Cremains of the Day Read online

  I barely made it through the door before I was hit by the whirlwind that was my mother.

  “Hi, baby! How was your day? The bathroom’s all ready for you, sweetheart. I know how hard it is to clean all those floors. I don’t understand why you do that when you could just as easily have taken a loan from me. You shouldn’t have dishwater hands when you used to direct the help.”

  Karen Graver was in fine form today as she rambled on, trailing along behind as I went through the side door and straight to the office and bath in the back of the building. She must have been waiting at the door, which wasn’t unusual even if it was unnecessary.

  It was the same litany every time: Why didn’t I let her help financially? Why did I have to make things so much harder for myself? Why was I a working stiff instead of sitting in the lap of luxury? Why hadn’t I provided her with at least one grandbaby to dote on since my brothers were probably never going to settle down?

  The first two were easy enough. My dad would not look kindly on me taking money from my mom. Especially since my mom wouldn’t tell him until some argument came up and she threw it in his face. It was bad enough I lived above the parlor. Even though I insisted on paying rent, my mom never actually cashed the checks. I did not want to be tied to her apron strings, not even with a piece of thread. Living on their dime and taking their money would have made it a rope of steel wire.

  The third? That was a question I could and couldn’t answer. I wasn’t in the lap of luxury because my ex-husband had fought me at every turn for every dime until I just wanted out and took almost nothing with me. He’d gotten the house, most of its contents, and the mortgage. We hadn’t had savings, even though he was an investor, because he had done his best to prove that the rest of the cash had gone to living the life he was accustomed to. I hadn’t realized how outside our means we had been living until the divorce was finalized. But now it was over. I could concentrate on going back to the basics, and he could hang himself with all his debt if he wanted.

  And the last? Waldo had been a terrible husband. No one could convince me he would have rocked the whole dad thing.

  My mother continued to talk while I showered. I could have run upstairs and used my own bathroom; however, I was on a tight schedule. I pushed her out of the room, but the woman carried on the conversation through the door as if we were standing right next to each other. I only hoped no one was in the building except the two of us. What had happened was common knowledge, but the talk about me had died down about a week ago. Thanks went to Muriel Galdon, who was seen streaking down Main Street in nothing but her eighty-year-old birthday suit. I didn’t want to be in the spotlight again.

  Finally, when I stepped out of the shower into a fluffy towel, I realized she would happily flap her jaws for the entire time I was going to be here. Whipping open the door, I looked her in the eye and said, “Don’t you think we ought to get to work so that the funeral will be one Dad can be proud of? You know how he is about his three I’s of a funeral.”

  Karen flitted around for a second, a butterfly with nowhere to land. Her hair was the same honey blond it had been since I could remember: Clairol number 102. The clothes and the scent of gardenias were all the same too. I loved her more than anything in the world, but she needed to find somewhere to land before I dove right off my rocker.

  “Yes, Daddy has a list of things. It’s a mile long and has everything but the kitchen sink on it.”

  I hated when she called my dad that. Even I didn’t anymore, not since I was eight. He was just Dad to me. His name was Bud to the rest of the world. I would be okay with Bud or even “your dad,” but “Daddy” made me cringe. She patted her pants for a second until she got an aha look on her face and reached into the front of her blouse to pull a folded piece of paper from her bra. I mentally rolled my eyes, since actually rolling them would only set her off on the lecture circuit. Ah, family dynamics. I understood them better than most.

  “Why don’t you take the list then and get to work on your stuff?” I asked. “I’ll get to mine, and we’ll both be done in plenty of time.”

  “All righty, Miss Mighty. See you on the flipside.”

  Was it any wonder I constantly wanted to roll my eyes?

  “The flipside it is.” I saluted my mom and, after getting dressed, went to my own tasks, which never changed. I didn’t need a list to tell me the flowers needed spritzing with an atomizer to make them look fresher; the ones that had died or were brown at all pulled out. The keepsake programs needed fanning out in a tasteful display. Tissues from the closet needed to be pulled out and set strategically around the room and the front foyer, for those who did not think to bring any of their own or had gone through all of the ones they had brought. A light floral spray was applied to the air, unless someone specifically let the staff know they had those who were allergic to such things.

