by Sandra Balzo
‘The howling was Frank.’ My sheepdog was also quite fond of the sheriff. ‘And, yes, I’m crazy about Pavlik, and, no, I don’t want to lose him.’ Before she could do it, I added, ‘Yes, I know. Lose him again. I just don’t know if I want be married right now. To anybody.’
With our son Eric having just left for college, my stunned reaction to Ted’s announcement that he was leaving had been anger followed by terror and then loneliness. For the first time in my life, I was truly on my own.
Over the last two years, I’d adjusted to single life and even come to value my independence. I’d taken Eric’s dog to live with me when Ted and I split and, though Frank might not be much of a conversationalist, I was grateful to have him overstuffing my tiny post-divorce house.
And … while I cared about Pavlik and certainly had fantasized about a future with him, suddenly the thought of starting life all over again was throwing me into a panic. ‘I don’t know why we can’t just leave things as they are.’
‘Maybe Pavlik figures if he’s going to put up with your stumbling over bodies every few months, he’d like to know it’s for more than the occasional booty call.’
‘Isn’t that supposed to be every guy’s fantasy?’ I snapped. ‘No-strings-attached booty calls?’
‘There are always strings.’ Sarah’s expression changed. ‘But then maybe, flip side, he imagines that once you’re married you’ll stop the cavalcade of hot- and cold-running corpses.’
My head jerked up. ‘You make it sound like I generate them. Or go out looking. They find me. Besides, Pavlik knows me better than to think he can control that. Hell, I can’t con—’
‘Morning, ladies.’ Another cheery greeting, this time from a female voice and accompanied by a yellow-gloved wave from across the street.
‘Morning, Christy,’ I called back to our neighbor, just as happy to put the discussion with Sarah on the backburner for now. ‘We haven’t seen you for a while. Have you been out of town?’
‘No, I’ve been here.’ Piano teacher Christy Wrigley had crossed from her driveway to our side of the street, stripping off the rubber gloves as she came. ‘I’ve been working a lot lately, though. And, before that, I was at Ronny’s house, first getting it spic and span and then putting it on the market. So much so that I’m afraid I’ve neglected my own house.’
Fat chance of that. Christy made Mr Clean look like a slacker. Once I’d caught her scrubbing the wheels of our condiment cart with a toothbrush. And, no, she wasn’t an employee. Just one crazy-ass customer.
As for Ronny, that was Ronny Eisvogel, Sarah’s cousin by marriage and Christy’s new boyfriend, at least on visitors’ days. Currently, Ronny’s room and board was provided by the state prison system.
‘Ronny’s selling his place?’ Sarah asked before I could.
‘Why not? He won’t be home for years, thanks to you two.’ Christy said it without malice.
Ronny was an incarcerated nutcase and Christy a naive germaphobe. I figured it had worked because visits at the jail were conducted by video feed and, as far as I knew, the two lovebirds had never so much as touched. But the thought of them living together? Well, the gloves would be off. Or maybe not, in Christy’s case.
‘You’ve already listed the house?’ Sarah’s Kingston Realty had taken a back seat to the coffeehouse in the months since she’d partnered with me in Uncommon Grounds, but she still seemed miffed she’d missed a new listing.
‘We had an offer within the week and closed less than a month later.’
I noticed Christie hadn’t said who the listing agent was. Probably didn’t have the nerve.
‘When was this?’ Sarah asked, probing further.
She reminded me of a dentist making chit-chat so you don’t notice he’s drilling into the nerve. But then maybe I just had my dentist ex on my mind. Could Sarah be right and my failed marriage had more to do with my non-answer to Pavlik than I wanted to admit?
‘I must have missed the listing on MLS,’ my partner was saying casually.
‘We closed mid-December, but—’
‘December.’ My partner’s eyes flickered in what might have been reluctant admiration. ‘The holidays are a tough time to sell a house. Your agent was either lucky or good.’
‘Well, thank you,’ Christy said, pink tinging her face. ‘I used Craigslist.’
Sarah’s own face darkened at the mention of the ad website that allows sellers to bypass the traditional real estate agent and the multiple-listing service databank. And the associated fees, as well. ‘I hope you had a good lawyer do the closing, because—’
I cut in before we could be treated to a Real Estate 101 lecture. ‘So the new buyer has already moved in, then?’
