Funeral Hotdish

by Jana Bommersbach

  She couldn’t possibly…What are the odds? But he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. She’d gone to ASU for an interview and come back asking about the witness protection program. Damn, that’s hitting too close.

  Rob followed her into the butler’s pantry off the kitchen where she kept her hootch, and leaned against the doorframe, blocking her way.

  Oh, oh, she thought. What door did I just open?

  “So tell me about your ASU interview.” He used his “good cop” voice. She almost laughed at how transparent that was—you can’t schmooze a schmoozer. She smiled up at him with her own beautiful brown eyes and punted.

  “I think this girl is legit—I think she’s got the goods on ASU. You won’t believe how they’ve been exploiting the Indians. They’re taking their blood, saying they’re going to do research on diabetes—you know, the tribe has one of the highest rates in the nation—but they’re not doing that. They’re studying schizophrenia and in-breeding and something about the Bering Strait Theory that says Native Americans aren’t natives at all, but immigrants from Asia. They’re lying to the tribe. It breaks every rule of scientific research. It’s going to tear ASU apart when this comes out. I bet it’ll be a national story.”

  Rob wasn’t really interested in this story, but Joya knew he was after something and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what. So she carried on all through dinner, giving him excruciating details about the fraud story, stalling.

  “How was the lab?” he asked her, as she forked into her coleslaw.

  “What lab?”

  “Isn’t that where graduate students spilling the beans on research fraud hang out?”

  Before she could stop herself she corrected him, “No, I interviewed her at the Goldbar Coffeehouse.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew she’d given herself away. Robbie’s dismayed face confirmed it. Hell, she’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book.

  They looked at each other and you could see the wheels turning.

  Shit, his eyes said. She knows.

  Damn, her eyes said. He knows I know, but how does he know?

  She put down the plastic container of coleslaw and they ate in silence. He felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. She felt like a python was strangling her.

  Her reporter’s mind ran through the possibilities—her homicide detective boyfriend knew about Sammy the Bull because he’d done yet another murder while hiding out here under the witness protection program, and Rob was trying to solve it. Okay, that could be it. Or he knew about Sammy because he was getting information from him about some other bad-ass who was murdering people in Phoenix. That could be it.

  Rob had an easier job of it, since he knew all about the Goldbar and the “court” Sammy liked to hold there. Shit, she could ruin everything!

  He took a deep breath. “So how is Sammy the Bull these days?”

  “Just fine,” she sang as she got up to clear the table. Turning away from him, her heart raced and her face stretched into an “oh-my-God.” This was going to be interesting! She returned to the table with coffee for him and tea for her.

  They regarded each other like matador and bull. This could get just that ugly if they weren’t careful.

  God, I love this man, Joya thought.

  I don’t want to lose this woman, Rob thought.

  For certain, neither one could walk away from this.

  “So tell me,” she said.

  “You tell me.”

  “No, you’re the one who knew about Sammy the Bull—remember, I’m the one who just now discovered he was in town—so I think it’s your turn.”

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “I’ve gotta hear how you stumbled on him. What, he walked in the coffeehouse and the piano player did the Mafia song?”

  “Exactly,” she yelped and fessed up, sharing the whole story. He laughed appropriately at the “Mr. Bull” line.

  “Your turn.” She pointed when she was done. “How did you know he was here? He’s being a bad boy? Don’t tell me his count is up to twenty or twenty-one?”

  Maybe she was giddy because of her startling discovery, or maybe she was pleased as punch for uncovering something that impressed her boyfriend, but she truly expected Rob to share his story on finding out that Sammy the Bull was at home in the Grand Canyon State.

  The fall was crushing. She listened with disbelief.

  “Joya, I’ve never asked you this in the entire time we’ve been together.…” Rob started in his by-the-book police voice. Her mind’s eye saw him packing his clothes and walking out the door. “…but I’m asking you now. Forget this. I’m not kidding. You’ve got to. Please.”

