The Icing on the Corpse (16 page)

Chapter 23

Helga Oliver's “private” funeral services overflowed into the Figaro & Sons Funeral Home parking lot. Stan shouldn't have worried about her attendance—it looked like half the town had showed up anyway.

“Big crowd,” she commented to Jake as they waited to get near the guest book.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess the invites got a little out of hand.”

“A little?” His mother appeared at their side. “Hi, Stan.” Jake's mother looked more like his sibling than his mother. She had red hair like Jessie, but shorter and wavy, and youthful, cream-colored skin. Not a freckle to be had on either her or Jessie, as some redheads were plagued with.

“I'm not sure what happened here, but I bet Carla took over,” Nora continued. “If it was up to Don, it would've just been the immediate family, us, and Gerry's kids. But you know how she is. Everything's for show.” She shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

“Don't worry about it,” Jake said. “Nothing you can do. If people need to pay respects that badly, let them.”

Nora smiled and squeezed her son's arm. “He's good for the soul, isn't he?” she said to Stan.

Stan smiled, feeling her cheeks redden. “He is.”

“I saved you two seats,” Nora said. “Jessie and Brenna are here already. Come find me.” She disappeared back into the crowd.

“She'll fixate on this all day,” Jake said.

“Would Carla really do that? Go against what Helga wanted?”

He shrugged. “I don't think she sees it that way. My mother's right. Carla's big on perception. She probably didn't want people saying her family kept folks away. Who knows. There are bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that Helga's gone.”

He still looked so sad. Stan wished she could make it better. Instead, she feared she was about to make it worse with the story she had to write. The one she still hadn't told him about. She should just tell him. But that was so inappropriate right now. Maybe right after the funeral? But she had to get to Jessie and do the interview. There might not be enough time.

Guilt had her scanning the room so she wouldn't have to look at him. Doing so, she caught sight of Betty Meany a few people back in line. “I'll be right back,” she said, and slipped away.

“Stan!” Betty brightened when she saw her and motioned her to come closer. Thinking she was about to get a hug, she obliged. Instead, Betty hissed, “Can you believe the gall of that girl?”

Bewildered, Stan looked around. “Who?”

“Sarah! Her little show last night at the meeting. Her behavior is so
appalling.
She's worked out a deal with him. It's the only logical explanation.”

“A deal with whom?” Stan asked. She felt like an owl.

“That shyster Fox, of course. He had to offer her big bucks.”

“You think they staged that? Come on, Betty. I didn't get that sense at all.”

“Why has she got her nose in Jake and Izzy's business?” Betty continued, like she hadn't even spoken. “This isn't about her mother. This is about her own interests. Shameful!”

“I don't know,” Stan said. “Maybe she can help with the whole ghost thing. Put it to bed if there's nothing to it.”

“Of course there's nothing to it.” Betty scoffed at the thought. “It's silly. There are no ghosts there. The past is the past. If you ask me, they should leave it alone.”

“I don't know, Betty. I disagree,” Stan said. “If a story needs to be told, it should be told.”
And you should own your part of that,
she wanted to add, but didn't.

Betty didn't like her comment. Stan could tell by the narrowing of her eyes and how thin her lips got, nearly disappearing into her face. “Humph,” was all she said.

Char and Ray stepped up in time to fill the awkward silence. Char looked relieved, presumably to see Betty was still alive, then shifted her gaze anxiously to Stan, probably for an assessment of Betty's state of mind. Stan imperceptibly shrugged.

“Hi, sweetie,” Char said, enveloping Betty in a Char-hug, nearly cutting off her airways. “How are you holding up?”

“I'm fine,” Betty said, disentangling herself.

Char looked hurt but tried to hide it. “Will we see you after at Gerry's house?”

“I doubt it,” Betty said. “Lots to do for Sunday.”

“Well, now, that's not very neighborly,” Ray said cheerfully.

“I don't have time this week to be neighborly,” Betty said, and took a step forward when the line moved so she wasn't facing them anymore.

