Mourning After

by Stephanie Damore

  He scratched his head. “Of course, I have a name.” He pulled the car off the road and turned to face me. “Spiffy outfit, by the way.”

  I assessed my outfit. My clothing was casual but still stylish. I had on an Alexander McQueen silk tiger butterfly print blouse with Blouson sleeves and a black Elie Tahari Eavanna flounce-hem pencil skirt. Rail-thin runway models had nothing on me. I wasn’t just stylish. I was style.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugged. “All I’m saying is if you’re here to get away from your problems, you’re not doing yourself any favors with those fancy duds.” He rubbed the scruff on his chin. “I’m no fashion expert and I definitely don’t play one on television, but if I were you, I’d tone down my look. It will help you in the long run.”

  “I don’t know where you learned your manners, but you might want to go back for a refresher course because you’re seriously lacking. If you have a problem with my outfit, kindly avert your eyes and zip your lips.” I couldn’t believe the nerve of him. I’d never been so insulted in my life.

  He nodded. “Consider it done. You’re the boss.”

  His smirk made my blood boil.

  After a few seconds of silence, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Okay. Fine. What’s wrong with my outfit?” I did a quick scan of his attire, what I could see from the shoulders up. He looked like every other limo driver I’d ever met. “And while you’re at it, tell me what else you think you know about me and why I’m here.”

  “I don’t know anything. That was my educated guess.”

  “You’re educated?” That’s the best I could come up with on short notice.

  I assessed my outfit again. What did a driver from Asheville know about style?

  “Yes, I’m educated. I went to school once or twice.” He winked. “I’m smarter than I look.”

  Why did everything he said sound like a joke?

  “I apologize. Of course, you’re educated,” I offered.

  He pushed a button to lift the tinted divider up between the front and back seats. “Thank you. I’ll leave you alone now.”

  I blocked the divider with my arm. “Wait. I’m not done.” He lowered it. “If you have something to say about me, then, say it.”

  He blinked. “Ma’am, I don’t have anything to say about you.”

  I lifted a brow. “No? Are you sure?”

  He shook his head. “Forget I said anything. I’ll give you some space. We should reach your destination in no time flat.” He offered a nod at me in the rearview mirror as he pushed the button to activate the divider again.

  “No, wait,” I said a hair before it blocked him from my view. “I have a right to be heard.”

  He locked eyes with me in the mirror, a smirk on his face. “You’re right. I’ll get rid of this. Have your say. I’m all ears.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to think happy thoughts. I knew better than to let something so meaningless get to me. I had far more important matters to contend with than what a stranger thought of my clothing or my problems.

  “Relax. Keep your mind on your goal,” I whispered to psych myself up.

  “Do you often talk to yourself,” he said with a smug grin.

  “Could you not do that?”

  “What?” His eyes lit up when he laughed. “You don’t like my smile? I think it’s my best feature.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “There. See? Doesn’t that feel better?” he teased.

  I rolled my eyes. “How long until we make it to Asheville?”

  “We should be there in a jiffy,” he said.

  “Jiffy?” I’d never heard anyone use that word outside of a Hollywood studio. “How old are you?”

  He winked at me in the rearview mirror. “How old are you?”

  “Yeah, I’m not going to answer that. Let’s move on.” I pointed out the window. “To Asheville, driver with no name.”

  He laughed but didn’t offer his name in response.

  “I didn’t properly introduce myself. I’m Viviana.” I let my words hang in the air, while I waited for a reaction from him. It usually took a few seconds for reality to hit people. Since he’d claimed to know so much about me, I was anxious to test his knowledge.

  “I know your name. It’s on this sheet of paper.” He pointed to something on the passenger seat. “You’re Viviana Romero, arriving at nine from Los Angeles. You’re here to get away from … your problems and, apparently, to work a nine to five for some inexplicable reason.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “As the saying goes ‘If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you’.”

  I lifted a brow. “If you don’t tell me, I can guarantee you, I won’t be the one who loses my life.”

  He locked eyes with me. “Challenge accepted.”

  I held my breath. Why had I said that? I was a virtual prisoner in his car. What if he was a madman?

