The Body Snatchers Affair by Marcia Muller Page A

Blanchford Investment Foundation were on the ground floor of a two-story brick building ornamented with curvilinear pediments over its windows and cornices supported on decorative brackets. Little enough money had been spent on BIF’s décor or furnishings; the anteroom was small and functional, as was the middle-aged woman who presided over it. One of Sabina’s business cards and a message that she was in the employ of Mrs. Harriet Blanchford brought her an immediate audience with Thomas Moody in the managing director’s equally Spartan private office.
    â€œI can’t imagine why Mrs. Blanchford would need the service of a private investigator,” Moody said. His eyes and the prim set of his mouth added the phrase “And a woman, at that.” He was a spare, clean-shaven man in his fifties with thin, pinched features and a priggish air.
    â€œA private matter,” Sabina told him. “If you’d care to telephone Mrs. Blanchford to confirm her engagement of my services…”
    â€œNo, no, that won’t be necessary. How may I help you?”
    â€œI understand you were one of the pallbearers at Mr. Blanchford’s funeral.”
    If Moody found the question odd, he didn’t show it. His thin face assumed a dolorous expression. “I had that sad honor, yes. He was a friend of long standing as well as my employer.”
    â€œI understand it was quite well attended.”
    â€œThe funeral? Oh, yes. Mr. Blanchford had many friends and associates in the city.”
    â€œI’m not familiar with Joshua Trilby’s Evergreen Chapel. I assume it’s a first-class establishment?”
    â€œAh, I wouldn’t say that, no.”
    â€œReally? Why not?”
    â€œWell…” Moody lowered his voice, after the fashion of a man about to reveal a confidence. “Rather small and … well, somewhat less suitable than one might have hoped for a man of Mr. Blanchford’s stature.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œWell, for one thing, Mr. Blanchford didn’t look as … natural as he might have. Rather a slipshod job, in my opinion. The viewing room was small and the floral offerings haphazardly arranged.”
    Thus confirming the Call reporter’s comment. “A shame. Was the procession properly handled?”
    â€œMore or less, except for the delay.”
    â€œDelay?”
    â€œAfter the service. Some sort of difficulty with the hearse that kept us all waiting for ten minutes before the casket could be carried out. Poor Mrs. Blanchford … she wept the entire time.”
    â€œUnconscionable,” Sabina said. “Was it she who chose the Trilby mortuary?”
    â€œI suppose it must have been.” Moody seemed to feel that perhaps he’d been too candid in his remarks. He made haste to change the subject. “Such a great loss to us all, especially those who have benefited and will continue to benefit from Mr. Blanchford’s philanthropic endeavors. He was a fine man, generous and caring to a fault.”
    â€œHis widow seems to be cut from the same cloth.”
    â€œOh, yes. A wonderful woman.”
    â€œAnd his son?”
    Moody hesitated before he said, a trifle stiffly, “Yes, of course.”
    â€œIs Bertram Blanchford involved in the foundation’s work?”
    â€œNo. No, he isn’t.”
    â€œBy his choice? Or his father’s?”
    Another hesitation, longer this time. Moody’s nose and upper lip quivered in a way that made Sabina think of a disapproving rabbit. “I believe his interests lie elsewhere.”
    â€œBertram is a promoter and horse racing enthusiast, I understand. What does he promote?”
    â€œI’m sure I have no idea.”
    Sabina thought that this was an evasion, judging from the way Moody’s gaze shifted. But she didn’t press him. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” she said. “I expect his father left him well