by Kit Frazier
“Nice undies.”
Chapter Sixteen
Tanner’d given me a couple of days off to get my act together and then it was back to the obituaries. But the truth is, when I’m not writing even if it’s a batch of obituaries I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.
I tried to read the rest of a Parker novel, watch old movies and catch up on paying bills, which is hard to do when your bank account balances out to zero. I even did battle with the dust bunnies in the laundry room, but they battled right back, so I quit. I should have called the insurance company to find out when I would be able to replace the things that were broken or stolen, but it seemed like too much effort. Even deviant thoughts of chocolate lost their thrill. All I wanted to do was sleep.
I did, however, break down and call Aunt Kat at her place in Paris to give her an inventory on what had been broken, though I skipped the details of how it’d happened.
“Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?” she said, her voice choppy, like she was in the middle of a massage.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I lied. If I’d told her the truth, she’d be on the first plane headed home.
“Things can be replaced, Cauley Kat,” she said. “You however, are priceless.”
“I think some people would disagree with you, Aunt Kat.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You take that insurance money and buy whatever you like. I’ve told you that the bungalow is yours now. Make it your own. I’ll be home soon, and I’ll bring you some things from the Riviera. Do you need a new bikini, hon? They’re practically made of dental floss here.”
“No,” I said. “No floss. But thanks.”
Over the line, I heard a man’s voice calling for her. “Hey,” I said. “You’re busy. I’ll see you when you get back.”
“All right,” she said doubtfully. “Just remember. If you can’t be a good example…”
“Be a terrible warning.” I finished for her, and I really did smile this time.
I disconnected and went back to the couch for some serious wallowing. With the exception of the call to Aunt Kat, I ignored the phone and all my friends, getting out of bed only to feed the cat and walk the dog, who were pretty good sports about my malaise.
I woke up early on the day of the funeral feeling like I was moving through a terrible dream, and I rummaged through my closet for a black dress that didn’t scream, looking to get laid. I slid into the dress, slipped my Ray-Bans over my puffy eyes and headed downtown.
I was surprised that the service was at St. Augustine’s, on Brazos, where everybody who’s anybody gets married and buried. I was surprised because Scooter’s death had been ruled a suicide a big no-no in the Catholic church, and because I would have thought Scooter would’ve wanted his send-off at Lake Travis Methodist, where he’d been an usher for the past five years. But Selena had gone to church at St. Augustine’s, and funerals are for the living, not the dead.
I slid into the adjacent parking lot of the gothic cathedral, craning my neck for a better look at the elaborate spire.
Drawing a deep breath, I tucked my purse under my arm, crossed Brazos and ducked into the church. I pulled off my sunglasses and stood in the enormous foyer, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Despite the cavernous hall, the scent of funeral flowers loomed like a noxious fog. Stepping around me, the bereaved filed by the little water stand, dipping their fingers and crossing themselves, and I wondered if I was supposed to do the same.
The red-carpeted aisle seemed to roll on forever. The open casket at the end gleamed under a kaleidoscope of red and gold light from the stained glass windows. In that casket was what was left of Scott Barnes. My breath hitched in my throat.
I’d just talked to him a couple of days ago. Scooter had called me that day for help. Some help I turned out to be. I should have made sure he got the kind of psychological help he needed. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be lying in a box.
Above his casket, a giant Jesus loomed, nailed to a big plexiglass cross. I couldn’t bring myself to make the long journey up the aisle to see Scooter, so I slipped into a pew near the back and found myself pressed into the solid, wide shoulders of the Bug. He was solemn and bleary eyed and dressed in a very expensive suit. Probably had his own wake the night before.
As I squeezed in, the big man shifted, his expensive suit jacket making silk shushing noises as he moved.
An enormous pipe organ boomed into the silence, thundering a dirge I didn’t know. On cue, prepubescent boys dressed in white robes marched somberly down the aisle, carrying an assortment of candles, golden cups and a gilded cross.
