Her husband’s funeral.
The words were preposterous…incongruous…ridiculous.
Since the doctor’s pronouncement, she’d been going through the motions of living. She couldn’t stop—she had children to care for and a household to run and burial details to arrange. She’d made decisions no woman her age should ever have to make—this casket, those flowers, that gravesite.
If she’d hoped Sullivan’s mother would help, she was mistaken. Upon hearing the devastating news, Marbella Smith had to be hospitalized herself. Her doctor had assured Linda over the phone her mother-in-law would recover, but was too fragile to travel for the memorial service. Linda had a hard time picturing Marbella as “fragile,” but the woman had just lost her only child. Still, some part of her wondered if not coming to the funeral was Marbella’s final act of disapproval of the life he’d chosen.
“There now,” Octavia said, standing behind Linda in the bathroom mirror.
Linda stared at her reflection, impressed. Octavia knew how to work wonders with discount clothes, and the makeup kit had come in handy, even though most of the pots of color and stain had been violated by chubby finger pokes.
“Can I ask you a favor?” she said to Octavia.
“Sure.”
“I’d like to go early to the funeral home to take care of some paperwork. Would you and Richard bring Maggie and Jarrod with you?”
She knew she was asking a lot because her sister had an aversion to little people. But to her credit, Octavia stiffened only slightly. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Your little girl is quite the prima donna.”
Linda bit back a smile. “Yes. She couldn’t be more like you if she were your daughter.”
Octavia sniffed. “I’ll go help her pick out something more appropriate to wear than the blinding outfit she has on.”
“Good luck.”
Linda watched her slim, gorgeously put-together sister walk away, and squelched a pang of envy. Octavia had known what she wanted in life from a young age, and had set her sights on getting it. She’d parlayed her pageanting and cheerleading into enough scholarship money to attend the University of Kentucky where she had spurned the attention of any man who couldn’t guarantee her the life she wanted. Richard Habersham had been a law student when Octavia had met him. With a family pedigree and preppy good looks, he’d fit her bill nicely. They were married the day after he graduated law school. (Only Linda knew that Octavia had secured wedding insurance in the event Richard didn’t receive his diploma as planned.) When Octavia had walked down the aisle, she’d never looked back.
By that time, Linda had dropped out of college. Her own wedding had taken place in front of the justice of the peace, and when she should have been graduating, she was juggling a toddler and learning how to coupon. The distance and the differences in their lives had driven a wedge between the sisters that had grown into a chasm over the years, especially after their mother had left and their father had…spiraled out of control.
Linda sighed. She supposed she would have to get word to Nelson Guy sooner or later that his younger daughter was now a widow. She wasn’t sure if he received the Lexington Herald-Leader at his current address of the Federal Correctional Institute in Manchester.
And the universe kept piling on.
Her limbs felt so heavy, she had to push herself to her feet. She felt a wall of grief bearing down on her, knew it would crash over her at some unexpected moment. She only hoped she’d have the strength to withstand the blow when it came. She’d done her part to keep the tsunami at bay—she’d opted for the lumpy futon in the extra room instead of sleeping alone in her and Sullivan’s bed. She’d chosen not to bury her nose in the shirt he’d left hanging over the chair. She’d purposely not called his cell phone just to hear his recorded voice message. Her heart was like a plate glass window, utterly shattered, but hanging together by a thin covering.
Octavia’s check lay on the bureau, made out in her sister’s beautiful, curvy handwriting, the zeroes nice and round. The idea of having an extra ten thousand dollars lying around in a checking account was stunning to Linda. Next to the check was a framed photo of Sullivan in his police uniform. He seemed to be challenging her, telling her to thumb her nose at her sister’s money, that she had everything she needed.
Except she didn’t. She’d gone along with Sullivan’s whim to change jobs, had trusted him to take care of them and now not only was she deeply in debt, but she didn’t have Sullivan, either. And just this morning she’d gotten news from her insurance agent that Sullivan’s life insurance policy, whose premium hadn’t been paid in four months, would not be honored.
