Mourning Express

by K. M. Waller

  All the hands drifted down. Yeah. That made more sense.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said.

  I swallowed hard against the lump forming in my throat and approached the podium. As I passed Tom, he gave me a wink and whispered, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

  I wanted to whisper back that the correct form of good luck was to tell me to break a leg, but with the audience quieter than most sets when a director called action, I didn’t want to allude to my being there as a performance. Pearl deserved a heartfelt recitation for her money. I glanced back down at the eulogy that I’d filled in like a form.

  Time to go off script.

  Rarely did I give a monologue without a rehearsal and I hadn’t performed in live theater for years. My eyes bounced across the crowd. Not an empty seat in the audience. I adjusted the small mic at the podium to give myself one more second to gather my courage.

  Until that point, I’d done a stellar job of not looking inside Harold’s casket. But now that I lorded over him at the podium, I couldn’t escape it. He looked much smaller than I would’ve thought compared to his nephew Bowman. Dressed in a navy blue suit with a matching solid-colored tie, his hands were tucked neatly together and rested on a Bible. Large frameless glasses remnant of the 1980s covered the majority of his face. His nose and earlobes were large, making his face appear even smaller. How could this little man have caused so much strife in his community?

  Loud crunching came from a woman on the second row eating from a bag of popcorn. Two kids wiggled in their seats and played on electronic devices, the sounds barely muted. The remainder of the faces held varying degrees of expressions of boredom and rapt attention, ready to hang on my every word.

  Focusing on a fixed point on the back wall, I leaned toward the microphone. “In 2003, Harold Baumgartner provided second-hand clothes from his dry cleaning business to our children’s theater group. Some of you may think that discarding old clothes is easier than a flick of the wrist, but to children, an act of kindness—even just one—has lasting effects. Harold may not have started a ‘pay it forward’ movement with his donation, but he provided countless hours of happiness for a group of kids who wanted to go beyond playing dress up.”

  I paused and took in a shaky breath. The woman eating popcorn stopped popping the fluffy white kernels into her mouth. Now that I had their attention, I wanted to bring in the big guns. I pulled from the information Pearl shared. “Along with the theater group, Harold and I shared a common thread in that we have loved ones who are lost to us because of a memory disease. Harold adored his first wife and losing her closed off a place in his heart. But before he had to let her go, he gave her everything he had.”

  If my words made Pearl uncomfortable, she didn’t give any indication in her expression. I continued, “Could a man full of love for his ailing spouse really be the monster more than one person in this crowd has made him out to be? Let’s hope their reconciliation in the afterlife gives him the happiness he couldn’t share here with his community.”

  Tom coughed into his hand and I could see a light blush rise on his neck.

  “I am a strong believer in second chances. While I agree we shouldn’t let the same person hurt us time and time again, sometimes their second chance is just around the corner and they have yet to turn that corner. Just like Harold Baumgartner didn’t get a chance to turn that corner. And I like to think that he would have. But since we’ll never know for sure, maybe we should give his memory a second chance instead.”

  After my version of a mic drop, I hurried through the aisle of chairs and into the hallway. I searched out Mrs. Downer in the reception room.

  She almost cracked a smile as she handed me the first piece of pound cake. “Interesting tribute.”

  “I don’t think I can ever do anything like that again,” I replied.

  I felt a brisk tap on my shoulder. Tom’s lopsided grin told me I’d made an impression. A good one I hoped.

  He nodded toward the crowd spilling in through the doorway. “Do you mind if I introduce you to some of my church members? I kind of told them I had an ‘in’ with you.”

  The wall clock told me I owed Pearl another thirty to forty minutes at the least. I popped a piece of cake in my mouth, making him wait for an answer. The cake’s dense texture revealed a sweet cream flavor. Heavenly.

  Ruthie’s notes on proper mourning said mingling came with the job. I’d attended a multitude of parties in L.A. and considered myself a pretty good mingler. I finally nodded. “Lead the way.”

