“But everything’s done,” Nonie said. “The mayor is casketed, all those flowers are set up perfectly in the chapel, and I even set a stack of prayer cards at the end of each pew.”
“Yes, but you know what happens with some of those flowers when left overnight. Some wilt or lose a leaf or two. The baby’s breath leaves all those white diddies all over the floor. I need you to go in there and make sure everything’s perfect. No wilting flowers. No white diddies. Now go, girl, before your mama and daddy get back here and start inspecting.”
That’s when Nonie realized that it wasn’t so much that Margaret meant to be bossy or ride Nonie’s ass just to ride it. She didn’t want Rita, Nonie’s mother, to ride her ass. T-boy, Nonie’s dad, could’ve walked into a room filled with wilted flowers and walked right back out and sworn everything looked fine. Rita, on the other hand, would’ve had a stroke if one leaf had fallen and had been left on the floor unattended.
Instead of giving Margaret grief, which she would have loved to do if for no other reason than to break the monotony of the place, Nonie got up from her chair, excused herself as she bypassed Margaret and headed for the chapel.
Margaret had been right. The baby’s breath on the floral arrangements had left little white diddies, as the Georgian gueen said, on the floor, and two to three plants that had been sent as condolence acknowledgments had a drooping leaf or two.
Knowing the protocol, Nonie vacuumed up the loose baby’s breath and removed the drooping leaves from the plant arrangements so they looked freshly delivered.
Once that was done, Nonie checked the clock in the lobby and saw that it was eight-thirty. Private family viewing wasn’t supposed to start until nine, but inevitably, most personal family members came early. If you noted in the paper that public viewing started at ten, you could bet dollars to screwdrivers that friends and distant family members would start showing up around nine-thirty to nine-forty-five. Nonie wondered if most funeral homes had that issue. People just showed up any damn time they pleased. They had no idea the prep time it took to get the funeral home ready for a viewing, especially a large one like they anticipated for the mayor. They expected such a large crowd that Nonie had caught wind that the local television station would be filming in the funeral home. The only things they weren’t allowed to film were the body and the procession to the crematorium, much less the cremation itself.
Nonie didn’t think that would be a problem for any small-town television crew. Just the thought of seeing someone’s body crispy fried in a retort turned her stomach. In with flesh, out with ash. No thank you. When it was her time to go, they could put her in the ground wrapped in newspaper, she didn’t care, but cremation was out of the question.
Just as she suspected, five minutes later, two men walked through the front doors of the funeral home. Although they looked to be in their mid to late forties, both were potbellied and balding badly. They were dressed in black suits, had bulbous noses and each wore a gaudy LSU class ring and eyeglasses that appeared too small for their chubby faces. Save for the acne scars on one of the men’s cheeks, they could have passed for twins. Nonie had little doubt that they were Mayor Fontenot’s sons.
Unsure of what to do since seating or directing guests had never been her job, she welcomed them, and asked them to have a seat in the lobby. She promised to get someone to help them right away.
“Don’t make the wait long,” acne face said. “Our mother will be here shortly, and we’d prefer that she doesn’t have to suffer the indignity of sitting in a lobby while her husband, and our father, lies dead in another room.”
Nonie wanted to tell him to get his highfalutin nose out of his two-ton ass but said instead, “Absolutely. I certainly understand. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get someone right away.”
After speed walking through the lobby and turning the corner to the lounge, Nonie didn’t see Margaret anywhere. Instinct sent her running to the garage, where she caught the woman puffing on a Marlboro as fast as her lungs would allow.
When Margaret spotted Nonie, she threw the cigarette out of the open garage door and eyed her. “You saw nothing, right?”
“Right. But there are already people here for the viewing. Isn’t it your job to greet them and tell them where to go?”
“Don’t think just because you caught me taking a puff or two on a cigarette that you can talk to me that way, young lady. I’ve been doing this job before you were born.”
“Then go do it,” Nonie insisted, almost frantic. “Right now there are two guys in the lobby, and by the way they’re acting, I think they’re Dover’s sons.”
