by Laura Quinn
Delilah hugged Claire tightly in the greeting line, whispering a plea to meet in the powder room in ten minutes. Claire nodded, then told Marti she would meet up with her later. The attorney planned to circulate and gather intel.
At the appointed time, Claire entered the lilac-themed room, sitting on one of the twin gold-and-pink-velvet parlor chairs. Moments later, Delilah entered, locking the door behind her.
“You’re such a dear friend,” she said, clinging to Claire. “Have you found anything yet, to prove the police wrong? It’s absolutely absurd to think that Donald would be involved in…no, it’s just too much…”
Claire embraced her friend, absorbing the shaking, sobbing shell she had become. “Delilah, try to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
After several minutes, the widow raised her head and sat back into the chair. Only her hands belied the rigidity of her posture, wringing a lace handkerchief between her fingers. “I lost my first husband,” she began. “I don’t know if I ever told you that.”
Claire nodded. Delilah’s upper lip began to quiver, and she pressed the pulverized cloth to her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she said, “It was very sudden and the cause of death was never determined. The police questioned…”
“Lula told me,” Claire said, saving Delila from having to tell the full story of how suspicion was raised after a seemingly healthy man died so unexpectedly, leaving a substantial estate to the widow.
“I’m not so naïve to think I wouldn’t be a suspect now, but they’re convinced this was intentional. They say that either I did it or someone else targeted him specifically. Who would want to kill…”
“I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, but I think it’s best that to try to block all this out for now,” Claire said to the hysterical woman. As Delilah choked on her tears, Claire broke her promise to herself, Barbara and the police, by saying, “And I’m still investigating.” She hugged her trembling friend for several minutes before they were ready to return.
Delilah returned to her place in the viewing room, greeting visitors with a weak smile. Claire stopped at Mr. O’Shea’s office, and asked for a discreet pour of whiskey in a cup of coffee, her nan’s cure-all. On her way back, a familiar face greeted her.
“I figured you couldn’t stay away,” Ed said. “How are you holding up?”
“I got this to calm Delilah’s nerves, but I could use a cup myself. I feel so badly for her, especially now that…” Claire stopped as one of the town officials walked by. “Let me bring this to Delilah, and I’ll meet you in the garden in the back.”
Ignoring the “no food or drink” brass plaque posted at the entrance, Claire placed the cup on the mahogany table next to the widow. She enlisted her sister to ensure the medicine was administered, then scanned the room for Marti. Seeing her friend engaged in conversation, Claire snuck out the back door. The garden, which had been ablaze with red and pink roses, pastel snapdragons, and sunny daylilies during the summer looked vastly different in December. The blankets that burst with purple clematis along the brick walls were now tangles of black vines. Patches of dirty snow clung to clumps of fake poinsettias and the brown skeletal remains of forgotten autumn mums. A string of white holiday lights around the evergreen shrubs did little to brighten the mood.
“Come here, you,” Ed said, wrapping his coat around her shivering body. “You’ll catch your death out here. We should go back inside?”
“I need some air.”
“What happened? Are you ok?”
“It’s just been a long day,” Claire exhaled, surveying the empty garden. “Poor Delilah is beside herself. You probably didn’t know this, but this is the second time she’s had to bury a husband.”
“That’s bad luck.”
“Well, that’s just it. Now, the police are laser-focused on her. They’ve started an inquiry and are asking her all sorts of questions about Donald and his business practices. Apparently, there have been quite a few complaints filed against him recently. She’s in a terrible state.”
“As I told you before, I really think you should leave this to the police. It will probably turn out that the geezer got in over his head with some scheme, and you don’t want to be involved in that.”
“I promised Lula that I would try to find some options to take the heat off her sister.”
Ed put his arm around Claire’s shoulders and pulled her into him. “I hate to see you with added stress during your store’s busiest season.”
“I’ve been telling myself the same thing,” Claire admitted. “You must be frozen; let’s go back inside and get some hot coffee.”
