The Death of Perry Many Paws (49 page)

“Let’s make a toast to the publication of the latest Perry Many Paws book!” Grace announced. “Now Tamsen can focus full time on her New Orleans novel.

“The bodice ripper?” Syra asked.

“It isn’t a bodice ripper! It’s a historical adventure slash mystery. No bodice ripping,” I replied.

“But there are sex scenes, right?” Grace asked. “From what you’ve told me, your heroine isn’t above taking a handsome man to bed to woo secrets out of him.”

“Too much information,” Bing announced covering his ears.

“The book is full of the social history of New Orleans post-Civil War. There are murders connected with the carpetbaggers bleeding the defeated South of its riches. And yes, the heroine is beautiful, full of life, not concerned with convention. She is in favor of equality between the sexes and that includes in the bedroom …”

“So there are sex scenes!” Diane said.

“Yes. But not too graphic.” I reached over and pulled Bing’s hands away from his ears. “No graphic sex scenes.”

“Quite a departure from Perry Many Paws,” Syra pointed out.

“True. You can only take so much Perry Many Paws and then you’re ready to move on to the next stage of your life. This New Orleans series, if I can get it published and continue to write it as a series, is the next stage of my writing career.”

“Is
Perry Many Paws and the Balloon Adventure
your last Perry book?” Bing asked. “I really love the Perry books.”

“It’s my last one for now. Maybe I’ll take him up again in the future, but for right now I want to concentrate on my new book.”

“Did you finally think of a name for your lusty bed-hopping heroine? I know you’ve been struggling with it.” Grace asked.

“Yes. I’m calling her Fanny Behrends …”

“Fanny Bare Ends?” Bing asked. “That sounds kind of graphic.”

“Not Bare Ends. Behrends. B.E.H.R.E.N.D.S.”

“Oh, God. Does Claudia know?” Grace laughed. “You know how she treasures the sanctity of the Behrends name.”

“No, she doesn’t know. I don’t ever want Claudia to know I’m writing this series …”

“How can she not know once it’s published?” Diane asked. “Your name will be on the book and Grace will have it in her front window for Willoughby and the rest of the mannequins to read.”

“My agent and I both agreed that my name is so synonymous with the Perry Many Paws series that I should use another name for this book. We wouldn’t want kids to think this was a gigantic Perry Many Paws book and start reading it.”

“So what’ll be your pen name?” Syra asked.

“Sybil Bane. The night of the Halloween party Sybil told me that she liked the name Sybil Bane …”

“Honoring Sybil with the exact kind of book she would relish. I love it,” Grace laughed. “Perfect.”

“No one in Birdsey Falls, with the exception of the five of us, Cam and Abbey, will know that I’m Sybil Bane. So, even if Claudia heard about or read the book she would have no idea that I was the one who used the Behrends name so outrageously.”

“Payback?” Syra asked.

“Without a doubt. I’m not sure how Cam will take it, though.” I said. “It could be a bit of a problem. But I won’t change my mind. I
need
to call her Fanny Behrends. Nothing else will work for me.”

“Maybe he’ll understand,” Grace said. “Having no one know the real identity of Sybil Bane will be a great mystery. Even if Claudia tortures me to find out who used the Behrends name so cavalierly, I’ll never tell.” She had settled into the room’s most comfortable chair and was savoring her slice of cake. “Life in Birdsey Falls needs more mystery.”

Bing cut another slice of cake and the heady scent of coffee filled the air. Between the rich layers of chocolate cake was an intense coffee mousse with ground-up chocolate-covered coffee beans. I don’t drink coffee but I love the smell and the taste. I practically stuck my nose into the cake to savor the scent. Heavenly. The first bite deserved my full attention. But while my taste buds were totally absorbed in their task, my mind meandered back to Sybil.

I thought of her final letter to me and the part Claudia had played in the whole sad tragedy. I had learned that some secrets do become burdens so heavy in horror that they must be taken to the grave. For the sake of Franklin, Sybil and Cam, I was willing to carry this secret to the grave. But no one can blame a girl if she needs to lighten her burden from time to time. Fanny Behrends would be a big help in lightening mine.

Sneak Preview of the second book in the Women of a Certain Age Series, “
Death of a Hot Flasher
”
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o you think they’ve lost Ambrosia? We’ve been waiting forever.”

My mother-in-law didn’t respond. She was staring intently at a row of urns as if some street performer had placed a shell under one and her life depended on picking the right one.

“Claudia.” I nudged her elbow. “Do you think …?”

“I heard you. I’m wondering if Edward would prefer to be in that metallic blue urn rather than that flowery one I picked out.”

I stared at her while she remained transfixed by the urns. “Edward’s been dead for over twenty five years …”

“I’m well aware of how long my husband has been dead. I just thought …”

“But you would have to dig him up to change urns …”

“
I
wouldn’t have to dig him up. They have people for that.”

I couldn’t help it. I started to giggle. The vision of this seventy-something-year-old woman with her impeccable makeup, perfectly coiffed hair and three hundred dollar shoes digging up a cemetery was too much for me. I giggle when I’m stressed. We’d been sitting
for almost forty-five minutes in the tastefully decorated parlor of the Musgrave Funeral Home, waiting for someone to bring us the cremains of Ambrosia Fox. Ambrosia was a dear friend of Claudia’s former housekeeper. She was the last of her biological family and we were doing a favor for the people who had been Ambrosia’s extended family for the past fifteen years, the Bugg Hill Senior Home residents. My daughter, Abbey, was working at Bugg Hill this summer and we were having lunch there with her today. It only seemed right to volunteer to pick Ambrosia up on our way over.