  Joya envisioned packing up his clothes and pushing him out the door.

  Her strike back was immediate. “That’s not going to happen, and you know better than to ask.” She felt sick.

  He looked into his coffee cup and wondered if he dared push—or if he was pushing himself out of her life—and knew the stakes were so high he had to push.

  “Joya. This isn’t a story about a Mafia guy ending up in Arizona in the witness protection program. This is a story that will get people killed. Sammy at the top of that list. Do you know how many goons out there want to make their mark by whacking Sammy the Bull? His family is here now and they’ll go after them, too. He’s got a wife and a daughter and a son and every one of them are marked. You write a story telling the world Sammy the Bull is in Phoenix and what do you get—an award? An interview on Pat McMahon’s TV show? And what does Sammy and his family get? Gravestones. Do you want to get these people killed?”

  Rob felt dirty, spreading it on so thick. He hoped she didn’t know enough about the Mafia to realize the family being marked was a lie. He hoped he’d touch the decency inside her. Six months of hard work depended on it. Six months of stakeouts and undercover surveillance and weeding through mountains of wiretaps.

  He put his hand on her arm and she pulled away.

  “I’m sorry. You’re nuts if you think I’d sit on this. Robbie, the goddamned piano player at the coffeehouse knows he’s Sammy the Bull. Those college students know he’s Sammy the Bull. Apparently, he’s important enough that the Phoenix PD knows he’s here. So why is it me that’s going to get him killed? It’s not, and you know it. That’s bullshit. This guy is strutting around ASU like he’s a rock star and all of a sudden, it’s ME who has to keep his secret to keep him alive? Don’t treat me like a fool. Now you can either help me with this story or you can get out of my way. It’s up to you.”

  Joya had never spoken to Robbie like that before. Had she gone too far? Not that it wasn’t where she needed to go, but she knew this couldn’t be good for them.

  Rob was taking his own measure. He’d failed to ward her off—hell, he hadn’t expected it to work in the first place—and now he had to decide how deceitful he could be and still keep her.

  If he told her the whole story now—if he shared information she couldn’t even guess—he’d jeopardize the entire investigation. It wasn’t only the Phoenix PD with a stake in his next words. How about the Drug Enforcement Administration? How about Customs? Try telling them their sting was upset because your reporter girlfriend happened to be in a Tempe coffeehouse when Sammy waltzed through.

  But when she found out the truth—when she discovered why it was so goddamned important not to announce that Sammy the Bull was in Phoenix until after they had him back in handcuffs—she’d leave him in anger.

  He didn’t want that. But he wouldn’t blow all this hard work, either. Jesus, they’d pulled him off homicide to work this case because he was such a good investigator—that reputation would be shot to hell if she spilled the beans. The only way he’d save the case was to save his relationship, because if he walked out, she’d work night and day to get that story into the paper.

  Shit, he consoled himself, she
’d probably figure it out by herself anyway. She’s such a bulldog—and she’s got this streak of dumb luck—she’d probably stumble onto the rest of it, too.

  If he were to save one of the biggest cases he’d ever worked and save the best relationship he’d ever had, Rob Stiller had to own up. The best he could hope for was a deal with his girlfriend that would give him and the DEA time to finish their work.

  Joya’s mind was jumping through hoops, too—thinking on your feet was a must for an investigative reporter—and it was very clear that the real story here wasn’t that Sammy the Bull was in Arizona. The real story had something to do with the Phoenix Police Department and its homicide detective sitting across from her. She was seeing only the tip of this iceberg. What was everything below? She didn’t know, but she knew who did, and now she had to get it out of him.

  Rob took a deep breath and started his plea. “Right now, this has to be under a cone of silence,” he demanded. “I’m not kidding, Joya. I’m going to tell you something that would ruin my career. You’ve got to promise me, you won’t fuck me over on this.”