Her behavior puzzled Stan. She'd never seen Betty so snippy. Not even to people who upset the library's equilibrium, like the teenagers who got rowdy or the people who spilled their drinks on books or tables. But especially not to her friends.

Stan glanced back to the front of the line. Jake had nearly reached it. “I'll see you all later,” she said, squeezing Char's arm.

“Okay, honey,” Char said.

“Are you coming to Gerry's?” Ray asked.

“No, Jake's got to be at the bar early after all and he's dropping me off at home.” She didn't mention what she was doing after that—interviewing Jessie Pasquale about her person of interest.

Char and Ray went to the back of the line and Stan headed up front to join Jake in signing the guest book and finding his family. On the way, she passed the hallway leading to the restrooms and decided to pop in and freshen her lipstick. As she exited, she slowed at the sound of voices on the other side of the door.

“You better get out of here.” Gerry Ricci's slightly wobbly voice. “You don't belong here.”

“Sir, with all due respect—” It sounded like Cyril. Had he come to cover the funeral? Or to pay his respects?

“I said get out!”

Stan pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. Cyril and Gerry both turned to her. Gerry glared. Cyril looked upset. Gerry looked from her to Cyril, wagged his finger at him once more. “Don't let me see you near that coffin or that grave!” He hobbled away with his cane.

Stan looked at Cyril. “What's that about?”

Cyril shook his head. “Nothing. I'm not wanted here, so I'm going to go. Call me after you do the interview.” And he slipped out the side door, leaving Stan staring after him in bewilderment.

She slipped back to Jake's side. “Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she said.

“Let's go find our seats.”

Once she and Jake sat, she checked out the rest of the attendees. The War Office volunteers were present, dressed in Revolutionary clothing. Maeve Johnson and Edgar Fenwick were part of that group. Gerry Ricci sat in the front row. He sat ramrod straight, but Stan could see him dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Did he know Cyril was a suspect in Helga's death? Was that why he told him to leave? But how would Gerry know that, if it was still on the down low?

Interestingly enough, Dale Hatmaker sat in the third row. Probably to keep up appearances. Or to do more petitioning for the job. Unless he was responsible for Helga's death and was now coming to see the aftermath. Carla and Don Miller and their two little boys sat in the front row. Stan didn't see Sarah Oliver yet, and the service was due to start in five minutes.

The reverend walked into the room, ceasing all conversation. As he started to speak, Stan saw Sarah slip into the room alone and take a seat in the last row. Stan watched, feeling sorry for her, until Sarah noticed she was staring. She turned around and forced herself to pay attention.

The reverend, a kind-looking man, kept his talk short. He spoke about Helga's commitment to the town, her passion for its history, and her dedication to educating others. “But first and foremost, Helga loved her family,” he said. “Not only her two children, her son's family, and her companion, Gerry, but her extended families. Really, she considered this entire town her family, and the town reciprocated.”

He spent a few more moments extolling her virtues, then invited everyone to join him at the cemetery. Stan checked her watch as they filed out of the funeral home. Cyril had already stressed her deadline. “We need to go to press tonight by eight,” was his last message, urging her to catch up with Pasquale as soon as possible.

Well, Pasquale was here. And she'd definitely go to the cemetery. Stan certainly wasn't going to interview her there, so she'd have to wait until Pasquale went back to her office. Hopefully she wasn't taking the rest of the day off to go to Gerry's house. She certainly didn't want to do the interview there. And she had to get to Dede Richardson's house by four to meet the dogs.

Stan and Brenna gathered outside at Brenna's parents' truck. Nora and Paul were already in the truck. They were all riding to the cemetery together once the hearse was ready to go.

“I'm glad this is almost over,” Stan said.

“Me too,” Brenna said. “How's Betty holding up?” she asked Stan.

Stan shrugged. “She seems stressed. And sad.” That was the truth, anyway.

She nodded. “Understandable.”

The hearse pulled around front, hazard lights blinking. Jake's mom knocked on the window, signaling them to get in. They fell into the line behind Don Miller's family and began the slow procession the three miles to the cemetery.

