by Ann Charles
She rushed up to me, yanked the frame from my hands. “Sit down!”
I stood rooted, shocked immobile by her sudden ferocity.
She hugged the frame against her chest, and then stepped back, her face visibly softening behind the thick circles of glass. Her hand trembled when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, I ... please, would you sit?”
“Sure.” Feeling a bit wobbly myself, I followed her back toward the chair and obeyed. She handed me a glass of warm water and joined Wanda, who had sneaked in during Millie’s schizophrenic episode and planted herself on the sofa.
I gave Wanda a mega-watt smile, wanting to connect, to offer her some friendly compassion after the horrific distress she’d undoubtedly experienced during the last year. The corners of her lips creased, barely. She held eye contact for all of half a heartbeat. Then her gaze darted about, not remaining on anything for any length of time, and certainly not on me.
The chair I sat in didn’t feel so comfy anymore.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you for the drink.” I sipped the warm water and winced inwardly at the acrid taste of it. Setting my glass on the side table next to me, I addressed both of my hostesses. “I’d also like to thank you for opening your home to me and offering the first opportunity at selling it for you. However, I can’t—”
“You’re not the first,” Millie interrupted me.
“I’m not?”
Wanda shook her head.
“We tried four other realty offices.” Millie fiddled with a loose piece of yarn unraveling from her sweater. “None of them would even drive by, let alone come take a look inside. It’s because of what happened, I just know it.”
“Well...” She was undoubtedly right. Ray and Mona weren’t the only ones in the area concerned about a reputation.
It was my turn to fiddle. Discussing the brutal murder and violent suicide of Millie’s father and brother was a bit of a delicate, complicated matter.
“The last real estate agent mentioned your name,” Millie said. “After we heard about you, we knew you were the one for us.”
Alarms whooped in my head. “What did you hear?”
“That you dealt with ...” Millie’s eyes darted to her mother, a worried look on her face. “With houses that were rumored to have ghosts.”
“An agent told you that?” It was this kind of comment being tossed around town that was causing all of the stares and whispers ... and my heartburn.
Millie nodded. “So, do you think you could sell Mother’s house?”
Maybe to an out-of-towner, and only because I’d want to stick the sale up the other agent’s nose. Well, and I needed the money—bad. “Possibly.”
“How long do you think it would take?”
“If the rest of the house has been taken care of as well as this room, maybe a month. Two at the most.” Optimism was one of my strengths, along with following through on retribution. I’d bet my mother’s fine China it was Ray who’d told them the rumor about me.
“Really?” Millie leaned forward, her hands no longer fidgeting, but rather clutched so tight her knuckles were turning white. “That soon?”
“Most likely, yes.” I glanced at Wanda, who was frowning at something over by the stairwell. I looked to see what had her attention. The large Corn Plant? The brass umbrella holder? What?
Millie stood. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
“Yes.” Curiosity had me hooked. I rose, still a bit distracted by Wanda’s odd behavior. “Will your mother be joining us?” If not, I planned to ask about the state of her mental well-being. Wanda needed to be coherent enough to claim ownership, or Millie was going to need a power of attorney before we could put the house on the market.
I meant, IF I were even going to consider taking the listing. Which I wasn’t.
“Yes, of course. Mother, come on.”
Wanda smiled shyly again at me and followed us up the carpet-lined stair steps.
Fifteen minutes later, we stood in the kitchen, which oozed old-style charm with an apple theme and was trimmed with white modern appliances, and a shiny green porcelain sink. I didn’t see a single drop of blood or any other evidence of the gruesome events that might have taken place within these walls.
I was in love. And I knew in my heart that while none of the locals wanted anything to do with this gem, some out-of-towners, like the hundreds of thousands passing through over the next couple of weeks, would jump at the chance to call it their own. Especially if it was priced low enough.
“So, Miss Parker,” Millie was back to fidgeting with that same thread. “Will you help us sell it?”
“Well...” There was that sticky bit about me telling Doc I probably wouldn’t list their house—not to mention Ray’s bellows, Mona’s reprimands, and Harvey’s snorts of disgust. I hadn’t even mentioned anything about it to my boss, Jane, yet.