I watched, feeling a sense of awe, of something bigger than me, but I felt out of place in the regimented structure of the unfamiliar service. Not knowing when to stand or kneel or sit, not understanding the songs that flowed in fluid, lilting Latin.
Down front, I saw the slight form of Selena, tucked next to her attorney the one that I’d thought had been torched in a tire. Selena’s tiny form shook with grief. Despite her small stature, her presence seemed to fill the auditorium.
The music rose and even though I couldn’t understand the words the boys were singing, my heart swelled with the song. Next to me, the Bug’s shoulders shook. I handed him a Kleenex.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Scooter woulda never done nothin’ like this.”
“You don’t think he committed suicide?”
“Nope. He woulda never left Selena this way. He loved that girl like nobody’s business.”
The music changed and the hair on my neck prickled. My gaze drifted around the cathedral, and I wasn’t sure what I was looking for until I found it.
Seated at the pew nearest the door was Tom Logan. He was dressed in a suit, as usual, and looking like the consummate Fed that he was.
My heart gave a hard thump, and I wasn’t sure if I should feel better or worse. Why was he still involved with the Barnes case if Scooter was gone? On the off chance Scooter had something wrong, wouldn’t the case be closed?
If Logan was here, would other law enforcement types be scattered among the mourners? I scanned the crowd, listening hard in the litany for the sound of Fiennes’s voice. Looking for anything familiar in the sea of unfamiliarity.
What I did understand of the service was beautiful, and after some time, the altar boys marched solemnly back down the aisle. Slowly, throngs of bereaved filed out after them. This, I assumed, was the end of the service.
Taking a deep breath, I slipped out of the pew and crept down the aisle toward the front of the church, a thick sense of dread building with every step. Coach and Mrs. Barnes sat quietly down front in the pew opposite of Selena, their eyes steady on the body of their only child.
I stopped, closed my eyes and prayed for the right words.
None came.
Swallowing hard and swearing I wouldn’t cry, I sank to my knees in front of them. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
“I know you are, darlin,” Coach said. “You did the best you could.”
I wanted to say, Fat lot of good that did anybody, but now was not the time for self-pity. These people were Scooter’s parents, and they were hurting.
At a loss, I said, “If there’s anything I can do, please, let me know.”
They nodded, and a tear slipped down Golly’s cheek. Taking a deep breath, I looked toward the casket. Time to say goodbye.
I thought of Scooter’s words as we’d talked, just a few days ago in his father’s shed. I hadn’t taken him seriously. I could still hear his voice. I wish I was in Hawaii.
“Oh, Scooter,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to help.”
People always say the dead look like they’re sleeping. I haven’t been to many funerals and I haven’t seen many dead people. But Scott Barnes did not look like he was sleeping.
He didn’t look like Scott at all. His face was pale and waxen, his cheeks and lips pink with rouge. Whatever was left of Scott was not in this still, cool body, and despite all reason, I could feel his
presence as though he was looking over my shoulder.
In the stillness of the cathedral, a mellifluous voice hissed behind me.
“La asesina!”
I jumped and nearly fell over into the casket.
“Murderer!”
Selena’s mother stood, staring at me, her elegant face twisted beneath her black veil. “You killed him!”
Time jarred to a stop and my heart jammed in my throat.
“He has lost his soul,” she said, her voice leveling as she pointed straight at my heart. “You caused this as surely as if you’d held that knife yourself.”
I felt like a deer caught in headlights. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Behind her, Selena made a small sound and began to sob. The woman went on. “Scott could have had help, but you interfered and now he’s committed a mortal sin.”
I couldn’t say a thing, because it was true. Selena’s mother had given voice to every thought I’d played through my mind in the past few days.
I turned to Selena. Her blue eyes were misty and blank, quiet tears running down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I didn’t know what else to say.
My head reeled and I felt dizzy. As I turned to leave, the red, carpeted aisle seemed twice as long, and I felt every eye on me as I made my way to the door. Behind me, I could hear Selena, sobbing softly over the body of her husband.
