Funerals Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 5)

by Susan Santangelo

  Mike: Oh yeah? Then how’d you get a video on Fairport Patch 2day?

  Me: What’s that?

  Mike: C.G., you gotta keep up with the times. Patch is latest way to ck out happenings in town. I ck it every day. And there u were!

  Oh, rats. That darn Phyllis. And she promised me she wouldn’t tell anyone.

  Me (typing furiously and making loads of typos): Hjh? I mian, meea, mean, huh?

  Mike: You did look darn cute chasing that ride-on mower. What did Dad have 2 say about that?

  Me: A video? Oh, no!

  Mike: U better check it out 4 urself. And cheer up. At least it’s not on YouTube. That I know of. Gotta go. But be careful, Okay? Some of my customers are starting to wonder about u!

  And he signed off. The little devil. He always had to have the last word in these conversations.

  Hmm. Wonder where he picked up that trait. Maybe it’s genetic.

  I turned around and almost tripped over Lucy and Ethel, who were in their “It’s time to feed us so get going and no excuses” mood.

  “That darn Phyllis Stevens,” I fumed as I poured kibble into their bowls. Ethel raised her head briefly and made eye contact with me. Then, she went back to eating.

  “Point well taken, Ethel,” I said, interpreting her message. “Anyone who’s never had at least one dog is not to be trusted. Even if Phyllis and Bill have allergies, there are medications for that.”

  I turned the soup on the stove to a low simmer, congratulating myself that I’d had the foresight to prepare such a simple meal that only got tastier the longer it cooked. Because I just had to look at Fairport Patch and see what the heck Mike was talking about. And, even more important, try to figure out a way to get that video off the Internet right away.

  I snuck a quick peek in the bedroom to check on Jim first. His glasses were perched on top of his receding hairline, and today’s paper was in disarray all over our bed.

  He was sound asleep and snoring softly. Thank goodness. Because that nap bought me a little computer time. Right after the dogs had a quick romp around the backyard on leashes, because part of the darn fence was down.

  Imagine my surprise when we went outside and discovered that the damaged part of the picket fence had been repaired. It wasn’t a perfect job, but at least it was standing up.

  Maybe Phyllis was right. Will Finnegan was a treasure. If nothing else, he was certainly a man who kept his word.

  And he was a very fast worker.

  “No matter what’s going on in Fairport, The Patch has you covered,” I read. “Visit Fairport Patch.com to keep up with news, business, and events in town. Check out photos and videos from your friends and neighbors. Stay in the know, even when you’re on the go.”

  Oh, boy. This did not bode well. And there was also an opportunity for people to comment on local posts.

  I clicked on the Today’s Videos link and there I was. Looking like an absolute fool, chasing that darn mower all over the yard. Although the clip seemed as long to me as a full-length movie, in reality it was less than thirty seconds.

  I sat back in the desk chair and closed my eyes.

  Breathe, Carol. In and out. In and out. Calm down. Maybe nobody but Mike has seen it. All your friends have better things to do with their time than spend hours on the Internet. And you’re not identified by name.

  Deep breaths. In and out.

  Nobody’s going to recognize that you’re the jerk in this video. Mike did, but he’s your son, for heaven’s sake. Of course, he’d recognize his own mother.

  I was definitely overreacting. I bet that doesn’t surprise you, if you’ve known me for a while.

  I clicked on the Comments icon under the video. And, to my horror, discovered a cyberspace conversation going on among a mixed group of total strangers, nervy neighbors, and so-called friends.

  And most of the comments made me the butt (excuse me, but there’s no other way to say it) of some pretty cheesy jokes.

  I was pleased to see that Mike had posted a comment defending me—it was of the “This could happen to anybody” variety. Weak, but at least somebody was in my corner.

  None from Phyllis Stevens, although if she was the one who posted the original video, she didn’t need to. The damage had already been done.

  The one from my former BFF Nancy really ticked me off. I’ve known her for years, and she always has trouble driving. But she usually gets into the vehicle first! Ha ha ha.