“Why? How’re they acting?”
“Like their shit doesn’t stink.”
“Yeah, that’s them all right. Clarence and Stefren Fontenot. Both born with a silver spoon up their backside.”
“How can you tell who’s who? They look almost identical.”
“Stefren’s the one with the bad acne scars, like his mama. Got her attitude, too. Uppity.”
“They claimed their mother was only five minutes behind them, and they didn’t want her to suffer the indignity of having to wait in a lobby.” Nonie rolled her eyes and started chewing her fingernails. “These folks are going to be a handful.”
“Lawd, yes,” Margaret said, brushing ashes off her mauve dress with its wide white belt. “Just stick close. If something turns bad, get Fezzo. If he’s not around, get your daddy. All you’ve gotta do is keep your eyes open, child. Them folks are definitely going to be a handful, but for Pete’s sake, it ain’t rocket science, so quite chewing your nails. We’ll manage just fine.”
About an hour later, Nonie would have given anything to hear Margaret say those words again, “We’ll manage just fine.” Because that was the last thing they were doing.
As Nonie suspected by nine-forty-five, the funeral home was packed. Just when they managed to get one wave of people settled, another, bigger wave showed up, this one complaining because there was nowhere left to park. Most had opted to park in St. Anthony’s parking lot near the funeral home, but that meant they had to walk across a ditch that separated the two properties. That didn’t serve well for highly polished shoes or egos for that matter.
When the funeral home had neared capacity, Rita—dressed in a new navy blue suit with shoes to match, along with pearl earrings and necklace—gave Margaret the job of hostess. She claimed her new shoes were giving her feet blisters, and she could barely walk.
“There’re Band-Aids in the bathroom,” Nonie told her mother. “I bet if you put one on the back of each heel, those new shoes won’t be rubbing against the blisters so bad.”
Rita looked incensed. “Don’t you think if I thought Band-Aids would help I would’ve already seen to that?”
“Then change your shoes,” Nonie insisted. “The white ones you wear with your coral suit would look wonderful with navy blue. They’re already broken in so you wouldn’t have to worry about your feet. Want me to run home and get them?”
“Most certainly not,” Rita said. “I’ll simply sit right here and direct people as they come in.” She turned to Margaret. “Margaret, darlin’, if you don’t mind, keep an eye on the lounge. Make sure the coffee urn stays full and that the sandwich trays sent here from MeeMaw’s Café are set out so everyone knows they’re welcome to them.”
“And what are you going to do, Miss High and Mighty?” Margaret asked, plopping a hand on her hip. “Sit here on your throne like you’re too good to help the help?”
Nonie took a step back, not wanting to get hit with the stapler or printer or whatever her mother decided to throw at Margaret.
“How rude of you to say such a thing,” Rita said in a stage whisper.
“It’s not rude, it’s the truth,” Margaret insisted. “Now if your heels are hurtin’ go do the Band-Aid thing. You’re the wife of the funeral home owner. You need to step up and mingle, you know that.”
Rita pouted. “But my feet really hurt.”
&nbs
p; Nonie turned on her heels and headed for the viewing room. She couldn’t take her mother’s pouting and ten million excuses why she couldn’t mingle. The truth was she didn’t want to take the chance that someone might spill coffee on her suit, or bump into her and mess up her hair, and Lord help anyone if they played any part in chipping one of Rita’s fingernails. For small funerals, you couldn’t ask for a better hostess than Rita. She dodged the viewers with drink cups, extended a person’s personal space by ten feet, and smiled like the corners of her mouth had been set in place with superglue.
With all Rita’s faults, and who didn’t have any, Nonie loved her mom. But sometimes Rita Broussard was a bit much to handle, and it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out it was time to make a quick exit when she was in one of her moods.
Nonie inched her way through the crowd, searching for her dad and Fezzo. She noticed that a few of the funeral sprays had been knocked over, so she straightened them out and thought, To hell with the white diddies from the baby’s breath. They were everywhere. Maybe it was a good thing Rita stayed at the registration desk.