  The first people we came to was an older couple with matching dark hair, the woman’s cut into a bob. She snapped her fingers at a couple of kids who ran circles in and out of the crowd gathering near the refreshments table.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Lee. They are, or were, Harold’s neighbors.”

  I remembered their names from the homeowners’ association complaints. There’d been something about their grandkids staying longer than Misty Haven’s HOA’s rules allowed in the fifty-five plus community.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Mrs. Lee squared her shoulders and pulled up to her full five foot height. “I liked you in that show before they killed you off, so I’ll forgive you for trying to make us feel bad for hating Harold.”

  That show she referred to could’ve been any of the five where my character got murdered within the first ten minutes. For some reason, I’d been a hit with the murder dramas earlier in my career.

  “It wasn’t my intent to make you feel bad about your choice to hate, Mrs. Lee.”

  Mr. Lee huffed and pulled Mrs. Lee by the arm toward the two grandchildren who now cowered under Mrs. Downer’s stern gaze.

  Tom tapped the end of his nose and skimmed the room. I could tell he wanted the next interaction to go a little smoother than with the Lees.

  “How about her?” I asked, pointing to the brunette who’d ate popcorn during the funeral service. Might as well get the worst of the group out of the way first.

  “Um,” he hesitated. “Sadie Perkins is a bit eccentric.”

  “My favorite type of person.” I led the way this time as Tom followed along behind me. We passed Pearl and since she’d asked for us to give each other a wide berth, I didn’t do more than give a quick squeeze to her forearm.

  Sadie filled a cup with punch on the opposite side of the table.

  “The popcorn make you thirsty, Ms. Perkins?” I tried very hard to keep accusation out of my tone but failed.

  “You must think I’m terrible, dear.” Her large brown eyes watered. “But fifteen. That’s how many ducks he murdered around our pond with antifreeze-laced popcorn.”

  “Harold murdered ducks with antifreeze?” I’d heard of horrible neighbors doing this sort of thing to get rid of stray animals, but never an intentional attack of ducks at a community pond.

  “Now, that was never proven, Sadie,” Tom interjected.

  “True, I never caught him red-handed, but I know it was him. Harold hated my precious ducklings. He complained about them at every HOA meeting. As if duck poo on the sidewalks could actually drop the property value.” She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Fifteen little angels gone before their time.”

  My shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I meant every word. Whether or not Harold was responsible for the mass duck murder became a moot point. The people still alive hurt from his perceived actions.

  “Should we try again?” Tom asked.

  I glanced around the room and my gaze stopped on Pearl and Bowman who appeared to be in the middle of an argument. Bowman’s face—just as red as when he’d snapped at me—twisted into a snarl. Pearl didn’t back down and poked his chest with her long, slender finger. I couldn’t make out their words, but the exchange made me wary of circulating with the crowd.

  “I think I’m going to stand by the entrance and catch people on the way out. Then they don’t feel obligated to speak to me if they don’t want to.”r />
  “I’ll grab us some punch,” he said, moving away in the opposite direction.

  I stood by a white column with a fake fern on top and folded my hands together in front of me. People still making their way from the Red Room to the refreshment area stopped to write in a sign-in book.

  A man in a dark suit with a shiny bald head approached me. “I was hoping to catch you alone.”

  “Oh, really?” I scanned the room for Tom.

  He placed a hand at his waist and let out a soft chuckle. “Not in a creepy way.”

  I responded with an awkward laugh. “That’s a relief.”

  “I’m a really big fan. The made-for-television movie you did with Taye Diggs is one of my all-time favorites.”

  “Really? I didn’t think anyone watched that one.” I’d also died within the first fifteen minutes of that film. The pattern of being the “dead girl” became clearer with each conversation I had with an actual fan.

  “Do you mind?” He lifted a napkin.

  The asks for autographs from people who knew me from my real career versus the tabloid sensation I’d become came up less and less, but I still cringed when it felt inappropriate. “I’m not sure this is the place for that sort of thing.”

