Cal’s groans turned into a whimper.
“I understand that,” I persisted, “but is there anything else you can recall about him? Age? Cause of death? Name?”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as if he were massaging a memory out of his brain. “Yup.” He pinched his eyes tighter. “Pine casket, Model number P-628. No frills service onsite. Burial in Rosewood Cemetery.”
I gawked at him, dumbstruck. “You remember the model number of his casket?”
“Baseball managers remember balls and strikes. Funeral directors remember caskets. We’d just purchased that line. The gentleman had the honor of being the first client to occupy one.”
“First client to occupy your low-end pine caskets,” taunted Cal. “First client to be robbed of his possessions. He was a man of many firsts.”
“He had a closed casket,” Woody reminisced. “That’s what made it so easy. And there were no family members clamoring to view the body, so it was like taking candy from a baby.”
“Why was the casket closed?” I asked.
“Bad car accident. No one would’ve wanted to see the way he ended up. He was a pretty young fella, too. Mid-forties, as I recall. Got the impression he must have been a loner because he sure didn’t have many people pay their respects. The man he worked for took care of the arrangements. Angelo Agnelli. Remember him, Cal?”
“The jeweler? Sure. He kept a dish full of candy on the counter just for us kids, so we’d always stop by his store on the way to the movies every Saturday.”
“The man who died worked for a jeweler?” I felt suddenly energized. Now we were getting somewhere. Of course a jeweler would work in the jewelry industry. It’s what he knew! Duh?
Woody nodded. “Yup. Old Angelo turned out some of the finest pieces of jewelry I ever lifted off a corpse.”
Cal covered his eyes. “Jeeez.”
My heart began pounding double-time. “Is he still alive?”
Woody shook his head. “We laid him to rest thirty years ago in our Mahogany roadster, Model number M-24. Our very finest casket at the time.”
“Oh.” That would make talking to him about his one-time employee a little out of the question then. Nuts. “I don’t suppose you recall the name of the man who died in the car accident.”
“Of course I do.”
“REALLY?”
“A funeral director never forgets a client’s name. His was Peter Smith.”
Which was obviously not the name I wanted to hear. Not unless … “Is Pierre French for Peter?”
Cal shrugged. “Stuff like that is above my pay scale.”
“Well, it’s not above mine,” said Woody. “Pierre, Pedro, Pietro. They all mean Peter.”
“So if Pierre Lefevre had needed to escape France during the war, he could very well have made his way to America, started a new life, and changed his name to Peter Smith.”
“Or Jones,” said Cal. “That’s just as generic.”
I yanked my phone out of my bag. “Unless Smith isn’t as generic as we think.”
“Who’re you phoning?” asked Woody.
“No one.” I pulled up my keypad. “I’m Googling.”