As Nonie made her way to the casket, which was closed, she saw many familiar faces along the way. It seemed like the entire town had shown up for the viewing. Although she didn’t see her dad or Fezzo, she spotted Butchy, their apprentice, Sheriff Buchanan, Jan and Sarah Mitchell from Cajun Eatery, Gerard Guidry, Tatman’s boss, from Guidry’s Hardware, Jerry Manville from SuperTators, Stuart Burleigh from the Feed and Seed, Pench Richard the postmaster, and Scott Leger, Clay Point’s fire chief. In the far corner of the room she spotted Buggy, Tatman, Lyle, and Shaundelle the four of them huddled quietly together. She also saw Ms. Dora Arsemont, her duplex mate, and Ed Roy, the grocer’s son, who bugged her weekly for a date. He sat near the back of the room, as did Nate Lopez, the new deputy.
Out of all those people, the one drawing the most attention, of course, was Hazel Fontenot, Dover’s wife. She sat in the front pew, crying like a four-year-old who’d stubbed her toe. On either side of her sat chubby and chubbier, her two sons. Nonie sucked it up and went over to Mrs. Fontenot to offer her condolences. She was surprised to find that from all the boo-hooing the woman had been doing since they’d opened the funeral home, not a tear stained her cheeks. Her hair was teased high, and the ends curled under. Not a strand out of place, and her makeup sat perfectly on her face, not a smudge to be seen. Her sons, Clarence and Stefren looked even less worse for the wear. If anything, they looked utterly bored.
“My condolences for your loss,” Nonie said, offering Mrs. Fontenot her hand. The woman didn’t take it. Instead she dabbed the bottom of one eyelid with a tissue.
“Thank you,” she said, then turned to her sons. “I wish we could have had an open casket, don’t you? I wanted it to be open. I specifically asked for it to be open.”
Both sons shrugged as if it made no difference to them whatsoever.
Getting the message loud and clear that it was best she leave them to family business, Nonie, meandered her way through the throngs of people, intending to meet up with Shaundelle and Tatman.
Before she made it to the back of the viewing room, where her fellow investigators stood, Nonie spotted Pastor Morton from First Assembly of the Holy Trinity being escorted to the front of the viewing room by her dad and Fezzo. They chatted quietly as they walked.
When her dad finally made it to the casket with Pastor Morton by his side, he said loudly, “Friends and family, if you would, please take a seat so we can begin the service.”
As though caught in a game of musical chairs, people rushed to find seats, knowing there were more butts than chairs. The ones left standing were directed by Fezzo to stand along the east and west walls of the chapel room, so the aisle remained clear.
There was a lot of whispering and shuffling of feet and chairs. Ten minutes later, when the silence became pin-drop quiet, Pastor Morton finally walked toward the center of the casket and held his hands together. “Brothers and sisters, today we celebrate the life of our beloved Mayor Dover Fontenot. Let’s join together—”
“What the hell?” someone said from the back of the room, and the entire congregation began to mumble. A few people gasped. Everyone turned their heads to see who’d interrupted the service. For all they knew, Satan himself had just walked into the room.
In truth, Satan, had nothing to do with the interruption. But to Nonie and the rest of her family, it might as well have been.
CHAPTER NINE
“How did it go?” Warren Chinsaw, one of the producers for WXRT asked. He sat at a large mahogany conference table with Peter Segan, head editor, Michael Versille, an investor in WXRT and Jack Nagan. Michael had been the one who came up with the idea for the television program, Something’s Out There, and he was anxious to hear a progress report.
“It went fine,” Jack said, “but you do realize we didn’t have a scouting trip last night. It was all about the group meeting each other and going over the equipment we’ll be using.”
“Of course,” Peter said. “You told us that was your plan, but when are we going to see some action?” He glanced nervously over at Michael who was drumming his fingertips on the table.
“What is this group like?” Michael asked, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Do they have what it’ll take to scout fast and well?”