At the back of the cathedral, Logan was leaning against the door, where he fell into step behind me. He opened the cathedral door and followed me out into another perfect Central Texas summer day. The sun outside was bright and I blinked against it.
On the front steps, Logan looked down at me. “You okay, kid?”
I looked up at him. Hot tears slipped down my cheeks. “No. And I don’t think I ever will be again.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Cauley? I know you’re in there. I saw your trash can at the curb for pickup.” Safely back in my bungalow, Mama’s voice trilled through my answering machine like fingernails scraping a chalkboard.
I flopped face down on my bed with a bad case of Holly Golightly’s Mean Reds. I tried whining out loud for a while, but all I managed to do was get on my own nerves.
“We haven’t heard from you in over a week! If you don’t pick up that phone I’m sending the Colonel over.” Her voice muffled. “Stephan! Stephan!…you’ve got to go check on Cauley…”
I pulled myself out of bed and shuffled through wads of crumpled up Puffs Plus to plop down on the sofa. Looking around at the mess made me feel even worse.
I supposed the wrath of Mama was my own fault. I’d missed church and Sunday dinner twice in a row. But I’d been very busy wallowing.
Murderer.
I’d barricaded myself in the house and spent the week in my bathrobe, eating Spaghetti-Os out of a can, watching the Shopping Channel. I ordered the Super Elite Butt Cruncher exercise machine, a real bargain because it came with a set of complimentary leatherette swimwear. I finally got my insurance check to replace the broken furniture, and the Butt Cruncher would make a dandy coat rack, since I still had sense enough to know I’d never actually use the thing.
From my bunker of blankets on the sofa, I watched friends and family do slow drive-bys every few hours. My answering machine blinked mercilessly with unanswered calls. And I just couldn’t make myself care. Outside, hurricane season was in full swing. The sky was that weird color of yellow that meant a tornado or a hell of a summer storm. I was about to make a resolution to start drinking before ten when Marlowe sat up, ears pricked.
I wondered what his problem was, then I heard a knock at the door.
“Cauley?” Mia’s voice sounded like cheerful, tinkling bells on my front porch. I was not in the mood for cheerful tinkling.
“I know you’re in there. Brynn was watching the Shopping Channel and heard you order that stupid Butt Cruncher.”
Marlowe growled. I knew how he felt. “Go away.”
A rustling sound came from the magnolia tree that shades the porch, followed by a loud thump!
“Ow,” Mia swore, and I knew she was going for my hidden key. Within moments, Mia, Shiner and Brynn were barging through my front door like a pack of friendly bulldozers.
Marlowe bristled, and I reached down and stroked his head.
“Hey!” Mia said brightly. “You brought your dog inside?”
“He’s not my dog.”
“Oh,” Mia said, like I’d explained everything. “Where’s Muse?”
“She doesn’t like the dog,” I said, and Mia nodded.
“Maybe we should do proper introductions,” she said. “You know. Help them get to know each other.”
I groaned.
“Hey, sistah,” Shiner said and gave me the kind of bear hug that only Shiner can give. “How you doin’?”
Marlowe eyed him suspiciously.
Brynn handed me a big, beautifully wrapped box on her way to the kitchen.
“Y’all didn’t have to do that,” I said, opening the gift box. Two dozen blue Spanish glasses gleamed inside a cloud of tissue paper. “Oh,” I said on a breath, and I felt my heart warm. Great. I was going to burst into tears. Again.
“We needed something to drink out of,” Brynn said, brandishing a martini shaker. “And all your stuff is broken.”
I shook my head. “I appreciate it, but I don’t feel like…”
“Look,” Brynn said. “What that woman said at the funeral was awful, but you can’t spend the rest of your life holed up in this little house.”
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here,” I said. Just the next ten years.
Mia flicked opened her bag with a loud pop.
“Are those star charts?” I said. “I don’t want you doing my horoscope.” I wasn’t sure I could take any more gloom and doom.
