Half-Price Homicide (9 page)

Kathy’s voice wavered and turned watery. “I’m not going to cry.”

“You should,” Helen said. “She’s your mother. She was a good grandmother and she gave your children wonderful memories.”

“I just hope Tommy fits into his best shirt and pants for the funeral,” Kathy said. “The boy is growing like a weed.” She let out a startled gasp and said, “Oh, no. I just realized Larry has the legal right to make Mom’s funeral arrangements.”

“Didn’t Mom leave instructions?”

“Sure,” Kathy said. “She wants her funeral at the parish church and she wants to be buried in the cemetery plot next to our father. Mom’s name and her birthday are already carved in their joint tombstone.”

Helen shuddered. “That’s creepy. You feel like you have to die to fill in the blanks.”

“Larry will know where to find Mom’s instructions,” Kathy said. “They’re in the envelope with her will. I’ll have to suck it up and tell him she’s dying. Larry doesn’t like me. He is afraid Mom will change her mind and leave everything to our kids.”

“Can’t happen now,” Helen said.

“Word of Mom’s impending demise must be out on the local WIC,” Kathy said.

“Wic?” Helen asked. “Do you mean Wicca, as in witches?”

“No, WIC is what I call the widows’ information circuit, though there are a few witches in that group. The parade of homemade meals for Lawn Boy Larry has started already. Larry loves pot roast. I can’t pass his house without seeing a widow with a foil-wrapped dish ringing his doorbell. Mom’s funeral will be jammed, and not only with her friends. Every unmarried older woman in the parish will be in her best dress, trying to bag Larry. They’ll proposition him over Mom’s casket.”

“Larry?” Helen asked. “Who would want him? The guy is bald and built like a broomstick.”

“You’ve overlooked his assets,” Kathy said. “Larry has all his own teeth, plays bridge, has a fat pension, and best of all, he can drive at night. He’s the Daniel Craig of the senior set. I’d be surprised if Mrs. Raines didn’t tackle him at the burial. She’s the front-runner—excuse me, hobbler—for his hand in marriage. Her pot roast is said to be fork-tender.”

“I’d better give Larry the news before his new flame flies to Florida and puts a pillow over our mother’s face,” Helen said.

Kathy started giggling, then said, “I shouldn’t laugh.”

“Why not? The thought of any woman pursuing Larry is hilarious. Instead of making pot roasts, they should wave their bank statements at him. I’ll call Larry.”

“You’re a good sister,” Kathy said.

Right, Helen thought as she hung up. Like I’m a good daughter.

Before she could dial Larry’s number, her cell phone buzzed. It was Vera, Snapdragon’s owner. “Helen, can you meet me for lunch today?”

“Uh, no,” Helen said.

“Are you okay? You sound funny,” Vera said. “I’m at the nursing home. Mom is worse. She only has another day or so.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“I shouldn’t be so upset,” Helen said. “I’ve been expecting this.”

“My mother died of cancer,” Vera said. “No matter how well prepared you think you are, it’s still a shock. Let’s forget lunch.”

“How about tomorrow?” Helen said. “I could meet you for breakfast.”

“Sure,” Vera said. “The shop will still be closed. Swarms of cops are crawling all over the place. How about nine o’clock? We could go to the Coral Rose Cafe in Hollywood. Best breakfast in Broward County. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“See you then,” Helen said, and shut off her phone as Phil’s black Jeep pulled up under the Sunset Rest portico.

Helen felt like she was running toward life when she jumped into the Jeep. She admired her fiancé as his Jeep plunged into the stream of traffic. The wind ruffled his silver-white hair. The man was hot as Florida, but in a good way. Helen sighed with happiness. Phil was her reward after her wretched marriage to Rob.

“Margery has a cold glass of wine for you,” Phil said. “There’s a beer waiting for me.”

“I can use it,” Helen said. “I need to fortify myself before I call Larry, Mother’s husband.”

“Margery and I will be at your side.” Phil reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Good. You can restrain me from reaching down the phone and tearing out his throat,” Helen said.

At the Coronado, Helen was touched to find that Phil had fixed lunch for the three of them. The food was set out on Margery’s kitchen table.