  The list went on and on. My dad printed one out for every funeral and made me go down it with a red pen, initialing all the things I knew by heart.

  In the end, I pulled it together in record time except for one missing funeral spray of flowers that should have been delivered earlier today. I couldn’t find it anywhere, but the time came when I couldn’t stay on hold for another minute and still get the rest of my list done. The flowers would have to stay lost until after the funeral, when I could call Monty again and bitch him out for the lack of a delivery.

  Running a hand down the black knee-length skirt my father demanded I wear, I then smoothed the waist of the sea green–scooped neck blouse I had on. No wrinkles were allowed here at the Graver Funeral Home. It was rule number four behind the three I’s of funeral directing: Indulge, Inter, and Inspire. My father lived by those words. Indulge the deceased’s family, inter the body, and inspire all attendees to want to use us for their future funeral needs. The outfit was part of the third I as well as its own rule. Not exactly my idea of nice clothes, but it did lend a similarity to the staff, since we all wore the same thing with different-color blouses of the same cut.

  Finally things were set, and thank goodness or I never would have heard the end of it. I was standing ready at the front door when the grieving family came rushing in.

  Betty Fletcher’s husband was the man in the casket, and she came in last with a tissue tucked into the sleeve of her lacy white shirt with its big bow at the collar. It was a look from the seventies and so was her hair. She’d been stuck there since. . . well, since the seventies. She’d never moved past her own thirties despite the fact she was as out of date as chunky milk.

  “Betty, I’m so sorry for your loss.” I took the other woman’s cold hands and put on a sincere expression. It wasn’t much of a stretch. I would sincerely miss Mr. Fletcher. He had been the one to teach me how to ride a bike for the first time, and he was always good for a hard candy in the breast pocket of his short-sleeved dress shirt, no matter what time of year it was. Just thinking about it made me smile.

  The rat-a-tat-tat of my black pumps was muffled when we moved from the plank flooring of the foyer onto the plush, rose carpeting of the viewing room.

  This was the most important part: I had checked in on Mr. Fletcher shortly after he’d been brought in. Despite my father trying to get me involved in every aspect, I had nothing to do with preparing the body, dressing it, doing the makeup, or making sure the jaw remained closed. But I had wanted to spend a quiet moment with him before the family got here. He had looked so at peace as I’d said my personal good-bye. And I would say another one now, apparently. I didn’t have much choice. Mrs. Fletcher was dragging me down the aisle between a hundred chairs like I was a barge being tugged along behind her chugging tugboat.

  Even though I had checked in with him earlier, it could still be hard to see someone who had been so full of life the week before now lying on a white-satin background in his best clothes. The rose-colored cosmetic lights in the ceiling gave him some color in his lifeless face. Yes, he looked peaceful, but he shouldn’t be peaceful. He should be up,
offering me candy.

  As part of the staff here at Graver’s, I would not cry, so I cleared my throat, patted Mrs. Fletcher’s hand, and backed away with some mumbled excuse about tissues.

  The first I in funeral directing: Indulge the client, not yourself.

  Escaping to the foyer, I composed myself again with deep breaths and a few head rolls. I could do this. I would do this until I could pay my own way.

  I nodded to my brother Jeremy as I walked out the doors to make sure the memory book was straight and take a second for another deep breath.

  * * *

  Catering after the funeral was not really my forte, either, but at least during this job I got to hang with Gina.

  And here, in the fire station next to Graver’s, we were having a grand old time. The stories were fairly flying around the big hall in front of the garage where they kept the engines. Gina had gone for simple and very Pennsylvanian for the former fire chief and all-around good guy. We had pork and sauerkraut, pigs in a blanket, chicken with gravy on waffles, chicken corn soup, and lots and lots of bread. Dessert was Mr. Fletcher’s favorite thing in the world, whoopie pies.