“You didn’t leave me any choice,” she murmured. “And now I have to go bury you.”
She picked up the check, then gathered papers and other items she needed to take to the funeral parlor, shoving everything into a bag. She walked through the hallway, and stopped at Jarrod’s door. She knocked, then waited a few seconds before pushing it open.
He was sitting on his bed, dressed in slacks and a dress shirt, tie, and his UK jacket.
She walked in and sat next to him, gathering him in a hug. “This is going to be the worst day of our lives,” she said. “But we’ll get through it, okay?”
He nodded against her neck. Still no tears.
“I need to go to the funeral home early to take care of some things. Will you ride with Aunt Octavia and Uncle Richard and keep an eye on Maggie for me?”
He nodded again.
“Okay, I’ll see you there.”
He hugged her tight and she let him hang on as long as he wanted to, but eventually he loosened his grip. “I’ll take care of Maggie, and you, too.”
Her heart twisted. “I know you will…you are your father’s son.”
She gave him a kiss, then went to see how Octavia was faring with Maggie.
Not well, from the looks of the toe-to-toe standoff.
“I think you should wear the blue dress,” Octavia said.
Maggie’s dark eyebrows were drawn together. “I want to wear my tutu.”
“You can’t wear a tutu—it’s not appropriate.”
“What’s ‘propreate’ mean?”
Linda stepped in.
Maggie lit up. “You look pretty, Mommy!”
“Thank you, sweetie. I think Aunt Octavia is right—your blue dress would look nice today.”
Maggie’s lip poked out. “But Daddy likes my tutu.”
Linda bit down on the inside of her cheek. “You’re right. But I happen to know he likes your blue dress, too.”
Maggie brightened. “I can wear them both!”
“If that’s what you want,” Linda said, giving Octavia a pointed look. “Mommy’s going ahead to the funeral home. You and Jarrod are coming with Aunt Octavia and Uncle Richard, okay?”
“I want to go with you,” Maggie whined.
“Not this time,” Linda said, shushing her. “Be good for Mommy, and make sure Jarrod behaves, too.”
Having tattletale power over her brother cheered her up. “Okay, Mommy.”
She gave her daughter a kiss and a hug, then gave Octavia directions to the funeral parlor. “Did Richard come in?”
“He’s still in the car taking phone calls.”
Linda said goodbye and made her way toward the garage. Keep moving…keep moving and you don’t have to think too much. She stopped in the calamitous living room long enough to snag another box of Kleenex—she alone had made a good dent in the pile—gave Max a scratch, then exited to the garage, which was stacked so high with boxes of tile and two-by-fours, there was barely room for one vehicle. She climbed behind the wheel of the minivan cluttered with soccer equipment and turned over the engine.
Sullivan’s leased car remained at the agency parking lot. Klo had confided they were so late on the payments, it would be better to just let it revert to the dealership.
The investigative agency was just another huge knot she
would have to unravel.
But it would have to wait.
She backed out of the garage and down the driveway. As Octavia had indicated, Richard sat next to the curb in his big, gleaming Mercedes with his phone stuck to his head. A folder lay open on the steering wheel. His attention was so rapt he didn’t notice her, and she decided not to disturb him. During the few times she’d spent in Richard’s company, he’d always been nice enough to her, but she’d found him to have a chilly disposition. Still, he accommodated her sister’s demands, which she knew were many, and the account the ten thousand dollar check was written on had his name on it, too, so….
She drove straight to an ATM to deposit said check, on the one hand feeling shameful to be tending to such tedious matters on the way to her husband’s funeral, but on the other hand knowing her ability to write checks of her own today depended on it. When she pulled away, she conceded the relief of having money in the bank was immense. Octavia could be a witch, but she had to hand it to her sister for sizing up what she needed most at this moment.
