Undertaking Irene

by Pamela Burford

  “The guy looked me straight in the eye, Jonah. The fake priest. It’s as if he wanted me to remember his face.” I shivered.

  “Now, does that make sense if he’d just murdered Irene? Knowing that anyone in your position would draw a connection between her death and the brooch?” After a moment he asked, “Could he have disguised himself?”

  “Aside from the priest getup, you mean?” Reluctantly I shook my head. Between the dearth of facial or even head hair and the close fit of his clothes, I could state with near certainty that the padre had made no effort to fudge his appearance.

  His raised eyebrows drove home the point. Yet one more strike against my murder-and-mayhem version of events.

  The doorbell rang and I jumped.

  “That’s Ahearn’s.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Go home, Jane. I’ll take care of this. Do you want some Xanax?” He indicated his black doctor’s bag sitting on the table.

  I shook my head. My eyes stung. “I—I should be with her when they—”

  “No. You shouldn’t.” He steered me out of the kitchen toward the front of the house.

  In the foyer, he handed my shoulder bag to me and reached for the doorknob. I stopped him.

  “Jonah, do me a favor,” I said. “Irene… well, you know she had her pride. Appearances meant a lot to her. I don’t think she’d want everyone knowing the details—you know, that she was watching a movie when she died, and especially which movie. I think she’d consider it undignified.” It would be morbid grist for the Crystal Harbor rumor mill: Did the scary movie kill her? Which scene? Did she choke on a piece of popcorn?

  “I understand,” he said. “And you’re right. The world isn’t entitled to all the details.”

  “And as for what I was doing at Ahearn’s tonight…” I let my pleading expression say the rest.

  He gave a mock-baffled look. “You were at Ahearn’s tonight?”

  I gave him a relieved smile. “Thanks.”

  He opened the door to two young men in dark suits who nodded and politely identified themselves. I recognized one of them from my earlier visit to Ahearn’s. Behind them I spied a black hearse parked in the circular courtyard behind my Civic and Jonah’s Audi. It had stopped raining.

  Jonah took them aside and quietly began to fill them in on the who, what, when, and where. I heard the words “death certificate.” I heard one of the young men suggest that the lady relocate to a distant part of the house while they worked. At first, crazily, I thought the lady he was referring to was Irene. Jonah assured them I was on my way out.

  I felt ridiculously grateful for his take-charge attitude. The truth was, I didn’t want to see Irene again the way she was, didn’t want to see these polite young men wrap her in a sheet and remove her from her home like a worn-out sofa.

  I felt little paws on my legs and heard a familiar whining. I looked down to see Sexy Beast trying to climb me.

  “Oh! The dog,” I said. “What am I thinking? I can’t leave him here.” I scooped him up and nuzzled his raggedy head. SB licked my cheek. My eyes filled. Through an effort of will I managed not to break down right then and there. “Mommy’s gone,” I whispered, “but you have me. I’ll take good care of you.”

  “You’re taking him home?” Jonah asked, as the men from Ahearn’s returned to the hearse for whatever equipment they’d need.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without blubbering. Irene had no doubt made arrangements in her will for some friend or relative to take Sexy Beast. I tried not to think about how it was going to feel handing him over.

  “It’s just as well,” he said. “I don’t think he and Daisy would get along.” Daisy, the Diamonds’ Great Dane, could snack on SB and have room left over for a Labradoodle. He placed a warm palm on my backeHHHplaced a warm hand on . “Go home, Jane. Get some rest.”

  “Okay, I’m going. I just need to get some things for SB.”

  I stepped aside as the men brought in a wheeled cot with a fitted cloth cover. The cover was dark green with Leonard T. Ahearn and Sons Funeral Home stitched in white on one end. While Jonah led them to the basement, I returned to the kitchen and placed a bag of kibble and some mini cans of gourmet wet dog food into SB’s bucket-shaped bed. I tossed in his harness and leash. He warehoused his favorite fuzzy toys in the bed, so that was covered.