Christy glanced uncertainly at Sarah’s face before pivoting to answer my question.
‘Yes. In fact, she’s meeting me here. Hannah has been a bit housebound since she cares for both her mother and another elderly woman. I’m trying to get her out and meeting new people.’
‘Not only a broker, but you’re a regular Welcome Wagon, aren’t you?’ Sarah sniffed, her nose apparently still out of joint.
‘I think it’s nice of you to take an interest, Christy,’ I said to counter my partner’s snit.
‘Hannah is a lovely woman. Besides,’ Christy dipped her head, ‘I kind of owe her my job. Along with Vickie, of course.’
I was confused. ‘So, you knew her?’
‘Of course. Vickie was one of my students when I taught piano.’
I wasn’t sure what Vickie she was talking about, but, ‘I meant your buyer. The person who moved into Ronny’s house.’
‘Oh, no. Like I told you, Hannah just moved here in December.’ Our neighbor was squinting at me like she thought I was losing it.
‘But you also said you owed her your job. I thought—’ I stopped.
Christy had a habit of sprinkling a conversation with names and facts, as if you should know these things. I, for one, did not. Not about Hannah, nor about the other factoid I realized she’d just dropped.
So I switched on the back-up beepers and rewound the conversation. ‘Wait. You said when you taught piano, past tense?’ I went to gesture at the piano lessons placard in the window across the street and realized it was missing. ‘What happened to your sign?’
‘Heavens, that sign’s been down since January. You really should pay more attention to your surroundings, Maggy.’
‘Yeah, Maggy,’ Sarah said, spirits apparently on the rise.
I ignored her. ‘But I thought you loved teaching piano, Christy. Was it not going well?’
‘Oh, it was going fine, money-wise.’ She looked first to the right and then to the left and lowered her voice. ‘Though seeing some of Ronny’s prison mates did give me pause.’
‘Because …’ I would have continued, but I didn’t have the faintest idea where she was going.
‘Convicts hate piano music?’ Sarah guessed. ‘Did they threaten you with a beat-down? Or Ronny with a shiv?’
‘Of course not,’ Christy said. ‘In fact, I’ve been asked to play at the prison and received a standing ovation each time.’
‘As the convicts got up to shuffle off in their leg-irons?’ Sarah again, naturally.
Christy wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, they don’t wear leg irons inside. Besides, there are white-collar criminals, too – fraud and such. Some are quite refined.’
As they’re stealing your money.
Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘My dear cousin is a killer. What’s he doing in with white-collar criminals?’
Christy’s chin went up to match. ‘Ronny is not your normal killer and you know it, Sarah Kingston. There were mitigating circumstances.’
‘I’ll give you he’s not normal,’ Sarah said. ‘And the mitigating circumstances are he’s bat-shit nuts.’
Christy’s mouth dropped open.
Before she could retaliate, which would only egg Sarah on, I asked, ‘You said seeing some of these prisoners gave you pause?’ I
couldn’t paraphrase because I didn’t have the faintest idea what she meant.
‘Yes, about the cash.’
‘Cash.’ I was giving parroting, a technique Pavlik used when interviewing witnesses, a try.
It worked. To an extent. ‘Yes, I certainly didn’t want to end up like them.’
‘In prison?’
She nodded and I put together the pieces of the puzzle. Prison, white-collar crime, cash. ‘You weren’t paying taxes on your income?’
‘Yes, I was.’ Christy’s bottom lip went out. ‘Most of it, at least. Or maybe some.’
‘Lay off, Maggy,’ Sarah said. ‘Piano teaching is probably a cash business. Who’d know?’
‘The coffeehouse is a cash business, too, at least partly.’ I felt my own eyes widen. ‘Please tell me you haven’t been skimming—’
‘Of course not,’ Sarah said, looking hurt. ‘How can you ask me that?’
‘Perhaps because you don’t seem to think tax evasion is a crime,’ I said. ‘Did you know that’s how they finally convicted Al Capone? The guy ordered the St Valentine’s Day massacre and it was tax evasion that finally brought him down.’