  He patted his shiny dome with his other hand. “No one’s looking.”

  I glanced around the room. Plenty of people were looking. I didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Downer by creating a spectacle now that the funeral was almost over. “Who do I make it out to?”

  “Lou Kadlec will be just fine.” He invaded my personal space while I signed the napkin and snapped a selfie of us. “For my social media.”

  His name tickled my memory until it registered where I knew him from. Harold’s file. “The private investigator?”

  “Ah, so you know about Harold’s troubles.” His eyes lit up as he scanned the room. “Isn’t it awful that one of the people standing in this room had such a grievance they spent so much time setting up elaborate ways to make him miserable?”

  I only knew what was in the file, but my curious nature wanted to know more. I leaned forward and handed him the napkin. At many a Hollywood party getting information meant simply pretending you already had it. “I agree. It’s crazy to think about.”

  Lou tucked the signed napkin into his jacket pocket. “Too bad he stopped payment before I could figure out who was setting up all the nasty incidents.”

  Incidents? His admission had a sinister tone to it.

  “But after he died you turned everything over to the police, right?”

  A dry chuckle shook his chest and shoulders. “The Asheville P.D. doesn’t care that much about neighbor disputes. That’s why he came to me in the first place. Honestly, they aren’t always at the top of their game. Heck. Your television detective skills are probably better than anything they got, anyway. And that’s part of the reason I have so much business in this dinky town. By the way…” He dug into the pocket lining the inside of his jacket. “A high-profile client like you could really boost my image. You don’t mind if I post that selfie on my website do you? Here’s my card if you ever find yourself in need of some good P.I. services.”

  “I guess that’s fine.” I dropped his card in my bag. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

  Pearl slipped by behind him without saying goodbye, her eyes puffier than before. Had she known Harold hired a private investigator? Did Ruthie have Lou’s name in the file because there appeared to be more going on than just a neighborhood feud?

  Tom came through the crowd and handed me a plastic cup filled with a twangy punch. He kept a wary eye on Lou who’d left me to hand his business card to other funeral attendees. “That man bothering you?”

  “No. Of course not.” But Lou had given me a lot to think about. If Harold had suffered from criminal intent surely the local PD would’ve had some sort of evidence. Rarely were police departments as incompetent as some television dramas made them out to be. Were they?

  7

  Back at the apartment, I stripped out of Grammy’s black dress and into my favorite pair of stretchy pants paired with a worn Cougar Pride shirt from high school. The events from the funeral swirled in my head along with Tom’s push for a meet for coffee later in the week. I planted my butt on the sofa with full intentions of decompressing in the quiet before Mateo made it back from his dinner when a rough, insistent knocking came from the door.

  Through the peephole I could see a courier dressed in a red shirt and matching hat. My time in L.A. taught me vigilance from opening the door for any strangers. I left the chain latched and cracked the door. “Can I help you?”

  The courier shoved a clipboard through. “I need you to sign for this.”

  Great. Another subpoena or summons or something lawyer-ly. I scribbled my signature and took the envelope without a thank you or goodbye. Mom and Grammy would’ve flicked my arm for the act of rudeness, but no one ever showed up at my front door with good news anymore.

  The envelope had my name handwritten in a neat script on the front. The from area showed Ruthie Colburn’s name with an address to a shopping center I recognized. Excitement filled me. A paycheck. The blessed goodness after a really bad day.

  I dumped the contents onto the couch. Three things fell out. First, a paycheck for the amount agreed upon by me and Ruthie. Second, a handwritten note telling me I’d passed my audition and to show up at the shopping center address on Monday for a new assignment. And third, a white envelope with two hundred dollars in cash. The bills were crinkly twenties that had seen the inside of a pants pocket a time or two.

  Whoa. That’s some tip. My excitement dimmed. Pearl had to be behind the extra money. As much as I needed the cash, taking more than originally agreed didn’t feel right.

