by Meg Macy
I sensed Isabel was close to tears. “That’s harsh.”
Mrs. French looked angry, too. “I’m not happy with how she treated you. Do you want me to speak to Mrs. Bloom?”
“No, Mom. Don’t get involved, please.”
“Kristen would defend Hunter,” I said, “since they’re dating.”
“You know they’re dating?” Isabel groaned. “She accused me of spreading gossip about her around Silver Hollow, but I didn’t! Now Kristen won’t talk to me. At. All.”
“It wasn’t you—” I stopped, mortified. Flynn had seen Kristen and Hunter together at an Ann Arbor restaurant, and then I’d mentioned it to Mary Kate and Elle. Even Alison Bloom knew that I knew. Uh-oh. “I mean, their dating wasn’t that big of a secret. Right?”
“I don’t care, to tell you the truth. She ought to know people find out every little thing that happens around here. I think Kristen’s more mad that I can’t afford to buy her out of the Silver Scoop. I explained why in a voice mail and told her to call me back, and then texted her, but she never replied. She’s mad, all right. Who knows if she’ll ever talk to me again.”
“You said Kristen wants to open a yoga studio. Right?”
“Yeah, only she needs a boatload of cash to pay off a loan. Kristen wanted renovations at the Silver Scoop, and she wouldn’t listen to me that we couldn’t afford it. I told her she’d have to find another way of paying. I wasn’t putting in any money. But Kristen resented that.”
“I thought the Blooms were pretty flush with cash.”
“Yeah, they own the building. I think Kristen expected her dad to cough up the dough for the drive-through, but he balked at the last minute.”
“Plus Cal Bloom didn’t like cars lining up on that little alley beside the funeral home,” Mrs. French said. “In the summer, of course, but people blocked access to the parking lot where his visitors park. No wonder he wanted her to give up the Silver Scoop.”
Isabel nodded. “Except Kristen refused. At least back then, only maybe she’s changed her mind. But no one can easily manage two successful businesses at one time.”
No wonder Leah was so worried at the Bear-zaar. “Did Kristen ever tell her dad about the yoga studio?”
“They had a huge fight about it. Now that he’s dead, she’ll inherit a bunch of money and pay off her loan. First she’d better pay me my share after selling the Silver Scoop before doing anything. Then I can pay Mom what I borrowed to help start the ice cream shop.”
“Isabel, I told you not to worry,” Mrs. French said. “Find a better job first.”
“But Dad’s care here is so expensive, and you need the money.”
I snapped my fingers. “If you’re looking for a new job, we need extra help at the factory filling orders for our wizard bear. You’d fit in perfectly with our staff.”
“Really? You’d hire me?” Isabel’s eyes brightened, but her hopeful tone faded. “I don’t have any experience, though. In sewing.”
“Flora Zimmerman will train you. We need someone to help with shipping right away, so see Aunt Eve in the office tomorrow morning. She can start the paperwork.”
“I will, and thanks! That sounds great.”
“I hope Detective Hunter steers clear of you, Isabel,” Mrs. French said. “Promise me you’ll tell Chief Russell if he shows up again with questions.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Well, I’d better go.” I rose to my feet, reclaimed my coat, and the paper bag from the pharmacy. Henry French had been eyeing me sideways with suspicion, and I didn’t want to cause trouble. “Have a wonderful holiday season, and thanks.”
Isabel walked with me back to the hall. “I can’t thank you enough for the job offer. Mom’s been pretty worried.”
“Really, you’d be helping us out.” I suddenly remembered something she’d said earlier. “You overheard Hunter being obnoxious, but when was this?”
“At the parade. He was talking to Tony Crocker, who ran against Mr. Bloom in the election. Hunter cornered him near the mayor’s float, and threatened him.”
“In what way?”
“He warned Crocker about not bothering with an election recount. Hunter said he heard him saying all kinds of things, how Cal Bloom didn’t deserve to win, and that the mayor cheated people right and left.” Isabel shrugged. “It sounded pretty crazy to me.”
I shrugged into my coat. “Thanks, Isabel. If you hear anything else—”
“Sasha, is that you?”
