Coming Unclued

by Judith Jackson

  The driver checked his mirror with a faint smile and pulled out.

  “Sometimes they try to take advantage of women over sixty,” she whispered to me. “Now listen to me. You just keep quiet and let me do the talking. I’ve got this under control.”

  I’d never seen Rose so enervated. She and Julie both. My potential incarceration had given them both a new purpose. A certain joie de vivre that had been lacking in their lives. “I’m going to poke around a little,” said Rose. “Ask a few questions. You just stay out of the way; let me take care of business. I’ll do something — I’ll stamp my foot twice if I need you. Otherwise you just loiter on the fringes and keep your ears open.”

  “It’s a funeral Rose,” I said. “I’ll be sitting in a pew.”

  “Afterwards at the reception. That’s what I’m talking about. At the reception I’m going to ask some questions and I don’t want you drawing attention to yourself. You just stay back and stay focused on my feet.”

  I sat back in the seat and stared out the window, watching carefree people ambling along the sidewalk. Rose had her eyes shut and appeared to be having a nap. She wasn’t. Without opening her eyes she tapped me on the leg and said, “One stomp means I might be on to something. Two stomps means I need you, drop everything and hightail it over to me. Three stomps means cops — get the hell out of there. Got it?”

  My safety hinged on a seventy-four year old woman doing her best Michael Flatley impression. “I’ll be doing some snooping around as well Rose. I’m not going to have time to keep my eyes on your feet.”

  “Wonder if they’ll serve alcohol at this thing?” mused Rose. “I always enjoy a nice cocktail after a funeral. You’d think with all their money they could cough up for a few bottles of Dubonnet. You never can tell with the rich though. Awful misers some of them.” She opened one of her eyes and peered at me. “That’s how they got so rich. They’re cheap.”

  I leaned back in the seat and contemplated my next move. “What if someone recognizes me?” I asked in a low voice. “I don’t look that different.”

  Rose peered at me over her glasses. “You look different enough. No one’s going to be looking at you anyway. Here’s a tip. You’re entering the invisible years so you might as well get used to it. People don’t take any more notice of an old lady than they do a tramp. You see a poor homeless fella lying on a sidewalk grate — how closely do you look at him? You’d never be able to pick him out of a lineup would you? That’s how carefully anyone looks at old ladies like us.”

  “I actually look quite good for my age,” I said. “A number of people have mentioned that.” A small number, but still.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Rose. “Sooner or later that age train pulls into the station and your face is on it. And don’t give me that fifty is the new thirty-five garbage. That’s just pathetic and desperate.” We were pulling up to the church. “Twenty-seven dollars,” said Rose. “Highway robbery.”

  I handed the driver thirty dollars, which left me with ten dollars and change and helped Rose out of the car. I was going to have to get hold of some more cash. “Don’t act too perky,” said Rose. “Hunch a little, like you didn’t drink enough milk in your childbearing years. And don’t get too close to anyone you know. Just in case.” She poked me with her cane. “Now watch me carefully. I may have to use my cane to signal you.”

  “What if you stomp three times and point your cane? Does that have any special meaning?”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” said Rose. “Now look around you — don’t look up! Just look around you without looking up and try and see if you can spot the murderer. We’re looking for someone smug like he got away with it and a little nervous because he’s afraid he might get caught. Lord. Look at all these fur coats. You fit right in.”

  I brushed my arm and a chunk of matted fur fell softly to the frozen ground. There were hundreds of people milling about. Who would have thought that quiet, mild mannered Mr. Potter knew so many people?

  “Rubber neckers,” said Rose, as if reading my mind. “Nothing people enjoy more than a nice, high profile funeral. I’ll bet you half of these people never even met the deceased. Terrible. People will do anything for a little entertainment.”

  I looked around me, carefully though, without looking up. How many of these people really cared about Mr. Potter? He didn’t really have much of a personality, and what he did have wasn’t all that delightful — how many real friends could he have had? And there was Sophie, standing on the limestone steps, looking strained, yet lovely, accepting condolences.