They returned to the stuffy heat, stopping in the hospitality room and sliced a piece of streusel Danish from the table. “This sugar should get the blood pumping again,” Claire said as Wham!’s “Last Christmas”, Marti’s personal ringtone, sounded from her phone. Ed frowned as she answered the phone. “Sorry about that, Marti’s on her way.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind about the call, it was the ringtone. I hate that song.”
“What?” Claire gasped; it was one of her favorite Christmas songs. “Your ears must be numb from being outside for too long. Clearly, I read too many mysteries; always imagining people are at every corner, trying to listen to a conversation.”
“No offence, but I doubt the criminal masterminds of the world are worried about what the local dog shop owner thinks.”
Claire stepped back, stripped off his coat and shoved it at him. “You’re right, what would I know about solving a murder?”
“You’re upset,” he said, stepping forward. “I meant to reassure you, but you’re too close to this ugly business. You need to take some time to rest.”
Claire would have shared her thoughts on his unsolicited advice, had Dottie not appeared. The real estate agent wore a polka-dot Christmas tree pin on a red wool jacket, covering a polka-dot dress. “You don’t seem very happy for someone who finally got rid of her neighbor from hell,” she said.
“It’s been a long day and a longer night,” Claire said. They talked about the real estate scene and various gossip until Marti caught up with her. Dottie left to talk with the widow, should she want to sell her home.
“Am I glad to see you,” Claire said. They used their BFF code to fill in details of the evening while they split an apple slice, stopping when they heard footsteps approaching. Claire recognized Emma’s friend, Elsa, as one of the catering staff refreshing the trays of food.
“Hi Ms. Noble, how are you? Oh, I guess I shouldn’t ask that considering the circumstances.”
“Hi Elsa,” Claire said. “We’re friends of the widow. We didn’t know her husband very well.”
“He was a nasty old pervert,” the teenager whispered to Claire. “His wife hired Ellen to cater an event at their house, and he insisted we servers wear short dresses like casino cocktail waitresses. Then, he kept dropping things so we would have to bend over to pick them up. When we were leaving, I overheard him complaining to Ellen about our service and he refused to tip us. I could have killed him myself. Oops, I shouldn’t have said that either.”
“The man sure knew how to piss off people,” Marti said.
Elsa left with the rest of the crew, as did Claire and Marti. As the pair turned the corner to enter the room, a short young man dressed in a peacock blue suit ran past them. A lingering waft of spicy cologne managed to permeate the cloyingly sweet smell of the funeral flowers. Marti and Claire exchanged puzzled looks, then followed the commotion into the salon.
Gripping the corpse to his chest, the mystery man’s shaking body remained folded over the casket for several minutes. Every person in the home gathered, gawking at the spectacle. Claire and Marti stared at each other in complete amazement. The consummate host, Patrick O’Shea, stalled midway up the aisle, bewildered as to his next action. Ever the posed hostess, Delilah approached the young man and introduced herself.
Suddenly, the man turned and grabbed the delicat
e spray of roses from the top of the casket. He read the gold lettering on the blue ribbon, and glared at Delilah. “Beloved husband? You spiteful witch!” he raged, then threw the arrangement at her. Stems, petals, and leaves exploded at impact and the ribbon fluttered through the turbulent air.
Patrick screamed, Marti called nine-one-one, and Tallulah smashed a vase of carnations over the aggressor’s head. In the center of it all, Delilah fainted.
Chapter 16
Saturday, December 16th
“I never did like carnations,” Lula said in response to Claire’s accolades of heroism. The whole scene was still shocking, even after a night’s sleep. “Anyway, I just called to let you know that Sis is home resting. The hospital ran all sorts of tests, but didn’t find anything beyond an unhealthy dose of stress.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Claire said. “Considering everything that happened, is the funeral going to be postponed?”
