by Morgana Best
I tried to shake it off. It was going to be a busy few days with the clown funeral and my attempts to rebuild the home’s reputation. I couldn’t see how Anna Stiles was going to help, but I deferred to Basil’s judgment on that. I could not think of a single reason that the woman would write anything positive about the clown funeral. I could, however, think of dozen or so horrible headlines she could come up with.
“So how are things going?” Tara asked me.
“As well as they can, I guess. I’ll be glad when it’s all behind me.”
“I can imagine. When it rains, it pours, huh?” Tara stopped to check herself in the reflection of a window, puckering her lips. “Clowns and murders. You can’t make that kind of stuff up.”
I had to smile. Since I had moved back to Witch Woods, my life had been far from dull.
“You know what you need?”
“Therapy?” I ventured.
“Chocolate and a good movie. How about we see a movie sometime soon?”
I turned to Tara. “What movie is it?”
“Gosh, Laurel, you have been gone for a long time. It’s a twin cinema now, has been for years. They have about eight movies going, all at different times, obviously.” She stopped and opened the door to the restaurant for me.
I was a little tempted. “It does sound like fun.” Truth be told, I was turning into a bit of a recluse, working seven days a week and worrying about the business.
No sooner had I sat down than I caught sight of a familiar face, or rather, profile. Anna Stiles, the supermodel journalist. I could smell her perfume from where I was sitting. It was the citrus one again. As the smell of limes, oranges, and lemons wafted over to me, I wondered what she was doing here. I looked at her companion, and my stomach fell. Basil!
A pang of jealousy hit me as I studied the two. They did make a handsome couple. They were paying close attention to each other, deeply engrossed in conversation. I had a strong feeling that they weren’t discussing deductions and net worth inventories.
“Tara, can we leave?”
“No, we have reservations. Why, what’s wrong?”
Tara looked behind her. “Oh! It’s Basil Sandalwood, your crush, and he’s with another woman,” she said in hushed tones.
“He’s not my crush. Oh, okay, so he is. Tara, stop looking,” I said, as she looked over her shoulder once more.
Tara turned back to me. “Why is Basil having dinner with that woman?”
“Silly question,” I said. “What man wouldn’t want to have dinner with that woman?”
“Do you know who she is?”
I nodded. “Yes, she’s Anna Stiles, the journalist I told you about. She’s the one who’s coming to do a story on the clown funeral.”
Tara patted my hand. “Don’t worry, Laurel. It’s probably a business meeting.”
“Oh sure,” I said sarcastically. “She’s interviewing him about the latest exciting tax laws. Can’t we just leave and go to that little Italian place down the road?”
“No,” Tara whispered. “He’s probably seen you. It won’t look good if we leave. Seriously, don’t be upset. You really don’t know for sure that they’re on a date.”
I smiled and nodded. I didn’t want to ruin Tara’s night just because I was melancholy. Why was I letting it get to me like this? It wasn’t as if Basil and I were an item. He had never asked me out, and he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so. So what if he went on a date?
Still, my stomach remained clenched, and by the time the waitress came to take our orders, I had lost my appetite.
I munched on my tomato pasta and listened to Tara tell me about the murder case. “So, your husband really doesn’t know anything?” I said in disbelief.
Tara nodded. “Those detectives don’t like to tell the local cops much. They’re keeping Duncan in the dark. Duncan says it’s obviously related to the murdered man, the criminal, not the funeral singer. The detectives did tell him that they can’t find a connection between the funeral singer and Alec Mason.”
“Yes, and like I told you on the phone, the funeral singer was murdered because he overheard the killer speaking to the corpse.” Tara was the only person who knew I could speak to ghosts, given that we had been friends ever since we were young children. Well, my mother did too, but she was in denial—strong denial.
Tara set down her wine glass and sighed. “If only I could tell Duncan, for all the good that would do. I don’t keep anything from him, apart from the fact that you see ghosts.” She chuckled.
