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

by Susan Santangelo

  Like the cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae.

  I didn’t really say that, of course. Give me some credit.

  “How is the rest of the family holding up?” I asked. “His widow must be devastated. I know I would be, knowing someone hated my husband that much. And it must have been horrible for you, too. Seeing your brother…’interfered with’ like that.”

  Yes, I was being nosy. But the opportunity was too tempting for me to pass out.

  “I didn’t actually see Will,” Jack said. “By the time I got to the funeral home, the police were already there and had shut the wake down. Louisa is hanging tough. But she’s very anxious to get this whole ordeal over with. We all are.”

  Which told me absolutely nothing.

  “But since we don’t know how long the police will take with their investigation, the wake and funeral are both on hold.” Jack’s face mirrored the frustration he was feeling.

  “This morning, I realized I had to find something to keep myself busy. The uncertainty and the waiting were driving me crazy. I decided to go to Will’s office. I figured I could find something to do there.

  “It was closed, of course, but I was able to find a key. The week’s work schedule was posted, and I saw your address. I thought working outside would keep me focused on something besides Will’s death. And help me lose a little of the extra pounds I’ve managed to attract over the years.” He patted his belly for emphasis.

  I could definitely identify with that.

  “And here I am,” Jack finished. “But I should have knocked on your door first and introduced myself.”

  “None of us are thinking straight this morning,” I said. “I’m very glad you came to finish the yard work,” I said. “Jim will be, too. Jim’s my husband,” I clarified.

  “Well, I should let you get back to work now. I’m sure you’ll be needed back at the house before too long to help with the arrangements. Whatever they may turn out to be. And just be with the rest of the family. I know how important it is for family to be together during traumatic events.”

  I put out my hand and he shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack. Although I’m very sorry about the circumstances.”

  Then I had a sudden thought. “Is there anything at all you need? Food, for instance? I’m sure that the last thing your sister-in-law needs is to worry about feeding people. I’d be glad to put a casserole together and drop it off later today.”

  Not that I was trying to intrude on the family at such a traumatic time. No way. I was just being polite. Neighborly. Sympathetic. Kind and caring. The way I was raised.

  Jack looked unsure of how to respond.

  “I would love a home-cooked casserole,” he said. “But I don’t know how Louisa would react, receiving food from a complete stranger. As you can imagine, she doesn’t trust too many people right now, after what happened to Will at the funeral home.”

  It was hard for me to ignore the implication that I could be the person responsible for the delay in Will’s funeral proceedings.

  So I didn’t.

  Instead, I drew myself up to my full height—five feet three and three quarters, in case you were wondering—and gave Jack one of my famous withering looks. The kind I frequently use on Jim these days when he’s acting up.

  “For your information, Jack,” I said, measuring out each word deliberately and clearly, so there was no possibility of him misunderstanding me, “my son-in-law, Mark Anderson, is a detective on the Fairport Police force. It was his partner, Paul Wheeler, who was the responding officer last night at your brother’s wake. In fact, I’ve personally been very helpful to the Fairport police during some of their investigations. They often turn to me for help with particularly difficult cases. My husband and I have been upstanding citizens of Fairport for over thirty years.

  “Your brother came to my rescue when I was in trouble. I feel terrible that he’s dead, and will miss him. I made the offer to deliver food because I am a good person and I wanted to help. And that’s all. To suggest that I had any other reason for volunteering to prepare a meal for your family is downright insulting.”

  I was breathing heavily now, and I was sure my face was beet red. But I was livid. And for once I didn’t care how terrible I looked.

  Which ought to show you how upset I was.

  Jack moved a step back from me and held up his hands. “Whoa, Mrs. Andrews. Hold on. I didn’t mean to provoke you. And I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you had anything to do with the funny business about Will. I was just trying to explain that Louisa’s a little suspicious right now. I’m sure you can understand why.”

  He waited for me to answer him. But I just stood there and didn’t say a word. I was waiting to see what else Jack had to say.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand the silence any longer. No big surprise there. And I had gotten a little carried away.

  Particularly with that bit I threw into the conversation about my association with the Fairport police. Mark would ream me out if he knew I’d said that, even though I was the grandmother of his future children.

  “We’re certainly getting off on the wrong foot,” I said. “First I scream at you because I think you’re a dead man come back to life, and now I scream at you because you imply that I’m not to be trusted.”

  Jack was obviously embarrassed. I figured he didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with hysterical women.

  Jim could give him some suggestions after all these years of living with me. In fact, he could probably teach a course about it at the local community adult school. I bet the class would be packed.

  “How about this?” I said. “I’ll pick up a tray of wrap sandwiches at Fancy Francie’s Market and deliver them to the house. Everyone in town loves Francie’s sandwiches. You go back to the house and let Louisa know that I’ll be coming, so she won’t be surprised.”

  Or suspicious that the sandwiches could be poisoned.

  I didn’t really say that last part, of course.

  “If she doesn’t want to see me, that’s fine. But I’ll feel better, knowing that I’ve helped out.”