  Mr. Fletcher had retired over twenty years ago as fire chief, but the old guys sitting in the back corner with their chairs in a circle and their canes resting on the backs, talked as if it were just yesterday the man had run into a burning building to save someone. That someone had turned out to be a former girlfriend, who promptly kissed him. They fell back in love that day and were married for fifty-six years. And she had told him up until the last fire he’d run that he best not save any of his other former girlfriends, because she was not going to be left for some fire tramp.

  Mrs. Fletcher heard the story being told and joined them to put her own embellishments on the tale. One man with a walker, but looking spry enough to be sixty, rose from his chair and held it for her to sit down.

  At that moment, Gina waved for me to come over to the kitchen on the left-hand side of the hall. She wasn’t subtle about it, either, and if I didn’t hustle, she would start yelling at any moment. I hustled to her side because several police officers had just walked in to say good-bye to the deceased. Since they traveled in packs, I was pretty sure my least favorite person, Chief of Police Burton, wouldn’t be far behind, and I wanted to avoid him at all costs if possible.

  “We need more sauerkraut. Can you hold down the fort, keep the sausages going until I get back? I have another tub back at the shop, but I don’t have anyone I can send to go get it.”

  She was already untying her apron when I said, “I can go get it. There’s no need for you to leave when you’re the one with the cooking smarts. Just give me the keys and I’ll be right back.”

  I was so thankful she didn’t hesitate to dip her hand into her pocket for the keys. As kids, we’d been inseparable. Once Waldo came along, I’d been stupid enough to drop all my friends who didn’t fit in with my new status.

  Waldo, whose real name was Walden Phillips III, absolutely hated that I called him Waldo. It made my day every time.

  Anyway, once I’d moved out of Waldo’s house, I’d started working on reestablishing those relationships I had let slip when I was Mrs. Phillips III. There was no denying I had been a stuck-up bitch during those years. Gina hadn’t been in the mood to deal with me at first. Yet, when I had called and eaten crow for the second time, it had been as if no time had passed, leaving me extremely thankful Gina hadn’t made me eat crow a third time. I didn’t blame her for giving me a hard time at first, because I had a lot of mistakes to make up for.

  I put my hand out and Gina held the keys for just a second longer than she had to.

  The moment was here and gone within the space of two heartbeats. I counted them as I held my breath. Gina handed over the keys with a smile and a nod. “It’s in the refrigerator in the back next to the walk-in freezer. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it: Follow your nose.”

  “Be right back, then.” Now I was the one who removed my apron, grabbed my coat from its hanger, and strode out into the chilly night. The temperature had dropped since the gravesite part of the ceremony, while the wind had picked up. It was almost cold for a September night. Dipping my face into the collar of my jacket, I picked up the pace to trot along the sidewalk. Fortunately, Bean There, Done That was not far away, only catty-corner across Main Street. I jaywalked, I admitted it, but nearly anyone who would have thought to arrest me for breaking the law was back at the fire hall, so I wasn’t too worried.

  Shoving my hands deeper into my pockets, I took the final few steps to the front door. Something did not feel right about the place, but I shook it off as residual funeral pall. I made a mental plan for which light switch I would reach for and how I’d get back to the refrigerator. Although I knew the layout pretty well from the many times I had helped Gina close down for the night, I didn’t want to wander around in the dark.

  Unlocking the front door with fumbling hands, I pushed through with my shoulder. Blessed warmth enveloped me. Standing in the darkened doorway for a couple of seconds, I let the warmth infiltrate my every pore, or at least the ones it could reach with my jacket on. I reached to the right and flipped the switch to turn on the overhead lights. And screamed.

  Chapter 2

  “What in the heck are you doing here?” I nearly jumped out of my skin once I recognized Gina’s cousin, Katie Mitchner. Even with the other woman facing away from me, there was no mistaking the bright red hair or the tattoo winding around from the side of her neck, then down her arm to take on the look of a sleeve.