  “Hey! What’s wrong?” he asked. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Who said you did?”

  He gunned the gas. “I should’ve followed my first instinct. I’m sorry about all this. You were right to say I should focus on the drive. My apologies.”

  Finally! My shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

  Tension filled the air. We needed a distraction.

  I tapped on the divider. “How much longer?”

  He pushed the button to lower it again. “Ten, fifteen minutes.” He caught sight of me in the mirror. “What do you plan to do with that?”

  I still had the pen in my hand. “Nothing. I needed a distraction. Things were too tense.”

  He quirked an eyebrow up. “So, you chose to stab me? Is that a new-fangled stress reliever?”

  I dropped it in my bag. “No. I would never stab you. I’m only violent on film.”

  His eyebrows quirked up. “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What exactly do you know about me?”

  He sighed.

  “Fess up.”

  “I know you’re an actress. You had a problem with your husband. I guess he stole some money and took off with someone he met online.”

  That was like a punch to the gut.

  “And now you’re here to get out of the limelight. What I don’t understand is why you want to take a job. Aren’t you pretty well off?”

  I nodded. “It’s not about the money.” My anger swelled. “Who told you all this?”

  He reached under his seat and pulled out a rag magazine. “Whoever wrote this article.” He handed it to me. “Take a look for yourself.”

  I knew the tabloids had written articles, most of them false, but I had no idea their stories would have found their way to the middle of nowhere.

  He reached over the seat. “Maybe, I should take that back. The story doesn’t mean anything. No one reads it.” I handed the magazine to him. “My name is Brooks, by the way.” He shrugged. “I was born and bred here.” He rolled the magazine up and shoved it back under his seat. “Hopefully, I won’t be here much longer.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with Asheville?”

  He bit his lip, seeming to weigh his words.

  “Well?”

  He mumbled, “Things have taken an ugly turn.”

  I didn’t mean to laugh. His statement wasn’t meant to be funny, but his sudden ominous tone threw me off guard. “Do you care to elaborate?”

  He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut and opened it again before deciding against it.

  “Okay. You don’t have to. It’s none of my business.”

  “So, what’s at the old shopping center? Is there a big blowout sale I don’t know about?”

  I knitted my brows. “Shopping center? What shopping center?”

  “That’s where you’re headed, isn’t it? It says so right here in the form. Pick up at the airport. Drop off at the old shopping center.” He held the clipboard up for me to see.

  Sure enough, that’s exactly what it said. N
o one had told me anything about a shopping center.

  “That’s what the itinerary says.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d waved a balled-up fist in the air.

  He laughed a hearty laugh. “I have a strict rule about no bloodshed in my car. I’d be ever so grateful if you would adhere to that rule. You can do whatever you want about all the other rules, but that’s one I’m afraid I’ll have to enforce.” He flexed his right arm.

  I noticed my fist and lowered my arm. “Sorry. I don’t like surprises.”

  He pulled onto an exit. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but you might want to rethink your stance. I’m afraid this town is full of them.”

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  Professional Mourning can be a deadly business. Luckily, these 6 out-of-work actresses are on the job!

  Mourning Routine by S.E. Babin

  Kitty Crawford reached for stardom and fell hard. Now, in desperate need of some way to make ends meet, she skulks back to her hometown of Asheville. Unfortunately, the employment offers are slim pickings for a has-been whose sole talent is being able to cry on cue.

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  Mourning Express by K.M. Waller

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  Mourning After by Stephanie Damore

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  Can Maven uncover all the right clues to solve Asheville’s latest funeral fiasco? Find out whodunit in this hilarious mystery series filled with fake tears and a very real body count... Order your copy and start reading today!

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  Mourning Star by Ava Mallory

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ing today!

  Get your copy at www.sweetpromisepress.com/TheFuneralFakers

  About the Author

  I'm a mystery author with a soft spot for romance and humor, too. I love all things girlie with a dollop of danger, have a strong affinity for the color pink (especially in diamonds and champagne), and, not to brag, but chocolate and I are in a pretty serious relationship.

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