by Sofia Grant
“You’ve got to come,” she said. “Decisions have to be made. The”—she had been about to say mortuary, but what she really meant was body, and that was not a thing she could think about just now—“service,” she said instead.
“Yeah.” Harry sounded not so much heartbroken as annoyed. “I’ll have Eugenia start working on that. I guess I probably need to call Father Fletcher and find out when we can have it.”
“No, Harry, she wanted to be buried here. In Reno, with her parents.” She waited for it to sink in that Vi could not be buried in the Carothers family plot, not after Harry had taken up with that tramp from last night and asked for a divorce.
“We don’t know anyone in Reno!”
“There’s cousins, I think,” Francie said defensively. “Nieces and nephews.” Another thing she needed to do—contact what little was left of Vi’s family.
“I wouldn’t know about that. We haven’t seen them for years.”
Because you didn’t want to, Francie thought bitterly. Vi’s remaining relatives were country folk, farmers and laborers, and Harry thought them coarse.
“She sent them birthday cards and Christmas cards and presents.” Francie knew, because she’d shopped with Vi for gifts for her nieces’ and nephews’ weddings, practical things like everyday dishes and stewpots. A check for every child who graduated from high school.
“Well, that’s Vi. Give away the shirt off her back.”
“The point is, Harry, that Vi wants to be buried here, and that means we need to find a mortuary and contact the cemetery and plan a luncheon and—”
“How the hell is Eugenia supposed to do all that? And who’s going to run the office while she does?”
Red spots were floating in front of Francie’s eyes. She squeezed the telephone receiver so hard she was sure it would break. “Since you are still her legal husband, I believe the responsibility falls to you, Harry.”
“For the love of Christ!” Something clanged in the background, and a man let loose a colorful string of curses. “Sorry, some idiot just dropped a pallet. Francie, we opened today. I’ve got shows back-to-back through the weekend. Hundreds of people are paying three dollars and fifty cents each to see a mushroom cloud, and I’ve got reporters here from three states. I had to get a goddamn cowboy to drive an iron grill big enough to roast two pigs on a flatbed truck into the desert for this day. There is no way I can do what you’re asking, not this week.”
After a brief silence he added, in a calmer tone, “It’s not that I don’t want to, you know that. I’d be there if there was any possible way. Vi would understand.”
It was that last bit that made something snap inside Francie. Because Vi would have understood. She always did, when it came to Harry—right up until he asked for a divorce. She’d refused him for months until she suddenly changed her mind for reasons known only to her. Vi had excused every forgotten anniversary, every time his car smelled like another woman’s perfume, every maudlin promise to do better after every single transgression. And all it had done was embolden Harry to commit more and more brazen acts.
“She might,” she snarled, “but I don’t. I will never understand how you could have ended up with her and not count your lucky stars every day of your life. But if you don’t have the decency to give your own wife the farewell she deserves, I will. I’ll take care of everything, and I’ll have the bills sent to you. We’ll do it on Tuesday, so you can have your precious grand opening weekend and even a day to travel. All you need to do is show up. And trust me when I say, Harry, that if you don’t show up, then I’ll never speak to you again—I’ll curse you every day of my life.”
“Calm down, Francie, you sound like you’re about to have a coronary. Jesus H. Fine. Leave messages at the hotel, okay? And look, I’ll send Charlie to pick up her things, have him give you a hand. We can do without him here. Whatever needs to be decided, Charlie can take care of it. He can be there tomorrow.”
This was the best offer Francie was going to get. “Have him come here to the hotel once he gets settled. I’ll let them know we’re expecting him. I trust you have the address where we’re staying—seeing as you booked both Vi and Willy into the same place.”
She’d forgotten that trump card until just now, because who calls a newly widowed man expecting to have to shame him to decency? The silence following her last remark confirmed that Harry had been hoping Willy’s identity would stay his secret.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said defensively. “I found that place for Vi, the nicest place in town. But she kept refusing to go, she said she’d never give me a divorce and meanwhile I’ve got Willy hounding me to send her so she and I can . . . and anyway I can’t help it if Vi suddenly changed her mind and wouldn’t listen to reason, I told her wait a month or two, what’s the rush all of a sudden—you think I wanted those two to run into each other?”
“Why is it,” Francie asked coldly, “that no matter what you’ve done, you always have to be the victim? Why is nothing ever your fault? Listen to yourself. You’re the one who made a laughingstock of her, but you’re blaming your wife, the woman who vowed to stay by your side through sickness and health, for—”
“I’d love to do this all day,” Harry bellowed over the noise in the background, “but as much as I enjoying you taking your misery out on me, I’ve got a job to do so I can pay for all of this. Look, once you settle down, you’ll see I don’t have a choice. And I appreciate what you’re doing, Francie, I really do. She would have done it for you.”
He hung up before Francie could respond. What would she have said, anyway? Of course Francie would have done anything for Vi; neither of them had ever needed to ask.