  “There’s his wife,” I said to Rose. “The pretty blonde on the steps”.

  Rose eyed her over. “I know the type.”

  “Oh — and there’s Douglas. He just put his hand on her arm.”

  “Jackpot,” muttered Rose. “I don’t like the look of him.”

  We had to shuffle along with the crowd, me averting my eyes, Rose glaring carefully at everyone to see if they looked like the murdering type. There was a logjam at the bottom of the stairs and we stood there for a moment, waiting our turn. I was pumped with adrenaline, expecting any minute someone was going to grab me with a “Val, what are you doing here?” but Rose was right. No one gave me a second look. Or a first look for that matter.

  “Look at Sophie,” a woman standing beside me said to a friend. “She’s looks fantastic. Slimmer than ever. That’s a Prada suit. Last season.”

  Rose took my arm and we shuffled up the stairs into the church, caught up in the forward motion of the crowd. I didn’t see anyone from the office, though I was sure they would be there. Even Angie wouldn’t consider skipping Mr. Potter’s funeral. The church was beautiful, a huge, high ceilinged edifice with gorgeous stained glass windows. I felt a poke in my back as Rose prodded me with her cane. “In here,” she said as she pointed to a pew well to the back. “I can get a gander at everyone from here. And hunch, you’re looking too perky.”

  Too perky. Not something I’m normally accused of.

  “Rose,” said a quivery voice from behind us. Rose and I turned to see a very old, very frail looking woman who still showed the last vestiges of the beauty she must have once been. “Hilda,” said Rose. “What are you doing here? You knew the deceased?”

  “I knew him all right,” said the woman. “He stole poor David’s money and I came to spit on his grave.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Sit with us Hilda,” said Rose cheerfully. “We’ll catch up. This is my friend Ruth.”

  The three of us sidestepped into the pew as the organist played a somber ode to death.

  “Why do you want to spit on his grave?” I whispered to Hilda.

  “Pardon?” she asked.

  “Why do you want to spit on Mr. Potter’s grave?” I repeated, getting as close as I could without actually putting my mouth on her ear.

  Hilda looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. “That’s a terrible thing to say. And at a funeral.” She shook her head. “Terrible. What kind of person are you? He was a lovely man. So sad for his wife.” Hilda gave a little sniff, and settled back in her seat.

  Rose, who had been listening, leaned over me and tapped Hilda on her leg. “You should try Sudoku Hilda. Helps to keep you sharp. Can’t give up the fight. Where’s my cane?” Rose picked up her cane, reached over Hilda and poked a man in the next row in the back of his head. “Barry? Is that you?”

  An elderly man with a face full of deep crevices and a sour, pinched look turned around. “Barry. Lord, I haven’t seen you in probably fifty years. How have you been?” Rose sounded quite cheered to have run into him after all these years. Barry, however, if indeed it was Barry, was less thrilled, as he simply pursed his lips and turned back.

  Rose leaned into me, a smile on her face. “Barry MacLean. A real ladies man. Wonder if that’s his wife?” She shook her head sadly. “He’s sure isn’t the looker he used to be. Hilda, isn’t that Barry MacLean? What’s he doing here?”

  In an a
wfully loud voice for such a tiny woman, Hilda answered, “Barry MacLean has been dead for thirty years. Drank himself to death. What would he be doing here?”

  At this comment the alleged Barry turned around again. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh you know it’s true,” said Hilda. “There’s no hiding it. It was a real blessing for your wife when you finally passed.”

  I was beginning to think I might not be getting any helpful insights into Mr. Potter’s character from Hilda.

  “Who was David?” I persisted. “Was he one of Mr. Potter’s clients?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Hilda. “Terrible what that man did. Took his money like a common thief. That poor cat didn’t get a penny.”

  “The cat?”

  “Who are you?” asked Hilda in a peeved voice. “Why do you keep nattering at me?”