“Oh, come on. You ask that stupid Eight Ball questions all the time.”
“I’ve had that Eight Ball since I was a kid,” I said defensively. I didn’t necessarily believe in any of that stuff, but I wasn’t sure enough to dis-believe it either.
“You know what your problem is, chica?” Your feng doesn’t shui.”
“Impossible,” I said. “A friend helped me move all the broken furniture out to the garage. There’s no feng left to shui.”
“A friend?” Brynn said.
“Oh, Cauley! You met somebody?” Mia perked up.
“Not really.” I sighed. “He’s an FBI agent. He’s just doing his job.”
Shiner gave me a look. “It’s not an FBI agent’s job to rearrange your furniture. It’s his job to rough people up and arrest ‘em.’
“Tom Logan does not rough people up,” I said. I dropped onto the sofa. “At least I don’t think he does.”
Mia nodded. “Probably only people who really need it.”
I rolled my eyes as Mia wedged an enormous compass out of her Feng Shui kit. I got out of her way as she took several readings.
“I knew it. This is all wrong.” Mia lit a match and set fire to a small bowl of dried twigs and flowers that smelled like feet.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to light potpourri,” I said, but Mia had moved on. A woman on a mission.
Brynn handed me a Mexican martini, shaking her head at Mia, who appeared to be upending my couch.
“What you need is a man who’s available,” Brynn said, extracting her iPhone from her purse.
“Look, I already have a man. Sort of.”
Everyone stopped where they were. “You have a man?” Brynn said.
They all stood, staring at me. I sighed.
“His name is John Fiennes and he’s a Customs Agent,” I said, and blushed at the collective whooping. “And no, there’s nothing going on.”
“Yet,” Mia corrected. “Just wait ‘til we get your feng shui-ed properly. You’ll have men dropping like flies. Shiner, will you give me a hand?’
While Shiner moved what was left of the furniture into what Mia thought
was a more peaceful flow, Brynn tugged the sleeve of my robe, pulling me into the bedroom.
“You are never going to get out of this funk if you don’t get dressed,” she said, and started tossing clothes out of my drawers. “And for God’s sake. Put on some makeup.”
Pulling open my lingerie drawer, she gasped and picked up a pair of my provisional, super-sized, days-of-the-week underwear. “Good Gawd, Cauley. No wonder you’re sulking. Come on. We’re going shopping.”
After spending what I thought was a disproportionate amount of my homeowner’s claim at Victoria’s Secret, I felt marginally better. I also splurged on a new Coach bag and a small throw rug to replace the one that used to be in front of the juke box, and on the way home, we stopped at Computer Re-Store, where Shiner helped me pick out a second-hand iBook laptop. The rest of the money I would give to Aunt Kat. Despite what she’d said, most of the stuff destroyed in the breakin was hers.
My friends finally left and I stripped, slipped back into my bathrobe and washed the department store makeover off my face.
Slouching into the living room, I grabbed the remote. Outside the wide living room window, storm clouds roiled on the horizon, and I still didn’t care. Marlowe and I sat on the rearranged sofa.
“Do you think our feng is shui-ing now?” I said. The dog didn’t answer. “Sometimes,” I told the dog, “it’s best to wallow alone.”
Muse sat, wide-eyed on top of the television. She hadn’t started anything with the dog since Logan had broken up their fight.
I popped Key Largo, the quintessential storm movie, into the player and resettled on the sofa, ready to get back to some serious wallowing when I heard Mia on the front porch.
“What now?” I said, swinging open the door to find Logan on the front step. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral, so I suppose I should have been surprised.
Logan shook his head. “Don’t you ever look to see who it is?”
“I thought you were somebody else,” I said, moving aside so he could come in. Marlowe danced around his legs sniffing all kinds of interesting places like he hadn’t seen Logan in a year, let alone two weeks.
“Tough luck, kid,” he said, and grinned as he took in my disheveled state. I wrapped the robe tighter around me.