Funeral Hotdish

by Jana Bommersbach

  Joya bought a dozen—no baby’s breath because her mother was allergic—but rich greens and a satin gold bow. Maggie loved them, but scolded her daughter for spending so much money.

  “You should go visit Gertie,” Maggie suggested after lunch. “I don’t think we’ll have her much longer.”

  “Great idea.” Joya was chagrined to realize her promised call to Gertie months ago had never happened. “When’s a good time?”

  Maggie called the house to ask Wanda when Gertie took her nap and if today would be okay for Joya to visit. “Oh, I think that would be fine. No, she’d love to do that. I’ll send her over at three.”

  Joya nodded. Her mother was the only person she’d allow to set a schedule without checking. “Wanda’s got an eye appointment in Wahpeton at three-thirty, so you’ll go over at three and stay with Gertie till she gets back.”

  That “babysitting job” would be about one and a half hours. Fine. She’d always loved Gertie. The woman was her late grandmother’s best friend, and she told great stories.

  She arrived early at the neat, small house that Gertie and her sister shared. She liked its screened-in front porch—not usable now in the snow, but the unofficial “living room” for the women all summer. Today, for the first time, Joya realized the front porch was the largest room in the house. The rest was two tiny bedrooms, a closet of a bathroom, a one-butt kitchen and a living/dining room just big enough for two recliners and TV-tray side tables that held books, magazines, mail, and a space big enough for a cup of tea or glass of milk. Both recliners faced the television, encased in a cabinet that must have been here since these women were girls.

  Gertie was in her recliner. Joya figured that was where she spent most of her waking hours. The first thing she noticed was that the woman was skin and bones. Her collar bone was so sharp, Joya thought it would rip through the neckline of her dressing gown at any second.

  “When did you get so skinny?” she joked with the woman.

  “I don’t have much of an appetite these days.”

  “Wish I had that problem.”

  “Don’t worry, you look fine. A couple extra pounds never hurt anybody.”

  Joya saw that Gertie’s eyes kept darting to the television and realized she’d been in the midst of watching Oprah.

  “I love Oprah,” Gertie whispered, admitting a guilty pleasure.

  “Oh, me, too. Let’s watch.”

  “Oh, Amber, I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Joya was stabbed with sadness that this dear woman was not only wasting away, but losing it. What did she expect? The girl had been like a granddaughter to her, and to lose her like that!

  During a commercial break, Joya offered to make tea.

  “That would be lovely, Amber, thank you.”

  She went to the kitchen and knew her mother was right—they weren’t going to have Gertie much longer. She wondered if the woman remembered her own sister. But when she came in, she was sure Gertie knew who she was, so she used an old trick on the woman.

  As she settled the cup and saucer on the only clear space of the side table, she said, “I was just saying to myself the other day, ‘Joya, you’ve got to drink more tea.’”

  Gertie blinked twice, looked her in the face, and smiled, recognition in every wrinkle. “That’s a fine idea, Joya. I can’t tell you how much pleasure I get from a good cup of tea.”

  After Oprah, Joya worried how they’d spend the time, but Gertie was now anxious to talk.

  Joya had never expected this conversation.

  “You can’t worry about your father, dear,” she began. “He didn’t kill that boy. You do know that, don’t you?”

  Joya blanched. “Yes…yes, of course. I don’t think my father is capable of killing anyone. He’s a good man, Gertie. A decent man. He might have made some mistakes, but I’m certain he couldn’t kill anyone.”

  “No, he didn’t. Neither did his friends. You know, that Earl blows up now and then, but he’s a real softy. You know what he told me one time? He told me he had two moments of every year when he was happy ‘from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes.’ One was the early spring when he got on his tractor to face a field to plow. The other was the end of harvest when he turned off the combine. Now somebody who loves the earth that much is no killer. No, Earl didn’t do it.

