by Elaine Viets
Blossom turned down the TV and said, “If only there hadn’t been that accident. I was stuck for over an hour, frantic to get back to the hospital. I tried to get around the cars by driving in the breakdown lane, but the police wouldn’t let me. They forced me back in line.” Her voice seemed to fade away.
“You need to keep eating,” Helen reminded her. “Nurse’s orders.”
“Right,” Blossom said, absently. She crunched on a graham cracker, then said, “Finally, the traffic moved enough so I could get off at an exit, but then I had to drive through downtown and that took more time.”
She finished the graham cracker and struggled to open the orange juice container with shaking fingers. Helen gently took the juice from her, peeled back the foil top and handed it to her. Blossom sipped daintily.
“You did the right thing,” Helen said. “Arthur wouldn’t have wanted you to get in an accident.” She was enjoying passing out platitudes. They seemed to work when Nurse Abbott said them.
“You think so?” Blossom said, sniffling.
“Absolutely,” Helen said.
“You’ve been so good to me,” Blossom said. “Would you conduct Arthur’s funeral? I know he’d want that.”
“I’d be honored,” Helen said as she felt another stab of guilt. Arthur didn’t want Helen. He’d never met her.
“I’ll have to find out when the hospital will release Arthur’s—” Blossom teared up, then made an effort to steady her voice. “Will release Arthur.”
“Do you know where he will be buried?” Helen asked.
“Yes. My husband was so thoughtful,” Blossom said. “Arthur told me he bought a funeral plan when his first wife died. I can’t remember her name. I’m so upset.”
“Honeysuckle,” Helen said.
“That’s right,” Blossom said. “He wanted to be buried next to Honeysuckle. He asked me if I’d mind. Wasn’t that sweet? I told him that was fine. She had him longer than I did and she is the mother of his child. Did you conduct Honeysuckle’s funeral service?”
“That was before I knew Arthur,” Helen said, truthfully.
“He bought the plan at the Dignity Forever Funeral Home on Federal Highway. The one with the white columns.”
Helen thought all Fort Lauderdale funeral homes had white columns, but she nodded.
“Then you’ll do it?” Blossom said. “Please?”
“On one condition,” Helen said. “Violet must be allowed to attend her father’s funeral.”
“But—” Blossom started to object.
“I will not be a party to a family feud,” Helen said. “I know you and Violet have had your differences, but you must set them aside for Arthur’s sake. Violet can be difficult. I won’t deny that. But I think she can help you.”
“Help me how?” Was there a slightly surly sound in Blossom’s voice—or did grief give it an edge? Helen couldn’t tell.
“Arthur Zerling was a successful man,” Helen said. “He lived in Fort Lauderdale all his life. Do you know how to contact all his friends, family and business associates?”
“I have his address book,” Blossom said.
“But do you know which ones are family and which are friends? Do you know his colleagues and his staff?” Helen asked.
“No,” Blossom said.
“Violet will,” Helen said. “We can put her to work contacting them.”
“She’s impossible!” Blossom said. “We can’t be together two minutes before she starts a fight.”
“You won’t have to deal with her,” Helen said. “You won’t even see her. She can make the calls from my office.”
Blossom took a deep breath and blotted her eyes. “Okay, I’ll do what you want. But what if she makes a scene at Arthur’s funeral? You can’t believe how she carried on here in the ICU.”
“I will personally guarantee her good behavior,” Helen said. “I’ll watch her myself.”
“How can you?” Blossom asked. “You’ll be conducting the service.”
Blossom was right. Helen knew asking Phil to accompany Violet was out of the question. The Reverend Hawthorne wasn’t supposed to know Mrs. Zerling’s new estate manager. And Blossom wasn’t supposed to know Coronado Investigations was hired to prove she’d murdered her husband. Helen needed someone strong to keep Violet in line, but she couldn’t insult their client by hiring a muscle head in a black suit.
Then she thought of the perfect solution: someone strong who could look dignified and blend in as an ordinary mourner. Helen thought her idea was inspired.