My grandmother’s shrill voice startled me. I turned to see her wheeling down the hall, thin arms akimbo. Her white hair looked unkempt, and her cardigan sweater was buttoned all wrong. Isabel smiled and retreated to the dining room.
“How are you today, Grandma? I was coming to see you in a few minutes.”
“Did your mother send you to spy on me?”
“Of course not. I brought you an early Christmas present.”
“Trying to make me fat?” She eyed me up and down, as if some of the candy had already attached itself to my thighs. “Thank you. Godiva is my favorite.”
“I know. Let me help you with your sweater.”
“Not here, child. Back in my room—no, no. I can get myself moving. I’ve got to keep my strength, or they’ll have me sitting all day in bed.”
She muttered an apology when she bumped into another patient’s wheelchair. Stifling another smile, I followed Grandma to her private room. The photo posted outside the door showed Grandpa T. R. holding her hand on their wedding day. They’d celebrated fifty-one years of marriage, so Grandma turned bitter after his death. The whole family missed him. He was always a joy and so happy. Everyone had adored Grandpa T. R.
“There you go.” I’d re-buttoned her cardigan and searched for the comb in her bedside table. “Let me fix your hair, okay?”
“Thank you, Sasha. Here, use these.” Grandma handed over several bobby pins with trembling fingers. “Are you sure Judith didn’t send you?”
“No. I came to see Isabel French, who’s visiting her father.”
“Yes, that poor man.” She waved a hand at the television set in the corner. “I heard the news on television and read the Silver Hollow Herald about the mayor. Is it true he died at the parade from a heart attack? I wouldn’t be surprised. And his poor wife, running back and forth to help with her mother. Mrs. Jackson’s not long for this world, either.”
“Is she that bad?”
“She can barely eat without help. I saw Mrs. Bloom feeding her mother, you know, last Wednesday. But then she left suddenly, right in the middle of dinner. The staff had already taken Mrs. Jackson back to her room by the time she returned. We had a group of carolers in, and hot chocolate with those tiny butter cookies while we listened.”
My ears had perked up at this news. “Are you sure it was last Wednesday, Grandma? The day of the parade.”
“Of course. I’m not senile like Mr. French. Yet.”
That was interesting. Why would Alison claim to be here until after the parade ended? If she had left—that meant she’d lied. Deliberately. Where had she gone? To the funeral home, to murder her husband?
Grandma tapped my knee. “I’m glad you came to see me, Sasha.”
“I am, too.” I kissed her forehead and then thumbed the remote until I found a Matlock rerun. I knew she loved Andy Griffith’s charming portrayal of a Southern lawyer who always won his case. “This is one of your favorite shows.”
“Perfect.” She flashed a wan smile. “I suppose it reminds me of your dad, and how Alex had so much success in the courtroom.”
I sat with Grandma until she nodded off, within the hour. Then I set the box of Godiva chocolates with its puffy gold ribbon next to her elbow on the bed and headed out. Maybe Tony Crocker and Dave Richardson would answer a few questions.
Whether or not, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
Chapter 13
I parked on the side street off Archibald. The shortcut to the Silver Scoop’s drive-through window led to the
parking lot, which served both the funeral home and the Pretty in Pink bakery. Tire marks had left deep ruts in the snow. Cal Bloom’s white van was parked in its usual spot at the end, but the funeral home’s black hearse remained out of sight. Probably behind the building, close to a double door in back.
The sun’s warmth felt wonderful on my face. I crunched my way across frozen snow, marked with footprints tracking back and forth to the picket fence gate. Something winked in the light on the ground, so I picked it up. A marble? I stuck it in my coat pocket. Onyx loved to roll all kind of toys across the kitchen floor. The funeral home’s entrance door was unlocked. Most people didn’t lock their homes in the village, in fact. I marched inside.
The lack of Christmas decorations surprised me at first. Then I realized that decorated trees and lights might deepen the sadness and grief of families who had lost loved ones during the holiday season.
