With Jim safely occupied in the kitchen, I turned my winning smile in the direction of my son-in-law.
“So, Mark, how are things?” I asked, once again passing the au gratin potatoes in his direction. “Have some more potatoes. I remember these were one of your favorites when you were a kid.”
Mark patted his washboard stomach. “That was long before I joined the Fairport Police,” he said with a rueful grin. “Keeping in shape is a requirement for being on the force. So I better pass on seconds.”
“You’re always in perfect shape as far as I’m concerned,” Jenny said, gazing at her husband of almost one year adoringly.
It was hard to believe it had taken Jenny and Mark so long to figure out what I had known from their pre-puberty days—that they were made for each other. I silently congratulated myself on giving them the necessary nudge in the right direction during an Andrews family crisis that brought Mark back into our lives after a prolonged absence.
Unfortunately, Mark came back into our lives in an official police capacity, since he was the investigating officer in the death of Davis Rhodes, Jim’s late retirement coach. And at first, poor Jim was number one on the police suspect list.
I, of course, straightened the whole thing out and unmasked the real culprits. Which began my unofficial sleuthing career.
I hope I’m not boring you by telling you something you already know, but some folks have difficulty remembering things after a certain age.
I’d been thinking most of the day about whether or not to bring up the subject of Will Finnegan’s death—and its unusual aftermath—at our family dinner.
Lord knows, although I’d skimped on the details with Jim, I got another lecture about how I shouldn’t have delivered food to the Finnegan family. That now I was involving myself even more in another mysterious death. When would I learn to mind my own business? Blah blah blah.
But I’ll bet you’ll be surprised when I tell you that Jim’s eruption about the damage to my Jeep’s rear bumper after my close encounter with the emergency vehicle didn’t happen. Why? Because I’d had it fixed before Jim could see it, thanks to our local body shop, Fairport Auto Repair. Its owner, Skip Clark, makes a fortune providing extra quick, discreet service for repeat customers like me. So I dodged that particular bullet. Figuratively speaking.
And I paid the car repair bill in cash from a secret stash I keep hidden in my lingerie drawer. I always plan ahead. Pretty smart, right?
Some folks (not saying who) criticize me for not being entirely forthright with Jim all the time about my adventures, retail-wise or otherwise. I usually turn my baby blues onto these people and ask these folks if they’re married. And, if the answer is yes, how long they’ve been married.
The married ones are always newlyweds. So, what do they know? The ink isn’t even dry on their marriage license yet.
A little knowledge is a good thing. A lot of knowledge leads to nothing but trouble. Trust me—I know what I’m talking about.
Since my own daughter fell under the category of the newly married, I wasn’t sure how much of our funeral home adventure she’d shared with Mark. But I decided to test the waters with a few innocent questions and another offer of food.
“Here, Mark,” I said, passing my Waterford salad bowl in his direction. (I always use the good stuff for Sunday dinners. After all, at my age, why wait?) “You can’t say no to fresh vegetables.”
“Mom’s right, honey,” Jenny said. “According to the latest health reports, a person’s supposed to eat at least five portions of fresh fruit and vegetables a day. And a jelly doughnut doesn’t count as fruit.”
Mark laughed. “Maybe not, but where would a cop be without his daily dose of doughnuts and coffee? That’s what keeps us going.”
“Speaking of the police, Mark,” I said, “how’s the investigation into Will Finnegan’s death going? Any suspects yet?”
See how I oh-so-naturally segued from salad to sleuthing? I hope you’re all impressed.
“Do you mean the guy whose wake was shut down because of an irregularity? Paul’s handling that one, not me.” Mark speared a tomato, then said, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but….”
I leaned forward in my chair, trying not to appear too eager. Any time someone says they shouldn’t tell me something, I know they should.
“Around the Fairport Police Station, we call Will Finnegan ‘Double Dead Will.’ “
Jenny smacked Mark’s hand. “That’s terrible!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“So, you do know something about the case,” I continued, not letting him off the hook.
“I told you that Mom and I were at the funeral home for that wake,” Jenny reminded him. “Will used to do landscaping work for Mom and Dad. So it’s natural that she’d want to know what’s going on. In fact, I’m wondering, too.”
“All I’ve heard is that an official burial is on hold until Paul can figure out what happened the night of the wake. He’s continuing to interview people,” Mark said.
“If Paul’s the only one on the case, that might take forever,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of faith in his detective ability.”
Mark bristled at my criticism of his colleague. Even if he knew it was true. “I know you and Paul got off to a rocky start, but he really is a good guy, Carol. And a darned good detective, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be on the force.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mark,” I said. “My crack was way out of line.” I didn’t believe that for a second, mind you, but sometimes it’s more important for me to keep peace in the family than to share my usually on-target, but unasked for, opinions.
I sighed. “It’s just that I feel so sorry for the Finnegan family. I’m assuming Paul’s talked to them. Not that I’m suggesting how he should do his job, of course.”
Mark mumbled something I didn’t quite catch. It could have been, “When are you going to mind your own business?”