  I opened the fridge and retrieved his Vienna sausages, then peered inside for more of his favorite snacks. I reached into the back for a block of cheddar—SB loved cheese—and accidentally knocked over a half-filled, pint-size takeout cup that bore the apple green logo of Janey’s Place, Dom’s health-food chain. The lid popped off, spilling a creamy, pale orange concoction on the glass shelf. I cursed and poured the remaining smoothie down the drain, then tossed the cup in the under-sink garbage. I opened the other side of the cabinet and shoved aside scouring powder and wasp spray to get to the glass cleaner.

  “Just what I need right now,” I muttered, as low voices drifted up through the open door to the basement. Despite everything, a smile tugged at my mouth. Irene’s idea of health food was an extra olive in her martini because you should never drink on an empty stomach. Dom was forever trying to convert her. No doubt he’d brought her this smoothie when he was here for the last poker game. That was Thursday, six days ago, which meant this drink was well on its way to becoming a science experiment. I was surprised Maria hadn’t jettisoned it already.

  I grabbed paper towels and started wiping the refrigerator shelf and the items that had been in the path of the orange flood: a bowl of leftover crab dip, a bottle of vermouth-marinated “drunken” martini olives, and a slice of frosted layer cake in a plastic clamshell. All the essential food groups, present and accounted for.

  I asked myself what the heck I was doing. Irene was gone. The fridge and its contents would be cleaned out soon enough. There was no need for me to do this now in the state I was in. I abandoned the task.

  SB was in a sniffing frenzy, standing between my legs and cataloging the contents of the fridge with his turbo-powered schnoz. I finally managed to push him away and grab the block of cheddar.

  My gaze landed on Irene’s favorite cozy cardigan, draped on the back of a chair. It was a practical wool garment, light blue, an unfashionable thing she’d never have worn out of the house. I recalled her wearing it as she sat in the living room cuddling Sexy Beast and his predecessors. She’d had this thing a long time. I lifted it from the chairback and brought it to my nose, inhaled the faint scent of Chanel No. 5. I knew SB would be able to detect not only the familiar perfume but the comforting smell of his “mommy” as well. I tossed it into the dog bed.

  From the basement came the sound of something being wheeled toward the stairs, then the clank of metal on metal. I pictured the nice young men collapsing the legs of the transport cot to carry it and its burden up the stairs. The urge to flee overwhelmed me. I knew the sight of Irene’s dead stare would haunt me for a good long while. I had no desire to add another unwelcome mental image to the mix.

  “Come on, Sexy Beast, let’s go home.” I hefted the loaded dog bed and hightailed it to my car.

  4

  Over My Dead Body

  I KNOW YOU’LL be stunned to learn I didn’t get much sleep that night. I dozed fitfully, occasionally snapping awake with the realization of what had happened, my mind whirling. Sexy Beast slept better than I did, curled up next to me in bed.

  At one point around three a.m. my eyes flew open as I realized I hadn’t called Maria, Irene’s housekeeper. She’d be at the house at nine. Maybe it was better that I hadn’t called her. Breaking the news by phone might be easier on me, but Maria had been with Irene for twenty-eight years. She deserved to be told in person.

  Which is why I dragged my exhausted butt back to Irene’s house at a quarter to nine the next morning, hoping to get there before Maria. As I entered the house, the lemony scent of furniture polish told me she’d arrived early. If I’d driven around to the parking area near the garage instead o
f leaving my car in front of the house, I’d have seen her blue Forester.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and automatically reached down to stroke SB, reclining in a straw bucket tote hanging from my shoulder. I’d arranged Irene’s sweater in the bottom of the tote, which was essentially a stiff basket with shoulder straps, and he seemed content to get a free ride in his mommy-smelling nest.

  This was not going to be easy. Maria Echevarría had been a nineteen-year-old bride when Irene had hired her as a full-time housekeeper. She’d managed to raise three children to adulthood while working for Irene nine to five, five days a week, rarely taking a sick day.

  I found her in the kitchen chopping cilantro on a cutting board. The herb’s pungent aroma filled the room. She’d set out avocados, limes, a white onion, and a tomato. The dishwasher was humming. She appeared mildly surprised to see me. “Are you limping?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I fell and banged my knee.” It was stiff this morning, but I’d popped a couple of Advil and changed the dressing. I’d live.