“We’d be willing to give you three percent more than your normal rate.”
On the other hand, Layne’s feet were growing faster than I could keep them contained in expensive canvas, and Addy needed to be able to read the board in school without squinting all day.
“You’d need to have someone paint the outside this weekend,” I told them both, making sure Wanda was focusing on me, not something behind me. She’d been touch-and-go upstairs, skittish almost, jumping when one of the curtains swayed in a breeze.
Wanda’s nod of acceptance was slight, but her gaze stayed on my chin. Progress.
“The paint is in the garage,” Millie said. “It just needs to be stirred.”
Millie gave new meaning to “motivated seller.”
“What color?” I wasn’t going to get burned at the last minute with purple and pink Barbie townhouse colors.
“Butter cream. Chocolate brown for the trim.”
“Wonderful.”
“Does that mean you’ll help us, Miss Parker?” Millie asked.
I hesitated, considering telling Millie I’d think about it and get back to her. The Carhart ladies’ well-being wasn’t my responsibility. I had enough trouble already just caring for the two little people under Aunt Zoe’s roof.
Wanda lifted her milky gaze to mine. Tears rimmed her lower eyelids. “Please, help us,” she whispered.
Oh, hell. Not tears. Anything but tears.
Sighing, I held out my hand. “I’ll bring the necessary paperwork by tomorrow.”
Millie’s handshake felt like squeezing a damp Kleenex.
I turned to Wanda, my smile softening, my hand extended. “I look forward to doing business with you, Mrs. Carhart.”
Wanda’s focus shot upward, above my head, her watery eyes wide, round, and bulging. She opened her mouth and made a jarring screech. Then she keeled over backward onto the wood floor.
Chapter Four
Hours later, long after Wanda Carhart awoke and made a quiet recovery from her temporary bout of insanity, I stood in front of Mudder Brothers Funeral Parlor.
Why was it that in nine out of ten small towns in America, funeral homes were the most posh buildings? So much finery and fancy dress on the outside, all for guests of honor on the inside who would never be able to appreciate the big event.
Mudder Brothers, a century-old two-story house decked out in white paint, was one of the nine. The warm early evening sunlight spotlighted its impressive architecture: four neoclassical columns decorated the front porch, a massive front gable bracketed a fanlight, and black shutters framed the windows.
The place reminded me of a stately old gent clad in a white tuxedo with black lapels and a bowtie; the flower-filled window boxes his pink carnation.
“All right, Vi,” said Natalie, my best friend since Barbie-doll-hood, as she crutched across the parking lot toward me, her lower right leg cast almost hidden by her swishy long black skirt. “Explain to me why I’m meeting you at Mudder Brothers this evening when you didn’t even know the late, great Mr. Haskell.”
I tugged at the collar of
my dark blue silk shirt, trying to get more air. The heat rolling off the parking lot combined with my jitters and produced a sheen of sweat all over my skin. I waited for Natalie to reach my side before whispering, “I was hoping you could get me in.”
“Get you in?” Her loud laugh snared the attention of two pale-faced, lanky white-haired men standing near the far left column. Their cigarette smoke swirled around them in a slow vortex. With their bulbous eyes and puffing lips, they were grizzled versions of Donald Duck’s nephews, Huey and Dewey. Where was Louie?
“It’s not the Rainbow Room, girlfriend,” Natalie said.
“Shhh.” I kept my voice low. “You know I’m still a stranger around here.” One with a tarnished reputation, besides. “You were born and raised in this town. Nobody will look twice if you walk into the room.”
“You mean hobble.”
A few weeks ago, Natalie had tried walking across a wet tin roof in a pair of cowboy boots. A clever Puss in Boots she was not. The fractured fibula barely slowed her down.
I led the way up a short ramp onto the wide porch and held open one of the two double doors for her. Huey and Dewey eyeballed us from their leaning posts ... well, mainly they eyeballed Natalie. With a siren’s lips, striking cheekbones, and a body that inspired lovesick poetry, Natalie transformed men into Pepé Le Pew clones. Unfortunately, many of them changed back into assholes and cheaters when the instant lust wore off.