  For the first time I noticed the casket at the front of the sanctuary, draped in yellow flowers. It looked expensive. And long. Perhaps caskets only came in one length. And there they were, near the front, all the office staff sitting in a row. Annette was dabbing at her eyes, but everyone else seemed to be coping quite well with the loss of their boss. The casket, the huge turnout, the beautiful church. Mr. Potter loved being the center of attention; it was a shame he had to miss this. As the organist played on, Sophie came slowly down the aisle, her eyes downcast. She did look lovely.

  Ruth gazed around the church. “Awful lot of oldies here. I’m a fresh-faced sprite compared to some of these folks.”

  “Mr. Potter had a special interest in the elderly,” I whispered. “That’s our company’s specialty. We arrange all their finances, help them plan their estates. They loved him.”

  “Our company?” said Rose. “I don’t know about our. I wouldn’t be counting on a Christmas bonus.”

  “Already got it,” I told her. “A ham. A coupon for a ham and a tote bag.”

  “A nice little ham. Very generous,” said Rose. “No wonder you stabbed him. Ha — just kidding!” she snorted softly as she elbowed me in the ribs. “What a cheapo. Hilda, how long did you know the deceased?”

  “Who?” asked Hilda.

  “The little dead guy,” said Rose, nodding toward the casket. “What’s his name — Paul?”

  “Paul?” said Hilda. “Years. I’ve known him for years. He delivered all my babies. Lovely man. So sad.”

  “Terrible,” agreed Rose.

  I was looking around as much as I could without drawing attention to myself, hoping to see Julie. Everyone looked so similar, a sea of middle aged and older faces dressed in black and navy, their faces blank as the minister droned on. I dug around in my coat pocket for the phone and texted her. Where are you?

  A moment later I got a reply. At funeral. Saw Rose. She looks well.

  I glanced over at Rose. She was looking well. All this excitement really agreed with her.

  Julie again. Mr. P has a son! Did you know? He wasn’t in the obituary.

  A son?? How do you know?

  The minister mentioned him.

  Mr. Potter had a son? Very odd. I distinctly remember him telling me that he and Sophie didn’t have children. “Footloose and fancy-free,” he’d said, like they were F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda dancing in a fountain or something.

  Where is he? I texted. I want to get a look at him.

  You’re here? Are you insane?

  Possibly. Where’s the son?

  There was a momentary pause between texts as Julie must have been torn as to whether or not she should acknowledge my existence.

  Might be the husky fellow sitting behind the wife.

  I inched over as close as I could to Hilda so that I could peer through the crowd to see the front of the church. I could see Sophie’s beautifully highlighted head silhouetted in the front row and looked behind her for a husky fellow. There was a massively obese man, easily over 300 pounds, sitting at the end of the pew behind her.

  Husky? I texted.

  Very husky, replied Julie. He looks grim. Quite upset. Be careful. There are police here.

  I glanced around. My God, there were police here, standing at the back of the church surveying the action. I couldn’t imagine what they were doing. Did they think I was so stupid that I would show up at Mr. Potter’s funeral? Just stay cool. Breathe.

  As the service progressed, Hilda began tilting toward me, so that eventually she was slumped against my side. She seemed to have fallen asleep, and no wonder. The minister didn’t get where he was by way of his mesmerizing oratory skills. Although Hilda didn’t weigh much, I could feel my right arm beginning to tingle. Trying not to appear rude — I didn’t want her to think she was bothering me — I leaned slightly to the right to leverage her into a more upright position. She didn’t move much. For such a tiny woman she had some heft to her. I gave a little wiggle so that perhaps she would take a hint and sit up straight. Hilda wasn’t getting the hint. If anything she was leaning against me harder than ever. “Hilda, wake up,” I whispered. “You’re missing the service.” No response. I took her hand and gave it a little shake. “Hilda,” I hissed, “Wake up.” Hilda wasn’t waking up. As I held her cold, limp hand I realized that Hilda wasn’t ever going to wake up. There was a tiny, elderly dead woman leaning against me.