  Traitor. Just wait until the next time she asked me for a favor.

  I was desperate to find out if I could delete the video. The Patch had a Contact Us icon, so I clicked on it. Unfortunately, it asked for the usual identity information—name, e-mail, etc.—before it would let me into the site. There was no way I was going to share that I was the hapless female whose antics were currently garnering a load of comments on the website.

  I was pretty sure that my own dear husband, the Andrews family’s p.r. expert after years of working for Gibson Gillespie in New York City, would advise me to let the whole matter blow over.

  If I told him about it. Which I had no intention of doing.

  I bet that doesn’t surprise you, either.

  Chapter 8

  The best way to forget all your troubles is to wear tight shoes.

  By the time I got my aging body into bed next to a sleeping Jim, I was completely exhausted. And I ached in parts I never knew I had. Unexpected exertion can do that to a person. And in my case, any exertion is completely unexpected.

  I flipped from my right side to my left, trying to find a comfortable position. Then I rolled over on my stomach. No go. I was equally uncomfortable no matter which way I lay. And I knew that, if I fell asleep on my stomach, I’d wake up with a pain in my neck in the morning.

  You can take that remark any way you want.

  I finally flipped over on my back again, forcing myself to lie still so I wouldn’t wake Jim.

  You should have taken a warm bath before you got into bed. That would have relaxed you so you could sleep. What a doofus you are.

  I snapped my eyes shut and ordered them to stay that way. Big mistake. My imagination immediately presented me with a play-by-play rendition of the lawnmower debacle. It was like watching a rerun of a very bad television show when the remote control didn’t work and there was no way to change the channel or turn the darn thing off.

  Think of something pleasant, Carol. A view of the ocean. A spectacular sunset. Jenny announcing that she and Mark are expecting a baby.

  Whoops. Maybe not that last one. My subconscious at work.

  Will Finnegan. Now, that was a pleasant image. My hero. My new best friend.

  I smiled and snuggled into my pillow.

  I can’t be sure, but I think that was when I finally dropped off to sleep. And I had a dream about Will riding the treacherous lawnmower, with me riding behind him, my hands clasped tightly around his waist to keep from falling off. We both had motorcycle helmets on, and Will was wearing a black leather jacket, no shirt.

  Phyllis was running behind us, her face red from exertion. No matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t catch up.

  Faster. Faster.

  “I’ll take good care of you, Carol,” Will said. “Forget Phyllis. You’re my special client now. Trust me. You have to trust me.”

  And that’s all I can remember. Darn it.

  I stumbled out of bed the next morning feeling like I had been hit by a Mack truck. Well, in reality, even though the lawnmower didn’t actually hit me, it did cause me huge emotional stress.

  There was no sniffling husband beside me. I hoped that was a good sign.

  The heavenly scent of perking coffee wafted into the bedroom. Now, that was a very good sign. Since his retirement, Jim usually made the morning coffee. And I let him think that he made it better than I did.

 
Hey, let the guy have his fantasies.

  I pulled on a pair of bright pink Lilly Pulitzer sweats I found folded neatly near the back of my walk-in closet, along with a matching sweatshirt. Even if I don’t feel my best, I try to look my best. Clothes that match, or at least complement each other, are one of my ways to compensate for the undeniable fact that the body wearing them is getting old and decrepit.

  And the anticipation that hunky (there, I said it) Will Finnegan could, at this very minute, be outside in my yard had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I also brushed my teeth, washed my face, and combed my hair before I hit the kitchen.

  Adding blush and a touch of lipstick—well, why not? Anything to camouflage the new wrinkles that had undoubtedly popped up on my face overnight.

  Nothing could disguise the bags under my eyes, though. Evidence of a restless night. Oh, well.

  I followed the siren smell of coffee into the kitchen, expecting to see Jim hunched over the table reading the morning paper.