“I got you and Margery salads with grilled chicken and made an onion-and-rye sandwich for myself,” Phil said. “There are cupcakes for dessert.”

“What else is on your sandwich besides onion?” Margery asked.

“Irish butter,” Phil said.

“You’re eating a butter-and-onion sandwich?” Helen said.

“You’re always telling me to eat healthy,” Phil said. “This is a Bermuda onion. It has powerful antioxidants.”

“It has something else powerful, too,” Helen said, waving her hand. “At least it’s not Limburger.”

“I can’t find that cheese down here.” Phil looked innocent as a puppy.

“Good,” Helen said.

“Listen, I don’t want to ruin your appetite further,” Margery said, “but you should start making arrangements to ship your mother’s body home to St. Louis.”

“She’s not dead yet,” Helen said.

“She will be soon, if the doctor’s right. It’s better to make those decisions now than trying to reach a funeral director at three in the morning. Trust me, that’s when old people pass. You’ll be too tired and upset to make rational decisions then.”

“Do you know a good funeral director?” Helen asked.

“I do, and a couple of bad ones. I’ll go with you, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Helen said. “But I can’t deal with that today.”

“How about tomorrow?” Margery asked. “We can leave about noon.”

Fortified by two white wines, one salad and a cupcake, Helen was ready to call her stepfather. She could see Larry now, his bones covered with wrinkled skin like a baggy shirt, his hairless head hidden under a flat brown cap. Larry made polite noises of regret when she told him about Dolores. Helen thought she’d heard people sound more upset when their cat died.

“I’ll make the arrangements to send Mother home,” Helen said.

“Well, dear,” Larry said, in a voice that rustled like old paper, “I was thinking of having Dolores cremated.”

“Mother wants to be buried in St. Louis, Larry. She left her funeral instructions in the desk in her living room, along with her will.”

“I know, dear, but it’s so expensive to ship her body home. Cremation would be much better.”

“You mean cheaper,” Helen said, her voice getting higher.

“Well, yes, there are cost advantages. And we must be practical.”

“You’ll cremate my mother over my dead body.” Or over Mom’s, Helen thought. She took a deep breath. Margery hovered in the background, frowning at her. Phil rubbed her back to calm her. Helen knew if she fought with Lawn Boy Larry, she’d get nowhere.

She softened her voice and said, “Larry. Lawrence. Sir. You’re right, of course. But Mother was old-school Catholic. She was taught that cremation was wrong. I understand the Church has changed its view and cremation is allowed as long as you believe in the resurrection of the body. But Mother has already bought a plot next to her first husband and had her name carved on the tombstone. It’s paid for.”

“But I have a coupon,” Larry said. “My friend Bert lives in Pompano Beach, which I think is near you. He sent me a coupon for a low-cost cremation. It’s good anywhere in Broward County, where you live. You can get Dolores cremated for only six hundred dollars. That includes the coffin.”

Helen squeezed Phil’s hand so hard it turned red, then said, “Larry, this is my mother’s funeral, not a sale at Costco. She will not be thrown away like a full ashtray. She wants a funeral in her parish church with all of her friends there and she will have it.”

“But Helen, dear, that’s so wasteful. We can have a memorial service at church, and the ladies’ sodality will serve tea and sandwiches. Those are free. I’d have to make a slight donation, of course, but …”

“I’m sure your donation will be skinnier than a heroin addict,” Helen said. Margery frowned at her, and Helen tried to rein in her rage. “Larry, my mother has left you her money and her house. Surely there should be enough money for her wishes.”

“Well, dear, housing prices aren’t what they used to be—”

Helen interrupted the dithering and shrieked, “I’ll pay the freakin’ shipping costs myself.”

“And where will you get the money, dear?”

“I’ll sell my body on the street, Larry. I’ll hold up a gas station. I’ll get the money some way. And my sins will be on your soul!”

Margery clamped her hand over Helen’s mouth. “Shut up and think before you say another word,” she whispered in Helen’s ear, then took her hand away.