The rest of the service passed in a blur. The pall bearers, including Don and Jake, carried the coffin to its final resting place in the Frog Ledge Cemetery as everyone gathered. Stan let her mind and gaze wander around. Even in the dead of winter, this cemetery was a beautiful place. Stan often rode her bike through here in the nice weather. The spot where Helga would rest was right under a grand oak tree.

She kept one eye on Dale Hatmaker. He stood off to the side a bit, properly solemn, aloof from the rest of the funeral-goers. Betty stood near Jake's parents, her head bowed, as the reverend said his final words. Then everyone lined up to leave a flower on the coffin and began filing away, back to their cars. Stan left her flower, then stepped off to the side to wait for Jake and his family to finish their good-byes. As she stood there, the reverend stepped up to Betty and hugged her.

“I'm so sorry for your loss, Betty,” he said. “But know that Helga thought of you like a daughter.”

“I know,” Betty murmured, wiping a fresh tear away.

“She used to tell me,” the reverend continued, “there's nothing I wouldn't do for Alice Donahue and her beautiful daughter. So rest assured, she'll be looking out for you from heaven.” With one last sympathetic squeeze, he walked away.

Alice Donahue. The young woman mentioned in the story of Felix Constantine's murder. The one with keys to the library. Alice Donahue was Betty Meany's mother.

Which meant Betty also had a personal connection to Felix Constantine.

Chapter 24

Despite all the jobs Stan held growing up, going through college, all the way up until she landed in corporate America, she'd never actually done any journalism work. She'd always seen it from the other side—the public relations side, as the company spokesperson keeping the nosy media at bay. It had been a fun job. Challenging at times, especially when people misbehaved versus when stock markets or job markets or other externally controlled variables misbehaved, but never boring.

Heck, she should just be honest—she'd loved being a spin doctor. Today she realized just how different the two jobs were as she mapped out her plan of attack to tell Frog Ledge exactly what was going on in the Helga Oliver situation. In her old job, she'd do whatever she had to do to protect the company or person, where now she had to figure out the best way to tell the truth—including whatever down and dirty scandalous pieces the truth was composed of.

This wasn't going to go over well. Her relationship with Jessie Pasquale was tenuous at best, despite her standing with Jake. And now she had to show up and demand answers to a question most people didn't realize was even under consideration. Two, actually. Why was Cyril Pierce a suspect in Helga Oliver's death? And the even bigger question: When and how did this become a murder investigation?

Maybe she should just call Jessie.

Even as the thought ran through her head, she knew it wouldn't fly. Real journalists didn't hide behind their phones. They went out and chased down the story, no matter how uncomfortable that story was. That's why reporting in big cities was probably easier. Or reporting in cities where you didn't actually live. Here, everyone would know by tomorrow exactly what she was doing, and they would all want to pull her aside and ask her questions. Expect her to spill the beans. Either that or avoid her like the plague. She saw it all the time with Cyril. People either wanted his ear for something stupid or they crossed the street when they saw him walking. Now she'd get to see what it was like.

On the bright side, since moving to Frog Ledge, she had a lot to add to her résumé in case she ever needed to look for work again. Now she could add journalism. If she was ever in the market for another corporate job, maybe she could apply to CNN.

After Jake dropped her off from the funeral, Stan went upstairs and dressed in her newly designed reporter outfit: jeans, a black turtleneck shirt, a sweater, and black boots. She didn't have a long black trench coat like Cyril. Not that she wanted one. Personally, she thought it made him look like the Unabomber. She pulled her knitted black cap over her hair, put a pair of hoops in her ears, and regarded herself in the mirror. She could probably pass for a college student, although she wasn't sure why it was necessary to look like a college student to have a reporting gig. Probably because of the salary.

She threw all her stuff, including the new package of steno pads Cyril had given her with the assignment (he refused to use technology like iPads when reporting), into the messenger bag she'd bought a few years ago for a trip to California. She'd used the bag only that one time. It wasn't the approved corporate America bag. She'd held on to it with a feeling it would come in handy again someday. Slinging it across her body, she took one more look in the mirror. Henry, watching her, thumped his tail.