  “And Bernard. I’ve never seen a man who can cry so easily. He couldn’t hurt a flea. He’s so quiet—Norma is perfect for him. No, he didn’t kill that boy. What was his name?”

  “Crabapple.”

  “Don’t call him that. Call him by his real name.”

  “Darryl.”

  “Those men didn’t kill Darryl, and the whole town knows it. If we have to, every single person in this town will get on the witness stand and swear on a Bible that we know these to be good, honest men. Father Singer will certainly stand up for them, and I bet we can get the Bishop down here. He thinks the world of your dad because he paid him back. When they redid the church roof, they borrowed money from the Bishop and your dad saw that every cent was repaid. Nobody ever repays the Bishop, so he loves your dad. No, don’t you worry. We have plenty of wonderful things to say about those men, and no jury would ever convict them.”

  Joya was amazed at how Gertie had put all this together, mentally making a list of character witnesses. She was glad that Gertie was so certain of their innocence.

  “Johnny didn’t kill that boy, either.” Gertie spoke as though it were common knowledge.

  “He didn’t?” Joya almost yelled.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Joya waited for more explanation and when none came, she gingerly asked, “Gertie, how do you know Johnny didn’t kill Cra….Darryl?”

  “Because a boy who’s about to kill himself does not lie in his last confession.”

  Joya hadn’t felt an electric charge up her spine like this since she’d discovered Sammy the Bull was in Phoenix—and that one had been mild, compared to this shock.

  “You, you, you heard his last confession?”

  “Wasn’t ’sposed to. I was in the sacristy polishing the brass candlesticks and Father was out in the church with his paint kit, touching up the stations of the cross. Johnny came in and said he needed to make his confession. They sat in the front row, face-to-face, and Johnny told him. You know how sound bounces in that big church. I could hear them plain as day.”

  Joya’s breathing had become irregular.

  “What did you hear Johnny say?” She used her most gentle voice.

  “He was crying and carrying on. He confessed to Father about giving Amber that pill that killed her. And he said he wanted to kill that boy. He intended to kill him. He even figured out where he was, and he went there but somebody had beat him to it, and the boy was already dead. Johnny said it was probably just as much a sin to want to kill so badly, so he wanted that off his soul. He wanted a clean slate. He wanted a chance. I’ll never forget him saying, ‘I know I have to go to Purgatory and I’ll probably be there a long, long time, but maybe someday I can get to Heaven and be with Amber.’”

  Gertie started crying softly as she shook her head at that memory and the heartbreaking admission of a boy in his last hours.

  “Father knew then that Johnny was going to kill himself. I knew it too. And Father tried so hard to talk him out of it. He talked and talked, but it didn’t do any good. Johnny kept crying and begging for absolution and Father gave it to him, but he never stopped begging. Maybe I should have run out of the sacristy and tried myself, but it didn’t seem right to interfere with his last confession. Poor Johnny, oh, that poor boy.”

  Joya realized she was crying. She tried to speak, but sometimes when she cried, her voice got very high and squeaky, and it did that now.

  “That’s okay, dear, it’s a sad story,” Gertie said. “It’s a very, very sad story. But now ev
eryone thinks Johnny killed that boy. The sheriff doesn’t. He’s out to get those guys. But everyone else is happy that this is almost over. And nobody else is going to suffer.” Gertie reached over to take Joya’s hands.

  They were ancient hands, veined and purple—the skin so thin that any pinch or bump left a bruise. But they were strong hands as they enveloped Joya’s and Gertie raised herself up to her full height and looked the girl in the eyes.

  “Joya, do you know what it means to let ‘sleeping dogs lie’?”

  Joya nodded, not secure that her voice would be more than a shriek.

  “I haven’t told this to anybody else. Not even Wanda. I won’t. And I didn’t tell you so you’d go tell someone. I just told you so you’d know. I think somebody should know before I go, and you’re the one I’m trusting. I’ve spent a long time thinking about this and we must keep this secret and let sleeping dogs lie. Johnny will get the blame for this and that’s sad, but God knows the truth and He’s the only one who counts. If Johnny gets the blame, everyone else goes on their way and our town can heal.”