Her chuckle was drowned out by raucous, loud laughter. I looked up to see Anna Stiles throw her head back and laugh like a hyena. I have never heard a hyena, but I imagine that’s how one would sound—a hyena, or a thousand kookaburras on steroids.
I averted my eyes and stared at my fork. It was silly of me to have a crush on Basil, but it wasn’t as if I had made a conscious decision to do so.
Somehow I managed to muddle through the rest of the night, but it was hard, given the spectacle right before my eyes.
I shook my head at myself as I started for home. Tara had offered to drive me, but I sorely needed a good walk to clear my head.
Of course, all I could think about was Basil. Anna Stiles was attractive, successful, and had that tough as nails attitude that seemed to turn men into puddles at her Prada-heeled feet. It was disappointing to see Basil fall for the siren song, but what could I do against someone like that?
“What are you doing?” a masculine voice demanded.
I whirled around. There was Basil standing behind me.
“Didn’t you hear me calling out?” he said.
“I’m sorry, Basil. I was lost in thought.” I guiltily hoped that he couldn’t guess that he was the subject of my thoughts. “I was just walking home.”
“So lost in thought that you’re walking home after dark? With a killer on the loose?” Basil raised his eyebrows. “One who used your funeral home as a crime scene?”
When he put it that way, it did make my walk seem a lot less rational. I suppressed a sigh. And to think that the walk was supposed to help me relax. Just thinking of the murderer being out there in the dark made me want to sprint for home.
“I’m a big girl. I can handle myself,” I said lamely. I hoped I sounded convincing.
“How about I drive you home?” He waved a hand toward his car.
I tried to peer through the windows. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your date,” I said uneasily. I wondered what was a worse fate, being attacked on the way home by a killer, or being stuck in a car with Anna.
“What date?” Basil looked over his shoulder.
I bit my bottom lip. Why did I mention the date? Now he’d know I had seen him earlier. Although come to think of it, what did it matter if I saw him? It was a public restaurant, after all.
Basil was still waiting for an answer. “Date?” he said again.
“I was at the restaurant with Tara,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “You and Anna seemed to be having a nice time.” I could feel my blood pressure shoot up even as the words were leaving my mouth.
To my surprise, he broke into a short laugh. “You have an odd idea of what a nice time is, Laurel.” His tone was terse. He did not elaborate as he gestured a second time at the car. “Let me sleep easy tonight. It will only take a minute or two to get you home safely.”
Had I been mistaken about Anna? No, they had definitely been having dinner together, complete with engaging conversation and kookaburra laughter.
I nodded. “Thanks.” I could hardly refuse the offer, although part of me wanted to do so.
“So what brought you out tonight?” Basil asked conversationally as he started the engine.
“Tara and I were having dinner together.” I had already told him that, so I wasn’t sure what he meant. Perhaps he was making idle conversation, unlike the intense conversation he had been having with Anna earlier.
“I see.”
I half-hoped that he would say more, but
he fell silent beside me. “So um, what were you up to tonight?” I asked him.
“Not much.”
It was a short drive, thankfully, given the lack of conversation. “Thanks, Basil.”
He cut the engine and hopped out. “I’ll walk you to the house.”
I was going to say that there was no need, but then again, the funeral home was a generous stone’s throw from my mother’s house, and it was a dark night. There were usually plenty of stars to be seen in the county, but tonight, clouds obstructed both stars and moon. Plus, Mom had not paid her church friend to do any gardening at her house, so there were still plenty of shrubs left, shrubs behind which any manner of killer could hide. I shuddered.
When we were almost at the door, my heel caught in the pavement, and I flew forward. The world wobbled and tilted sideways. A hand seized my elbow, sending an electric jolt up my arm. My forward momentum was strong and the heel was still firmly lodged. I clung to Basil’s arm as I did my best to free my heel. When I did so, I landed hard against his chest.
