Dead Man s Hand Page 0,39

the wall, announced three viewings. Wideman was in the East Parlor,

Jory in the West Parlor, Moore upstairs in the Round Room. Jay realized that he didn't know Chrysalis's real name.

"Oh," said a soft voice beside him. "Mr. Ackroyd, it's so good of you to come."

Waldo Cosgrove was a round, soft man in his seventies, bald as an egg, with tiny moist hands. Waldo dressed impeccably enough to please even Hiram, smelled like he'd bathed in perfume, looked like he'd been rolled in talcum powder. Jay had done some work for him the year before, when a pair of particularly grotesque joker corpses had been stolen from the mortuary. The whole thing had upset Waldo dreadfully, and Waldo wasn't used to being upset. Mostly Waldo was sorry. He was better at being sorry than anyone Jay had ever met. "Hello, Waldo," Jay said. "Which one is Chrysalis?"

"Miss Jory is laid out in the West Parlor. It's our nicest room, you know, not to mention the largest, and she had so many friends. I was so sorry to hear about this dreadful business."

The words were right, but Jay had heard Waldo sound a lot sorrier. Something was upsetting the senior Cosgrove. "What's going on?" he asked. "Why was Lupo so pissed off?"

Waldo Cosgrove tsked. "It's not our fault. Mr. Jory was quite insistent, and after all, he was her father, but some people are taking it the wrong way. I don't know what they expect us to do. I assure you, we've spared no expense."

"I'm sure Mr. Jory will realize that, too, once he gets your bill," Jay said. "Have I gotten any phone calls?"

"Phone calls? For you? Here?"

"I've been trying to reach Hiram Worchester down in Atlanta," Jay explained. "I've been leaving messages with his hotel. If he calls, let me know"

"Oh, certainly," Waldo Cosgrove said. Another group of mourners was leaving. Jay recognized a hostess from the Crystal Palace. She didn't look too happy either. He decided to see what was going on.

The West Parlor was a long, somber, high-ceilinged room full of flowers. So many floral arrangements had been sent that some of them had been crowded out into the hall. A sign-in book had been placed by the door. Yin-Yang stood beside it, expressing condolences to a big, robust man in his sixties who could only be Chrysalis's father. Jory wore a white shirt and a black suit, and there was something about him that made you think, yes, this was definitely a black-andwhite kind of man. Right now he looked uncomfortable. Maybe it was the suit. Maybe it was the occasion. Maybe it was Yin-Yang, both of whose heads were talking at once, as usual.

When the joker finally shuffled into the parlor, Jay stepped up and offered a hand. "Mr. Jory, I'm deeply sorry about your daughter," he said. "She was an extraordinary woman. "

"Yes," Jory replied. He had a firm handshake and a distinct twang in his voice that was utterly at odds with his daughter's carefully cultivated British accent. "Debra-Jo was a fine girl. Did you know her well, Mister... ?"

Jay ignored the question. Jory would undoubtedly recognize the name, and they'd get into the whole thing about how he found the body, a can of worms Jay didn't especially care to open. "Not well enough to know her real name, I'm afraid."

"Debra-Jo," Jory said. "She was named after my great grandmother. Real pioneer stock, she was, a genuine sooner."

"You from Oklahoma?"

Jory nodded. "Tulsa. New York's not much to my taste."

"Chrysalis loved the city," Jay said quietly. "I knew her well enough to know that much. It was her home."

"Her home was Tulsa," Jory said stiffly, "and no offense, sir, but I'd thank you not to call her by that name." He turned at the sound of footsteps, and Jay saw the revulsion in his eyes as they beheld Jube Benson waddling through the door, a stack of newspapers under one arm. Then his manners got the better of his distaste, and Jory forced a smile and extended a hand.

Jay went inside the parlor.

There were enough folding chairs to accommodate a hundred people. A third were occupied, while another dozen mourners milled around, talking in soft whispers in the corners of the room. Eight out of every ten faces belonged to jokers. Yin-Yang knelt beside Mushface Mona at the casket. The Floater bobbed against the ceiling, talking quietly with Troll, whose huge green hands brushed lightly against the chandelier when he gestured, making the crystals