Suicide King (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) by Shelley Singer

“I’d like to have a few words with you sometime today. My name is Samson.”
    He nodded, pleasant but neutral. “I saw you sitting with Pam. I suppose you’re the detective she hired to investigate Joe’s death?”
    “That’s right.”
    He nodded again. “Catch me out at graveside, we’ll set up a time.” Then he put the car into drive and pulled away.
    Pam and I caught the tail end of the procession and snaked along to the cemetery. I’d seen a few of those, too, and I hadn’t been too impressed.
    South of San Francisco there’s a town with more dead inhabitants than live ones. That’s because it has so many graveyards— big ones— inside its limits. Acre upon acre, a crowded supermarket, or maybe it’s more like a bargain basement, of the dead.
    None of that for Joe Richmond. Oak Grove was pretty big. I guess most cemeteries are. But it had rolling hills and old trees, big, expensive carved headstones, statues of angels hovering over the dear departed, and several large family tombs for corpses whose names anyone anywhere in the country would recognize. Mostly names connected with food, this being Minnesota. It also had, on this day, some private uniformed cops that kept the few newspeople who had bothered to come this far at a respectful distance.
    The Richmond family mausoleum was nestled in some big trees, oaks, I think, and there were a lot of flowers around it. Rosebushes and a border of annuals. The roses were very well cared for. Not a sign of mildew or black spot, diseases I have been forced to think of as ornamental in my own self-reliant yard.
    Joe Richmond’s coffin was sitting up on yet another platform, this one in front of the mausoleum entrance. The crowd at the funeral had been fairly large, but only a couple dozen people had come all the way out to the cemetery. There was the bereaved wife, who must have been blinded either by tears or veils, because her brother was steering her around. He looked even more delicate out of doors than he had in the church. Their parents tottered behind. Then there were a few of the Richmond relatives: his mother was still wearing her sunglasses, and his brother looked grief-stricken and angry at the same time. Two weeping cousins stood with them.
    Rebecca had driven out with her small entourage. Philip Werner stood with them, next to Rebecca.
    Pam was close beside me, almost touching, during the brief service. Ron Lewis stood with us. Aside from the minister actually having known the dead man, this funeral was providing yet another first. I’ve never been to one where the deceased went anywhere but in a hole in the ground. I watched, fascinated, while they carried that expensive box into the mausoleum. Then the party broke up. On the way back to the cars I got Pam to introduce me to Richmond’s brother, Walter, and asked him if we could have a talk later. He looked at me like I’d just danced out from under a toadstool but said I could reach him at home after seven that night and gave me his phone number. I thanked him. Then I caught Werner before he ducked into his car again and reminded him about our talk.
    He scribbled the name and number of his hotel on the back of a card that had nothing printed on it but his name and a Sacramento address and phone number.
    “But I won’t be back there for an hour or two,” he said.
    “Fine. I’ll call you then. Some time after six.” I handed him my hotel card. “In case there’s a problem.”
    Pam was catching a 6:30 flight back to San Francisco, so I drove her out to the airport where we had a decent if unimaginative dinner, patted her on the shoulder, and said I’d see her in a couple of days. Then I called Werner’s hotel. He’d checked out. There was no message for anyone named Samson. There was no message at my hotel, either. No wonder the guy traveled light. He liked to make quick getaways.
    So much for avoiding a trip to Sacramento.
    Richmond’s brother, however, was reachable where he’d said