She called her cell service provider and used the remaining credit limit on one charge card to have her service reinstated—another big relief, especially when so many people were trying to reach her right now. Sure enough, within a few minutes, her phone started beeping like crazy with undelivered voice messages. At traffic lights she paged through and discarded most of them, saving a few to return later.
We’re so sorry to hear about Sullivan.
When her mind threatened to go to that place she couldn’t bear to be, she turned up a radio station until the music was too loud to think. It worked until she pulled into the parking lot of the funeral parlor to see the name “Smith” on the marquee of the wood-framed sign.
Her husband was lying in there, his life over. There would be no more anniversaries, Christmases, or birthday parties. He wouldn’t get to see his children grow up and have children of their own. They wouldn’t get to travel and do the things they’d planned. Hell, he wouldn’t even get to see the kitchen remodeled. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles cracked. It wasn’t fair.
“It isn’t fair!” she shouted. “It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair!” She screamed until her ears rang and her throat was raw and her palms hurt from pounding the steering wheel.
A rap on the window brought her up short. She turned her head to see Stone Calvert standing outside her van, his face a mask of concern. “Are you okay?”
Mortification bled through her. The man had witnessed a bona fide meltdown. Spent, she zoomed down the window. “No...but I’m better.”
He gave her a tentative smile and she realized suddenly that he was a handsome man, especially when dressed in slacks and dress shirt. “I know this sounds trite, but you will be happy again someday.”
She nodded, wondering if he spoke from experience…and thinking he was blowing his image of an ex-con by using words like “trite.”
“The funeral isn’t for another couple of hours,” she offered.
“I know. Klo asked me to bring over some flowers the florist couldn’t deliver in time.”
“That’s nice of you.”
He looked pained, as if he didn’t want to be thanked. “Mrs. Smith—”
“Linda.”
“Linda…I was running a little late to meet Sullivan the day he died. I keep thinking if I’d gotten there sooner—”
“Mr. Calvert—”
“Stone.”
“Stone…you can’t blame yourself for my husband’s death. His heart simply gave out. Thanks to you, he made it to the hospital, and he regained consciousness long enough to tell me he loved me. You don’t know what that means to me.”
The tension in his face and body eased somewhat. “Thank you for that.”
She opened the door and climbed down. He gave an appreciative look at Octavia’s handiwork, then seemed to remember himself. When she removed her bag of paperwork, he took it from her, and walked with her to the door of the funeral home. Next to his bulk, she felt positively diminutive.
When she took her bag, she thanked him again.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I’ll have to rely on you and Klo to help me close the agency,” she said. “But that will have to wait.”
“Of course. Meanwhile, if I can do anything for you at your home…” His color rose. “I know Sullivan was doing some renovations. I’m good with my hands—er…that is, I’m handy.”
She smiled. “I will definitely keep that offer in mind.”
He nodded, then opened the door for her and said he would return later.
Inside the funeral parlor, she was assailed by the scent of death—mothballs and air freshener and live flowers. She wanted to turn and run…she didn’t want to do this. Would it be so bad if she wasn’t there for the funeral? People would just assume she was too grief stricken to endure the service, instead of the truth: That she was too guilt-ridden to endure the service.
She turned and had taken one step toward the door when an employee of the parlor appeared to greet her with cold hands. She followed him to the office where she signed a stack of papers, then wrote a check on a good portion of Octavia’s gift as a down payment on the somewhat staggering invoice.
Dying was an expensive undertaking.
Soon after, people began arriving for the service—neighbors, teachers at the children’s school, soccer parents, and members of the church they sometimes attended. Uniformed cops and other former coworkers of Sullivan’s, including Oakley, who stayed close to her side. His presence was comforting, yet she sensed an undercurrent of tension between them in the way he wouldn’t quite meet her eye. But she reminded herself that he was grieving as well.