‘Isn’t that what bit the bad guy in The Firm in the butt, too?’ Sarah asked.
‘Among other things,’ I said. ‘I was reading an article the other day that claimed the Cayman Islands bankers still can’t forgive John Grisham for bringing attention to them as a tax haven.’
‘It was a good book,’ Sarah said. ‘And movie, too.’
‘Which isn’t always the case.’
Christy cleared her throat.
‘I’m sorry.’ I decided to leave movies, books and tax evasion behind. What Christy did was her business and Sarah’s views on what was OK in a cash business was going to be a private conversation between the two of us. ‘You were saying you’re not teaching piano anymore.’
Christy nodded. ‘Happily, I’ve found where my real passion lies, and it doesn’t require having grubby little fingers all over my piano keys every day.’
Passion wasn’t something I associated with Christy.
‘Thoooough …’ Christy seemed to be giving it some further thought, too. ‘Maybe passion doesn’t quite capture this feeling. It’s almost more a higher calling.’
‘You’re becoming a nun.’ Sarah was coiling the chain.
‘Heavens, no, although I did consider joining Angel of Mercy a couple years back. Did I tell you that?’
Angel of Mercy Catholic Church was one of two churches in Brookhills, the other being Christ Christian just down the street from me. ‘I didn’t know you’re Catholic.’
‘I’m not. But Father Jim was looking for an office administrator who could also serve as an organist on Sundays. If I’d taken the job, I thought it only right that I join.’
I frowned, trying to remember. ‘Aren’t you musical director at Christ Christian?’
‘Not any more. Not only did Pastor Shepherd not want to pay me, but every time I introduced myself as “Christy from Christ Christian,” I cringed.’
‘Too matchy-matchy?’ I asked the woman whose yellow rubber gloves matched … well, nothing.
‘Definitely. Besides, it turns out I’m an omnist. Who knew?’
Not me. ‘Is that like an atheist?’
‘Heavens, no,’ Christy said again. ‘An omnist respects all religions.’
Sarah frowned. ‘You made that up.’
‘Did not,’ Christy said, settling into her subject. ‘It’s a real word that goes all the way back to 1839. Ronny says it fits me perfectly because I’m so open.’
Sarah started to say something but I shot her a warning look. ‘Be nice.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘If you’ll recall, I told you I was done with being nice.’
‘To me, fine. But the rest of the world deserves better.’
‘I’m not sure what your problem with Ronny is, Sarah.’ Christy’s eyes were scrunched in what she probably imagined was a glare but she looked more like a near-sighted squirrel.
Sarah sighed, apparently deciding it wasn’t sporting to take aim. ‘You know me, Christy. I just like to kid around. I think Ronny is just … fine.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Christy said, unscrunching her eyes. ‘Because he has only the nicest things to say about you.’
‘I bet,’ Sarah said under her breath. And then added, more audibly and with a different inflection, ‘I bet! We were always like this as kids.’ She held up crossed fingers.
Knowing Sarah, I assumed the gesture was to ward off a lie, not to show the two cousins-by-marriage were peas in a pod. Sarah and Ronny hadn’t even known each other as kids, her aunt and Ronny’s father having married later in life.
Still, Sarah had made an effort and she deserved props for that. ‘That’s so sweet.’
My partner threw me a look and I held up my hand, fingers crossed to match hers.
‘It is sweet,’ Christy echoed.
‘Thanks,’ Sarah said. ‘Ronny’s right. You are very accepting and open.’
If Sarah meant ‘gullible,’ I had to disagree. Our neighbor might be quirky and sometimes downright peculiar but she wasn’t dumb. And she had me curious about this non-religion. Or maybe it was an ultra-religion. All things to all people. ‘So, do omnists have churches? Is it like being a Unitarian or something?’
Christy tilted her head to think. ‘I’m not sure, really. I just officially became one in January.’
‘Did you take an oath of omniscience?’ Sarah couldn’t restrain herself.
‘If I had, I would have known you were going to ask that,’ Christy pointed out primly.
Point to Christy.
‘I guess what I mean,’ she continued, ‘is that I may have been an omnist all my life but it’s only recently that I realized the belief has a name.’
