by Elaine Viets
Tommy read a passage from the Old Testament in a singsong voice: “But the souls of the just are in the hands of God and no torment shall touch them.” He’d chosen the passage himself from the approved list of readings. Helen heard it as an apology to Allison, who was too young to attend her grandmother’s funeral.
“They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead, and their passing away was thought an”—Tommy struggled with the next word—“affli-affilic-affliction!” he finished triumphantly. “And their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace.”
I hope so, Mom, Helen thought.
Dolores’s casket had been covered with a pall and blessed by Father Rafferty. Inside, Dolores was wearing her pearls. Helen had checked before it was closed. She didn’t trust Larry.
Helen recognized many of her mother’s friends—and a few of Larry’s admirers—in the “memorial choir,” the kind name for the church’s second-string singers. Their voices wobbled in and out of key, but no pros sang with such sincerity. These women served their church faithfully.
Over the quavery choir, Helen heard the chunk and growl of the cement mixer as the floor was poured in the new church hall. Another burial was going on.
“Hurry up, dammit!” a man’s voice yelled outside.
A fitting send-off for Rob, Helen thought, then felt guilty for her meanness. Rob would soon rest under rock and concrete.
Give him eternal rest, Lord, Helen prayed. Permanent rest, so Rob doesn’t surface until that last trumpet, when Tommy and I are long forgotten.
Tommy had no clue he’d killed his uncle Rob. Helen hoped the boy never found out. At least Rob is buried in the church, she thought. A mad giggle rose in her throat. Helen strangled the sound and tried to turn it into a sob. Phil patted her hand in sympathy.
Helen and Phil, Kathy, Tom Senior and Tommy took the left front pew. Larry, the new widower, sat on the right. Mrs. Raines, front-runner for the next Lawn Boy Larry consort, positioned herself close to keep her eye on her prize. The other widows clustered behind her, eyeing Larry like hungry lionesses at a watering hole.
At the Offertory, Tom Senior and Kathy brought up the wafers and wine. Tommy carried a basket of items that had been important to Dolores. Helen glimpsed family photos, a much-thumbed Betty Crocker Cookbook with a red-checked cover and a red racing car. Helen knew the story behind that toy. Two-year-old Tommy had insisted it be part of the manger scene under the Christmas tree because “Baby Jesus will like it.” His grandma adored this historical inaccuracy. The red car, parked next to the Wise Men, became a family holiday tradition.
At last, the service ended. The memorial choir sang “May the angels lead you into paradise” and the pallbearers, priest and servers escorted Dolores’s body down the aisle. The family followed behind the casket.
The undertaker’s black limo doors opened, and Helen, Phil, Kathy, Tom and Tommy Junior slid inside. Lawn Boy Larry followed in his own car, accompanied by Mrs. Raines.
“Cool limo,” Tommy said, obviously enjoying his first ride in the massive vehicle.
“You did a good job with the reading for your grandmother,” Helen said.
“Proud of you, son,” Tom said, and patted his boy’s shoulder.
“After the burial, Larry is having a funeral lunch in the church basement,” Kathy said. “I wanted the lunch at my house, but he said this would be better.”
“Which means cheaper,” Helen said.
“Probably,” Kathy said. “But I’d fought with him so much, I let him have this victory. Mom knew all the church ladies, and I think she would have wanted it. He said he’d make a small donation to the sodality. Knowing Larry, it will be small. We’ll have dinner at our house tonight, if your plans permit.”
“We see the tax lawyer at two,” Helen said. “We have to return our rental car and catch the first flight to Fort Lauderdale by eight tonight. But we have time for an early dinner with you.”
Phil nodded agreement.
“It will be quick,” Kathy said. “I can’t figure out why sitting around a funeral home makes me feel like I’ve been digging ditches.” Kathy blushed when she realized she had indeed been digging a ditch—to bury Rob.
Only Helen noticed Kathy’s heightened color. Tom Senior sat there like a sweet, baggy-faced basset, patting his wife’s hand.