  Joya felt a twinge of guilt as she reached over and touched his arm. “Of course I wouldn’t fuck you over.” She used her most reassuring voice and told herself she really meant it. Then, using the same silence-is-golden rule that police themselves often used, she sat there staring at him, not saying a word, waiting for him to continue.

  “If I tell you what’s going on, you’ve got to promise not to write anything until the right time,” he declared. “I mean it. Promise me. I’ll help you. You’ll be the only one with the inside story. But for that, I need your promise that this story doesn’t break too soon and screw things up.”

  Joya Bonner had a long-standing policy that she didn’t negotiate for stories. Nobody got to dictate terms or times. You make a deal and you’re dealing with a devil, is how she always thought of it.

  But on the other hand, without revealing a detail, her boyfriend had revealed there was a much, much bigger story here than simply a Mafia guy ending up in Arizona. She’d only see the rest of this iceberg if she cut a deal with a guy who already knew how wide it was and how deep it went.

  She laid down some tough, non-negotiable terms: She had exclusive access to the investigation. She would see everything. She could interview anyone she wanted. She’d eventually get access to Sammy. He agreed to every one.

  Rob was so relieved that she was pulling back, he’d have promised her anything. Both of them thought they’d won.

  Over the next hour, Detective Rob Stiller laid out an incredible story that would one day knock Arizona on its ear. “A new Arizona Mafia,” he’d said. Those words kept bouncing around Joya’s mind.

  She clearly saw why this story had to wait. Revealing that Sammy “the Bull” Gravano was in town was nothing. What he was doing would blow the doors off. But they’d never stop him if the story came out too soon.

  “I have the exclusive,” she emphasized to Rob when he was done. It wasn’t a question, but a declaration of their agreement.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Robbie, this is like a bad movie.”

  “Yeah, a bad movie where a lot of people can get hurt.”

  What a day, Joya mused, as she and Robbie went off to bed and fantastic sex.

  It was Friday, October 15, 1999.

  Chapter Three

  Monday, October 18, 1999

  K.C. Franken had never been more aware of his responsibilities as the town’s funeral director than when he waited for his son to bring Amber’s body from the Breckenridge Hospital.

  He’d had the biggest fight of his marriage over this, his wife spitting at him that it was inhuman to send Kenny to fetch the body of his classmate—the girl he’d watched die on that loft floor—while his best friend still lay in a coma.

  “Your own son could have died,” Margaret yelled at him. “He’s grieving. He’s been through enough. I’m already afraid he’ll do something to avenge this. Don’t push him. Let him alone!”

  But that was the point, K.C. told her. It could have been Kenny. It could have been any of them. It could have been all of them. It was the luck of the draw that it wasn’t. Their firstborn had to learn that when you take dangerous risks, sometimes you pick the short straw. Margaret didn’t understand that sending Kenny in the funeral coach to pick up Amber’s body was his way of teaching their son that lesson.

  Her only words that worried him were the “pushing-the-boy” part. It wouldn’t take much, and there were thirteen other boys in that Class of 2000 he had to worry about, too.

  He could still hear Ralph Bonner’s words after mass yesterday. “You guys keep an eye on your boys, because no telling what they’ll do to him. And there’s no sense this gets any worse. Let the law handle it.”

  Heads had bobbed in agreement because Bonner was a town leader known for his level-headedness.

  “I’m worried about her uncles,” Bernard Stine said. Everyone considered his words, since the former grocery-store owner was a man whose words were always sparse.

  “I’m worried about LeRoy,” someone else offered, but then, everybody always worried about crazy LeRoy Roth and his right-wing conspiracy theories.

  “If I were you, I’d worry about me because I want to take care of that piece of trash myself.” That was Earl Krump, and everyone knew this retired farmer wasn’t kidding.

  “Take it easy. Take it easy.” Ralph Bonner wanted to quiet things down.

  “Do you think they’ll send someone from Fargo to investigate?” The men looked to one another, waiting for reassurance that professional lawmen would be in town soon.