‘Found it on Google?’ Sarah asked.
‘No, Brookhills Mortuary and Cremation. It’s how we describe our chapel in the brochure. So much more positive and inclusive than nondenominational, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’ Assuming anybody knew what omnist meant. But she’d dropped another tidbit. ‘You said “our chapel.” Are you—?’
‘Working at the mortuary, of course!’
TWO
‘I’ve been with Brookhills Mortuary and Cremation for nearly three months now,’ our neighbor told us proudly. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard.’
I was too, quite honestly. Brookhills was a small town and Christy – even without the yellow rubber gloves – one of its most colorful characters.
‘What are you, of all people, doing at a mortuary?’ Sarah tossed the rolled chain toward the corrugated cardboard box already containing the tarps that we’d pulled off the furniture. The chain uncoiled mid-flight and landed at my feet.
‘I’m doing what I do best.’ Christy stuck out her chin, which wasn’t much chin at all. ‘Cleaning. It was Ronny’s idea.’
I’d leaned down to gather up the chain and now I swiveled my head toward our neighbor. ‘I’m confused. Didn’t you say a Vickie and this woman who bought the house—’
‘Hannah Bouchard,’ Christy supplied. ‘She’s wonderful. And you know Vickie. She’s Sophie’s friend?’
‘Oh, Botox Vickie.’ A fan of ‘looking your best at any age,’ Vickie LaTour was in her seventies, a member of the Red Hat Society and hosted Botox and collagen parties the way my mom did Tupperware parties in our neighborhood.
‘But it was Ronny who inspired me, yet again,’ Christy explained. ‘He said I needed to play to my strength.’
‘Which means cleaning a funeral home.’ I still couldn’t quite believe it.
‘Oh, he wasn’t as specific as that,’ Christy said, her pale skin taking on a pink tinge again. ‘Ronny was speaking more big picture.’
‘From his small cell,’ Sarah muttered.
Christy shook a finger at her. ‘You can laugh, Sarah, but give your cousin credit. He sounds just like one of those motivational spea
kers when he waxes philosophical.’
Ronny was waxing philosophically while sitting on his butt in prison, while Christy would be waxing literally. And dusting. And vacuuming. ‘But a funeral home?’
Christy frowned. ‘Ronny says it’s important to recognize what makes us different.’
‘However does one choose?’ I heard Sarah mutter.
‘Cleanliness,’ Christy continued, ‘is obviously something I value. And I’m extraordinarily good at achieving it. The question that Ronny posed was how I could best use my talent. Find my niche, so to speak.’
‘And you believe your niche is at the funeral home?’ Between regular visits to prison and a job among the dead and the mourning, our neighbor seemed to be veering off her neatly cultivated garden path to take a walk on the dark side.
‘As it turns out, yes. When both Hannah and Vickie mentioned – the same day, mind you – that the mortuary was looking for somebody to clean, I realized it was a sign.’
‘Prescient and omniscient,’ Sarah said. ‘Too bad you didn’t know you were going to get the job before you sold the house. Short commute.’
‘Why? Where’s Ronny’s house?’ The funeral home was just a few blocks north of me on Poplar Creek Road. Given that Ronny kind of tried to kill me, it might have been nice to know he had been a neighbor.
‘Right next door to the funeral home,’ Sarah said and then sneezed again.
‘Bless you.’ I wrinkled my own nose as I thought. ‘But Christ Christian is on one side of the funeral home and there’s nothing but a rutted dirt path leading to the Poplar Creek woods on the other.’
‘Thank you.’ Sarah swiped at her nose with an Uncommon Grounds napkin. ‘And that rutted dirt path is what the Eisvogel clan calls a driveway. The house itself is set back behind the funeral home.’
Christy held out a tissue to Sarah, dangling it between thumb and index finger so as not to accidentally touch Sarah’s fingers. ‘You’re not technically incorrect in calling BM&C a “funeral home” but it’s really much more than that. It’s a full-service mortuary and crematorium.’
I had a feeling that Christy was quoting the aforementioned brochure. But yet another fact had been dropped, this one something that I probably should have known. ‘It’s a crematorium? Do you—’