Chapter 18
Virgie
Virgie was the one who answered the door when the first of the reporters arrived, but after that her mother took over and she was ordered down to the end of the circular drive to direct traffic. Guests—coming or going—were to be told not to speak to reporters and to be reminded, if necessary, that discretion was guaranteed to all guests at the Holiday Ranch. And reporters were to be told that they were not to park on private property, and that none of the staff had any comment.
After the first newsman—the crime reporter from the Evening Gazette—was shown the door; the rest had to content themselves with standing around on the sidewalk. Virgie’s mother assured the staff that they’d be gone by the next day, when some other story caught their attention, but for now they were to be ignored and endured. A cameraman from the Nevada Appeal tried to sneak past Virgie to get a better shot, but when she told him her mother would call the police, he retreated.
None of them seemed interested in asking Virgie what she knew, which showed how dumb they were, because she could have told them a lot. Still, when a short, thickset man in a white shirt sidled up to her, she checked the name tag on her smock to make sure it was straight and tried to look extra serious.
“Say there—what’s going on here?” he said. He took a cigarette from his pocket and struck a match on his teeth. Virgie tried not to look impressed.
“Police business,” she said curtly.
“Well, obviously.” He scratched his head. “But what happened? Robbery?”
Virgie took a closer look—the man had no notebook, no camera, nothing but a cheap wristwatch and a signet ring shaped like a horse’s head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Guest drowned,” the fellow from the Gazette said. “One of the divorce gals.”
“Drowned?” the stranger repeated. “What was her name?”
The cameraman glared at Virgie. “She knows, I’d wager,” he said. “But she’s not talking.”
Virgie didn’t like the way the stranger was looking at her. “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t, but I couldn’t tell you anyway. All guest information is confidential.”
The reporter snorted. “Older lady. There’s a rumor she jumped,” he told the man. “Cops aren’t saying if she left a note.”
&nbs
p; Virgie felt her neck grow warm. She was pretty sure her mother wouldn’t want them talking about notes. There had been a suicide at the ranch years ago, when Virgie was too young to remember—a lady whose six weeks were almost up was found in the old stable that Clyde used as a toolshed. Somehow she’d gotten the door open (likely, Clyde left it unlocked) and driven her car in late one night. She closed the door and got back in her car with the motor running, and Clyde found her the next morning. The papers ran a story featuring photos of the car being towed out of the shed, and bookings were down for months afterward. Virgie certainly wasn’t about to tell the reporters any of that.
The stranger flicked ash onto the lawn. “Damn shame. How are the rest of the gals taking it? Something like that could really shake a person up.”
“We’re not talking about it,” Virgie said. Honestly, sometimes she could see why her mother was so strict. “So that they don’t get shook up.”
“Yeah, I get it.” The stranger dropped his butt onto the sidewalk and ground it out with his shoe. Now somebody was going to have to pick it up. “I guess you just never know what love will drive a person to do.”
Chapter 19
June
June had bathed Patty and was dressing her for lunch. She hoped it would be served on time despite the morning’s excitement, since Patty hadn’t had anything but the toast Mrs. Swanson had made for her hours ago. She was almost ready to go when Francie knocked on the door.
“I’m sorry to bother you, June,” she said. She looked terrible—there were dark circles under her eyes, and she’d obviously been crying.
“Please—come in.”
“Oh, look at you, sweetheart—aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Francie told Patty. She sat on the edge of the chaise and opened her arms, and after a moment’s hesitation, Patty clambered up into her lap.
June was surprised, but she supposed that she’d better get used to Patty being with strangers, since she’d have to find a job pronto now that her benefactor was dead. The shock of poor Vi’s death was bad enough, but the knowledge that she was back to square one, broke and alone in a strange city, was overwhelming.
“Mrs. Meeker—”
“Francie. Please, June.”
“Francie.” It felt awkward to be addressing a woman her mother’s age this way. Especially given what she needed to say. “I don’t mean to add to your hardship, especially at a time like this, and I’ll be . . . that is to say, I just—Patty and I just—”
“Whatever is wrong, dear?”
“It’s just that I haven’t had time to find a place to stay yet and I was wondering, if it wasn’t too inconvenient, if Mrs. Swanson wouldn’t mind, if I could stay just until tomorrow morning? Because I can spend the afternoon looking for a new place. With any luck I’ll find a job too, and I’ve got enough to put a deposit on a room.”
“My goodness, June, don’t be ridiculous! The room is paid for, and I won’t have that wretched Harry getting one cent in refund, so there’s no reason for you to leave. I’m sure Vi would have wanted you to stay.”
“But—ma’am—I couldn’t,” June said, shamefaced. She’d seen the rate card in the drawer of the desk—a single night in the suite cost twenty-two dollars. “There’s plenty of perfectly nice places that don’t cost near as much. I might even be able to get board if I can find a position with a family. And I don’t want to be a burden while . . . while Mrs. Carothers’s family is here.”
She’d been worrying about that all morning—that Vi’s family would arrive and demand to know why June was staying in her room. That they might actually think she had taken advantage. It would be so hard to explain—why would they ever believe that Vi would invite a perfect stranger in?
Francie was regarding her oddly. Had she said something wrong?
“June—”
“I’m sorry, Francie, I know it didn’t come out right. You and Vi did so much for me already. Now you’ve got bigger things to worry about and I don’t want to be in the way.”