“I’ll make sure she attends the funeral with a family friend, Margery Flax,” Helen said.
“Is this Flax woman a bodyguard?” Blossom asked.
“Better,” Helen said. “And far more forceful.”
CHAPTER 9
Arthur Zerling was buried under white flowers. His polished dark wood casket was heaped with washed-out lilies, waxy camellias and rubbery roses. The sweet sickly scent of the hothouse blooms made the Reverend Helen Hawthorne slightly dizzy. The newly minted minister prayed she wouldn’t pass out. This was her first time presiding at a funeral. She wanted Arthur to have the solemnity he deserved.
Helen steadied herself at the funeral home podium and surveyed the mourners. The room’s candy-box colors—pink walls and spindly gold chairs—were overwhelmed by the dark tide of mourners.
Arthur’s wife and his daughter sat on opposite sides of the aisle. Blossom looked like a noir widow in a black high-collared suit and dramatic wide-brimmed hat. Helen thought she needed a cigarette holder to complete the outfit.
Violet was upholstered in some shiny, lumpy black material. Her heavy black veil couldn’t hide her glare. She aimed it with laserlike intensity at the woman she’d accused of killing her father. Margery sat at Violet’s side, her face half-hidden by the glamorous swoop of her lavender hat. She rested one purple-gloved hand lightly on Violet’s arm, as if she was comforting Arthur’s grieving daughter. Helen knew Margery’s hand would clamp down if Violet acted on her hostility.
She wished Phil were there, but Blossom didn’t want her new estate manager attending the funeral. His job was to prepare the funeral reception. Phil would deal with the caterers, bartenders, valet service and florists while Helen handled the funeral.
Helen gave Violet credit. After Blossom agreed to let her attend her father’s funeral, she worked hard to give Arthur a proper service. She still refused to speak to Blossom. Instead, Nancie had to act as mediator. The lawyer conveyed Violet’s information to Blossom’s attorney, who passed it on to the widow. Helen couldn’t begin to calculate what this diplomacy-at-a-distance cost, but it kept the peace.
Violet had done a good job of assembling Arthur’s friends and colleagues at the Dignity Forever Funeral Home. They filled every gilded chair in the massive room, lined the walls and spilled into the hall. Most were white-haired men and women. Helen saw a sprinkling of sun-blasted workingmen. Helen remembered the photo of the vital Arthur on horseback and wondered if they were ranch hands.
She recognized Fran. The housekeeper’s gray curls were topped with a small, flat black hat. She’d tucked herself in the back where Blossom couldn’t see her. Fran was not going to risk a scene at her beloved Mr. Z.’s funeral.
Helen scanned the crowed for the troublemaking Uncle Billy. Violet had warned her about him. “Uncle Billy is not my father’s brother,” she’d explained. “He is Daddy’s best friend. The uncle title is honorary. He and my father were in college together and he introduced Daddy to my mother. Uncle Billy drinks too much. I know he’ll have a snootful and say something embarrassing at Daddy’s funeral.”
“Can we sort of not invite him?” Helen had asked.
“He’ll barge in anyway, and make a bigger scene,” Violet had said. “I don’t know if I can stand it, between that woman and Uncle Billy.”
“I’ll keep him under control,” Helen said.
“You can’t,” Violet said, sounding hopeless. “Nobody can.”
> Helen prayed that Uncle Billy would stay away and quietly blessed the dead man for requesting a closed casket. She’d dreaded seeing Arthur’s wasted body in an open coffin.
She opened the service with the Our Father, a prayer Violet and Blossom had both approved, then launched into a short speech.
“Arthur Zerling was one of those rare businesspeople who cared about his family, his friends and his colleagues,” she said. “You’ve had the pleasure of knowing him longer than I have. Mrs. Zerling has asked that you share your memories of Arthur today. She will begin with hers.”
Helen sat next to the podium where she could watch Violet. Arthur’s daughter had already refused to talk about her father. “I loved Daddy,” she said. “But I don’t think I could say anything without crying.”