“So,” Natalie paused just inside the door, “is there a reason for dragging me to this particular funeral, or did you just circle the first one on the obituary page that sounded fun?”
I closed the door. Soft murmurs of grief flowed around us. “I’m not here for the funeral.”
Natalie grinned. “Please tell me you’re not here to pick up men.”
I scoffed and grabbed one of the programs from the sign-in podium. “I don’t need a man.” But that didn’t keep me from wanting one in particular. Unfortunately, Doc was the exact same man Natalie wanted ... as in, waiting for her with a wedding band at the preacher end of an aisle. “Neither do you.”
“Au contraire, my dear. And I’m determined to get him.” She nudged her head toward an open set of French doors on our left and angled her crutches in that direction. “Doc is the one, you know.”
“Yeah.” Guilt made me sweat more. I fanned myself with Mr. Haskell’s program. “I remember.” I also remembered that a couple of weeks ago she’d staked a claim on Doc, which was supposed to mean that he was off limits to me—something I kept forgetting every time he was near. If Natalie found out I’d had sex with Doc, she’d probably dye all my lingerie puke green and cut my hair with dull pruning shears. If she knew I wanted to do it again and again and again, she’d stop talking to me. Forever. After two-plus-decades of friendship, I didn’t want to live my life without her in it.
We rounded the open French doors and slid into an empty row of chairs in the back of an expansive parlor half-full of mourners, who were taking turns parading past the open casket at the front. Intermittent sniffles blended with the murmurs. The length of the left wall was covered with paintings of clouds, sunsets, and sunrises; the right wall was lined with mirrored windows that ended at a closed door in the front corner. Up by the casket, wreaths and sprays of white lilies, yellow gladiolas, purple mums, and red carnations added bright color to an otherwise neutral décor. Their subtle fragrance filled the room, blanketing death with sweet freshness.
“So,” Natalie whispered in my ear. “Why are we here?”
“I want a closer look at George Mudder.”
“No, you don’t. He looks much better from a distance.”
That made me smile—which I hid behind my hand. Smiles at a funeral would draw attention, and my goal was to blend in with the wallpaper.
“Why do you want to see George?” Natalie asked.
“Ray and he are up to something.”
A few weeks ago, I’d seen Ray and George hauling a huge crate out of the back of the funeral parlor and loading it into Ray’s SUV. There were no markings on the crate, at least none visible from across the big parking lot between Calamity Jane Realty and Mudder Brothers. Whatever was in the crate had made the springs on Ray’s SUV bounce under its weight.
Later, when I poked Ray about what he and George were up to, he’d nearly bitten off my finger. It didn’t take me long to conclude that these two boys had their dirty hands in the cookie jar. Tonight, I hoped to catch a glimpse of what they were up to.
Natalie scooted closer, her cast bumping my foot. “If it involves Ray, it can’t be good. You better be careful. Word on the street is his bite is actually worse than his bark. ”
“He does tend to foam at the mouth a lot.” And I had the teeth marks on my butt to prove her warning was on the mark.
Natalie nudged me with her cast. “Are you really going to sell the Carhart place?”
I nodded. I had called Natalie as I was backing out of the Carharts’ drive earlier to tell her this new secret of mine and ask her to meet me at Mudder Brothers tonight.
Natalie waved discreetly at a middle-aged woman passing by on her way out the French doors as she leaned closer and whispered, “That’s pretty ballsy with you still being new on the job. You have heard about that house, right?”
“Yes, but I need the money. My kids need stuff,” I whispered back.
“We all need stuff. Is it worth risking your career? I have money you can borrow.”
“I don’t want your damned money.” At the hurt look she shot me, I added, “I mean that in the nicest way possible, of course.” I’d leaned on Natalie too often over the past few years. This time, I wanted to stand on my own.
“Fine,” she grinned. “It’s your funeral.”
