Mourning Routine (The Funeral Fakers Book 1)

by S. E. Babin

  She never said a word about it, but I was hoarding that money like a dragon does its treasure just waiting for the perfect place to come along. I knew I’d find it and I knew it would be great.

  Until then, I had plenty of work to keep me busy here. My second assignment was starting soon and just thinking about it brought a great big grin to my face. Abigail, the woman from Chase’s work, had called me right after I’d gotten out of the hospital. I brought her in to meet Ruthie and she had just been hired as the newest mourner. We were becoming fast friends and she was pretty talented at crying on demand.

  Who needed Hollywood when you had the most talented actresses in the country working in a mountain town like Asheville? Not me.

  There really was no place like home.

  Sneak Peak

  Read the first chapter of MOURNING COMMUTE book 2 of The Funeral Fakers…

  I tucked the tiny bottle of fake tears more deeply into my tissue and sniffed daintily, scoping out the assembled crowd of mourners with a practiced eye. My baby blues caught on a handsome, dark-haired man standing back from the rest, and I did one of those embarrassing jerk-away things with my eyes, hoping he didn’t notice me noticing him again.

  He totally noticed me.

  He’d been staring at me since I’d arrived at the viewing an hour earlier. And his expression was anything but friendly. Somehow my eyes kept traveling to him, though I swear on the life of my spunky Pomeranian, Shakespeare, that it was pure accident.

  I wasn’t ogling the mourners.

  Really, I wasn’t.

  Of its own volition, my gaze accidentally slipped over the spot where he’d been again, and I blinked.

  He was gone.

  To cover my surprise, I turned to the elderly woman next to me and let my bottom lip quiver. I gave a practiced little sob and squeezed the fake tears in my tissue just as a big hand landed on my shoulder.

  I yelped, gripped the tiny bottle as if it was the only thing keeping me from plunging a thousand feet off a bridge to my death, and then yelped again as I shot a stream of faux sadness right into one wide blue eye.

  Fake tears ran like the River Jordan down my artificially pale cheek. “Oh!” I exclaimed as I tried to deal with the mess.

  I jerked around to eye the owner of the hand and forgot how to speak.

  Across the room he’d been yummy, definitely an eight-star performance on opening night. But up close and personal, Mr. Hostile was a solid fifteen stars, with a good three-minute standing ovation added in.

  Even with the glare on his face.

  I couldn’t help wondering why he seemed so angry with me. Surely it wasn’t because I was ogling him at the viewing of the man who was supposed to be my boyfriend. I gave that one a few moments of thought.

  Nah. That couldn’t be it.

  Hostile Hottie stuck the hand he’d accosted me with in front of my face, all but daring me to shake it. “Eddie Deitz.”

  I blinked. “Huh?” Brilliant, MayBell. Oscar-worthy response.

  My poor tissue was swamped with fake tears, and there were more of them trailing down one cheek. I couldn’t seem to get them under control. So, I decided to embrace the dramatic substance of the moment. I quivered my bottom lip and sniffled behind the lump of saturated tissue.

  Accepting his challenge, I placed a limp paw into his and allowed it to be pumped. “MayBell Ferth. It’s a pleasure.”

  Ugh! I wanted to kick myself. Who says that at a funeral? Jeezopete!

  His gorgeous green gaze narrowed slightly, bringing my attention to the thick fringe of black lashes framing his eyes.

  I’d do a year’s worth of PiYo classes to have lashes like that. And that was saying something because I hated PiYo with the power of a thousand suns.

  “Is there something wrong with your eye?” he asked.

  I mopped ineffectually at the fake tears with my soggy tissue. “Um, no, I’m just sad.”

  Stupid, May. Stupid.

  His expression told me he didn’t believe I was sad out of only one eye. I couldn’t blame him for his skepticism.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. But even though it sounded for all the world like a come on, the hostility in his gaze didn’t support that hypothesis.

  Nodding, I cast a look toward the open casket across the room and sniffled. “Josh and I had only dated a few weeks.” I could feel Eddie’s gaze on me. It was beyond hostile. I felt as if he was accusing me of something.

  Like lying about having dated his…Josh.

  Mr. Eddie Deitz was looking at me like I’d been caught standing next to Colonel Mustard in the library clutching the bloody murder weapon.

  Nerves jangling under his regard, I shoved a loose dark gold curl back into the chignon I’d forced my heavy hair into for the viewing.

  “You dated?” he asked, one dark brow peaking in surprise.

  My smile was the perfect mix of sad and nostalgic, with a touch of regret thrown in for good measure. “Yes. I’m going to miss him so much.” He eyed the lump of soggy tissue in my hand, no doubt noting the way all the fibers had melded together into a single slightly scary science experiment with a telltale, bottle-shaped lump in the center.

  “Funny,” Eddie Deitz leaned one broad shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his well-cut chest. “Josh never mentioned you.”