Unsure of how to answer that question honestly, Jack simply laid it out on the table. “I have no idea as I just met them last night. All seem to have great potential, so I think if we go to a place that’s supposedly haunted, and it winds up being so, we’ll get the evidence you need.”
“Did you have to go into a lot of detail about the equipment or were they sharp enough to catch on quickly?” Warren asked.
“Well, you couldn’t tell by looking at them,” Jack said, “but I think they’re going to work out better than some of the professional investigators you were originally considering.”
“And let’s not forget,” Michael said. “We’re getting them at a great price.”
Jack gave him a sour look. Michael might be an investor, but Jack Nagan was not a man who kissed anyone’s ass.
“They asked me why they’d been chosen,” Jack said. “And I told them it was because they were cheaper than hiring a professional group who had been doing investigations for a number of years.”
“Why would you tell them that?” Michael asked. “Sounds a bit demeaning if you ask me. I’d have turned it down after hearing that.”
“I told them about the money because it’s the truth,” Jack said. “Look, if the three of you want me to run this scouting group, you’re going to have to trust my judgment.”
“What did they say when you told them?” Peter asked.
“They didn’t make a big deal about the money. They’ll be grateful to get it.” Jack leaned against the table and eyed the three men. “You’ve got to remember or at least know that most paranormal investigators in the business started with zero from the get-go. They weren’t paid and shouldn’t be paid in my opinion, to help others out when it comes to paranormal activity. Especially if the investigators are good at what they do.” At the mention of money, the three top heads looked at Jack like he had corn growing out of his nose. “Most investigators started with nothing more than a disposable camera, a compass, and a set of brass balls. That was all they needed just to walk into a creepy building. Most do it just to answer their own internal questions about what exists after death.”
“We didn’t ask for a lecture.” Warren sighed. “We’re interested in the people who’ll be involved in this scouting group.”
“I’m getting there,” Jack said, “but it’s important that you get the back story about paranormal investigations first. This new scouting crew is no different than all the groups who are out there now. Every one of them had to start at ground zero. The only difference with our group is they’ll start off with much more sophisticated equipment.”
“Fine, yes,” Peter said. “W
e get it. Now you’ve got to get it. We can’t afford to waste time training people over and over again, that’s why we’re asking about them. We have a pilot and six episodes to shoot for a first season run. That’s the only way we’ll be able to tell if the show will fly or drop like a turd from a flying pigeon.”
“How many people do you have on this scouting team?” Warren asked.
“Five, including myself.” Before they could complain about the number being too large, Jack asked. “How many do you plan on having on the real investigation team?”
“Five,” Peter said.
“And let me guess, two women and three men?” Jack said.
“Yeah, so?
“And the guys are buff, young? The women in their mid to late twenties with plenty of ass and tits?”
“What are you getting at, Jack?” Peter asked. “Did you think we were going to hire eighty-year-olds or people who’ve never seen a beauty salon or had a manicure in their life? Do you think an audience would stay tuned to some Jethro with two missing front teeth and a jumbo broad who wears a triple D bra and muumuu because she can’t fit into anything else?”
“That’s sexist and just downright wrong in so many ways,” Jack said.
“Look,” Peter said, “Just because the crew we hired happens to be good-looking it definitely won’t hurt the show. If anything it’ll help. Aside from the ghost stuff, women will tune in to see the muscles on those guys and men will tune-in to check out tits in low cut T-shirts.”
“You mean to tell me that you’re actually going to dress that crew to show off their bodies?” Jack asked.
“Hell, yeah,” Michael said. “Before I put all the money I did into this speculative venture, it was one thing I thought was unique and might add flavor to the show and keep people watching. Think of it like wrestling. Fake or not, women love to watch those wrestling hunks running around in spandex tighties, and the men love the women wrestlers for the same damn reason.” He turned to Warren. “Why are we having to explain all of this crap to him? I thought you said he was on board and knew the ropes. He’s making me nervous, Warren. Sorta sounds like a preacher warning a congregation about the sins of their ways.”
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