“No, Lila wants to go through with it as planned. I think it’s best to get it over with, and get the son of a gun in the ground,” Lula said. “Don’t worry, the home arranged for private security, should that barbarian have a partner.”
Claire thought to herself that the young man did indeed have a partner, but he was soon to be buried. She promised to be there for the full ceremony, as would Marti.
As if on cue, her best friend arrived with a box of donuts. Claire stuck with her mug of microwaved oatmeal, but Baron gladly abandoned his bowl of kibble for a few bites of a honey-glazed ring.
“That lady is a firecracker,” Marti said, upon hearing about the phone call. “Too bad she couldn’t have taken out Donald like that before her sister married him.”
“Apparently, she didn’t know anything about their whirlwind romance. They were already married before Lula even heard his name. When she tried to do a background check, it caused quite a rift between the sisters.”
“Due to el jerko, no doubt,” Marti said. “So, what’s it going to take to get you out of here in the least amount of time? Now that word’s out about last night’s spectacle, it’s going to be a zoo at the funeral home.”
Claire asked her to finish processing the shipment of toys that were left over from the day before. After a few choice words for the pricing gun, Marti finally unjammed it by banging it into submission.
Red and blue lights flickered through the front window, illuminating the dark morning. “For cripes’ sake, I wasn’t that loud,” Marti grumbled. Baron ran to the front of the shop, and back to the kitchen to bark at Claire.
“The police are here,” Marti translated.
“I promised to open the Donald door for them,” Claire explained. “Can you grab the keys? These cranberry biscotti are just about ready.”
Marti looked for the keyring, normally hung on the hook behind the aprons. “Where are they?”
“In their usual spot, on the hook.”
“That’s where I just looked,” Marti said. “I’ll go let them in before they accuse you of interference.”
“That’s strange. I’m sure I put them there after I used them last time.” Claire pulled out the trays, then came over to look. She found the missing keys on the door hook, under the spare aprons. “One of the kids must have put them here by mistake.”
Claire brought the keyring to Officer Scott, relieved it wasn’t Sheila. Taking the opportunity to grill the friendly cop, she grabbed a few doughnuts and filled a cup of coffee before walking over with him. She returned ten minutes later with an empty plate and cup, but a full story that she shared with Marti.
“Delilah declined to press charges, because—get this--he says he’s Donald’s son,” Claire said. “They’re checking out his story, but that would explain the hug. So, the young lover theory is out.”
“He could still be the nefarious partner, though,” Marti said. “He hardly seemed the ivy league type.”
Bob arrived a few minutes later, stopping first at the antique store. The ladies watched as the editor was refused entry, then pretended to be busy when he knocked on the Posh Pup front door.
“I know you were watching,” Bob said. “Officer Scott said to see you for the story. He still had powdered sugar around his lips, clear evidence of a bribe.”
“You’re missing all the stories right under your nose. What kind of newsman are you?” Marti teased. “You need to hang out with us more.”
“Do you know how many holiday events I have to cover? And, who could have guessed a wake would be so newsworthy?” Bob shook his head. “If you two hadn’t corroborated it, I might have thought my night desk intern was drunk on the office eggnog.”
Claire and Marti talked over each other in their excitement to reenact the previous night’s scene and spill the morning’s news.
Not to be outdone, Bob updated them on what he had uncovered. “Not only Donald’s first wife still alive, but she’s also still married to him!”
“No way!” they said in unison.
“Yes way,” Bob affirmed. “She lives in Akron and believed Donald was away on buying trips for his import business. He would go back to Ohio every few weeks. The son says he just found out when he came here for a delivery.”
“Aha! The smuggling connection – I knew it!” Claire exclaimed.
“It seems you may well have been on to something,” Bob said. “The Wildlife Agency is very interested in Donald and his son.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Stan and Oliver, a Norwich Terrier and an American Mastiff. Their owner, an impeccably dressed man with a perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper mustache, was apologetic as ever.
“I simply cannot understand why these two turn into such brutes as soon as they enter this store. Anywhere else, they are perfect gentlemen,” Richard said.