  And instead found my darling daughter Jenny and her Fairport police detective husband Mark, heads bent so close together they were almost touching, conversing in low tones. Jim and the two dogs were nowhere to be seen.

  Before they became aware of my presence, I distinctly heard Jenny say, “Let me handle this. She’s going to be surprised. But I think once she has a chance to let it sink in, she’ll be very pleased.”

  My mom-o-meter immediately ratcheted to high alert. Something was up. Most definitely.

  Well, of course, I knew right away what they’d come to talk to me about. And why they’d come together, which is an unusual early morning occurrence. They were having a baby! Tears pricked my eyes. My baby girl was going to have a baby of her own.

  Let them tell you the news, I cautioned myself. For once, keep your big mouth shut. Don’t rob them of the joy of seeing you surprised. And for heaven’s sake, look surprised. And thrilled!

  “Well, good morning, you two,” I said, leaning down to give each of them a kiss. “What a nice way to start the day. Which hopefully will be a much better one than yesterday.”

  Mark immediately jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair for me.

  Jenny returned my smooch. “Hi, Mom,” she said. “We’re both on our way to work, but we thought we’d stop in to see how Dad’s feeling.” At my questioning look, she added, “We heard from Mike last night, and he said that Dad was down for the count with a cold. And that you were doing your Florence Nightingale thing.” She paused for a millisecond, then added, “He caught us up on some other news, too.”

  She poured me a cup of steaming black coffee with just a hint of cinnamon, which I grabbed. “I really need this today,” I said. “Thanks, honey.”

  Here we are, sitting around the same kitchen table where you two used to do your homework, so you can share your momentous news with me. Get to the point. Tell me your news. When are you due?

  I didn’t really say that, of course.

  I suddenly realized that Jim should be here, too. Where the heck was he? If I was going to be a grandmother (at last!), that meant that he was going to be a grandfather.

  “Where’s your father?”

  Jenny looked at her husband, who had an unreadable expression on his face. He nodded. Go ahead.

  “Dad was up when we got here.” She patted my hand. “He’s feeling much better this morning. He’s taken the dogs for a walk around the neighborhood. We’ve already talked to him.”

  What? Jim heard the big news before I did? That’ll teach me to oversleep.

  Not that I was jealous, so don’t get the wrong idea.

  “I see the way your mind is going, Mom. And that’s not what we came to talk to you about. Sorry, but there’s no baby news. At least,” she looked at Mark fondly, “that we know of.”

  My face registered my obvious disappointment, despite my attempt to control my expression.

  “You really are a piece of work, you know that, Mom? Don’t worry. We’ll make you a grandma one of these days, right, honey?” Jenny said. “But not at this exact moment.”

  Mark picked up the conversation. “So, Carol, Mike texted us last night. He’s worried about you and Jim. He told us to check out the Fairport Patch video. He thinks you both need some help around the house, and he feels helpless because he’s so far away.”

  I took another healthy swig of coffee to fortify myself. So this is how old age begins. The kids begin to take over their parents’ lives and start telling them what to do, instead of the other way around.

  No way, José. Not yet. Maybe, not ever.

  Maybe I should go back to bed.

  “I’ll gladly surrender my license to operate a riding mower,” I said. “That was a once-in-a-lifetime moment, and I’ve learned my lesson. But Dad and I aren’t ready for matching recliners and remote controls yet.”

  Well, I wasn’t.

  “What exactly are you suggesting? I hope you don’t think we’re incapable of living here on our own and taking care of our house. Because that’s simply not true.” I glared at both of them, my imagination going into overdrive, down a completely different road.

  Isn’t it impressive, the way I can shift gears so rapidly?

  “Relax, Mom,” Jenny said. “We’re not suggesting anything like that. But yesterday showed that you may need some help doing a few of the chores around here. It’s a big house, and the property upkeep is enormous.”

  She beamed at me. “So Mike, Mark, and I have decided to chip in and give you an early Christmas present. We want to hire a landscaping company to take over the exterior work. Dad was resistant at first, but we convinced him that it was a great idea. So, what do you say?”