Stone returned with Klo, who introduced her to two neighbors in the strip mall where the agency was located—Grim Hollister, a pony-tailed man who ran a pawn shop, and Maria Munoza, a pretty young woman who ran the dry cleaners. Linda greeted them warmly, but when she shook Maria’s hand, the woman held on a few seconds longer, and held Linda’s gaze with her coal black eyes.
“Sullivan didn’t die in vain,” she murmured with a faint accent.
Startled, Linda didn’t know what to make of the woman’s odd comment, until Klo leaned in. “She fancies herself a palm reader, don’t pay her any mind.”
Stone nodded in agreement, although she could tell he was affected by the woman’s remark. Recalling their earlier conversation and the man’s pressing guilt, she wanted to tell him to let it go, that her guilt trumped his. After all, while Sullivan had been lying on the floor, dying, she’d been home fantasizing about not being married to him anymore…about starting over.
And she’d gotten her wish.
The funeral director touched her arm. “Mrs. Smith…it’s time.”
Chapter Five
“I’VE BEEN THINKING,” Octavia whispered to Richard as they were led to a pew near the front of the chapel to the tune of maudlin music.
“That’s something new,” he said dryly.
She ignored the jab—he’d been cranky the entire drive over. Between him and the kids—especially that mouthy little Maggie—she was ready to scream. “I think returning to Louisville after the funeral is a good idea.”
“Why the change of heart? Too much family togetherness?”
“Something like that.”
From his jacket pocket, his phone chimed.
“Will you turn that thing off?”
“Gotta take this. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Irritated, she sat near the end of the pew, and set her bag next to her so she wouldn’t have to share the space with someone. It was a packed house.
“Mind if I sit here?”
She looked up and tried to hide her disgust. Biker Man was tall and sinewy, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail. Tattoos spilled out from the long-sleeve shirt he wore onto his neck and his wrists. And someone needed to tell him that handle-bar mustaches went out of vogue two centuries ag
o. “Yes,” she chirped, “I do mind.”
“Guess you’ll have to get over it,” he said, then picked up her purse and dropped into the spot.
She suppressed an expletive and grabbed her bag—he looked like the type who could smell the jewelry case inside. Thug.
“Nice bracelet,” he said, nodding to her diamond and onyx cuff.
She glared at him, pressing on her brow wrinkle—just as she thought.
“Grim Hollister,” he said, introducing himself.
“I don’t care,” she returned with a saccharine smile.
In hindsight, she probably should’ve sat with Linda and the children in the front, but the detective who had been Sullivan’s partner on the force seemed to have stepped in…hm. Neighbors and uniformed cops filled up the space between.
As expected, the service was a boring, sad affair. Octavia passed the time by inserting words of her own that the person giving the eulogy—the hunky detective again, hm—saw fit to leave out.
“Sullivan Aaron Smith was a good man.”
Lazy.
“An ambitious man.”
Self-indulgent.
“Who cherished his family.”
So much so that he let them live in a construction zone.
“He leaves behind his wife Linda.”
Who could’ve done so much better.
“And two wonderful children.”
For whom he probably didn’t even provide life insurance.
Throughout, her mind kept bouncing to Richard and she felt a little contrite. She nagged at him for working too hard, but he had always been a wonderful provider, and would never leave her in a lurch the way Sullivan had left Linda. She felt sorry for her sister, but she had made her bed, so to speak.
She scanned the faces of the seated crowd, passing over most, but stopping on one in particular.
Her breath left her lungs. Dunk?
Next to Louis Vuitton, Dunk Duncan had been the closest thing to the love of her life. When she was a cheerleader for UK, he had been a basketball star, which in this state, was akin to royalty. He had pursued her relentlessly, but Octavia knew better than to pair up with a man who was more high-maintenance than she was. She and Dunk both liked the spotlight, and when he was around, there was only room for him. He’d aged almost as well as she had, the handsome devil.
Two Guys Detective Agency (humorous mystery series--book 1) Page 4