  “You know,” Jack responded, “that’s a great idea. And I’m betting Louisa will want to talk to you, too.”

  Huh? I tried not to look surprised.

  “Because of your close association with the Fairport police,” Jack continued, looking at me like I was dense, “you can find out who added the scissors to Will at the wake last night.”

  Chapter 18

  My mouth and my brain are never on speaking terms.

  Fancy Francie’s has been a fixture in our town since the mid-1960s. The market has gone through a series of owners since then, but the store name remains the same. Despite the siren call of upscale food emporiums like The Particular Palate (nicknamed by some wise acres as The Peculiar Palate, since some of its over-the-top specialties are better suited to a sophisticated New York City gourmet), or big box stores like Shopper’s Paradise, Francie’s has retained a loyal customer base for eons.

  One of the charms of the store is that it offers free delivery within the town limits. Needless to say, Jim loves that.

  About five years ago, a new owner, Helen Konisburg, took over the store, and that’s when things really started to cook. Literally.

  Helen came from a big city background, and because Fairport is a commuter community to the Big Apple—that would be New York City, for the benefit of you out-of-towners—she realized right away that a catering service would provide an added bonus to the bottom line. I’m talking about basic comfort foods, like meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, pot roast, and southern fried chicken. The kind of things Mom used to make. And Helen also added a hot and cold salad bar.

  Francie’s always had a deli department, of course. But Helen expanded that, too. She added a wide variety of sandwiches named after celebrities. So it was possible to have l
unch or dinner with Robert Redford one day, and Brad Pitt the next. The place was wildly popular and lived up to its slogan, “The Freshest Food in Fairport.”

  Don’t tell anyone I admitted this, but I have Francie’s on speed dial. And I always order more than we’ll eat in one meal, so I can freeze the leftovers.

  Jim hasn’t caught on yet about how much I use Francie’s. In fact, he’s complimented me much more frequently on my cooking than he used to, and I try not to take offense.

  The market also started a frequent buyers club, with discounts. Of course, I was one of the first customers to sign up. I’m such a regular customer there that I asked Helen for a reserved parking space in front of the market. So far, that hasn’t happened, but I remain hopeful.

  I was confident that Helen had come through for me again and prepared a tray of wrap sandwiches for me to deliver to the Finnegan family on very short notice. Especially since she was used to my last-minute food crises, which happen more frequently than I care to admit.

  Even to you.

  Timing is everything. And today, my timing was off. I usually don’t venture onto Fairport Turnpike, the main commercial artery in town, until late in the afternoon. From noon to two o’clock, the center is jammed with workers on their lunch hour, trying to grab some food or do a quick errand before heading back to the office. Forget about going to the bank or the post office then. Unless you have an extra hour or two to wait in line.

  And from two-thirty till about four o’clock, it’s dominated by school children of all ages, crowding the sidewalks, darting across the street on skateboards or on foot, never looking where they’re going or at any possible obstacles that could be in their path.

  But I was in a hurry to make my sandwich delivery to the Finnegan home, so I broke my own rule and ventured to Fancy Francie’s at a little after one o’clock.

  Big mistake.

  I should have realized that the place would be a madhouse when it took me forever to find a parking space. The good news was that I finally found a spot four blocks from the market. The bad news was that I had to parallel park, never one of my fortés even when I was younger and could turn my neck to see where I was going.

  The worst news—I was saving this for last—is that when I was parallel parking, I backed up and thump. I had misjudged how much room I had to maneuver and had an unplanned encounter with another car’s bumper.

  This is what happens when you’re rushing, you idiot. You get all stressed out and do stupid things.

  And I really did say that! Of course.

  I put my head down on my car’s steering column and prayed to whomever was the patron saint of aging automobile drivers. I would have prayed to St. Christopher, but he got bounced off the official saints’ roster a long time ago.

  Please don’t let there be a lot of damage. To my car or the other vehicle. I promise I’ll be more careful in the future. I’ll never try to parallel park again. Amen.

  I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to survey the wreckage.

  OMG. It was worse than I thought. Not the damage I had caused, but the vehicle I had backed into.

  It wasn’t an ordinary car. It was an emergency response vehicle from Fairport Ambulance.

  Boy, when I make a mistake, I make a big time mistake.

  Of course, the vehicle was huge, like a supersize SUV, but even sturdier. I bent down to inspect its front bumper, and was relieved to see that there was only a small dent on the left side as evidence of my unexpected visit. And—I had to squint to see this—a tiny particle of gray paint on the otherwise pristine bumper.

  Big phew. I’m ashamed to admit that my first thought was, maybe the driver wouldn’t even notice. Or think the dent happened a while ago. After all, emergency vehicles responded to, well, emergencies. I would bet that caring for a person in distress took precedence over parking skills.

  I know. I know. I can be a weak person. But judge not. Etc. etc.

  I checked out my own car, and it was no surprise that its damage was more significant. And more evident. Unfortunately. I’d never get away with pretending it never happened. Jim had an eagle eye for stuff like that.