  “Dad was resistant? That’s interesting.”

  “You know how he is,” Jenny said. “He hates any idea that he hasn’t thought of himself. But eventually, he comes around. Although, come to think of it, this time he agreed much quicker than I expected.”

  I couldn’t help but grin.

  “Why are you smiling like that, Mom? You look like you’re hiding something. Come on, give.”

  “Well, kids,” I said, with just a tiny emphasis on the last word, “the old folks are way ahead of you on this one. Phyllis and Bill Stevens sent over their landscaping man to help me yesterday. Will Finnegan. He owns Finnegan’s Rakes. His trucks are all over town.

  “Dad and I have already hired him to do exactly what you’re suggesting. In fact,” I cocked my head at the sound of a leaf blower starting up, “if you look out the window, you’ll see him right now. That’s why Dad agreed so quickly. I think he was having some fun with you.

  “So you can text Mike and tell him he doesn’t have to worry about us. The old folks have this situation under control.”

  I hoped I didn’t sound snippy. But I also hoped I made my point crystal clear.

  Mark looked embarrassed. “We didn’t mean to imply that you and Jim are old, Carol,” he said. “It’s just that…”

  “It’s just that we love you,” Jenny interrupted. “And we want to make life easier for you.”

  The words at this late stage of life hovered, unspoken, over my kitchen table.

  I softened. They meant well. And I was betting they had absolutely no idea how their “suggestion” had sounded to me. Like Jim and I were teetering on the edge of extinction.

  “Do you have time for a real breakfast?” I asked. “I have eggs in the refrigerator and I can scramble them up in a jiffy. With a little cottage cheese, Jenny, just the way you like them.”

  Mark’s smartphone beeped, indicating an incoming text. He took a quick glance and immediately jumped up. “I have to leave. I’m needed at the station. See you tonight, Jenny.” He gave his bride a chaste kiss (after all, her mother was sitting right there), waved to me, and was gone.

  “I hate it when he leaves so suddenly
, like he just did,” Jenny said. “I worry that, every time he goes out the door, he’ll be hurt. Or worse.”

  Her blue eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I said, wrapping her in a mom hug. “That never occurred to me. I guess I figured that, now that Mark’s been promoted to detective, he’s spending more time behind a desk than outside arresting criminals. So he’s a lot safer.”

  Jenny wiped her eyes on a napkin. “I suppose you’re right. He is a lot safer. I don’t claim I’m being logical about this. Like mother, like daughter, right?”

  “Smarty pants,” I said with a grin. “Now, how about those eggs?”

  “I’ll cook them, Mom,” Jenny said, “in exchange for the whole truth about your riding mower adventure. And your buddying up with Phyllis and Bill Stevens. That’s certainly a surprise.”

  “Deal,” I replied. “I love being waited on.”

  Jenny howled when I told her about my visit to the Stevens house. “I’m not surprised that Mrs. Stevens was so inhospitable,” she said. “Mike and I always skipped that house on Halloween. She probably would have given us a lecture about tooth decay instead of giving us candy.

  “Mr. Stevens seemed nice, though. He always waved when he saw us.”

  Jenny handed me a plate of scrambled eggs. “Eat them now, before they get cold.”

  “You make me laugh,” I said, picking up a fork and digging in. “That’s what I always said to you.

  “Oh, and by the way, when I was leaving the Stevens’s house yesterday, Bill walked me to the door. And you’ll never guess what happened next.”

  Jenny gestured me to hurry up. “I have a class to teach in twenty minutes, Mom. So you better just tell me.”

  “He kissed me goodbye,” I said, my cheeks pink at the memory.

  “Where?”

  “At the front door. Phyllis was already in the kitchen, and couldn’t see what was going on.”

  Jenny waved her fork at me impatiently. “No, Mom. Where on you did he plant the kiss? Did he sweep you off your feet and give you a passionate one?”