  At that point, I was actually pretty proud of my performance. I allowed tears to leak from my eyes. Both of them. And took a deep, shaky breath. “Our love was new. Delicate. We weren’t talking about it yet.”

  Scraping the drenched remains of my tissue under my nose, I tried to catch a glimpse of Eddie Deitz from under my lashes. My “not nearly as thick and long as his” lashes.

  He was still eyeing me like I should be wearing prison orange.

  “Eddie. How are you, son?”

  Mr. Deitz and I jerked around to find the father of the deceased heading our way. I was torn between relief and guilt.

  Had Mr. Mitner caught me ogling the mourners. Well, to be fair, not every mourner. Just the extremely grumpy Mr. Deitz.

  Alex Mitner dropped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. I fought the guilt, trying to decipher if the squeeze was a silent reprimand. Something along the lines of, “How dare you molest the mourners when I’m paying you to pretend you’re my son’s girlfriend.”

  Had he squeezed a bit harder than necessary?

  “How are you holding up, May?”

  I let a tear slide from my eyes and nodded, sniffling. The smile I gave him was sad, touched with regret, and had a tinge of romantic longing peppered in for good measure.

  I think it was some of my best work.

  Mr. Mitner seemed to like it. He gave me another squeeze and nodded as if he understood.

  Eddie Deitz didn’t look convinced by my performance.

  Le sigh… Everybody’s a critic.

  “I was just telling MayBell that Josh had never mentioned her to me,” Deitz said.

  Mr. Mitner’s mouth turned grim. “I’m sure there were a lot of things you two didn’t discuss. You haven’t been around much lately.”

  And just like that, the tension spiked into the stratosphere. I forgot to pretend to mourn for a beat as I looked from one to the other of the two men, trying to read their body language.

  It was something that I was pretty good at doing. Excellent really. And I credited it with a lot of my success as an actor. I could ascertain the most microscopic emotions in a human expression…decipher the smallest reaction in body language. Then I used that information to strengthen the roles I undertook in Community Theater.

  Or, at least, I had. Until I quit recently because I couldn’t stand the politics and personal drama anymore. I was currently working for a professional mourning company named Exit Stage Left. It was a much better gig overall. Even if I was occasionally distracted by the motives, emotions and unwitting cues of the people around the deceased.

  Right at that moment, the father of the deceased was ri
gid with anger, as if he blamed Mr. Deitz for his son’s death. And Mr. Deitz seemed cool as a cucumber. Too cool, I thought. Given that he’d apparently been close to Joshua Mitner in some capacity.

  “I have a job to do, Alex. I’m sorry I couldn’t devote every day to babysitting Josh.”

  My client turned to stone before my very eyes. His fists clenched into boulders at his sides, and his broad jaw transformed to granite. He beamed rage toward a seemingly unconcerned Mr. Deitz.

  Apparently, Mr. Eddie Deitz had hostility only for me.

  “I’m sure Josh wouldn’t have wanted a babysitter,” I said before realizing what I’d done.

  Never, never, never take sides against the client.

  Stupid, stupid, May.

  What had I done?

  Mr. Mitner’s granite jaw tensed for a moment and then, incredibly, softened. He rubbed a hand over it, sighing. “You’re right, my dear. I’m so sorry, Ed. That was unfair of me. I’m just so…” Genuine emotion swamped the older man and his shoulders rounded beneath it. He seemed to crumble before my very eyes.

  I found myself reaching for him. Wrapping my arms around him and giving him what comfort, I could. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Mitner.”

  He took a long, shuddering breath and pulled out of my embrace, nodding. Though his steely gray eyes were shiny with tears, he somehow willed the drops not to fall.

  Alex Mitner sniffed loudly, dragging a hand under his slightly oversized nose. “Thank you, May. That’s very kind of you.” Mitner scanned Eddie a quick look and then fixed an intense gaze on me. “Especially since you have your own grief to manage.” He held my gaze just a beat longer than necessary, and I caught his message.

  I’d veered perilously close to stepping out of character.

  Patting his arm, I nodded. “We take comfort being with others who share our pain.”

  He seemed to like that. Nodding brusquely, he offered Eddie his hand. “Come by the house after? We’re just having close friends and family over.”

  Eddie nodded. “Of course.”

  We watched him return to his wife, who was so distraught she’d slumped into a chair when they’d first arrived and hadn’t risen from it yet. Her face was an unhealthy color, and her eyes were rimmed with red. I didn’t think she’d stopped crying since entering the viewing room.

  If I hadn’t been warned by Ruthie Colburn, the owner of Exit Stage Left not to interact with Joshua’s mother. I would have felt the need to console her too.

  But apparently Mrs. Mitner wasn’t entirely on board with the whole “personal mourner” concept, and it was best not to rub her nose in it.

  A warm hand encircled my arm and I turned to find Eddie staring down at me. He had a look in his eye that concerned me a lot.