  “But the real killer…” Joya finally found her voice.

  “That’s not important.” For a woman who believed in her God, that shocked Joya. “There’s been enough pain. There’s been enough agony. It’s time for it to stop. So promise me you’ll let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Joya didn’t think that was a promise she could keep, but Gertie’s hands tightened around hers.

  “It gets your father off the hook,” the old woman said, like that should be the end of it.

  “Gertie, do you know who killed that boy?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  Wanda walked in the front door, announcing herself and putting an end to the conversation. She apologized for being so late and it was only then that Joya realized she’d been here three hours. She’d have stayed three more if Gertie had kept talking.

  “Time for a little supper and the news is on,” Wanda said, dismissing Joya and getting her sister back on schedule.

  Joya reached over to kiss the old woman goodbye. Gertie threw her arm around her neck and gave Joya a big hug. “Sleeping dogs,” she whispered.

  Joya felt it would be the last time she’d see the woman. She vowed, no matter what, to come home for her funeral.

  She drove to the city park that was such a point of pride. When city fathers couldn’t come up with the money to grade the site, Earl Krump drove his tractor from the farm and bladed the ground himself. Somebody wanted to name it Krump Park after him, but of course, they settled on something inspiring. Northville Public Park.

  Joya parked and kept the engine running so the heater would continue to blow, and thought about the afternoon of revelations. Her training as a reporter kicked in and she could almost recite the woman’s words verbatim.

  She knew a secret that only three other people in the world knew. One of them was bound by Canon law to forever stay silent. Gertie would take her knowledge to the grave. The real killer certainly wasn’t going to fess up. Joya was the only one who could tell the world Johnny was blameless.

  But if he didn’t kill Darryl, who did? Joya felt certain Gertie either knew or had a good idea. Whoever it was, Gertie was willing to give that person a pass. Joya was astonished.

  Part of her—the girl who grew up in Northville—wished she didn’t know this information. Part of her—the daughter of a man in the cross hairs of a vengeful sheriff—wanted to forget everything she’d heard this afternoon. Part of her—the woman who was an investigative reporter—wanted to track down the real killer.

  The reporter part first took the upper hand. Staying quiet went against every fiber of her being. Her mind reeled.

  “In my world, you don’t excuse murder, no matter what. You don’t say one life isn’t important enough to care about. You don’t let a killer walk free. You don’t let an innocent boy be scorned as a murderer because the town finds it convenient.”

  Anyone peeking in would have wondered why this girl was screaming out loud to herself in a parked car with the engine running.

  “Nobody’s going to be held accountable for Darryl’s death? Nobody but a kid so wracked with guilt, he hung himself? That’s what they call justice in this nice town? That’s okay?”

  She punched the steering wheel, again and again, like she was boxing with someone.

  “Why doesn’t anybody care about Darryl? I never knew the kid. All I know about him is he sold drugs and he worked at Huntsie’s. I don’t know what he looked like. I don’t know if he had a girlfriend. I don’t know if he had dreams for the future. I don’t know what he wanted out of life. I don’t know what he cared about. What made him happy?”

  Joya Bonner didn’t need to know any of those things to know it wasn’t right that he ended up dead.

  She started imagining his last moments. The image was so painful, she howled. “No!”

  She covered her eyes with her hands and wept.

  The daughter part took over.

  “My dad isn’t a killer. Gertie stressed that. The whole town knows it. Yet he’s the one the sheriff wants to nail. Goddamn sheriff and his ego. He wants to be the last one standing. I hate men’s egos. They’re never under control. Oh, Dad. Why couldn’t you guys have left this alone in the first place? Why did your egos have to get in the way? You kidnapped that kid. Left him chained up. Cold and hungry. He couldn’t even defend himself. He might not be dead now if he’d had a chance against his killer. But he didn’t. God, what were you guys thinking? You thought you were above the law. Just like Sammy…Stop it, Joya. Your dad is nothing like that Mafia goon. Nothing. You hear me?”