“I’m sorry. Thanks for catching me.” I was embarrassed because Basil was still holding me. Should I pull away?
He leaned forward, pressing his lips gently against mine. His kiss was soft and hesitant at first. It quickly became hungrier, more insistent as he ran a hand gently down my spine. His other arm crushed me to him, as if he were half afraid that I would disappear if he relaxed his grip.
Every nerve in my body was suddenly alive as I fell into his kiss. I curled my fingers gently into the lapels of his jacket. Everything about the night washed away from my mind. There was only that moment, that kiss. I hoped it would never end.
And then, without warning, he pushed me away from him. “This is wrong.” He shook his head and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. That should never have happened. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I stared at him in confusion. I could still taste his kiss on my lips.
“We can’t be together,” he announced. “Laurel, I’m sorry. I…”
“Good night, Basil,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. I unlocked the door quickly, went inside, shut it firmly behind me.
I leaned against the door until I heard him drive away. Tears rolled down my cheeks. If he didn’t want me, why would he kiss me like that?
Because the person he really wanted to kiss ditched him after dinner, an ugly, dark little voice nagged at the back of my mind.
I should have driven home with Tara. Or walked. Or jumped off a bridge.
Chapter 8
I walked down the long corridor to the cosmetician’s room, not looking forward to seeing Janet’s work. Usually, I was impressed to see what Janet could do with a body. She was certainly one of the best in the business, a master at making the deceased look as if they were simply sleeping.
Yet there was nothing tasteful about the funeral that was to take place that day. Lynette had been a clown, and her daughter, Daisy, who was also a clown—I shuddered at the thought—had instructed Witch Woods Funeral Home to bury the deceased in her clown makeup.
Mom, needless to say, had been angry when I accepted the request, but as most of our recently booked funerals had canceled, we needed this clown funeral.
While I disliked clowns purely because they scared me, my mother saw them as an affront to God. Of course, she could see most things as an affront to God, if she was really trying, and unfortunately, she was almost always really trying.
Janet stopped by the casket, which was mercifully closed, but then she lifted the lid. “This was one of the better jobs I’ve had,” she said cheerfully. “I’m not exactly happy that she bit it or anything, but I guess I sort of am. This was fun. I wish everyone got painted up like a clown. Why not? You’re just worm food when you die, your body at least. God takes the soul and the worms get the flesh.”
It was a chilling thought. Sometimes I forgot that Janet was religious. She went to my mother’s church, as did just about everyone else my father had ever hired. I was looking forward to the day when I could hire the first atheist who filled out an application, if only to spite my mother. If I could find a Satanist, that would be even better! I laughed at the thought.
“You’re so strange,” Janet said. “Why did you laugh for no reason?” Without waiting for me to answer, she pushed on. “This corpse looks amazing. If only she could see herself.”
I had to admit that Lynette did look good. It’s just that looking good meant she gave me the heebie-jeebies. Her face was white, her lips red, and the paint stretched on far past her natural lips. She had purple diamonds around her eyes, and Janet had even put her bright red wig upon her head.
“She looks great,” I said with a shudder, reaching forward and quickly pushing down the lid to the casket. “Let’s get her out there. I still need to finish the food.”
“All right,” Janet said in a bored voice. When she wasn’t being shockingly inappropriate or shockingly rude, Janet sounded shockingly bored. We pushed the casket along in silence.
When we reached the viewing room, Mom burst through the door and hurried over to lift the lid. “I’ve thought you had gone too far before, but this is it!” she exclaimed. “It’s an abomination! God will surely strike us down.”
“I don’t think he will,” Janet said. I was shocked. I was pretty sure I had never heard her speak to my mother. “Who doesn’t love a clown?”
“I’m telling you both that God hates clowns,” my mother said firmly.
“Why would you possibly think God hates clowns?” I asked, puzzled.
“It says so in the Bible,” Mom explained slowly, as if Janet and I were stupid.