  Then he smiled, and icy fingers of fear slipped along my spine. “How about you and I go pay our respects to Josh. I don’t think I’ve seen you up there yet.”

  He hadn’t. And dang him I was hoping he wouldn’t. Not that I couldn’t do my part with the deceased in the casket, it was just that it was a delicate matter. The core of my performance. I preferred to do it when there’s no negativity staining my efforts.

  And Mr. Eddie Deitz was about a hundred and eighty pounds of pure negativity.

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  Professional Mourning can be a deadly business. Luckily, these 6 out-of-work actresses are on the job!

  Mourning Routine by S.E. Babin

  Kitty Crawford reached for stardom and fell hard. Now, in desperate need of some way to make ends meet, she skulks back to her hometown of Asheville. Unfortunately, the employment offers are slim pickings for a has-been whose sole talent is being able to cry on cue.

  That is, until one odd turn leads to another, which leads to the little-known profession of Personal Mourning. Here, the better Kitty can fake it, the more dollars she’ll find stacked up in her bereft bank account. Talk about a role she was born to play!

  And townsfolk are just dying to hire her. Her first gig casts her as the bereaved girlfriend of one newly deceased Chase McCormick, someone she would never have dated in life. Still, Kitty will have to act like her life depends on it, because--OMG!--it does.

  Can she perform an investigation that could turn out to be murder before she gets her own curtain call? Find out whodunit in this hilarious mystery series filled with fake tears and a very real body count... Order your copy and start reading today!

  Get your copy at www.sweetpromisepress.com/TheFuneralFakers

  Mourning Commute by Sam Cheever

  May Ferth was born with stars in her eyes, but apparently not her future. Never able to break past the community theater, she’s overjoyed to finally land a role that comes with a paycheck: Professional Mourning for the win!

  And in her first performance, she shines as the fake girlfriend of a professional crime scene cleaner. Unfortunately, this time she shines just a bit too bright. Now everyone suspects that she might have played more than a bit part in her pretend boyfriend’s death!

  Luckily for her, May comes from a family of cops. And, despite her talent for acting, she has a lot more Detective in her than Diva. Unluckily, however, the threats become all too real as May gets closer to shining a spotlight on the real villain.

  Can May rewrite the ending of this staged play or will this be her final bow? Find out whodunit in this hilarious mystery series filled with fake tears and a very real body count... Order your copy and start reading today!

  Get your copy at www.sweetpromisepress.com/TheFuneralFakers

  Mourning Express by K.M. Waller

  C-list actress Rosie Collins’ name is making headlines… unfortunately it’s only with the tabloids. Now, with a freshly minted reputation for being a troublemaker, not even the local Dollar General store will hire her to twirl their sign.

  Problem is the job offers stop, but the bills don’t. Rosie needs cash fast, like, express-lane fast. Might Professional Mourning be the answer? Sure, yeah, whatever.

  Never one to mince words, her first job is to deliver the eulogy for the most hated man in all of Asheville. Now she’s got a new problem. Namely, that the newly deceased’s slip-and-fall accident seems like it may have been more of a push-and-fall murder.

  Will Rosie find a way to solve this deadly mystery, or will her next role be as Harold’s replacement in the coffin? Find out whodunit in this hilarious mystery series filled with fake tears and a very real body count... Order your copy and start reading today!

  Get your copy at www.sweetpromisepress.com/TheFuneralFakers

  Mourning After by Stephanie Damore

  Aspiring stage actress Maven Mackenzie tried to take a bite out of the Big Apple… and choked. Returning from NYC with her head down and ego shattered, she had no idea what to do next. Until the Funeral Fakers find her and offer her a role as a Professional Mourner. It isn’t the best gig she’s ever gone after, but, hey, it’s something.

  Her boring new life goes from 0 to 60, ho
wever, when a family friend winds up murdered. Now finding the killer lands squarely on Maven’s unprepared shoulders.

  But when the deceased was a real pistol, and everyone in town seems to have a motive, the killer could be anyone--and they could strike again at any moment.

  Can Maven uncover all the right clues to solve Asheville’s latest funeral fiasco? Find out whodunit in this hilarious mystery series filled with fake tears and a very real body count... Order your copy and start reading today!

  Get your copy at www.sweetpromisepress.com/TheFuneralFakers

  Mourning Star by Ava Mallory

  Telenovela starlet Viviana Romero had it all… until her husband stole it right out from under her nose. And gave it to another woman, no less! Angry, disgraced, and still very much in shock, Viviana goes into hiding.

  Taking cover as a Professional Mourner in Asheville, North Carolina, was supposed to help ease her embarrassment. Instead it puts her in direct contact with the real reason her money went missing--and it’s much, much worse than a cheating husband. Yikes!

  Drama like this was only supposed to happen in her telenovelas. Now the most far-fetched plot Viviana’s ever run across is one that’s live action and just might get her killed. Can Viviana remain safely hidden while solving the crime and regaining what’s rightfully hers?