  CHAPTER 18

  My heart started racing in a way I’d become much too familiar with. What could I do? Difficult not to draw attention to myself now that I was sharing a pew with a corpse. Could this really be happening? I peered down at Hilda, wondering if it was too late to do CPR. How long had she been leaning against me? Ten minutes at least; she’d probably passed away during the eulogy. At least she didn’t suffer, just drifted off, her head on my shoulder, perhaps quite literally bored to death. I gave Hilda another little nudge, hoping to sit her upright without alerting anyone around me that there was a problem. I was afraid of pushing too much in fear she would tumble right off the pew. There didn’t appear to be any way to get her to sit straight on her own; her backbone seemed to have disappeared along with her heartbeat. While I was terrified of drawing attention to myself I was remarkably sanguine about having a dead stranger leaning against me. Perhaps I’d found my calling and could get a job at a morgue once this was all over. Hilda actually looked quite peaceful, her eyes shut and a slight smile on her face like she’d been having a particularly pleasant thought when she expired.

  But I couldn’t just sit there. I needed to get out of this place. I glanced over at the couple sitting on the other side of her. They seemed oblivious to what had happened, the man trying to stifle a yawn while his wife dug around in her purse. Out of the left side of my mouth, I whispered to Rose, “Rose, we have a situation.”

  Rose gave herself a little shake and blinked her eyes. “Hmmm?”

  “A little issue,” I murmered. “Don’t respond, don’t react. Got it?”

  Rose gave me a dirty look. “What now?”

  “We can’t stand up. The next hymn we need to stay seated.”

  “Fine,” said Rose. “All this popping up and down is killing my knees.” She was quiet for a moment. “What are you up to now?” she hissed.

  “Nothing. Just don’t move. I’m thinking.”

  “I will sit here with bated breath,” said Rose.

  I needed Julie. She would know what to do. Need help I typed. Serious problem.

  No shit responded Julie. Oh my. The son riseth.

  I looked up to see the very large man in the second row making his way to the front. He didn’t look to be a man who was comfortable in his own skin; a man who had made peace with his size. He wore an ill-fitting blue suit with what looked like a grease stain on the back. He was completely bald on the top of his head and had a fringe of very black hair that he had tied into a ponytail. It wasn’t a good look, but I was trying to resist judging this book by its cover. If this was Mr. Potter’s son, he had suffered a great shock and he deserved my compassion. I surreptitiously adjusted Hilda and peered between the heads in front of me. What was this guy w
earing on his feet? It looked like slippers. To his father’s funeral?

  The man cleared his throat and looked out on the congregation. “I’m not sure why you’re all here today,” he said in a slow, steady voice. “My father was a jerk. A low-life. That woman that stabbed him? Good for her. He deserved it.” With that he gave a snort loud enough to clear his sinuses for the next year or so, and stepped down from the podium. The congregation was shocked into silence, but within seconds a buzzing of voices filled the church. Mr. Potter’s son seemed oblivious to the furor he’d created as he lumbered down the aisle and out of the church. I stared at his feet as he went by. He was wearing mules. It was December and he was wearing slippers that didn’t even cover his whole foot. Ratty, beat-up beige mules, one of which had a dark red splotch right over the big toe.

  The minister rushed over to the microphone, his voice now set at a somewhat higher pitch. “The choir will now sing one of Harry’s favorite hymns Breathe on Me Breath of God.” He turned and waved madly at the choir who were still thumbing through their hymn books as the organist hit the first notes.

  “Short eulogy, but succinct,” said Rose. “I like that at a funeral. Interesting choice of hymns given the deceased’s issues. Do you have any mints?”

  “No I do not have any mints.”

  “Don’t get snippy. There’s enough of that going around at this thing. Ask Hilda.”

  “She doesn’t have any.”

  Rose scowled at me and reached across and tapped Hilda on the leg. “Hilda, do you have any mints or maybe a Lifesaver?”

  I pushed at Rose’s hand. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Don’t poke her. She’s dead. She passed on.”