  The little girl who grew up here made an appearance.

  “How could all this happen in this wonderful, little town? Good people. Strong family values. Honorable people. Respectful. Kind. Friendly. Helpful. Honest.”

  She almost choked on the last one.

  “They’re so honest they’re ready to swallow a lie to get back to their tidy lives. It’s like Johnny is the scab over their wound and they’re pleased as punch. I’d never have believed that. I’d have bet that this town would demand justice. But hey, it’s just a druggie that got murdered in a most gruesome way. It’s just a disturbed high school kid who offed himself. How inappropriate that this tragedy should visit here!”

  She grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and rocked back and forth, trying to dislodge her demons.

  It took another hour, but before she allowed herself to get too high and mighty, Joya Bonner found her own scab.

  “You have to protect your family, no matter what. I’m not here to solve a murder case. I’m here to save my dad. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Friday, January 21, 2000

  Dolan Lowe impressed the three musketeers of Northville as he sat at the Bonners’ dining room table and laid out all the things the sheriff didn’t have. Joya had already told her father these points, but he listened more carefully to the attorney, since it was a man telling him that made him believe they were safe.

  Joya swallowed her anger at this slight, but she should have expected it.

  “As long as you three keep your mouths shut, you’re okay,” Lowe declared.

  “Now, do we have any problem with that shotgun shell?”

  He looked at each of them. One by one they swore it couldn’t have come from their weapons.

  “So what if they find it was packed in a special way? Any of you guys pack your own shells?”

  All the heads turned toward Ralph. “Yeah, I do.”

  “And who do you pack shells for?”

  “Anybody in town. Probably a dozen guys have my shells.”

  “Great, that’s great.”

  “What’s great about that?” Bernard asked.

  “Because if it was one of the shells
Mr. Bonner packed, there are a dozen suspects. And if you’re certain your guns didn’t shoot that shell, it means nothing that he packed it. At least, that’s what I’ll argue if we have to go there.”

  For men who normally saw things in black or white, this gray area was a new sensation. But they had to admit, it looked pretty damn good right now.

  “Okay, so what’s this statement that the sheriff claims he heard you three threaten the kid’s life?”

  “That’s bullshit!” Earl yelled.

  “Yeah, he’s lying. We never said that. We did tell him to do his job, but he didn’t.” Ralph couldn’t believe anybody in town would believe that sheriff over him.

  “We are not lawbreakers,” Bernard said, ignoring that kidnapping was against the law. “We are upstanding citizens in this town. Ask anybody. If you need—what do you call those people who speak up for you?”

  “Character witnesses.”

  “Yes, if you need character witnesses, we’ve got a whole town that will speak up for us.”

  Joya felt the need to interject. “I think you should ask the Bishop to say something, too.”

  The men looked at her and then remembered the church roof payback and started smiling. Lowe didn’t get the joke, but the idea of a Catholic Bishop as a character witness was farther up the food chain than he’d ever been.

  “And you might want to stop at Alice’s Bakery—she knows everything about this town and she knows all about these men. Her bakery is like party central—everyone hangs out there. She’s my cousin.”

  “Good suggestion,” Lowe said. “How about we go there after this meeting? I hear she makes a killer donut!”

  Everyone laughed. He was in for a treat.

  “So nobody in town knows for certain that you three were the kidnappers,” Lowe asked, to be sure this wouldn’t come back to bite him.

  “The only ones who know are our wives, and they will not tell,” Ralph said with certainty. “They know if they do, we’ll go to prison. Because who’s going to believe we kidnapped him but we didn’t kill him? We wouldn’t want anyone in town wondering if…No, nobody in town knows and they aren’t going to know.”