Blossom rose gracefully, took the podium’s microphone and said, “I knew my husband for less than a year. Arthur was kind, loving, generous—”
Violet made some sort of sound—a sniffle? A snort?
Helen wasn’t sure what it was, but she saw Margery’s gloved hand grip Violet’s wrist. Blossom did not seem to notice. She continued smoothly, “I thought that fate, which brought us together, would allow us more time. But that was not to be. I—” She stopped, dabbed her eyes with a black lace handkerchief and said, “I am too sad to say any more. But your memories of Arthur will be a comfort to me.”
The widow glided softly back to her seat. Helen wondered if she should sympathize or applaud that speech. Where the heck did she get a black lace handkerchief?
Two sober-suited businessmen followed Blossom. Bob, a portly man with a face like a slab of rare roast beef, praised Arthur’s integrity.
Roger, the second one, said, “I agree with Bob. Arthur was a man of integrity in the boardroom—and on the golf course, where even the best men are tempted to cheat. Arthur played by the rules. You’ve seen those hospital billboards that say, ‘Outlive your golf foursome.’ Well, I’ve outlived my golfing partner of twenty years. I’ll miss you, buddy.” He slapped the casket as if it were Arthur’s back. The waxy flowers trembled.
As Roger sat down, a man in an ill-fitting brown suit, white shirt and striped polyester tie nervously took the microphone. At first, he mumbled, but his voice grew stronger as he spoke. “Name’s Jack,” he said. “I worked for Mr. Zerling for fifteen years.”
Jack looked nervously at the crowd, gulped twice and said, “When my missus got cancer, I was having trouble making the co-pays. I was going to sell the house to raise money for her treatment, when the cancer doctor’s office called and said not to worry about those payments. Mr. Zerling had paid for her treatment. My wife is alive today because of him. Thank you, Mr. Zerling, for saving my Leann.”
Jack sat down next to a thin woman in a ruffled black dress with a purple silk rose at the neck. She patted his hand.
Helen felt a flutter of panic when she saw a dark-haired man push his way up front. This had to be Uncle Billy, the man Violet had warned her about. Uncle Billy looked exactly the way Violet had described him. He was five eight with suspiciously black hair, a self-important manner, a potbelly and a perpetual smile, even at a funeral.
He was still elbowing his way to the podium. Blossom seemed oblivious to the approaching disruption. Violet leaned forward in her seat, tensed for trouble. Helen caught Margery’s eye, and the landlady gave a single nod. She was ready.
Violet had predicted that Uncle Billy would “wear something awful like mustard golf pants or an orange plaid jacket.”
She was right. His red Hawaiian shirt was a riot of blue parrots. His shirt matched the grog blossoms on his nose. Lime green shorts exposed knobby knees and varicose veins. Uncle Billy’s outrageous outfit seemed to shout at the somber funeral-goers.
He grabbed the microphone and hung on to the podium as if he were seasick. Helen could smell the alcohol fumes from where she sat.
The microphone gave a shrill blast of feedback. He waited it out, then said, “I never thought I’d see old Art lying down on the job.” Uncle Billy grinned and paused for laughter. The stony silence would have stopped a more sensitive—or sober—person. He steamrollered ahead.
“When Art called me from India and said he was getting married, I told him, ‘Go for it.’ I’d introduced him to Honeysuckle at Florida State. He loved her. We all knew that. He took care of her when she was sick. I told him, ‘Art, Honeysuckle has been gone for two years now. Life goes on.’
“When he got back from that cruise, I saw the new Mrs. Zerling. I had no idea Art had bagged a looker. He had to pop Viagra like popcorn to keep her happy.”
Helen heard gasps from the audience. Blossom sat frozen. Violet started to get out of her chair, but Margery held her back.
Helen stepped forward to pry the microphone from Uncle Billy’s hand before he said anything worse, but he was too quick.
He gave a hideous grin, then said, “Art died riding a great little filly. No man could ask for more.”
“Thank you, Billy,” Helen said, pushing him toward the aisle.