“But that’s just it. I’ve just had an idea. June . . . didn’t you say you have secretarial experience?”
That wasn’t the question she’d expected to hear. “I typed and filed for my uncle’s business when I was in high school, and I started secretarial school,” she admitted. “But I dropped out when I got married. Stan didn’t like me working and besides, I was awful sick when I was expecting.”
“It doesn’t even matter. You’re smart and quick and I can help out too. June, I’d like to hire you to arrange Vi’s funeral and help me with her affairs.” Francie became more animated. “There’s so much to do! She wants to be buried here in Reno, you see, and we have to contact all her family and her friends to let them know. We’ll have to find them rooms—the ones who can come—and we’ll need to plan a luncheon. I told Harry we’d have the service on Tuesday, which gives us—” she glanced down at her watch and shook her head. “Honestly, I’ll never pull it off alone. I’ll pay you, of course, and we can get set up right here in the suite, and perhaps we can ask Mrs. Oglesby to watch Patty again. Please, say you will, or I don’t know what I’ll do.”
June looked closely at Francie to see if she was lying—not about Vi’s wishes but about needing her help. It had been very difficult for June to accept the generosity Francie and Vi had already shown her, and she never would have agreed to it if it weren’t for Patty—but she wasn’t about to get into the habit of accepting charity.
“I’m sure you could hire someone better,” she hedged. “I bet there’s lots of girls who could help.”
“But I don’t want anyone else. Don’t you see? I’ve just lost my best friend—I can’t bear to see strangers going through her things. And even though we only just met yesterday, I feel like—well, you’re kind, and good, and I could use a friend.”
June could see that Francie was close to tears again. Hastily, she agreed. “I’d love to help, and I’ll work as hard as I can, I promise.”
“Oh, good.” Francie visibly relaxed. She kissed the top of Patty’s head and gently set her down. “Let’s get this little one fed and see if Mrs. Oglesby can watch her, and then we’ll get started. We’ll need to make arrangements with the mortuary right away. And we must call to put a notice in the paper—here and back in San Francisco. And of course we need to start making calls to her family.”
“It’ll be all right,” June said, wishing she had more to offer than this tired lie.
Chapter 20
After getting Patty settled with Mrs. Oglesby, who assured her that she welcomed the chance to “do something other than waiting around feeling miserable,” June helped Francie rearrange the living room so that the coffee table was next to the writing desk, so the two of them could work side by side. Francie had found Vi’s address book in her purse, and she laid it next to her daybook and her checkbook, and began making a list while June copied down the phone numbers of florists and mortuaries from the phone book.
While Francie started making calls, June made a neat list of the names and phone numbers of every entry in June’s address book that wasn’t a business, like her hairdresser and dentist and window washer and the like. She divided them into family, local and out-of-town friends as best she could, marking those she was unsure of for Francie to review.
June listened to Francie talk on the phone while she worked, marveling at her confidence. June had never heard a woman speak with as much authority as Francie did. She didn’t hesitate to ask for clarification or object when she was given the runaround, whether she was speaking to a funeral director, a church secretary, or the cemetery manager.
When the funeral director balked at speaking to someone who wasn’t immediate family, Francie had asked him if he wanted her business or if she should call someone else. She’d told the cemetery manager she’d pay overtime if necessary but the flowers would be planted around Vi’s parents’ graves by the morning of the funeral. And when she read from the obituary she’d composed, she included herself—�
��Frances Meeker, friend of many years”—among those left behind.
June was torn between intimidation and admiration. Her own mother had grown up in poverty and quit school in third grade, and she’d always been ashamed of her lack of education, her bad teeth, the hardships of trying to get by, especially after June’s father died. June had seen her mother reduced to tears when a traveling salesman looked around their humble living room and left without even opening his sample case. She’d been too afraid of telling the doctor about her pains until it was too late.
It was a priest who finally dented Francie’s composure. She had called two Catholic churches and been told by the administrative staff of each that a funeral Mass could not be arranged until the proper documents were received from Vi’s parish in San Francisco, as the church she’d attended as a child had burned down and all the sacramental records were lost. The parish priest himself answered the telephone at the third church Francie called. After listening to Francie explain the situation, he hinted that the process could be expedited should Francie make a generous donation to the parish fund.
“Are you suggesting, Father, that my friend, a pious woman who has lived a life of faithful service, who has made countless donations to dozens of charitable organizations, not to mention the church she has attended for the last three decades, must pay for the privilege of her own funeral Mass?”
June watched Francie’s expression grow thunderous; the priest’s response obviously didn’t satisfy her, because she barked, “I’ve heard enough, thank you,” and slammed the receiver down in the cradle.
“This is ridiculous,” she fumed. “For all the money Vi’s given the Church—you know what, come to think of it, maybe I should just call her priest back home and see what he can do.”
Armed with the phone number June had found in Vi’s address book for the parish office, Francie spent the next twenty minutes wheedling and pressing her case until Vi’s favorite priest, Father Fletcher, agreed to make the trip to Reno on Tuesday.