“You think it's okay?” she asked him.

He whined in answer. Scruffy heard him and raced over,
woo-wooing.
She hated to be left out of anything.

“I think she's going to throw me out,” Stan said. “But that's okay. If she wants to look bad in the paper, that's her choice.” She was kidding herself, really. No one took the
Frog Ledge Holler
that seriously, despite the work Cyril put into the paper week after week. But if this really had turned into a murder investigation and other news outlets got ahold of it, Pasquale would have to get real serious about her responses—or at least her superiors would. It would be good practice.

“I'll be back soon, guys. Wish me luck.” She grabbed a jacket and her car keys, and headed to the garage. She backed her Audi out of the driveway and headed toward Main Street and the town hall. It struck her that most reporters probably weren't driving Audis. She'd never seen Cyril drive anything but his bicycle. It made her feel like a fraud.

She reached the town hall in her usual three minutes. It was nearly two. This way, she'd given Jessie time to regroup and eat lunch after the funeral ended. She parked in the nearly empty parking lot out back, scanning it for the cruiser. She was in luck. There it was, parked in its usual space. Stan got out, checking one last time for her notebooks and a pen, and walked toward the building. As she reached the door, Cyril popped into view on the other side and pushed it open for her.

“About time you got here,” he said, swinging the door wide. His self-imposed “newsman” uniform was back in place, and he looked a thousand times better than he had that morning at the funeral parlor. He even wore a jaunty fedora. It looked worn and tired, kind of like the old-time newsmen who made them famous.

Stan stepped in, eyeing him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you might need some last-minute coaching.” Cyril leaned close to her ear. Stan resisted the urge to recoil. “Trooper Jessie is in her office with the door shut. She just got back. Perfect timing, actually.” He rocked back on his heels and regarded her with a somber look. “So, tell me what you're going to ask her.”

Stan sighed. “I'm not in the mood to role-play, Cyril. And I think I can handle asking a few questions. You wanted me to do this, remember? I'm the only one and all that? Not that I don't think it's a conflict of interest for me, too. After all, I am dating her brother.”

Cyril squinted at her, then waved her concern away. “Unless he's got something to hide, that doesn't matter. It's not just about asking questions. You have to ask the right ones. So tell me what you're going to ask when you go in there.”

“I'm going to ask her if she's looking into Helga's death as foul play.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You're going to ask her WHY she's looking into Helga's death as foul play. That way you're not giving her the opportunity to shut you down with a one-word answer. Like ‘no.'”

“How can she say no?” Stan asked. “She's been questioning you!” She lowered her voice as a woman walking past gave her a strange look. She couldn't help it. He was such a strange man. The potential murderer thing notwithstanding.

“Yeah, but she hasn't arrested me, so that's not public news yet. If she doesn't want to answer you, she will find every way in her power to evade you. She's very good at being a police spokesperson. They love to give you a ‘no comment' until the PR guy can figure out his positioning statement. Sorry,” he said when her eyes darkened. “I know you were a PR person. No harm meant.”

Stan exhaled loudly. “It's fine, Cyril. I'm going to go in there and get the best story I can. Is there anything else you want to coach me on?”

He thought about it for a minute. “Show me your tools.”

“My
what
?”

“Your tools. Notebook? Pencil?”

“You gave me notebooks,” she reminded him. “And I have a pen.”

He shook his head. “Always have a pencil.”

“Why?”

“What if you have to chase her outside and question her in the rain? Or the bitter cold? Your pen will freeze.”

She stared at him. “It's sunny out. And I'm not chasing her outside anyway.”

“Fine, fine.” He thought for a minute. “I guess you'll be okay,” he said, finally.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She started to walk away, then looked back when he called her name.

“You'll need this,” he said, handing over a press pass with her name typed neatly on it. “Otherwise, she won't even say hello.”