  After a brief wrestling match with my conscience, I left a scrap of paper under the vehicle’s windshield wiper with my name and contact information. And scrawled a huge “SORRY!” at the bottom of the note.

  I hoped this incident wouldn’t be documented on the Fairport Patch, too!

  Then, to atone for my carelessness, I hiked the four blocks to Fancy Francie’s without changing from my high-heeled shoes into sneakers.

  I hope Whatshername The Driving Saint noticed my suffering and gave me extra points.

  With all this lollygagging around, by the time I got to the market, the lunch rush had subsided.

  Helen looked up from behind the deli counter where she was slicing cold cuts and gave me a wave. “Your order is ready to go, Carol. It’s in the refrigerator. Can you wait until I finish with this customer?”

  I couldn’t help but notice that the normally unflappable Helen was looking frazzled today. Her auburn curls were escaping from the cap she always wore, and her face was pale and dotted with beads of perspiration. I hoped she wasn’t ill.

  Especially if she’d prepared my wraps herself.

  Helen held up five fingers, which I assumed meant a five-minute wait.

  “No problem,” I said, forcing myself to think healthy thoughts. I ordered myself to mosey around the take-out area and see what I could pick up for supper that might put Jim in a good mood.

  Before I gave him the bad news about the car.

  Hmm. Francie’s Famous Pot Roast sounded good. With a side order of mashed potatoes and fresh carrots. Jim loves carrots. In any form. I kid him that he eats so many, he’s beginning to hop and his ears are growing.

  Done. I loaded tonight’s supper into a shopping basket and headed back to Helen.

  This time, she was ready for me. And I was happy to see that she seemed more composed than when I’d first come into the market. Of course, the wraps looked yummy, but I resisted snitching one before she could cover the tray.

  “What’s going on at your house today, Carol?” Helen asked. “You better not be having one of your famous bunco parties during working hours, when I can’t come. You promised I’d be invited to the next one. It’s the stuff of legends here in town.”

  I laughed. Which felt extra good after the day I was having.

  “Don’t worry, Helen,” I said. “This tray isn’t for me. I’m bringing it to the family of a friend of mine who’s just died.”

  I thought for a second, then corrected myself. “Will wasn’t really a friend of mine. I only knew him for a short time. He did some landscaping work for Jim and me.”

  Was it my imagination, or did Helen’s eyes suddenly well up with tears?

  Nah. My mistake. When I looked again, her face was filled with concern, but her tears were non evident.

  “Do you mean Will Finnegan?” she asked. “The man who owned Finnegan’s Rakes?”

  I nodded. “Why do you ask? Did you know him?”

  “Only as a customer,” Helen said very quickly. “He came in here every day at noontime, just like clockwork, and bought sandwiches for his crew. And sometimes, he even paid for other people’s lunches, too. Especially if they worked for the police or fire department, or the Fairport emergency squad. He said it was his way of thanking the ones who keep us safe.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I had no idea he was so generous.”

  “Will could be a very nice guy,” Helen continued with just the hint of a smile. “Very helpful. If he realized a person had a problem, and he could fix it, he was always there. Do you know what I mean?”

  “That’s exactly right,” I said excitedly. “In the short time I knew him, he was very helpful to me.”

  Helen ga
ve me a look I couldn’t interpret for the life of me. But I felt compelled to add, “What I should have said was, Will was helpful to Jim and me. Our yard is beautiful now, thanks to him.”

  “So, you’re going to pay a condolence call on the Finnegan family?” Helen asked, carefully placing the plastic bubble top over the tray of sandwiches and snapping it into place. “You must know them.”

  “I’ve never met them,” I admitted. “But bringing some food seemed like the right thing to do.”

  I realized Helen was hanging on my every word. I figured that she had no life except for Fancy Francie’s and her customers. So, I couldn’t resist giving her a little more information.

  “Did you hear what happened at the Finnegan wake?” I asked. “You won’t read this in the newspaper, but….” I leaned toward Helen and whispered to her about the police closing down the wake and why.

  The next thing I knew, Helen disappeared from my view and I heard a thunk. I wasn’t tall enough to peer over the counter to see what happened, but it sure sounded like Helen had fainted.

  “Helen,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  I know. What a stupid question. But in the stress of the moment, it was the first thing out of my mouth.

  I looked around for someone else to help, but now that the lunch crowd had gone, Fancy Francie’s was pretty much deserted. Two elderly women were in the produce section of the store, discussing the pros and cons of a head of lettuce. And the check-out person was busy with an order for a harried young mother who was trying to bag her own order while keeping a toddler from climbing out of the shopping cart.

  So, that left me.

  I scurried around the back of the deli counter and Helen was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Fortunately, she was breathing. Thank God. I’ve had a few experiences when that hadn’t been the case.

  But clearly, she had hit her head when she fell, and head injuries are always dangerous.

  I knelt down beside her. “Helen,” I said. “Can you hear me?”