by Karen Ranney
Instead of going back to bed, I headed downstairs to my office on the first floor. The lights in the rear of the house were on a motion detector system. If anything moved, it would illuminate the garden and probably spook the hell out of me.
I walked to the window, staring beyond the garden to Evelyn's house, now lit as if the annual King Lion District Tour were taking place.
Should I have done more? Been a better neighbor and friend? I barely knew Paul. Nor had I made an effort to know him. I hadn't been interested in anything beyond my own nose for a very long time now.
I closed the blinds and turned back to my desk.
Until the accident, I'd worked downtown at the General Services Administration. But sitting all day was difficult after my leg had been rebuilt using steel pins. I wasn't about to take disability. Nor was I going to become one of those "ladies who lunch", possible because of Tom's partnership at Cross, Latten, Baldric, and Roberts. Six months ago I'd negotiated a remote position. I was still evaluating contracts for the GSA, but I was doing my job from home.
Granted, analyzing contracts for the government doesn’t sound like the most romantic of jobs, but it was a perfect fit for me. My degree was in business with a concentration in accounting and I loved detail work. But the most important aspect of my work was I could forget myself in it. If I was comparing engineering specifications and cost benefit ratios, I didn't have time to remember Barbara or think about my life.
My office consisted of a desk, a credenza and my high back office chair. My framed diplomas and awards hung on the beige walls. On the credenza was my laptop from GSA, used for business only. On the corner of the desk was my personal desktop.
I was on Google and not even consciously thinking about it before I typed in Paul's name. Goody, over six million entries. I added “artist” to the search, but only came across a painter specializing in watercolors. “Stained glass” yielded about two hundred thousand results. I gamely plodded on until I made it to page twenty or so. There, in glorious color was a page devoted to Paul's stained glass designs.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and what I was beholding wasn't very pretty, at least to me. The first window, labeled Sunset, was a garish slash of orange and pink surrounded by dark blue. The second, Mood Swings, was black and gold with silvery disks placed randomly throughout it.
Tom thinks modern art is like a Rorschach test. There are no right or wrong opinions about it. I think a tree should look like a tree and a woman's face shouldn't be a cubist rendition.
Tom calls me artistically unsophisticated.
I call me a literalist.
Such an attitude bleeds over into other components of my personality. Tell me the truth. Don't lie to me. If you say you're going to be somewhere at ten, you'd better be there at ten or have called beforehand with a damn good excuse. If you say you'll do something, you'd better do it.
Being the mother of a drug addict had made me crazy.
I couldn't help but wonder what Tom would say to Paul's windows. Lately, our conversations had disintegrated into things we had to say, like: "I forgot to pick up the dry cleaning," or "We have to entertain the new ADA."
Such were the comments from two people who'd once adored each other.
Could love die?
I'd asked Evelyn that, once.
"Why not?" she said. "You can kill a plant. Can't you kill love? Who says that once you love someone, you'll always love someone? There was a time before you loved him. There's a time afterward."
"What about a child?"
She studied her margarita instead of looking at me.
"I think children can hurt you enough, Jenn, that you grow scar tissue over your heart. Maybe that's the same thing."
We talked about everything. Alopecia, and the daily annoyance it was for her, money, investments, neighbors, and sex. A lot of talk about sex. But in all the years I'd known Evelyn, we never talked about either of us dying.
I began to research heart disease, unsurprised at the degree of my anger. I'd been angry a lot over the last two years. Now, however, I had a target, something I could point to and hate: a disease, a killer.
I hated that she was dead. There should have been some warning, some signal, some sign. I hated that lights were blazing at her house and she wasn't there. I hated that she was the most alive person I knew and now she was dead.
But what I hated most was this niggling feeling, this sensation like a note just a little off key. Something was wrong and I didn't know what it was.
4
Evelyn Addison’s funeral was held on Friday, on a day mocking death. The sky was blue. Birds chirped raucously, a breeze blew sweetly, hinting at spring and carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and roses.
I sat in the front pew of the church beside Paul at his request, wearing my Chanel comfort suit, the black crepe with the gold braid that was a hundred years old but still looked good. The skirt was long enough to hide the worst of the scars on my leg. Black stockings did the rest. In deference to the occasion, as well as the fact I might be standing longer than was comfortable, I'd brought my gold topped cane.
Tom sat beside me in his new black suit looking presidential. I hadn't asked Tom how he felt about attending today, funerals being one of the subjects carefully avoided between us.
I don't remember Evelyn ever having a church affiliation. In fact, she'd studiously avoided the subject of religion. The Methodist minister seemed to know her, however, or else he'd been carefully coached by Paul.
“What will I do without her?” Paul asked, glancing at me. His eyes were red rimmed and a solitary tear wet his face.
What will I do without her? It was a question I was asking myself.
All I could do was pat him on the shoulder in a reassuring gesture, hoping it would mask the fact I had nothing to say. Funerals should be held in complete silence, I think, since there is little comfort to be found in words.
Evelyn had no relatives, being an only child. If Paul had any family they weren’t present at the funeral. I wished, almost desperately, that he had a close friend who could take my place, but he never mentioned anyone.