  “Mrs. M isn’t up yet,” she said. “I’m making guacamole for tonight’s Poker Posse. The mayor loves my guacamole.” Her gaze lit on SB’s head and paws perched on the edge of my tote. Her eyes widened. “I thought the dog was upstairs.”

  “Maria, I have something to tell you.” My pulse banged so loudly in my ears I could barely hear my own voice. “Sit down.” I pulled out a breakfast-room chair.

  She stood her ground, her eyes wide and fixed on me, the kitchen knife still in her hand. “What is it?”

  “It’s Mrs. McAuliffe.” Giddily I asked myself where that “Mrs. McAuliffe” had come from. In all the years I’d known Maria, I’d always referred to her employer as Irene, even as she’d always called her Mrs. M. “She… I came here last night to… well, anyway, I was here last night and I… There’s no easy way to say this.”

  Slowly Maria set the knife on the cutting board. “She’s dead.”

  I gave a little nod. “I’m sorry, Maria. I know what a shock this must be.”

  She said nothing for a few moments. I watched conflicting emotions chase one another across her plain face. At least that’s how it seemed to my sleep-deprived brain, which detected something more complex than simple grief behind her dry eyes.

  I can’t say what response I’d expected to see. Maria had never been what you’d call the warm and fuzzy type, but she was dependable, trustworthy, and took initiative in maintaining the big house and seeing to her employer’s needs. For Irene’s part, she’d paid her housekeeper a more-than-decent salary with benefits, topped off with a generous Christmas bonus.

  But I’d been around those two enough to see what few casual visitors picked up on: Irene’s dismissive and condescending treatment of Maria, her lady-of-the-manor routine meant to keep her longtime housekeeper in her place. I’d been embarrassed by Irene’s attitude and wondered where a poor girl from Brooklyn had learned to put on those kinds of airs. Her beloved movies probably.

  Finally Maria said, “What was it? Her heart?”

  I nodded again. “That’s what Dr. Diamond says. He came over and, you know, pronounced her.”

  “She took pills, but… I didn’t think she was that sick.”

  “Neither did I,” I said. “I found her a little after nine last night in her theater downstairs. Dr. Diamond says she hadn’t been gone very long. He says it was quick and that she didn’t suffer.” I figured a little embellishment wouldn’t hurt.

  Sexy Beast pawed my side and gave a demanding little bark, asking to be put down. I set him on the pale marble floor and watched him stretch languorously, followed by a vigorous shake—always a spectacle, considering the ratty condition of his coat.

  Maria looked down at the ingredients she’d amassed for her guacamole, then without comment took a small plastic bag from a cupboard and scooped the chopped cilantro into it. She opened the refrigerator to put it away and clucked her tongue when she spied the spilled smoothie residue. She grabbed a sponge.

  “Oh, that’s my fault,” I said. “I knocked it over last night. Here, let me—”

  “I have it.”

  As I watched Maria scrub the orange goo, something about the interior of the fridge seemed off. I’d moved the contents around last night looking for treats for SB, and now my subconscious detected that something was missing. It bugged me, yet I couldn’t say why.

  “Maria, did you get rid of anything that was in here?” I asked. “You know, since you got here this morning?”

  “No. Why?” she asked. “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing. I just… Never mind.” Yeah, that’s what this difficult situation called for—me obsessing over the contents of a dead woman’s fridge. As emotionally wiped out as I was last night, how could I trust my memory? And what difference did it make anyway? I ordered myself to get a grip.

  Maria tossed the sponge in the sink. “He’s always bringing those orange-colored drinks for Mrs. M. Supposed to be good for her stomach. Supposed to be better than my cooking, I guess.”

  I was tempted to remind Maria that Dom only brought the smoothies because he cared about Irene, and that it wasn’t a rebuke of Maria’s cooking, but I let the subject pass. I’d called Dom last night as soon as I got home. I’d sobbed into the phone and he’d let me, had listened patiently and said just the right things. He’d always done that, always known what I needed.

  Well, not always, not when it came to the family I needed to have with him, but that issue was long settled, and there was no sense rehashing it.