  Instead, they got the answer they dreaded. “Naw, I hear Sheriff Potter has already been to the hospital and declared the body a ‘crime scene.’ That son of a bitch.”

  “Sure, now he comes, like he didn’t know what was going on. We told him we had a drug dealer in town. The bastard wouldn’t listen.” That was Earl Krump again.

  “The sheriff’s as worthless as a tit on a hog.” K.C. couldn’t remember who made that salient point, but the words could have come out of his own mouth.

  He hadn’t said much, but his own fury matched Earl’s. Sure, he was worried that Kenny and the boys would go after the pusher, but he worried about himself, too. If he were given the chance to make this right, K.C. Franken knew he could beat that kid within an inch of his life.

  But he couldn’t think about that now. He had too much ahead of him. Too many responsibilities. Too many memories.

  It wasn’t just his boy he thought about as he waited in the Franken Funeral Home on Main Street. He remembered his own classmate from years ago, the man who’d never known the beautiful daughter born after a drunk driver took his life.

  K.C. hung out with Richard Schlener when they were going to Northville High School, Class of 1979. Richard was dating Nettie Hastreiter then. K.C. had yet to meet Margaret. Richard was the basketball captain, K.C., the football captain. When K.C.’s dad sent him to fetch a body in another town, sometimes he took Richard with him—it was a legitimate reason to ditch classes, and teachers didn’t ask many questions when you said you needed help for this particular errand. Richard had drawn the line, though, on K.C.’s regular job for the family business. So K.C. dug graves by himself and would eventually joke that he worked his way from the ground up.

  K.C. was one of six groomsmen who stood up when Richard and Nettie got married, and a couple years later, all those guys gathered at the Corner Bar to toast the father-to-be. That’s the same bar where they got wasted the night after Richard was killed.

  When they released Richard’s body after the accident—or the mangled mess of a body left when a drunk plowed into him at eighty miles an hour—K.C.’s dad stepped aside. “Son, I want you to handle this funeral.” He walked out the door.

  K.C. stood there, shocked and dismayed, for
the longest time, hating his dad for half of it, thanking him for the other half. Then he went to work. That was the day he knew he was meant to be a funeral director, because if you can embalm your best friend; if you can guide his grieving family through the painful decisions; if you can manage the details for his funeral, then you can handle anything. His dad was sure, too—this was the test that told Mr. Franken he could safely pass down the family business to K.C.

  But now, thinking about preparing Richard’s daughter, Amber—and knowing it could have been his own son—K.C. shuddered for the first time in years.

  He set the thermostat to sixty-two degrees in the Preparation Room. “Physicians and Licensed Personnel Only” said the antique sign painted on the door fifty years ago when his dad built this place. Even when he remodeled, K.C. painted around that sign.

  Kenny drove into the garage and K.C. couldn’t tell if his red eyes were from crying or from rage. But those eyes also held a defiance. He shrugged off his dad’s hand on his arm as they opened the back of the limousine.

  For a second, K.C. thought the body bag contained Richard all over again. But only a second. They wheeled Amber into the preparation room, where Kenny put his foot down.

  “I’m not staying for this,” he screamed at his dad. K.C. knew this wasn’t the son who’d carry on the family business.

  Pretty Amber wasn’t pretty anymore. Her chest wore the “Y” incision of the autopsy. Her hair was a mess. Her skin was gray and blotchy. Although he’d never admit it to Margaret, K.C. was glad Kenny hadn’t seen her like this.

  Her hysterical friends had picked her up off the loft floor and rushed for help. The boys half-carried, half-dragged Johnny to a second car, jamming his right leg in the stairway and breaking it below the knee. They angrily debated if they should speed to Fargo and the best hospitals in the state, or stop closer to home in Breck. The we-have-no-time-to-waste argument won, and the caravan blared their horns as they screeched into the emergency entrance. It made no difference. The girl was dead on arrival, regardless of where they’d taken her. She was dead before they got down the hayloft steps. Her friends just wouldn’t believe it.