The organist played Amazing Grace, but then every organist everywhere played Amazing Grace at every funeral, it seemed. Either that or Largo. Maybe there was a master book somewhere, filled with a list of recommended songs and phrases funeral directors used. The times may change, the faces different, but the music never varied.
The service was very well attended, standing room only. I wondered if most of the people attired in black business suits came from Evelyn's bank. Occasionally, I heard the muffled sound of a cell phone ringing. What call couldn't wait until after a funeral?
The minister spoke of life and death and made some pithy remarks about the continuation of one into the other. I wasn’t paying much attention. Instead, I was concentrating on the flowers, wondering at some of the arrangements, anything but think about the last time I’d sat in the family pew of a church.
I’d been brought from the hospital, only three days after surgery to save my leg. I’d been accompanied by a private nurse, strict orders from my orthopedist, and enough opiates to fell an elephant.
Not enough drugs, however, to be able to numb myself through the ceremony. I felt every minute of it.
This funeral blessedly over, we stood and made our way to the front of the chapel and our cars. Tom and I followed the hearse to the cemetery in complete and awkward silence.
Now would have been a good time to reach over and pat his arm, in wordless understanding that this funeral was as difficult for him as it was for me. I kept my hands to myself.
Fifteen minutes later, we stood beside an open pit in the earth obeying another custom, that of placing our deceased in the soil. It hadn’t made sense to me in a visceral way eight months earlier. It wasn't any more understandable now.
The interment finished, we adjourned for yet another ritual. A funereal supper held at the deceased's home. The obverse of a
wedding. Instead of laughter, dancing, and joy, there would be black crepe, somber talk, and meat and cheeses. No beautiful centerpieces, bands, speeches, and doves.
If doves were the birds of weddings, what were the birds of funerals. Bats? Crows?
“I don't want to go back to Evelyn's house,” I told Tom once we were back in our car.
He glanced over at me. “Paul's expecting you.”
I wanted to ask why I was suddenly Paul’s new best friend, but I didn't.
Tom hadn't started the car yet. He sat with both hands clenched on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.
“Just tell me where you want me to go, Jennifer.”
“I suppose we need to make an appearance,” I said, reluctance coating every word.
Tom didn't respond, only started the car, and drove us home. Instead of parking in our garage, however, he dropped me off in front of Evelyn's house so I didn't have far to walk.
“No fair not showing up,” I teased as I got out of the car. Again, no response.
Today I was too cowardly to ask him what was wrong. I didn't want what was behind his floodgates to come spilling out all over me. So I only smiled and made my way to the front of the house.
Mr. Fehr and his friend, Frank, were there. In appearance, they were almost identical, elderly men who'd each seen his share of physical ailments in the past year. Frank's hair was just as thin but a rich brown instead of white like Mr. Fehr’s. I suspected he dyed it but only because I had enough Nice N Easy hiding beneath my sink that I was knowledgeable about the subject.
If I was going to get older I would do it kicking and screaming.
The younger Maldonados were present without their matriarch. He was a jovial young man with a perpetual smile, while she was more serious. They were both doctors which might have been handy in our aging neighborhood except that they were rarely home.
One of our other neighbors, Linda Hopkins, wasn’t here, since she rarely left the house. Christmas services and Easter observances were the only exceptions. Hedging her bets, she called it.
She'd been elderly when Tom and I moved into the King Lion District, but of the two of us, I was the only one who seemed to age. Like Evelyn she was a friend.
I looked around for her daughter, knowing Dorothy would be here to represent her mother. She came forward slowly, as if leaving the comfort of the shadows reluctantly. Dorothy was my age or a year or two younger. Her hair was black and straight, cut in a bowl shape. As usual, she was dressed in black from chin to ankle.
I'm not often given to flights of fancy, being rooted in pragmatism as I am. But, as God was my witness, every time I saw Dorothy Hopkins, I thought of the Undead. Perhaps it was the crimson lipstick she favored and the kohl around her blue eyes. Or the whiteness of her complexion. Today the impression was deepened by her choice of jewelry, a pendant with a perfect red stone in the shape of a tear, or a drop of blood.
For Linda’s sake, I tried to warm up to Dorothy. Because of her, I now smiled and nodded like some sort of pre-menopausal mannequin with a spring neck.
I haven’t the slightest idea what Dorothy did for a living. I know she moved in with Linda a few months ago, but other than that, I was ignorant.
Mr. Fehr would know.
“How is Linda?” I asked her.
She smiled thinly. No fangs.
“She's fine, thank you.”
“I really need to stop in and visit her.”
Her smile stretched but didn’t warm.
“I’ll make a point of it.”
When had I become so stiff? I reached out and touched Dorothy's arm, a gesture I wouldn't have made ordinarily, but I was determined to be warm and friendly.
“It’s so nice seeing you again,” I said, and smiled brightly. There, a little toothy cordiality.
Dorothy pulled away, not fooled even a little. She moved past me, glancing back as if I’d grown two heads.