  Can you see how mature I am, how I resist rehashing long-settled issues?

  I’d heard Bonnie in the background asking Dom who was on the phone, followed by subtle changes in the ambient noise as he walked out of whatever room the two of them had been in together—their bedroom? I heard a door close. Even in that moment of unalloyed grief, I couldn’t help wondering whether Mrs. Faso the Fourth would put down her foot after the wedding and demand her husband end his cozy friendship with Mrs. Faso the First. He was pretty chummy with ex-wives two and three, also, but after all, he shared kids with both of them, and wasn’t it better for all concerned if the parents got along?

  Maria was on a roll about the smoothies. “I poured a little into a glass once and tasted it.” She pulled a disgusted face. “Worse than medicine. Why do people drink those things?”

  “Maria, I need to ask you something,” I said. “I know you were off yesterday, but did Irene have any visitors in the days just before?”

  She spoke to the cabinet as she pulled out a red porcelain bowl. “Sure. Almost every day friends come. They stay in, they go out. You know.”

  “Right, but I mean… well, the man I’m thinking of is about forty, maybe six feet tall, supershort buzz cut.”

  “No.”

  “Riveting blue eyes. Strong, chiseled jaw,” I continued, before halting my runaway tongue with a mental bitch-slap. “Are you sure?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at me, and in the instant before she schooled her features, I saw twenty-eight years of being treated like milady’s servant. “I’m sure.”

  “Of course you are. I just meant… well, maybe he was here yesterday when you were off,” I said, more to myself than Maria.

  “Someone was here.” She placed the avocadoes and other vegetables in the bowl.

  “What? When?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe yesterday, maybe Tuesday evening after I went home.” She routinely prepared Irene’s dinner, then skedaddled at five p.m. “When I came in this morning there was a beer glass in the sink along with Mrs. M’s dishes.”

  Irene drank only vodka martinis—no wine, beer, or other spirits, though she kept it all on hand for guests.

  Maria scowled. “There were messy rings on the glass coffee table in the living room.”

  Irene’s guest hadn’t used a coaster. The fiend!

  I heard the jaunty opening bars of “Tequila” and retrieved my cell from the pocket of my sue
de jacket. I checked the screen. It was Sten Jakobsen, Irene’s lawyer. My gut tightened. Of the many unwelcome thoughts that had kept me up all night, one of the most unwelcome was the question of what would become of Sexy Beast.

  The dog was Irene’s only dependent, and Sten was responsible for seeing to his disposition in accordance with whatever instructions she’d left. Which no doubt meant delivering him to whichever well-heeled friend or relative was best equipped to support him in the style to which his pampered little self had become accustomed.

  Why else would Sten be calling except to request that I deliver SB to his next owner, who wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about him or know where he likes his scritches or how many hard-boiled eggs to put in his chopped liver.

  Answer: two eggs for every pound of liver. And don’t skimp on the chicken fat.

  I dumped the call. I was in no hurry to help Sten check that one off his to-do list. That conversation, which would likely include the words “over my dead body,” could wait until I was more rested or at least had a gallon or three of black coffee coursing through my veins.

  “Maria, I lost an earring last time I was here. I’m going to go look for it.” I touched her arm and searched her eyes. I could read nothing in her closed expression. “Are you okay? Why don’t you go home. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m fine.” She waved me away. “I’ll finish tidying up, take out the garbage. Then I’ll go.”

  It wouldn’t be easy for a forty-seven-year-old grandmother to get another job in this economy—yet one more worry that had kept me up last night. “Listen, um… if you need references,” I said, “you know, to get another job, maybe they’ll accept a letter from me. I mean, I wasn’t your employer, but under the circumstances—”

  “No need. I’ll be all right.” I must have looked dubious, because she added, “Mrs. M took care of me in her will.”

  “Oh. Well… good. I mean, I’m glad to hear that.” Irene never mentioned the contents of her will to me, not once. I assumed she had relatives somewhere who would inherit all her worldly goods, but apparently she’d also had the foresight to make provisions for the person who’d seen to her care and comfort for nearly three decades. I guess the lady-of-the-manor thing included a healthy dollop of noblesse oblige.