“They aren’t bad, they know what they want,” Claire assured him.
Demonstrating exactly that, Stan’s tiny paws reached for the bin containing the large beef-basted bones. Oliver stared at the lavender and honey blondie bites in the counter display. Claire was careful not to slip in the puddle of drool beneath the fawn-colored dog, roughly the size of a pony. She proffered a handful of the small soft treats to one, while placing the beefy bone, larger than the wiry-coated terrier’s head, on a plate next to him.
“I’ll take five more for Stan, and all the blondies you have for the big fellow,” Richard requested. “If you have meatloaf, I’ll take four.”
While his two dogs gobbled down their treats, he selected holiday collars and toys. Claire bagged everything, including a to-go bag for the rest of Stan’s bone. Richard called the boys, and they trotted towards the exit. He hesitated before opening the door, glancing in the direction of the closed antique store. “May I ask, how is the dear lady doing?”
“I suppose as well as anyone in such difficult circumstances,” Claire replied. She long suspected Richard’s secret crush on the proprietress. “The funeral service begins at eleven today.”
“Yes. I imagine I’ll see you there,” he said, and left in a reserved manner. All three kept perfect alignment, despite the vast differences in stride, and jumped into their allocated spots in the classic Jaguar. When Peggy arrived, Claire quickly mixed up a double batch of blondies, a favorite during the chaos of the holidays for the calming effect of lavender.
Emma and Zac arrived in the midst of a dog walker’s visit, with all seven charges in tow. Emma took over the order, allowing Claire to show Zac what batches needed to be finished. When her third employee arrived, Claire left. As she walked to her car, she couldn’t help but peer into the neighboring store. Officer Conners was speaking into her radio, a brown paper bag gripped in her gloved left hand. When she was spotted staring, Claire ducked behind a car then snuck into her car.
After a detour to the dog park so Baron could romp with his friends in the snow, Claire took him home and changed into a dark blue dress and cardigan, then raced to the funeral home. Marti greeted her at the door, momentarily abandoning her post at t
he memorial book.
“When I asked how I could help, Lula set me here. I’m supposed to check the remarks and tear out any pages with inappropriate comments.” Marti put her hands on her hips and mimicked the distinctive accent. “I can’t imagine anyone who knew the sleazeball would write anything kind, she said.”
The room was filled and Bob was seated in the front row, in charge of watching the widow. The private security guard, dressed in a grey suit, grey shirt and grey tie, was stationed at the opposite side of the entrance. As the priest’s nephew arrived, Claire watched as the guard glanced at his phone and returned to his stance. The action was repeated when Ed arrived a few minutes later. Both new arrivals, along with Lula’s son-in-law, were called to the hallway by the funeral director. They were joined by their fellow pallbearers, all employees of the funeral home. Once the plans were set, the men disbursed.
Ed waved and approached Claire cautiously. “I volunteered to be a pallbearer,” he said. “The director wanted to get some non-staff volunteers; it’s pretty obvious when they’re all wearing the same suit.”
“That’s kind of you, I’m sure Delilah will appreciate it,” Claire said. She turned to leave, but he stepped in front of her.
“Am I still in the dog house?” He put up his hands and tilted his head, trying his best to imitate a remorseful puppy. “I replayed what I said at least a thousand times in my head, and earned a penalty flag every time. My only excuse is that my concern for you outweighed my common sense.”
“I appreciate your apology, but we’re two very different people,” Claire said, finally actualizing the CD’s take-charge training. “You need someone I can’t be and, honestly, don’t want to be.”
She walked away, hearing Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” playing in her head. She started to tell Marti about the scene, when the funeral director’s son coughed, drawing her attention to the priest, who had begun speaking. Mike Barbon turned in his seat to shush Claire, causing the best friends to giggle despite themselves. They shared emoji-filled texts to communicate as they pretended to hold their heads down in prayer.