But the foyer had abundant greenery. A tall parlor palm tree and two huge dieffenbachias stood beside the wide stairway that led to the second-floor residence. A basket of trailing ivy sat on a side table, flanked by twin plush armchairs. Inside a carved walnut étagère, frames held antique family photos showing people in clothing styles of the 1800s and early 1900s. Had Cal Bloom bought them for mere decoration, or were they of his relatives?
I avoided the roped-off parlor that held the Victorian hearse. Soft music played overhead, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata if memory served me right. I’d practiced it a million times for a piano recital in sixth grade and winced, recalling my nervous mistakes. Lessons had been my mother’s idea. She’d never had the chance to learn, and was determined to give Maddie and me that opportunity. I enjoyed piano but hated practice. My sister excelled, of course.
Maddie also played oboe in Symphony Band. But lately she’d been listening to Chopin’s more depressing pieces. Hmm. Another sign of her recent moodiness.
I peeked into the office, since the door stood open. Dave Richardson wasn’t behind the walnut desk. Maybe he was still sick and Leah was busy downstairs preparing the deceased for visitation. The information for both Cal Bloom and Tom Richardson Senior filled a sign near the front entrance. Tom would be laid out tomorrow, with services on Wednesday morning. The mayor’s family had planned visitation on Thursday evening and a Friday funeral. Silver Hollow residents would spend the entire week in mourning.
That meant we’d be crunched for time to churn out wizard bears and prepare for our Holiday Open House the following Tuesday. If only it were already Christmas. I wished everything, including my uncle and aunt’s wedding, would be over.
I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge.
Forcing myself to banish my stress, I checked the hall for Dave or Leah and then returned to the office. A row of silver and brass cremation urns sat on a shelf behind the desk. Another shelf held our quality teddy bears with black silk ribbons around their necks, encased in plastic. I’d arranged the contract several years ago to provide for the Bloom’s Funeral Home’s consolation package for deceased children. Given their dusty covers, I was glad they lingered here. The next room, much smaller, held filing cabinets and a desk with ledgers.
Perhaps I should have called ahead of my visit. Too late now.
I wandered into the first parlor. Carved, ornate furniture and rows of padded chairs stretched toward a drapery-covered wall. A low, wide stand must have served to hold the casket. I stared at numerous cheap black teddy bears perched on sofas, chairs, or end tables. I picked up one and saw the label BEARS FROM THE HEART, our rival toymaker. How could Cal Bloom buy these, when my parents were his best friends? They looked brand new.
To me, teddy bears represented childhood joy and happiness. I knew many people bought them to memorialize a lost loved one, but I preferred seeing a boy or girl hug their stuffed toys for comfort. It made my job at the Silver Bear Shop so meaningful. All the extra hours planning events, tours, the long holiday hours, even working at the factory to meet deadlines, was worth it. Sure, our bears might be more expensive, but their quality couldn’t be beat.
So why did Cal Bloom buy half a dozen from our rival? That puzzled me.
“Hello, Sasha. Did you need help?”
I jumped out of my skin at the voice behind me. One hand over my pounding chest, I turned to see Leah Richardson. Eyes wide, wearing a turtleneck sweater, blazer, and black trousers, she pushed a strand of her dark hair behind an ear. I clutched a chair’s high back.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s this thick carpet in the parlors,” Leah said with a grin. “Dave’s always sneaking up on me. I’ve screamed, oh—I don’t know how many times. It’s kind of funny.”
“Yeah, the carpet is soft. Like walking on a sandy beach.”
“Cal Bloom had it redone in the spring. Dave thought Berber would be more durable, but Cal wouldn’t hear of it. Nothing but the best quality and the deepest pile. I suggested tile floors and Persian area rugs, but nope. He didn’t want that. We have to get the carpet cleaned at least three times a year, too.”
Nothing but the best quality. Hmph. I glanced at those cheap bears and then squeezed her forearm in sympathy. “I’m sorry about Mr. Richardson.”
“Yes, thank you. We figured my father-in-law might not recover, and he had all the plans set in place for his funeral and burial for years. But Dave said Cal Bloom didn’t have anything prepared, which is odd. Owning this place, I mean, and urging pre-planning so much.”