  She was draped across the wooden café table with her hair swept to the side and her head on her arm as if she was taking a rest. Her wrists and hands disappeared over the side of the small wood table. When she didn’t stir at the sound of my voice, I spoke again, louder this time. “Hey, Katie! Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!”

  Still nothing.

  I walked around the table to get a good look at the other woman’s face. Maybe Katie was drunk again and had come here to pass out. I couldn’t imagine Gina had let her cousin in and then let her stay when the shop was closed for the funeral, but stranger things had happened.

  Four steps took me in front of Katie, where I got that good look, and took two stumbling steps back, crashing into the table behind me. I should call the police. Right now.

  I had my phone in my hand to do just that when Katie’s eyes popped open and she started yelling behind the tape over her mouth.

  Okay, first I would find out what she was doing in here, then I would call the police.

  Katie’s eyes widened and the garbled words increased in volume as I grabbed the edge of the silver duct tape covering her mouth.

  “Sorry,” I said before I yanked, thankful Katie was awake and alive enough to scream bloody murder.

  While she took great big, gulping breaths, I patted her back and said all those nonsensical things people were supposed to say when someone has been traumatized. Unfortunately, while I had plenty of experience dealing with the bereaved, I had almost no experience with the traumatized still-living. I couldn’t pat Katie’s hand and give her a tissue and offer her solace for her grief. Unless she wanted to mourn the unfortunate caterpillar of hair I’d pulled off her upper lip.

  Instead, I fumbled around and finally said, “I hope it didn’t hurt too much.”

  “Christ Almighty, Tallie, it hurt like a bitch. I guess I won’t have to go to Andrea’s shop this week for my lip wax appointment.”

  She was joking, which had to be a good thing, I thought, until I saw the way Katie’s arms shook on the table. “I should call the police.”

  “No!” she yelled, then seemed to pull herself back under control. “I mean, not yet. I just need a minute before people come storming in here.”

  I thought that was an odd response, but she was an odd person, and since all the cops I knew were over at the fire station, I figured I could indulge her request if only to get some more info for Gina. “Do want me to
call Gina over? She’s just across the street.” I even pointed out the front window as if Katie had no idea where the firehouse was.

  I might get family dynamics, but human interaction wasn’t necessarily one of my strong points.

  Katie shook her head, holding up her hands. They were bound too. Yikes.

  “Can you just get these off me and maybe not take any more hair this time? Free lip wax I can live with, but bare arms not so much.”

  Quickly working the end of the yellow rope holding Katie’s wrists together, I kept a close eye on not stripping the fine hairs from the other woman’s forearms. The knots weren’t hard to get at, which made my job that much easier. I stepped back as Katie stood and shook out her hands.

  “Wow, my arms are tingling.”

  I hadn’t thought the knots were tight enough to actually cut off the circulation, but what did I know? I had no idea how long she had been sitting there, passed out. But maybe I should find out along with whether someone had taken anything from Gina’s shop while I gave Katie a couple minutes to compose herself. Gina was not going to be a happy camper, no matter how this all worked out.

  “What happened?” I asked. As I waited for an answer, I began prowling around the shop, making sure the coffee maker and the milk steamer were all in their correct places. I didn’t have a key to the register, but knew Gina cleaned it out every day after closing the shop. Somewhere she had a safe. I didn’t know where that was and didn’t need to know. The only thing I saw out of place were some napkins strewn across the wood counter Gina stood behind six days a week. That wasn’t enough to spark my curiosity.

  Using the back of her wrist, Katie swiped her big hair off her forehead, then looked at me from the corner of her eye. “Obviously, I was tied up and left for dead.”

  Katie had always been the lead in any drama put on the stage or acted out in real life. I tried to shove down my skepticism. There was no refuting that Katie had been tied up. I would just leave the “left for dead” part alone.