“I want you both with us when we open the special gifts Grandma left the family,” Kathy said.
The funeral procession entered the ornate wrought-iron gates of Calvary Cemetery. The limo drove past weeping stone angels, gray granite crosses and grand mausoleums with stained-glass windows their occupants never saw. The trees were a cool canopy over lush green grass.
“As cemeteries go, this one is a beauty,” Phil said.
“Tennessee Williams is buried here,” Tom said. “And Civil War general William Tecumseh Sherman and other famous people.” Like many St. Louisans, Tom was proud of his city’s history.
“We took a field trip to Calvary for school,” Tommy said.
“To see the graves of the famous people?” Helen asked.
“No, cooler than that,” Tommy Junior said. “Calvary Cemetery has some of the last prairie in the whole USA. It’s being preserved and everything.”
“Weird but true,” Tom Senior said. “North America used to have a million square miles of prairie. One of the last known chunks survived in the city of St. Louis in the cemetery. The Catholic archdiocese has agreed to keep it intact for at least a hundred years.”
“Grandma’s in a famous place,” Tommy said. “Where the buffalo roamed and the cowboys rode.”
The black hearse stopped before a white tent sheltering rows of folding chairs. The burial ceremony was mercifully short. Kathy had brought a bouquet of pink carnations, their mother’s favorite flower. She handed carnations to her family. They gently dropped flowers and symbolic clods of dirt onto the coffin. Helen hated the soft sound the clay soil made on the lid.
Larry tossed in a single limp rose.
Dolores shared a gray granite headstone with her first husband. Her death date would be engraved on it soon. Helen paused for a moment at the grave of her father, left a spray of red roses, then walked back toward the limo with Phil through the forest of granite headstones.
Larry, Mrs. Raines at his side, greeted the mourners at the funeral luncheon in the church basement. Kathy and Tom got a frosty smile. Larry managed a stingy nod for Phil and ignored Helen.
They ate slightly stale ham sandwiches, boiled coffee and sheet cake lovingly served by Dolores’s friends. These women worked hard, but had no authority, one reason Helen had parted from the Church.
“Are we going to the reading of the will?” Helen asked Kathy.
“No. I don’t want my son to know his grandmother cut him out for that jackass,” Kathy whispered. “We’ll open the things I swiped from Mom’s house and tell the kids they were gifts from Grandma. I took things Larry will never miss. None of them had price tags yet.”
“Will Tommy mention the gifts to Lawn Boy?” Helen said.
“Tommy never talks to that man unless he has to,” Kathy said. “There’s no reason now.”
Helen and Phil thanked the church ladies, and Phil slipped Mrs. Hurbert, head church lady and archenemy of Lawn Boy Larry, a fifty-dollar donation. They left the church basement covered in lipstick kisses and flowery perfume.
On the way to their car, Helen checked out the new church-hall foundation. The basement floor was smooth and wet. No corpse stuck out of the concrete.
“We need to hurry to make the appointment with the tax lawyer,” Phil said. Helen drove them to another glass office tower.
Drake Upton had a long aristocratic face, a lantern jaw and iron gray hair. His advice was short and no-nonsense.
“As a CPA, Miss Hawthorne, you will be held to a higher standard, so it will be difficult for you to avoid penalties,” he said. “Since you apparently made less than twenty thousand dollars annually during the yea
rs you were . . . gone . . . you may not have had to file taxes. That does not excuse what you did. You know better.”
“I did and I’m sorry,” Helen said. “I don’t have much paperwork from that time. I do have the forms from when I worked at the Superior Club. I made eleven dollars an hour, the most money I earned during that time.”
“But you can’t prove that,” Drake said.
“No. I took cash under the table for those other jobs,” Helen said. “At least three of the seven companies are gone, and the rest are small businesses. I’m willing to pay the price, but I don’t want the business owners to suffer because they did me a favor. I do have some money—three hundred thousand dollars left over from the sale of the house.”
“The house was sold before your divorce, correct?”
Helen nodded.