“Did you hear that he was electrocuted?”
“Yeah, and that it triggered a heart attack.”
“The police are still investigating, of course.”
“Dave was so sick, and with his dad dying . . . Well, we haven’t kept up with the latest news around the village.” Leah gave an awkward shrug. “Too much going on at one time.”
I took the chance to ask a few questions, even if I didn’t get far. “I heard Kristen Bloom is selling the Silver Scoop so she can open a yoga studio.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
She sounded relieved, so I continued. “You must be expecting Alison Bloom to sell this place to you and Dave.”
Leah fiddled with the registry book on the stand by the parlor door, straightening it and testing the pen for ink on the back of her hand. She pulled at her turtleneck, too, although that only drew my attention. I glimpsed a dark bruise on the skin just above her collarbone. How had she gotten that? And in such an odd spot. She finally met my gaze.
“We hope so. We’ve worked long and hard for Cal, for fifteen years.”
“I heard he wanted Kristen to take over the business.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t gonna happen.” Resentment flooded her words. “Not many people know this, Sasha, but Cal was a hard, hard man. To work for, to deal with—it was his way or the highway, you know? He came across as all jolly and nice in person, but he was never easy to please. No matter what we did.”
I nodded, unwilling to interrupt. Leah plunged on.
“He started the paperwork to sell us this place months ago, but then suddenly balked. We’ve been living in limbo ever since.”
“That must be hard.”
“Worse! Dave never thought of leaving Silver Hollow, not with his family so near. He could have bought a funeral home in another town, or worked for one of those chains in Ann Arbor or Ypsilanti. Cal knew that, too. He took advantage of Dave’s good nature. Used him, like he used other people in Silver Hollow.”
I wondered what my mother would say to that. “In what way? I heard something about how the mayor cheated people.”
“He did. Dave covered for him,” she added. “He paid suppliers out of our bank account when Cal delayed, on purpose. Like he figured they’d stop bugging him and tear up the invoices, but word got around to other companies. It made things more difficult. A few suppliers refused to do business with us anymore, in fact.”
“But why would he do that?”
“He didn’t think anyone would find out, that’s w
hy. Cal believed he was too important for his reputation to be tarnished.”
“But it was bound to affect his business,” I said.
Leah’s bitterness rang true. “Oh, I admired him when he first asked Dave to manage this place. But once he was elected mayor, Cal loved the attention. Running the council meetings, pretending to be a role model, talking to people everywhere. But if anything went wrong here, he blamed me and Dave. And people sometimes complain even if things go right. Cal Bloom never wanted to hear that, though. Only the compliments.”
I wasn’t surprised, given what I’d heard that the mayor shifted blame to others instead of accepting responsibility. “That’s nuts.”
“Remember that stink over how Cal wouldn’t pay that poor girl? The one who was killed before the Oktobear Fest,” Leah added. “She worked on his re-election campaign.”
“He wasn’t happy with Gina Lawson’s promotional spin.”
“But she finished the work. Cal told her whatever she came up with would be fine, and then, he hated it! That wasn’t her fault.” Leah smoothed a lace doily on an end table, hesitating before she met my gaze. “And now Alison Bloom might sell this place to—”
“Sasha!” Dave Richardson hurried into the parlor. “How good to see you.”
“Hi, Dave,” I said, my heart sinking. Leah looked stricken at being caught gossiping. “You must have recovered from the flu, then.”
“Yes, I’m over it.”
Tall and thin, Dave resembled his dad with gray hair and bright blue eyes. The late Tom Richardson had raised six children with his second wife, Cleo, who was twenty years his junior. They lived in homes on the same road as the huge family farmhouse built in the late 1800s, except for Dave and Leah. Tom Junior managed the farm and orchards with his brother John, with most of their kids and grandkids to help.
Dave had chosen to work for Cal Bloom instead. I’d always wondered what brought on that rebellion, and noted a spark of anger in his tone when he spoke to his wife.
“Leah, go back downstairs and finish up for Dad’s visitation tomorrow. Do all the last-minute checks. Go on!”