I tried not to roll my eyes. “The Bible says that God doesn’t like clowns? I didn’t even think there were clowns back in those days.”
“And it shall come to pass that I will punish all such as are clothed with strange apparel,” she said, surely quoting a book of the Bible, just as surely as I had no idea which one.
“Did Jesus actually say that?” I asked.
Mom shot me an angry look. “Jesus wasn’t in the Old Testament, which you would know if you ever came to church. But I think Jesus would agree with what his father, God, said. One should agree with everything their father said, even if you knew he was wrong.”
I tried to get my head around that one, and failed. “Are you saying God was wrong in saying that strange apparel wearers should be punished?” For once, I wasn’t being sarcastic—I actually wanted to know.
Mom’s face went white, and she clutched at her throat. I thought she might pass out. “No, Laurel!” she screeched angrily. “Why do you always twist my words, you horrible heathen child? Do you know, you took three days to be born, and I knew you were going to cause me trouble. Why, I went to the bathroom and a lady asked me whether I’d had a boy or a girl. I was so embarrassed to say that I hadn’t had the baby yet! You caused me trouble then, and you’re causing me trouble now!”
I rolled my eyes. Here we go again, the three-days-to-be-born story, Mom’s weapon of choice when she was truly furious with me. I was relieved that Pastor Green was on vacation, as I knew he would have dressed as a clown too, and there’s no telling what Mom’s reaction would have been. She would likely have spontaneously combusted.
“Well, without this clown funeral, we won’t be able to pay our bills.” I wheeled the clown to the far end of the viewing room, in between two beautiful bouquets of yellow roses, the deceased’s favorite flower.
I pushed open the lid and turned so I didn’t have to look inside. Clowns were creepy enough, but a dead clown was even worse.
I looked up to see that Mom had followed me. “I won’t have a part of this! Rock stars are one thing, but this is another. There will be mourners coming, dressed as clowns. It isn’t right.”
“I don’t think anyone else will be dressing up as clowns,” I said hopefully.
“I will not be a part of this mockery,” Mom continued. “I’m leaving.”
<
br /> I shrugged. I knew it was pointless arguing with her.
Janet tapped me on the shoulder. “I could stay and help,” she said. “If you pay me for the hours.”
I almost agreed, but then a flash of Janet speaking to the mourners went through my mind, and it was as terrifying a thought as I had ever had. I smiled and shook my head. “Thanks so much, but it will be fine. I appreciate the offer, though.”
“I’m going to leave then. I’m tired of work,” she said, confirming the wisdom of my decision.
I had the food and drink all ready to go by the time Daisy arrived. To my relief, she wasn’t wearing her clown makeup.
“How are you?” I asked.
Daisy forced a smile. “I’m hanging in there.”
I showed her into the viewing room and left her at the casket. I’d only walked about two steps when Anna Stiles arrived, as impeccably groomed as always. Mourners walked in behind her. No one was in clown makeup.
Anna walked over to peer in the casket. “It’s a little weird, isn’t it?” she said loudly. “A dead clown?” This time, she smelled like roses and jasmine.
I sneezed. I took her by the elbow and maneuvered her outside the viewing room.
“To you and me, but to her daughter, it’s exactly what she wanted,” I hissed. At that moment, a clown walked through the front door.
It gave me chills. I thought the dead clown would be the scariest thing I saw at the funeral, but I was wrong. The scariest thing I had ever seen was a clown that could move and talk and come near me. And even worse, he wasn’t alone. Five clowns followed him. They all wore makeup and full costumes, with colorful patches, zany hats, and wigs. It really was a bit much, and to me, it was scary.
Still, there was nothing I could do about it. There was no stopping it, and as the funeral started in earnest, there didn’t appear to be any problems. I kept an eye on Anna. She did not say anything else inappropriate, but mingled and spoke with a few people, offering her condolences. I wasn’t sure if she told anyone who she was, or why she was there, but if she did, no one seemed to mind her presence.