Mr. Fehr sidled up as I continued to smile with great determination.
“You should try the crab puffs,” he said.
I noticed his pocket was bulging and the corner of a linen napkin peeked over the top. Since he was a retired dentist and lived in the largest house on our block, I doubted penury was his excuse. He probably just liked crab puffs.
“I can't,” I said. “I break out.”
In fact, I was allergic to most of what swam in the sea, which was fine with me. If it had tentacles, flippers, and bug eyes, I wasn't desperate to eat it.
“Pity,” he replied, his mouth half full. “The caterer is quite good.”
“Evelyn would be happy,” I said, looking around. The house was filled with people, all of them with full plates. Evelyn loved to entertain, and her parties were highlights of the holiday season.
I noticed Tom slipping in from the kitchen. He nodded at me and headed straight for the bar.
“She died of a heart attack,” Mr. Fehr said, wiping his mouth with another napkin. “That's what the coroner said.”
“How on earth did you find that out?” I asked, surprised.
“I have ways,” he said.
Several people in our vicinity were craning their necks to hear him and Mr. Fehr wasn't making it difficult. I walked into the hall and gestured with a wiggle of my fingers for him to follow me.
Once there, I bent my head closer to his. “How do you know that?” I whispered.
“I know someone at the coroner’s office,” he admitted.
I pulled back and looked at Mr. Fehr in surprise. “You’re enjoying this,” I said.
“I have a fascination with murder," he said, "and this is murder, pure and simple. I don’t know how yet, but he killed her.”
I stared at him. “But you just said Evelyn died of a heart attack.”
"There are ways of killing people that look like a heart attack but aren't.” He took another bite of crab puff. “We’ll just have to find out how he did it. We never give up.”
“We?” I was beginning to feel a little like the time I walked into Barbara's room and immediately got dizzy. The Pine Sol hadn’t been enough to cut the smell of marijuana, but the combination had been memorable.
“The King Lion Murder Club.”
I blinked several times before I spoke. “The Murder Club?”
“You’re welcome to attend. We meet at my house Thursdays at seven. We study local murders and cold cases. But we’ve never had one where I knew the victim.” He squinted toward the living room. “He thinks he’s gotten away with it, you know. But we’ll discover how he did it. What I can’t figure out is why. There’s no money.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Did you read the will?”
He nodded. "Wills are public knowledge and he filed for probate right away. She only had a life insurance policy of $10,000 from work. Probably didn't expect to die." He rubbed his chest with two fingers. "No one does."
“And Paul was her beneficiary.”
He nodded. “For the life insurance.”
“And the house?” I asked.
Mr. Fehr popped another crab puff into his mouth.
“He got the house but it doesn’t matter,” he said around the flaky pastry. “There’s a cash out re-fi on the property."
At my look, he expounded. “A home equity loan. What some people call a second mortgage, except it was considered a first because the house was paid off."
“Another friend at the courthouse?”
He wiggled his nose, rabbit-like.
Frank joined us and the two men began to wax eloquent about crab puffs. Just like that, he morphed back into being the Mr. Fehr I'd always known, with no talk of murder.
I found myself wondering if I’d imagined the whole conversation. When I glanced back at him, he winked, an oddly elfin gesture. I wandered off and made the circuit, speaking with those people I knew and nodding with a smile to others I didn't. It seemed as though my initial estimation had been correct. A great many people were from Evelyn's bank.
I found it sad t
hat everyone spoke of Evelyn in business terms. She was a good worker, a faithful employee, a dedicated vice-president. Her retention rate was phenomenal. Her division had the highest associate satisfaction stats in the region.
But what made her laugh? Did she like puppies or kittens? Were sunsets her favorite time of day or was it noon when the sun glared white? What was it about her that made her different from anyone else on earth? Today, of all days, people should be discussing those things. Not whether her subordinates were happy.
I knew the answers to those questions, and shared what I could. Evelyn had a dry sense of humor, and an amazing knack for saying just the right thing at the right time. She saw the world in a blunt, no-nonsense way that was refreshingly honest. She made the best margaritas in the world; she loved Sally, and she regretted not having children. She cried with me more than once, and those shared tears had linked us as nothing else could.
She was my best friend.
An hour into the reception, my face was stiff with the effort of smiling and being pleasant when what I really wanted to do was go home and cry. I wanted to get out of my clothes, take a pain pill, and pretend this day hadn't happened. Better yet, mark it off my calendar and be grateful I didn't have to live it again.
Tom and I glanced at each other across the room, signaling each other with barely perceptible nods. I went in search of Paul to say goodbye, while Tom circled the room making one last appearance.
Paul wasn't in the house, but someone said he'd gone to his studio. I headed in that direction.
The King Lion District now sees every building within its environs as priceless and irreplaceable, even if it's a shack. Consequently, getting permission to build anything – even in your own back yard – was a long, drawn out process. Instead of petitioning the city council for permission, Evelyn had converted the guest house, built at the same time as her home, into a place Paul could use as his studio.
A place where his muse was strongest. Evelyn's words, not mine.