“Did your ex-husband pay capital gains on that sale?”
“I can almost guarantee he didn’t,” Helen said.
“Then you are responsible for that, too. Here’s what I recommend: Let’s file returns for the real amounts of income. We will not over- or underestimate what you made. That would make it look worse. Then we’ll wait for the audit notice that will most surely arrive. When that happens, you will go to the IRS with an attorney. It can be me, if you want to come back to St. Louis, or I can recommend a colleague in Fort Lauderdale. You and your attorney will tell the IRS about your emotional state, your small income, show proof of where the three hundred thousand dollars came from and give them information about your lifestyle, including all assets.”
“I haven’t any assets, except that three hundred thousand dollars,” Helen said. “I rent a tiny apartment. I don’t own a car.”
“Good,” the lawyer said. “That will help. Keep your life simple until this is settled. The IRS will calculate your penalties and interest. Interest cannot be waived, but the penalties can be if you can prove that you were unable to take care of your responsibilities during those years. Being on the run may be able to do that. It will help that your ex-husband bribed a judge to get a divorce decision.
“I’ll check the years this took place and the filing requirements and see if there was an amnesty program then,” Drake Upton said. “I’ll also explain the sale of the house and the fact that your ex probably didn’t file taxes for it. If you file taxes now, that will work in your favor.
“After I prepare your taxes, my office will send them to you. You can sign and mail them in with a check. Did you file state tax returns during the time you were gone?”
“No,” Helen said.
“Then we’ll have to file those, too. Give me a list of states where you worked. I’ll research their laws and get back to you.”
“There was just one, Florida,” Helen said.
“That’s good,” Drake Upton said. “I believe Florida is one of the states that doesn’t have personal income tax, but I’ll check for you.”
“Will the fines and penalties take the whole three hundred thousand?”
“I don’t think so,” Drake Upton said. “But taxes are a bit like opening a can of worms. One question leads to another and we have too many that need answering.”
“How angry will the tax people be?” Helen asked.
“They’re not the ogres most people think they are, Miss Hawthorne. They want citizens to pay taxes. That’s what you’re trying to do. With patience, time and money, we can get you out of this mess.”
Helen and Phil walked to their rental car hand in hand.
“Our work here is done,” Helen said.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Phil said. “The last time you left St. Louis, you were on the run from the court. Rob was free and spending your money. Now Rob is running from the law, and you’re free.”
“Right,” Helen said, “free.”
Her heart twisted. Helen would never be free as long as Rob was buried in the church-hall foundation—and she’d go to jail if he was ever found.
She’d traded one trap for another.
CHAPTER 23
“Look at my new bat, Uncle Phil,” Tommy said. “It’s a wooden grown-up bat.”
“Pujols better watch out,” Phil said. “What happened to your old bat, slugger?” He ruffled the boy’s straw-colored hair.
“Somebody stole it,” Tommy said. “Mom bought me this one. She still won’t let me use a real baseball in our yard, but I can hit one on a baseball diamond.”
“Wanna show me what you can do with this new bat?” Phil asked.
“Yeah!” Tommy said. “You can pitch and Dad can play outfield.”
“Daddy needs a beer,” Tom said. “I’ll get Uncle Phil one, too. Outfielder is thirsty work.”
Helen followed her sister into the house to help with dinner. She waited until Tom left the kitchen with two cold beers, then said, “The aluminum bat disappeared, huh? There’s been a crime wave in this neighborhood.”
“I couldn’t risk having it around,” Kathy whispered. “DNA is dangerous. What if Rob’s blood, hair or skin cells were lodged in the scratches on the bat? If—God forbid—they ever find his body, I don’t want the autopsy to reveal he was bopped with a long, blunt bat-shaped object.”
“Tommy still has no clue what happened to his uncle?” Helen asked.
“None,” Kathy said. “He’s used to Rob dropping in and then disappearing. If Rob never reappears, Tommy won’t miss him.”
