Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (10 page)

Chapter 7

"The Monarch is our top-of-the-line model."

Mr. Rueben of Rueben's Memorial Chapel spoke in a soothing, too-practiced voice that grated on Beatrix's nerves. The

stiff, suited man swept his arm over the casket as if it were a goddamned radar range.

"Twenty-gauge steel, with two-point brushed copper blended bronze finish."

She squinted. Was he wearing lipstick?

He opened the lid with a flourish. "The interior is royal purple velvet, hand-quilted and hand-smocked. The hardware is

—"

"How much?" The place stank of formaldehyde—or maybe it was Mr. Rueben.

The man cleared his throat. "Fifteen thousand."

"Dollars?"

He nodded. "I'm sure you want a casket representative of the devotion between you and your dearly departed husband."

Beatrix glanced around the morbid showroom. "Where are your pine boxes?"

"Pardon me?"

She sighed, then ran her hand over the purple velvet. The bastard didn't deserve to rest in comfort for eternity, but she did

feel obligated to uphold a certain image. A few regulars from the Northbend Country Club would make the drive to Paducah

out of idle curiosity alone. Her challenge would be to play the grieving widow while keeping wives number two and three out

of sight. She'd agreed they could attend the service as long as they came alone and kept their mouths shut. Natalie would

behave herself, but that other one drove her batty. Too bad Gaylord hadn't let her strangle the knocked-up tart this morning—

they'd all be better off, including the baby, from the looks of the girl.

The fact that Raymond had fathered a child still stunned her. She was the one who'd pined for children; Raymond had

simply humored her. They'd tried for years before giving up. Even then, she'd been more than willing to adopt, but he wouldn't

hear of it. He'd been obsessed with the notion of ending up with a child who had a mental disorder. She shook her head—if

that
wasn't the pot calling the kettle black.

"Mrs. Carmichael?"

"Hmm?"

He licked his red lips. "Would you like to see something else?"

The bottom of a bottle of vodka
. "No. This model will do."

"A thoughtful choice, madam."

The injustice of being denied a child topped with his seemingly casual impregnation of that slut was akin to having her

acrylic nails pulled off one at a time. Was she so undeserving of a bit of happiness?

Mr. Rueben led her toward a rolltop desk studded with brochures and stationery samples. "Now, there's the matter of the

service itself, the eulogy programs, the thank-you notes, the complimentary cards and envelopes in case visitors want to send

you condolences—"

"No music, no minister, no priest. Use this style of program, I have my own thank-you notes, and if anyone wants to send

me a card of condolence, they can damn well trot their ass down to Hallmark."

"Er, yes, ma'am." He scribbled on an order form.

"What else?"

"We invite the family to come early tomorrow, to have private time with the deceased before the public viewing."

The deceased
. Funeral director vernacular. "I'm the only family Raymond has." According to Gaylord's research,

Raymond had been truthful in that respect, thank goodness.

"Perhaps you'd like to bring a close friend?"

The names and faces of dozens of acquaintances revolved in her head, not one of them intimate enough to be considered

family. And except for a few distant cousins, she'd outlived her own family members. "I'll be alone." She preferred her own

company to most anyway.

He nodded. "I'll need to provide the name of the final resting place to the hearse driver."

"Oak Gardens Cemetery in Northbend, Tennessee."

His eyes widened. "That's a two-hour drive."

"And?"

"And... no problem, Mrs. Carmichael."

"Is there anything else, or may I leave this dreadful place?"

"Sign here," he said, handing her a pen. "Then you may leave this dr—then you may leave, ma'am."

After signing, Beatrix stalked out, gulping fresh air on the open street. A wave of nausea overcame her but she made it to

her Mercedes without humiliating herself. She opened the door and started to lower herself into the leather seat when a

building caught her attention. Trying to ignore the pull, she swung into her seat, but was compelled to look up again before she

started the engine. Beatrix swallowed, then sighed in resignation. "Might as well get it over with."

She estimated the distance to the building to be about two blocks. Comparing the inviting weather with the stagnant interior

of her car, she opted to walk.

Yellow pennants heralding "Welcome to Paducah" waved atop old-fashioned lampposts. Lacy white-blossomed trees—

dogwoods, maybe—lined the streets, their falling blooms carpeting the sidewalks and the grubby curbs. Not an unpleasant

town, this Paducah, as good as any for a memorial service. And in truth, having the funeral away from Northbend afforded her

emotional distance from the sordid details of Raymond's life, and his death. As she walked, she fingered the cross of solid gold

she always wore next to her skin. Damn hypocritical, she knew, but old habits died hard.

Nearly two blocks later, her footsteps slowed. She leaned her head back to take in the ancient bell tower and the virtual

wall of stained-glass windows above the soaring curved wood doors. Apprehension gripped her, twisting her intestines.

Breathing deeply, Beatrix removed a silk scarf from her purse, then placed it loosely over her hair before entering the

cathedral.

The interior was cavernous, solemn, and empty. She jumped when the door thumped closed behind her, the acoustics

returning echoes back and again. Dim lighting set off the glowing stained-glass windows along the sides, the scenes

representing the Stations of the Cross. At the front of the sanctuary, a statue of the Holy Mother raised her hands toward her,

across the rows of mahogany pews.

Her eyes were accusing... knowing.