My mother-in-law squeezed my arm with a fierce strength alarming in a seventy-plus- year-old woman who barely weighed 100 pounds.

“Behave. You’re embarrassing me.”

“How? There’s no one here. That’s the problem. I think they lost Ambrosia.” I glanced out the window and watched a man play tag with his daughter while he waited for his outdoor grill to burn down. At least someone was going to get some lunch today. As I stared at the grill a gruesome thought occurred.

“If they lose someone’s ashes you don’t think they, um, substitute different ashes in their place, do you?”

Claudia gave me her ‘I can’t believe anyone could be so stupid’ look. “Don’t talk like an imbecile. It embarrasses me. I hear someone coming.”

I didn’t hear a thing but sure enough the woman who had ushered us in here almost an hour ago appeared with a tasteful velvet bag and some papers for us to sign. She talked in a soft whisper as she handed us Ambrosia, never referring to the long wait, and smoothly ushered us out the door. As I unlocked the car door I handed the velvet bag to Claudia who would have nothing to do with it.

“I am not riding across town clutching a complete stranger’s remains. Put her in the trunk.”

“I knew and liked Ambrosia. I can’t put her in the trunk.”

“I’m not holding her.” Claudia flounced into the front seat and firmly closed her door. I put Ambrosia in the back seat, seat belt pulled snuggly across her velvet bag, whispering, “This is what I have to deal with Ambrosia. Sometimes it’s not easy still being alive.”

Claudia and I were headed to Bugg Hill Senior Home, the midscale senior living center where the middle class sought community living once their homes had become too much to handle. Claudia, of course, lived at Ashland Belle, the upscale senior living estate where the upper class sought refined living once their house staff found their homes too much to handle. My daughter, Abbey, had just completed her freshman year at Boston University and was working as kitchen helper and general factotum at Bugg Hill. She had invited Claudia and me to have lunch there today as her guests. It never occurred to me that Claudia would actually accept the invitation as the residents ‘weren’t really her type’ but here she was, over-dressed and over-jeweled, looking like she had just come from a royal wedding.

Although Claudia barely tolerated me throughout my twenty-five year marriage to her son, she couldn’t seem to get enough of me now that Sybil was gone. Her devoted friend of seventy years had died this past October. My husband, Cam, and I had assumed she would fill the void Sybil left with all her other friends at Ashland Belle, but it turns out that all the friends that clustered around my mother-in-law, had been more Sybil’s friends than Claudia’s. This was perfectly understandable. Sybil was a warm, loving, generous, free spirited woman. Claudia was the spawn of Satan dripping in pearls and sarcasm.

The entrance to Bugg Hill, a hand painted sign with an arrow, was underwhelming, as was the building itself. It was built to provide a comfortable residence for seniors who needed a simpler and safer lifestyle. Claudia surveyed the rambling box-like structure with distaste.

“It certainly lacks any architectural aesthetic. It’s totally devoid of personality. Why would someone live here?” she questioned.

I went to open the passenger door. She would have sat in the car all day if I didn’t. “They live here because they can afford it. Not everyone can pay $5000 a month for an apartment, Claudia.”

“Really? How odd.”

I’d been to Bugg Hill numerous times. My friend Diane’s parents and Claudia’s former housekeeper, Millie live here as does a woman, Muriel, whom I met last fall. Now with Abbey working here, Bugg Hill was becoming a home away from home–which is why I stopped short when we came in the door. I immediately noticed a new reception desk in the middle of the large lounge right inside the door. I was dumb founded. Claudia stood there waiting to be greeted.

An elderly woman with a hawk-like face wearing a great deal of make-up sat behind the desk dressed in what appeared to be a vintage suit from maybe the 1930’s or 40’s. Perched on her head was matching hat with an elaborate hatpin. A gold nameplate on the desk said “Miss Maude Bellamy”. The woman looked up and cleared her throat. Seven times.

“I don’t believe you have an appointment. You can’t see Mr. Trotter without an appointment. I’m surprised you would think you could.” She reeked disapproval. I thought my mother-in-law was the only one who could do that. Claudia confidently approached the desk.

“Rest assured, Miss Bellamy, that we do not wish to see this Mr. Trotter. We are here to have lunch with my granddaughter and to deliver the cremains of Ambrosia …”

“Oh, dear.” Miss Bellamy pulled a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Was she a good friend of yours?”

“Not really. But no one should die before their time,” she replied, giving her eyes one last furious dab and returning her handkerchief to
her sleeve. “I’m the only one who understands.” She straightened up and stared at us. “Can I help you?”

“Well, yes. We need to leave Ambrosia’s, uh, urn with someone …”

Miss Bellamy’s arm flew up and she pointed down the hall. “There.” She resumed writing. Claudia gave her a head jerk and a sniff to let her know what she thought of her manners and we headed to the dining room. “As my mother would have said,
that
woman has a face that would benefit greatly by darkness. Come along Tamsen.”

We unceremoniously left Ambrosia and her velvet bag on the desk of Chaplain Rose and headed to the dining room to meet Abbey. Claudia was disappointed that she couldn’t have shrimp cocktail on demand, had to use paper rather than cloth napkins, had to sit on a card table chair rather than a padded Windsor chair, and that if you wanted wine you had to bring your own.

“It’s different than Ashland Belle, Grandma, but still a wonderful place to live,” Abbey assured her. “I love working here. Everyone is so appreciative and they …”