“Larry,” Helen said slowly. “I’m sorry. My mother’s illness has upset me. I will pay for her funeral. It won’t cost you a penny.”

“Well, that’s very generous, dear, but—”

“And if you don’t say yes, my sister and I will start dialing all the women on the parish calling tree. We’ll contact every widow and tell them how you are treating our mother. Those women will be shocked. The parade of pot roasts will stop. No more free food, Larry. You’ll starve before you see another home-cooked meal. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Helen. Your mother said you could be forceful. Dolores can be buried in St. Louis. But I get to pick out the funeral home.”

“Knock yourself out. Maybe you can make it a double ceremony.”

Margery glared at Helen.

“I’m sorry,” Larry said, “but I didn’t get that last sentence. Something on the double?”

“I said thank you for a decision on the double,” Helen said.

The Coral Rose Cafe was small and simple: two rooms scented with coffee and warm sugar. It was very Hollywood. The other Hollywood, the casual beach town between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. Helen’s breakfast with Vera was a break between death duties—her mother’s lingering exit and Chrissy’s violent end.

Helen’s plan to order fresh fruit was derailed when she saw blueberry pancakes arrive at the next table. They were made with blueberries, not canned fruit. That counted as fresh fruit, didn’t it?

“I have to order those,” she said to Vera. “After all, how often do I get blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup?”

“As often as I snowmobile on Hollywood Beach,” Vera said. “I’m going for the eggs Benedict with portobello mushrooms.”

Vera told the waitress, “Please don’t skimp on the hollandaise sauce. I’d like the fried potatoes and could you bring extra fruit bread?”

How could Vera look so trim and muscular when she ate like a linebacker? Helen wondered. The woman was a mystery. Helen still hadn’t figured out how Vera managed frizz-free hair in the Florida humidity.

When the waitress left with their order, Vera said, “How are you? You look a little ragged.”

“I am. The doctor says Mom doesn’t have long.” Helen felt the tears rush in and said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“You were right,” Vera said. “Chrissy didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered. Detective McNally confirmed it. Chrissy was stunned with that Limoges pineapple, then hanged.”

Helen winced.

“At least she was unconscious when she died,” Vera said. “Poor little thing.”

“Are the police still at the shop?” Helen asked.

“I run into one every time I turn around,” she said. “Cops make me nervous. Detective McNally keeps asking questions like he thinks I killed Chrissy. I’m going to need a lawyer soon and there’s no money coming in.”

“Why would he suspect you? You wouldn’t kill a good source,” Helen asked. “Chrissy brought in prime merchandise.”

“McNally said I was in the back of the store when Chrissy was killed,” Vera said. “I was messing around with the silk scarves that morning. That’s true, but so were Roger and Commissioner Stranahan.”

“But Loretta left before Chrissy was killed, didn’t she?” Helen said.

“I personally let her out the back door. I gave her an alibi and let the cops loose on me,” Vera said.

“I know Danny the developer killed his wife,” Helen said. “I wish we could prove it. You saw how he treated Chrissy. He yelled at her. He dragged her to the back like a caveman and bruised her arm. She was afraid of him.”

“Chrissy was so afraid of him, she bruised my arm,” Vera said. “She grabbed it and made me promise I wouldn’t tell Danny about the money she made at my store. She even gave me the pony-hair purse as a bribe. I’m keeping it, too. I earned it. I showed my bruises to McNally, but the detective said I could have gotten them from anyone, even a boyfriend.

“Danny is as protected as the manatee. The police will be gone tomorrow, or so they say. I think they’ll be harder to get rid of than roaches. At least I can open the store again at ten o’clock. I hope I’ll have customers. Can you work tomorrow?”

“Unless Mom takes a sudden turn for the worse,” Helen said.

“Are you sure you’re ready to come to work?” Vera asked.

“Please,” Helen said. “It will take my mind off things. I have to make my mother’s funeral arrangements this afternoon.”

Helen was grateful when plates of fragrant food arrived with a basket of warm breakfast bread and the conversation ended. She slathered on butter and poured half the Vermont syrup crop for 2009 on her cakes. The two women dined in blissful silence for a few minutes.