Beatrix swallowed hard, then approached the water basin just inside the entrance. She dipped in her shaking fingers,

poised for the electric jolt—real or imagined—that she always experienced when she touched holy water. She quickly crossed

herself, then moved to a table on the side of the church where candles of varying heights flickered in the gloom. Fishing in her

wallet, she extracted a one-hundred-dollar bill and stuffed it into the offering box, then selected a long wick and lit a candle

with the flame from another.

After crossing herself again, she lowered herself gingerly to the kneeling bench—her knees had deteriorated a bit since her

last visit to church. Her heart pounded as she crossed herself again. She pulled out her beloved cross pendant, kissed it, then

folded her hands around the precious gold piece and bowed her head.

Father, please bless the soul of my husband, who so recently left this earth. You alone know how much I loved him,

despite his many flaws. In your boundless mercy, bestow an extra measure of forgiveness on his sins, and on mine, which

are great. Amen.

She made the sign of the cross and pushed herself to her feet, wiping her cheeks and feeling somewhat less burdened.

Retracing her steps, she walked past a row of confession cubicles, hastening her step to ignore the fingers of guilt that plucked

at her.

At the last booth, however, she slowed, taunted by the flame of the burning candle that signified a priest was standing by to

take confession. Yielding to the gnawing in her stomach, she stepped into the booth and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

The odor of old fabric and mothballs enveloped her as she knelt on the low bench, resurrecting a flood of memories from her

days at Sacred Heart Catholic School for Girls. A shiver seized her and her shoulders jerked in spasms. The screen slid open

with a
thwack
, and she nearly bolted.

"Peace be with you, my child," the priest said. He sounded very young.

"And also w-with you," she said automatically, then her tongue froze.

"Do you wish to confess?"

"Yes, father." She inhaled deeply, sucking stale but consecrated air into her lungs. "It's been eighteen years since my last

confession."

"Go on."

"I smoke too much, I drink too much, and I swear too much."

"All is forgivable in the eyes of God. Go on."

"I don't like people, I don't like animals, and I don't like most children."

"Er, go on."

"Father, has the law changed regarding pastoral confidentiality?"

"No."

She exhaled noisily. "Then hold on to your rosary."

Chapter 8

For a dead man, Ray looked pretty good, Ruby decided, wiping her eyes. She'd seen her fair share of corpses, and none of

them had been smiling like that. She'd once dated a mortician who let her in on all the tricks, like Super Gluing the eyelids

down and sewing the mouth closed so nothing happened during the viewing to freak everyone out. And he always tried to make

the person look as if they were at peace with their Maker—a little rouge, a pink light over the casket. It was an art, the man had

told her. Well, whoever had fixed up Ray was a master because he looked downright gorgeous.

She wanted to take a picture of him with her phone, but Beatrix still stood at the head of the casket, her mouth set in a

straight line, her eyes dry. The witch had agreed to let her and Natalie come in to look at Ray before everyone else, and she

didn't want to push it by blinding her with a flash. Natalie hadn't yet arrived, but they still had fifteen minutes until the doors

opened. Beatrix had invited people from Northbend who knew Ray, and some people who worked with him in the arms and

legs business. Ruby had wanted to invite a couple of stripper friends who knew Ray, but Beatrix had nearly popped a cork

when she mentioned it.

Ruby stepped closer to the casket, enjoying the silky slide of her new red satin dress against her legs. She'd added the

rhinestones on the skirt herself to save money, and her friend Plenty had loaned her the pointy-toed white ankle boots from her

Victorian Virgin act to complete the special outfit. Ray would have been proud.

She belched into her hand, muttering, "Excuse me," when Beatrix glared at her. The baby was making her stomach upset,

and all the stress had kept her from eating her regular bowl of Kix this morning. Even without being a legit wife, Billy Wayne

had assured her she was in a good spot for money, what with being pregnant and all. But she'd have to wait until the baby was

born to prove that Raymond was the father unless she wanted them to stick a needle the size of a crochet hook into her navel to

withdraw fluid.

She'd decided to wait, even if the tanning bed in the guest bedroom was repossessed, because her boss, Mac, wouldn't be

happy if she asked for time off for a paternity test. Especially since he didn't even know about the baby. With creative

costumes, she figured she could make it to four, maybe five months before anyone at work noticed.

"Did you pick out the coffin?" she asked Beatrix.

Ray's wife nodded.

"It's nice. Since Ray's a 'winter,' the purple is a great color for him. Brings out the silver in his hair."

Beatrix pushed out her cheek with her tongue. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Going straight to work from here?" Beatrix smirked at her new dress.

Jealous hag. "I pulled a double shift last night so I could spend the day with Ray."

The older woman puckered up her mouth. "Spend the day with Ray?"

"Yeah. Did you know that in ancient times, the Aztecs kept their dead relatives in the house with them forever? Dressed

them up, talked to them, even brought them to the supper table." She'd seen that on a
National Geographic
special, so there.

Beatrix touched her hand to her temple. "Don't talk."

"Do you have a headache? I have some Kmart aspirin. It's just as good as the expensive stuff."

"Just. Don't. Talk."

"Even when the visitors arrive?"

"
Especially
when the visitors arrive." Beatrix shook a bony finger at her. "In fact, if I see you talking to anyone, I'll boot

you out on your moneymaker before you can say 'pole dance.'"

Ruby bit into her lower lip. "But what if someone talks to
me
?"