto needs to come too,” Perla said. She didn’t have time to explain the delicate rivalries and associations of the town. If Beto wasn’t summoned, he’d think he’d been snubbed. After all, he fancied himself the authority on all things forensic.
After Fito and Inés departed, she went to her room and considered the financial implications of this death while she donned a proper dress and combed her hair, for she had been abruptly forced out of her bed by the commotion downstairs.
The previous evening, instead of sherry, which was much too mild when she was in the mood for a proper night of drinking, she had availed herself of one of her secret bottles of tequila. As a result, she had a hangover.
Not that she would ever admit that she understood the meaning of the word “hangover,” because ladies were not supposed to imbibe too much alcohol, but she did, and she wished it were an ordinary day when she would have been able to sleep in. Now she’d have a headache for the entire day.
She had to think. Money. Yes. Aside from the coffin and the burial, they would have to at least purchase a few flowers.
She remembered her mother’s and father’s funerals, with the pomp of the nine days of prayers and food and drink.
Those had been fine affairs; no silly onions were sliced and placed under the coffins to absorb evil scents.
Her sister’s funeral, which had taken place many years before, in leaner times, had been more modest but nevertheless appropriate to the family’s status.
A household was judged on how they handled such events. Skimp on the food offered at the novenario and the townspeople would forever call you ungenerous.
Tongues would wag if Perla didn’t have a wake for the professor, but the idea of spending money on the man who had perished owing her three months of rent was repulsive.
The dog continued to bark. Dear God, that beast never ceased!
She was adding the last few pins to her hairdo when her husband walked into her room.
“Inés is back, and the policemen are here,” Ulises said. “I really don’t think they’re needed.”
“Get them a couple of cups of coffee and something to eat. Beto is sure to be bleary-eyed. He wakes up late on Saturdays. Fetch me a cup too while you’re in the kitchen.”
“We ought to send them away.”
“Hush! Will someone quiet that dog!”
Ulises stared at her, but at last he went to the kitchen.
Perla checked her hair in the mirror one final time before heading back to Nepomuceno’s room.
Beto was standing with his arms crossed by the door, looking half asleep as usual, while Bartolo walked around the room, bending down to inspect a bottle, the rug, the blanket Rita must have thrown over the deceased to cover him.
The dog had quieted down and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Gentlemen, I’ve asked that coffee be prepared while we wait for the doctor,” Perla said. “Will you follow me?”
“Should I look in the bathroom?” Bartolo asked, turning to the older policeman.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. It would seem—”
“The coffee will get cold,” Ulises pointed out.
“I hate cold coffee,” Beto muttered.
“We should still look around,” Bartolo suggested.
“It’s a pity to throw away a good coffee,” Ulises said. “And besides, I can never think on an empty stomach.”
Perla couldn’t think when she had a hangover, and she dearly needed that coffee. “I’ll ask that Dr. Carrel join us after he’s concluded his examination,” Perla said firmly. “You gentlemen may look around at that point.”
“Coffee would be lovely. If there’s a concha we might nibble on, even better,” Beto said.
They went into the dining room. Ulises appeared with a tray and distributed the cups of coffee, then he sat down and lit a cigarette, handed another one to Perla. Inés walked in with the bread.
Perla watched Ulises as she smoked. The previous evening she’d thought he’d been focused on Inés. This morning, his eyes didn’t linger on her niece, they were distant, as though he was plagued by many worries and the girl was the last thing on his mind.
He appeared genuinely distracted and she began to doubt the accusations she had levied at him. True, she had seen him talking to Inés by the gates of the house, but that didn’t mean anything.
Perla supposed their quarrel hadn’t even been about Inés, really, but about the nagging concerns surrounding their marriage.
It was, so far, a satisfying union, and yet Perla found issues that irritated her.
Some were a matter of personalities clashing.
Others, like the money discussions, were proving more substantial obstacles.
Perla had been aware that she was not marrying a rich husband, but she was discovering that Ulises’s means were slimmer than she’d calculated and his demands more irritating than she had imagined. Yet he was handsome, skilled at lovemaking, decidedly charming when he put his mind to it.
With Ulises distracted and Inés wrapped in a stony silence, she was forced to entertain Beto and Bartolo as best she could, although, frazzled, she was hardly up to the task. Eventually, Dr. Carrel walked through the doors of the dining room and slammed his medical bag on the table.
“It’s a murder, and you must make an immediate arrest,” the doctor declared, with such a dramatic intonation that Ulises spilled coffee on his lap and Beto began to cough. Bartolo patted him on the back.
The word “murder” chilled Perla’s blood. She felt as if a cold wind had blown into the house and banged a door shut, causing echoes to reverberate through the halls. She thought of her sister. Her headache threatened to split her skull.
“What are you talking about?” Perla asked, and her hand went to her throat, resting against her silver crucifix.
“I found this in the bathroom. Sleeping pills. I also found half a bottle of wine and a dirty glass in there. I can assure you I didn’t prescribe the sleeping pills, but then again, for many years Facundo Alamilla has dispensed medicines without the proper prescription, as if they were candy.
This is the result of that negligence: Nepomuceno has been murdered by the pharmacist! ”
The doctor handed Beto a glass bottle that had a couple of pills left. The policeman turned the bottle between his hands. “You’re saying Nepomuceno swallowed almost a whole bottle of this stuff?”
“I’m certain he did. By the sink I found the receipt for the pills. He bought them yesterday, poured a glass of vintage wine, and killed himself. Those pills should have never been sold without a prescription from a physician.”
“Vintage wine,” Perla fumed, more outraged at the thought that he had kept an expensive bottle hidden in his room than at the suicide.
“Why would he do that?” Beto asked.
“Perhaps he left a note?” Bartolo said meekly. “It might be good to check for a note.”
“Did he?”
“How would I know? The point is, I want Facundo Alamilla arrested for murder!” the doctor yelled. “Murderer!”
“You said he killed himself. That’s suicide,” Beto protested.
“Murder! It’s murder!”
Inés was covering her eyes and Ulises was feverishly dabbing at the stain on his trousers with a napkin. Perla was about to yell back at Dr. Carrel and order him to cease his theatrics before she tossed a cup of hot coffee in his face.
Just then Fito rushed into the room to let them know that Father Anselmo had arrived, and would he also be having coffee, or should Estrella prepare chocolate for him? Perla rubbed her temples with her fingertips once more and took a deep breath.
—
There was a note after all. It had been folded and placed in the inside pocket of Nepomuceno’s frayed jacket.
Nepomuceno had written that he’d been unwell for months, that he wished to die, and scrawled a line of poetry after bequeathing his silver-plated pocket watch and his books to Inés.
And the dog, although it wasn’t worth one peso, that mutt that had followed him home one day and which they’d kept.
At once Father Anselmo declared that the note would cause problems with the burial, because a suicide was different from a death by natural causes.
Nepomuceno couldn’t possibly be buried in the cemetery in town, which had never harbored a suicide, and he’d have to be taken to Las Tunas.
There had been suicides in town, and this was a ploy to obtain more money from Perla.
It led to an animated discussion between her and the priest, which turned from the theological to matters of accounting, since Perla had made several donations to the church through the years and did not think it fair that she be charged any extra money, considering her pious life and devotion to Christ.
“You can’t be charging me for the man as though he were a chunk of meat at the butcher shop,” Perla said. “Here’s an extra kilo of fat, and pay three more pesos.”
“By the Blessed Virgin, that is an outrageous comparison,” Father Anselmo said, his face reddening as he gripped the Bible between his hands.
“Forgive me, Father, but this is no small fee we’re discussing; times are lean.”