But I’m sure I misunderstood.
I cocked my head in the direction of the kitchen. The sound of the electric knife indicated that Jim was still hard at work, slicing the remains of the ham.
“I met the widow when I delivered sandwiches to the house Friday afternoon,” I said, watching Mark’s face to see his reaction, which was predictable. A cross between aggravation and admiration.
“She didn’t act particularly broken up about Will’s death. In fact, he walked out on her years ago. Will was quite the Fairport Romeo, according to her.
“I got the sandwich tray from Fancy Francie’s. The owner, Helen Konisburg, seems to be a very close friend of Will’s. Lots of avenues for Paul to explore.”
If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll notice I left one name off my interrogation list: my hairstylist, Deanna. I still hadn’t figured out her connection to Will Finnegan. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to try.
“What’s the normal procedure in a case like this?” I asked, probing for more information. “I mean, when the police figure out who…did the deed in the funeral home, then what happens?” Bile rose in my throat as an image of poor Will flashed into my brain.
“That’s a good question, Mom,” Jenny said. “I know this isn’t appropriate dinner conversation in most households, but when Paul figures out who…did the deed, what would that person be charged with? Murder?”
“Not murder, Jenny,” Mark said. “Maybe criminal interference. I’m not sure. I have to look that one up. We’ve never had a case like this in Fairport before. And I’m not sure the police academy covered it, either.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, as my late mother used to say.
So I took a deep breath, then said, “I’m wondering if the police should take a closer look at the cause of Will’s death, under the circumstances. Which, you must admit, are bizarre. I mean his actual death, not what happened later. Maybe someo
ne really wanted him out of the way. Or more than one person did.”
Mark gaped at me. “What are you suggesting, Carol?”
The buzz of the electric knife had stopped, indicating that I had to talk fast. Before Jim returned with the sliced ham and accused me of sticking my nose into something that wasn’t my business.
Again.
“I’m suggesting that perhaps Will didn’t die of natural causes,” I said. “Maybe he was murdered.”
Chapter 22
I was at the beauty shop this morning for nearly two hours. And that was only for the estimate!
I woke up grumpy Monday morning.
No, I don’t mean Jim. I could hear sounds of him already puttering around the kitchen, hopefully conjuring up some extra strong coffee to open my eyes and clear my fuzzy brain.
I woke up grumpy because I realized I had put my foot in my mouth big-time at last night’s family dinner. My helpful suggestion that the police should investigate into the cause of Will Finnegan’s sudden death was greeted by a variety of negative responses.
Jim, overhearing me as he was carrying the platter of ham into the dining room: “Have you lost your mind, Carol?”
Jenny: “Mom, usually I’m impressed with your deductive skills, but this time you’re way over the top.”
Mark: Stony silence. Then, “Don’t tell me how we should do our job. Stay out of this, Carol. I mean it.”
Me: Big sigh.
But I wasn’t giving up that easily.
“Maybe you’ll all think differently when I fill you in on what I discovered about the widow Finnegan and her brother-in-law, Jack.”
Quickly (for me—I do tend to take a long time to get to the point of a story, one of my worst faults), I filled the doubting trio in on my conversation with Louisa, emphasizing once again her long-time-separation-but-not-divorce from her husband. And her admission of love for her brother-in-law.
“So if Will didn’t want a divorce,” I said, “and Louisa and Jack were in love and wanted to be married, Will stood in their way. They could have gotten tired of waiting around, and decided to speed up Will’s demise.”
I thought I made a pretty impressive case.
Unfortunately, nobody else did. “Your overactive imagination is in overdrive again,” Jim said. “I’ve seen it too many times. Drop it, Carol. Mark agrees with me, don’t you?”
“Let the police handle this, Carol. I really mean it this time,” Mark said. He grabbed Jenny’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
And that was it. The end of what should have been a cozy family dinner. All because of my big mouth. Remembering the expression on Mark’s face as he and Jenny left last night made me cringe.
What if I’d completely ruined our relationship? What if I never saw them again?
A fat tear rolled down my cheek as I thought about Jenny, in labor having my first grandchild, without me there to comfort her. And the little girl (I just knew her first child would be a girl) growing up without the love and support of her grandma.
I was beyond grumpy. I was now inconsolable.
And my feet hadn’t even touched the bedroom floor yet.
Get up and get moving, I ordered myself.
While performing my morning ablutions, I couldn’t help but notice that my hairline was starting to sport telltale white hairs. Yuck.
Time for a visit to the hair salon?
No way. I wasn’t ready to see Deanna yet. She always knows when I have something on my mind, and for some reason, I find myself telling her things I haven’t told anyone else, even Jim.
Oh, whom am I kidding? Especially Jim!
I jammed a baseball cap (“Fairport Police Do It Better!”) on my head and padded out into the kitchen. Lucy and Ethel had obviously been fed, because neither so much as lifted a head when I made my appearance.
For a brief moment, I wished I were a Blue Roan English cocker spaniel, too. Their furry mixture of black and white hairs always looks perfect. Except when it’s on my furniture.