Bob and Roger, Arthur’s friends and partners, stepped forward and escorted Uncle Billy back down the aisle as if he were a felon. They shoved him into a seat, then stood next to him.
Most of the mourners were shocked into silence, but Helen heard a few gasps. Blossom looked as if she’d been turned to stone.
Helen ended the service with Psalm 90 and the hopeful words: “‘Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil. Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children.’”
Margery had a comforting arm around Violet. The big woman leaned against Helen’s landlady. Blossom seemed oblivious to anything but her own grief.
“Mr. Zerling will be buried at Evergreen Cemetery,” Helen said. “The service is private. Mrs. Arthur Zerling hopes to see you all at her home for the reception.”
The pallbearers advanced to carry Arthur Zerling to the hearse, as the undertakers dismantled the quivering mound of flowers. Blossom followed the casket out of the room, head bowed. The mourners filed out behind her.
Helen followed them, Margery and Violet at her side. The funeral director steered them toward the waiting limousine. Helen collapsed gratefully into her dark leather seat and closed her eyes. Her head ached from the strain and the raw emotions.
Margery and Violet slid onto the bench seat across from her and the door closed with a quiet click. “What did I tell you?” Violet said. “I knew Uncle Billy would pull one of his stunts.”
“Helen handled him beautifully,” Margery said.
“And that woman—”
“Was on her best behavior,” Margery said.
“My daddy’s dead,” Violet said, her voice filled with wonder. “He’s not coming back. I knew he was dead, but I really felt it at the funeral when I saw his casket.”
“That’s how grief works sometimes,” Margery said, patting Violet’s hand.
“It hurts,” Violet said. “I miss him so much. It’s like a physical pain.”
“It may take a while,” Margery said. “But you’ll start remembering all the good things you did together. Then his loss won’t hurt so much.”
“It will stop hurting when that woman is in jail for Daddy’s murder,” Violet said.
CHAPTER 10
Arthur Zerling’s polished casket was slowly lowered into the yawning grave by a machine. Instead of a hymn sung by the mourners, the machine hummed softly while Helen read a verse from Saint Paul. She wondered how many times his Epistle to the Philippians had been read at a burial in Evergreen Cemetery.
“Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true,” she read, “whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
Violet kept her head bowed. Helen hoped she was remembering her father, but susp
ected she was plotting revenge against Blossom. Arthur’s widow also kept her head bowed, but tension radiated from her slender form.
A stone angel watched from a nearby grave, wings folded in sorrow. Arthur would rest under a cool shade tree, next to his first wife, Honeysuckle. Helen hoped that Fort Lauderdale’s oldest cemetery would not see one more family feud.
“Please grant Arthur Zerling eternal rest,” she said. The casket mechanism stopped. “Give him peace.”
Deliver us from the two warring women at his grave, Helen thought.
Violet stayed calm, though her hands were clenched and her body was rigid in its shiny black cocoon. Margery stood resolutely at Violet’s side, poised to prevent a fight. Arthur’s surviving golf partners lined up beside Violet’s purple-clad guard.
Across the gulf of the open grave was Blossom, the grateful ranch hand and his rescued wife, Leann. The woman Arthur had helped save sniffled into a tissue. The housekeeper was not at the burial, but Helen had no doubt Fran was mourning the loss of her employer.
Four dark-suited undertakers stood discreetly behind lichen-covered tombstones. They had strict orders to head off Uncle Billy if he barged into the burial service. Helen didn’t think they’d have to look hard to spot him. Billy’s shirt was loud enough to wake the dead.
The funeral director handed Blossom a single white rose. She delicately tossed it into the grave. The rose landed soundlessly on the shiny casket lid. Next, the funeral director solemnly presented Violet with a sheaf of flowers the size of a shrub. Helen studied the tendrils escaping from the ribbon-wrapped bundle and realized this was a huge bouquet of honeysuckle and violets.
Violet would never be accused of subtlety.
She dropped the flowers into the grave. The heavy bouquet landed with a graceless thud, smothering Blossom’s single rose.