I chuckled at her double entendre. Natalie was the sister I wished my sister had grown up to be—rather than a two-bit whore who liked to sleep with my boyfriends when I wasn’t watching. I lingered on that thought for a few seconds, my smile sliding south as I absorbed the irony that now Natalie did want to sleep with my sort-of boyfriend. Unlike my sister, Natalie wouldn’t do it just to lash out at me. At least I hoped not. Then again, I was now the evil “sister” who’d had sex with the man Natalie wanted. Criminy! My life was morphing into a daytime soap opera. If I played my cards right, I just might win an Emmy.
The front-corner door opened, and the short beefy guy with a white buzz cut I had seen helping Ray load the crate into the SUV entered the room.
“There’s George,” Natalie confirmed.
Dapper in a charcoal gray suit with a pale pink tie, George rubbed the arm of an older woman who hunched over the casket, as if to comfort her. Then he moved a tripod holding a wreath of white gerbera daisies and red roses a couple of feet to the right and went back through the doorway. He returned carrying another basket bursting with blue delphiniums and lavender asters.
“Come on,” Natalie pushed to her feet, grabbing her crutches. “Let’s go pay our respects.”
“What? Wait!” I scrambled after her. When I caught up, I whispered in her ear, “I don’t want anyone to see me.”
“Violet.” Her crutches creaked as we approached the casket. “With your hair loose, you’re not exactly a wallflower.”
I tried to squish down my curls. “My clip broke.”
“Next time bring a black veil.”
George Mudder stood to the right as Natalie and I viewed Mr. Haskell, who looked pretty good for a dead man. I wondered if George did the makeup, or if he hired someone else to spruce up the corpse.
“By the way,” Natalie said as she picked lint off the main attraction’s suit jacket, “you have a date Saturday night.”
I yanked Natalie’s hand out of the casket. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You owe me, remember?”
Crap. She meant the blind date with some comic-book geek I’d agreed to go on in exchange for her help on the Hessler Haunt weeks ago. I’d hoped she’d forgotten about that when the house burned do
wn. I’d certainly tried to forget.
“Fine. When and where?”
“Seven o’clock at The Buffalo Corral.”
The Buffalo Corral meant jeans, boots, old-time twangy music, and lots of red meat. My kind of place. I could suffer through a couple of hours of blind-date hell with a big old T-bone to keep me company.
“Natalie,” George Mudder had crept up when I wasn’t watching. “I haven’t seen you since Mrs. Winkle’s wake.”
Natalie didn’t miss a beat, her smile all warm and chummy. “George, you’ve done a lovely job today.”
“Thanks.” He ushered us toward the foot of the casket, near the open door he’d entered moments before. When we’d joined him, he asked, “How’s your Aunt Beatrix? As charming as ever?”
Something in George’s tone made me think this was more than just pleasantries. Natalie mirrored many of her Aunt Beatrix’s striking features; unfortunately, they also shared bad luck when it came to philandering bedfellows. Was George part of Beatrix’s past or just a wannabe?
I glanced behind him through the open doorway and nearly fell over, not hearing Natalie’s answer. In the semi-shadows, not just one but two big crates exactly like the one I’d watched George and Ray load were stacked against the far wall. I leaned toward the doorway. What else was stored in that room?
“Right, Violet?” Natalie’s voice snapped me back.
“Uhhhh,” I stammered, looking to her for help.
Natalie’s brow wrinkled for just a second. Then she said, “I’m sorry, George. How rude of me. You probably haven’t met my friend Violet. She’s new to town. She’s a Realtor over at Calamity Jane’s.”
“My pleasure,” George said, his pale blue eyes kind, his palm silky soft and warm. I squirmed when I clasped it.
I pulled my hand free as fast as I politely could. “Thanks for having me.” What a stupid thing to say to the owner of a funeral parlor. I added, “Your gable is impressive.” Which landed me on a corner stool with a dunce cap.
Natalie coughed on her laugh.
“Nobody has ever complimented me on my gable before.” George grinned at me, his tiny yellow teeth almost swallowed by his oversized gums.