Jim lowered his newspaper and commented, “Nice touch, Carol. I didn’t realize we were dressing for breakfast this morning.”
“Very funny,” I snapped back, heading in the direction of the coffee pot. “I haven’t taken a shower yet, and I have ‘bed head.’ I was trying to spare you the sight first thing in the morning.”
“Very thoughtful,” Jim said, reaching over and pulling out a chair for me at the kitchen table. “Too bad you weren’t as thoughtful last night at dinner.”
“What? I looked perfectly presentable at dinner last night. Even Mark complimented me on my outfit.”
“I’m not talking about what you wore last night, Carol. As you very well know. I’m talking about how you didn’t think before you spoke. Your outrageous theory about Will Finnegan’s death being murder was absolutely ridiculous. And to make the situation even worse, you wouldn’t let it go. Once again, you’re meddling in a situation that’s none of your business. It’s a good thing that our son-in-law is such a good guy. He could have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation.”
I sat there, fuming. And trying to come up with a snappy defense, even though I knew that Jim was right on target.
Not that I’d ever admit that.
Fortunately, he hadn’t thought about our being boycotted from seeing our grandchildren-to-be, as punishment. And I hoped he never did.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Carol?”
I searched my repertoire of possible comebacks and came up empty. But I wasn’t giving in without a fight.
“You’ll be happy to know that, just this once, I have absolutely nothing to say, dear. In fact, I’m willing to concede that I may have been overzealous in presenting my case to Mark last night.” I held up my hand to forestall Jim’s response. “I still believe that there’s something suspicious about Will Finnegan’s sudden death. But since I’ve shared my theory, and been rebuffed, what more can I do?”
“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Carol,” Jim said. “I apologize for coming down on you so hard. I know you have a good heart, and you always mean well. You can’t help being super inquisitive, I guess.”
Too true.
Now, if you’ve been paying close attention to this husband/wife exchange, perhaps you’ve noticed something important. A clue, if you will.
At no time in our discussion did I promise Jim that I wasn’t going to continue my so-called investigation. What I said was, “What more can I do?”
This could be interpreted by someone who doesn’t know me at all as my asking Jim for advice about what he thought my next step should be.
It wasn’t that at all, of course
I already knew what I was going to do. I was going to pick up the phone and make a hair appointment with Deanna.
Chapter 23
Sometimes I talk too much and say too little.
Normally, a visit to Crimpers, the upscale Fairport hair salon owned by my super hairstylist, Deanna, is a sure way to improve my spirits. And improve my looks, too. Which, at my advancing age, is no easy task.
Not today, though. How does one begin a very sensitive conversation with someone who has the power to shave one’s head, or turn one’s hair a bilious green if provoked?
Very, very carefully.
Since I shrink from any kind of confrontation, I decided the direct approach was definitely out. I would be so subtle that Deanna would never figure out that she was being interrogated by Fairport’s Number One amateur sleuth.
Which would be me, in case you didn’t understand that reference.
And I wouldn’t begin my questioning until way into the appointment, after Deanna applied the glop she uses on my hair to bring back my dormant blonde highlights. Which seem to have turned into more than fifty shades of gray and white,
all on their own.
There was a new receptionist at the desk when I breezed into the salon. Who frowned at me and said, “Mrs. Andrews, I presume? You’re ten minutes late for your appointment. And Deanna worked you into her very busy schedule as a favor. Please don’t make a habit out of this, or you’ll be charged a late fee.”
Say what? I’d been coming to Crimpers for years and no one had ever talked to me that way. And I make a point of being on time for all my appointments. Mostly.
The nerve of this little snip. Who the heck did she think she was talking to anyway?
I smiled sweetly and said, “You’re new, right? Well, I’m not. I’ve been a client of Deanna’s for more than ten years. And I’m always right on time for my appointment. In fact, I’m frequently early. You can check that out with Deanna herself. Is she ready for me now?”
And I sailed back to the Crimpers inner sanctum.
Deanna glanced up from the sink, where she was vigorously shampooing a customer, and nodded in the direction of her station. “I’m running behind today, Carol. I hope you don’t mind waiting a bit. I told you on the phone that my schedule was pretty tight.”
“Not a problem,” I said, plopping down in a chair. “I appreciate your working me in on such short notice. But you might tell your new watchdog at the front desk to be a little more customer friendly. She bit my head off when I came into the salon, accused me of being late myself, and threatened to charge me a late fee if I did it again. Who the heck is she, anyway?”
Deanna rinsed her customer with a spray of warm water before replying. Handing the person a towel to drape around her shoulders, she said, “Head over to my station and I’ll be right with you.”
Then, to me, “I apologize if she was unfriendly. I’ll have a talk with her. Lisa’s never worked with the general public before. She can be a little rough around the edges.”
Thus pacified by Deanna’s apology, I settled down in my chair, hunted in my purse for my bifocals—never easily accessible for some reason I will never understand—and prepared to entertain myself with some lurid tabloid fiction.
Funerals Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 5) Page 11