  All the banks were closed, so I couldn’t deposit the paycheck, but perhaps Countryside would let me sign it over to them or at least showing it to them would prove I planned to pay and soon.

  I tossed my hair in to a sloppy ponytail and slid on a pair of sandals. I put the extra cash in my bag just in case Pearl had come back to work after the funeral. I’d thank her and then shove the money back in her hand.

  The drive only took a few minutes and this time I parked up front. I walked into the office first, but since the billing department had knocked off at five, the evening receptionist told me to come back the next day.

  I searched for Grammy and found her occupied in the bingo hall, so I headed to her room to return the borrowed clothes. Burt Lancaster Jr. wasn’t in his normal spot on the plush dog bedding, so I went out back to the dog walk area.

  Pearl sat on the metal bench and watched Burt run in circles and sniff every blade of grass in the enclosed area. She still wore her mourning clothes.

  I sat beside her.

  She immediately turned to me and smiled. “Burt Jr. is one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever seen. I enjoy taking him for his walks in the evening.”

  “He is a good dog.” I tucked my hand in my purse and pulled out the white envelope. Pearl preferred small talk and pleasantries, but I needed to get down to business before I wimped out and kept the money. “Pearl, I can’t take this extra money from you.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek and she didn’t attempt to wipe it away. “I appreciated your words today, and you are a kind soul, but it would be an insult for you to give that money back to me.”

  Well, dang. Hard to argue with a grieving woman. I grasped the envelope tight against my lap. “I meant what I said today. I wasn’t putting on an act.”

  “I know it. And I mean for you to have that money. I don’t have a need for it anymore, anyway.”

  The forcefulness of her words gave me pause. “Why do I get the feeling you and Harold were more than nurse and patient?”

  “It’s so inappropriate and cliché to fall for a patient.” Her chest bounced with a half-sob and half-chuckle. “I’m not Florence Nightingale.”

  “So, you two were an item.”

  “We were goi
ng to be married. I’d been saving for our wedding. Nothing big, mind you. My first husband and I did the big deal. This was to be smaller. More intimate.”

  My soft gasp only made her chuckle harder. “We’d kept it a secret until last week. Then we only told Bowman.”

  My skin crawled at the mention of Harold’s nephew. Such an angry man. “I can’t imagine that went down well with Bowman.”

  “He said Harold didn’t deserve to be happy. He also called me a few names I won’t repeat with the good Lord listening.” She tsked.

  Her loss meant so much more than just pity on a man no one liked. “I’m sorry.”

  “I can handle Harold’s passing. I’ve lived through one love of my life dying already.”

  Since we were already deep into her personal life, I pushed with another question. “What were you and Bowman arguing about at the funeral?”

  “My mother’s double wedding ring quilt. I’d left it at Harold’s once we got engaged to bring us luck, but Bowman plans to sell everything in an estate sale, including my quilt.”

  “That’s terrible. There has to be something you can do to stop him.” The more I learned about Bowman, the more it seemed he took after his disagreeable uncle.

  She patted my hand. “The sale is tomorrow and he let me know in quite a few unkind words that he’d never sell it to me. I’ll come to peace with it in a few days.”

  I put the white envelope back in my bag, a plan forming. Burt Lancaster Jr. finished his evening doggy business and whined at the enclosure’s gate.

  “Look like somebody’s ready to call it a night.” Pearl stood and smoothed the wrinkles out of the front of her dress. “I think I’ll return Burt Jr. to your Grammy and call it a night too.”

  I waved a goodbye and sat on the bench for a few more minutes to watch the sun set past the tall trees tops that lined the mountains. The mosquitoes would be out for blood soon.

  A familiar feeling settled over me. Helplessness.

  When I’d come home from my exile in Hollywood to find that Victor had used his power of attorney to steal Grammy’s money and sell off everything of Mom’s, that feeling of helplessness had consumed me. I’d been too late to take any action other than report his misdeeds to the police. A nice officer had taken a statement and given me a pity lecture on the likelihood of recovering anything.