“Nobody will,” Helen said. “ ‘Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it.’ ”
“Macbeth,” Kathy said. “Classy epitaph for a worthless life. Nobody will cry for Rob.”
“He triggered enough tears when he was alive,” Helen said.
“Mom got a good send-off, didn’t she?” Kathy asked. “It was a lovely funeral. All her friends were there. The church looked beautiful. And it was nice of Mrs. Hurbert to warn us about Larry’s sneaky estate sale. I slipped out during the viewing and took some things from Mom’s house before the sale.”
“What if Larry discovers they’re gone?” Helen asked.
“The only thing he might notice missing is the cookie jar, and it wasn’t tagged. I know all Mom’s hiding places, so I found her good stuff.”
“Mom had hiding places?”
“She kept her good jewelry in a plastic bag in the flour bin.”
“It was definitely safe from me there,” Helen said.
“Larry, too,” Kathy said. “He never lifted a finger to help or to cook. His loss. We’ll check out our loot after dinner.”
Dinner was quick and simple—spaghetti, salad and ice cream. After the dining room table was cleared, Kathy announced, “Grandma left special presents for everyone she loved. Let’s look now.”
Kathy opened a cardboard box. Helen swore she saw a light dusting of flour inside.
“Tom, these are Daddy’s Cartier cuff links. They’re for you.”
“Classy,” Tom said.
“Phil, this is my grandfather’s diamond stickpin.”
“Cool Art Deco design,” Phil said. “Thank you.”
“Helen, this is our grandmother’s diamond brooch. You were her favorite.”
“Gorgeous antique setting,” Helen said.
“Tommy, this is your grandfather’s pearl-handled pocketknife. I’m only giving it to you because you’ve been acting like a man. If I find you’re misusing it, the pocketknife is gone.”
Allison’s chin was trembling, and Helen hoped Kathy had a present for her daughter. The little girl had been cranky and teary since her grandmother’s death.
“Allison, this is the necklace your grandma wore when she was a little girl. It’s a gold heart with a real seed pearl.”
Allison’s eyes lit up when she saw the delicate necklace. “Can I wear it now?”
“Tonight only,” Kathy said. “Then you can wear it to church and for special occasions, like Megan’s birthday party.”
Kathy had also carried home a box of Christmas ornaments. “Mom knew how to celebrate Christmas,” she
said. “Some of these ornaments are nearly a hundred years old. Larry is too much of a Scrooge to know their real value.”
Helen recognized the German glass ornaments from her childhood. “There’s the fat Santa Claus,” she said, “and the silver bells and the musical instruments, including violins and trumpets. We used to have a sleigh with reindeer, but I broke that.”
“These antique glass-bead garlands were packed away in tissue paper,” Kathy said. “Mom left us her manger scene, too.” She opened a fragile white box with hand-painted figures.
“Here are the Christmas stockings Grandma made you kids with your names on them. They used to hang on Grandma’s mantelpiece, but now they’ll go on ours.”
“Grandma left us her Christmas,” Tommy said.
“I also have Grandma’s wedding album,” Kathy said. “That’s for Allison.”
“With the Grandma Princess picture?” Allison asked.
“Yes, your grandmother did look like a princess in her white dress. I’ll put it in your room, so you can see her all the time. Tommy, you can have Grandma’s photo album of the two of you in Forest Park.
“And here’s the best thing of all.” Kathy held up a fat yellow china duck.
“Grandma’s cookie jar,” Tommy said. “Any cookies in it?”
“Not now, but I have her Betty Crocker Cookbook. I’ll make cookies like she used to.”
“Nobody can make cookies like Grandma,” Tommy said. “Her cookies were the best. Even the water tasted better at Grandma’s house.”
He looked at his mother and said, “But yours will be good. You need practice to get better. Like me.”
Helen saw her sister tear up and knew Kathy was tired after a long day. Tom must have recognized the same signals. “Bedtime, champ,” he said. “Give your aunt Helen and uncle Phil a good-bye hug. They’re leaving tonight.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” Tommy said, and stuck out his lip.