by Laura Childs
Chuck Peebler’s visitation was being held tonight at the Driesden and Draper Funeral Home. Which, sadly, was a place she was getting to know all too well.
“Don’t you just expect Emily Dickinson to step out onto that front porch?” Suzanne asked, nodding at the funeral home. “Wearing a velvet cape and gazing mournfully into the night?”
“I’m thinking more along the lines of Alfred Hitchcock,” Toni replied.
They were standing on the sidewalk, gazing at Kindred’s oldest and grandest clapboard structure. The muted gray funeral home was set well back from the street, guarded by a green moat of manicured lawn. Pointed-arch windows, like highly expressive eyebrows, stretched across the front of the building. The roofline was a visual joyride of turrets, finials, and balustrades. Though the architecture was a crazy combination of American Gothic and Victorian that shouldn’t have worked, it did sort of work, conveying a sense of elegance and foreboding all at the same time.
“Ready to go in?” Suzanne asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be and still breathing,” Toni replied. She’d changed into more formal attire for tonight: black cowboy shirt, slacks, and boots. Suzanne had selected her black funeral suit. It wasn’t funereal per se, just an outfit she’d worn to several funerals in a row. Now it hung in the back of her closet, a respectful distance from her blue jeans, camisoles, and shift dresses.
Climbing the front steps, Suzanne and Toni pushed open the large oak door and were immediately assaulted by the mingled scent of florals and chemicals.
“Eeeyew,” said Toni, wrinkling her nose and turning her head, as if searching for a whiff of fresh air. “Why do all funeral homes smell the same?”
“Because they ...” began Suzanne. Then she stopped, bagged her terrible thoughts about chemicals and bodies, and amended her words to, “Because they just do.”
Driesden and Draper’s entry way was a depressing blend of dove gray carpet, drooping velvet draperies, and stuffy-stiff upholstered chairs. A guest book rested atop a heavy oak stand, a small, wobbly table held a lone box of Kleenex tissues. To the left, a large visitation room was thronged with Kindred residents who’d come to pay their last respects to Chuck Peebler. To the right, a second visitation room sat dark and unoccupied. Suzanne supposed that room had been reserved for Deputy Wilbur Halpern, who might even be at this very minute resting in repose in the back embalming room.
“This is awful,” Toni breathed, as they peeped into the crowded visitation room and caught sight of the copper-colored casket that held Peebler’s remains. “And it’s an open coffin, too. I hate an open coffin. I don’t even like to look at a dead bird, let alone a dead person.”
“Just stroll around and keep your eyes down,” Suzanne advised. “Look sad and nod at people.”
“Are you serious?” said Toni. “That works?”
“Trust me,” said Suzanne, who’d garnered more than enough experience at her husband Walter’s funeral.
“Gosh, you’re a good friend,” said Toni, still sounding shaky.
“There’s Doogie over there,” said Suzanne, catching sight of the sheriff. “Looking as if he doesn’t have a friend in the world.”
“And he won’t,” whispered Toni, “if he doesn’t solve these two murders!”
Suzanne headed directly for Sheriff Doogie while Toni eased her way around the room. “How are you doing, Sheriff?” she asked, placing her hand on his sleeve.
Doogie gave a perfunctory grimace. “Okay, considering I’m gonna have to attend another one of these darn things in a couple of days.” He was referring, of course, to Wilbur Halpern.
“Sheriff,” said Suzanne, “have you come up with any more clues on Peebler?” She understood that Peebler’s murder must seem secondary to him now, while finding Deputy Halpern’s killer was at the top of his list. Still, she had to ask.
“There’s one or two things I’m looking into,” said Doogie, “but I got so much piled on my plate...”
“And there’s the election coming up,” said Suzanne.
“There’s that,” allowed Doogie.
“Are you worried?” she asked. Then quickly added, “Because you shouldn’t be.”
Doogie shook his head in disagreement. “Bob Senander’s running against me, and he’s got credibility. The man’s ex-highway patrol and I guess some women might even consider him a looker, what with all his silver hair. Though I don’t think that should factor in.”
Although it probably does, Suzanne thought.
Doogie looked thoughtful. And worried, too. “But I’ll tell you this,” he continued, “if I don’t solve at least one of these cases, my goose is probably cooked.”
“I doubt that,” said Suzanne, kindly.
“No,” said Doogie. “People want results. I don’t give them results, I won’t even get elected dogcatcher.” He sighed heavily. “Besides, I should be further along on these two cases than I am. I should have figured something out by now. I should know who’s committing murder in Kindred!”
“Stop it,” said Suzanne, “you’re obsessing now.”
“I know,” said Doogie.
“You’re the duly elected sheriff,” said Suzanne, “not an oracle from on high. You can’t just know things out of the blue. All you can do is run the best investigation possible and glean clues and information along the way.”
“I’m doing that,” said Doogie. ‘Trying to anyway.”
“Then I’m confident you’ll unravel both of these cases.”
“You’re the only one,” muttered Doogie, as he moved away.
Feeling frustrated, Suzanne watched Doogie melt into the crowd. She wished she could help him, wished she could...
“Hey there.” A warm whisper was followed by hot breath in her ear.
Suzanne whirled, found Sam Hazelet smiling at her. He looked beyond adorable in his light blue scrubs top worn casually over blue jeans with a suede jacket topper.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to smile at these things?” she told him.
His gaze sobered. “I was smiling at you.”
“Well... don’t,” she said, secretly pleased.
“Really?”
“Maybe smile on the inside,” Suzanne joked.
“Believe me, I am,” Sam told her, lifting one eyebrow.
“Now you’re flirting.”
“Not true! I’m looking serious, per your instruction.”
“Now you’re making me laugh,” said Suzanne, biting her lower lip.
“How’s the dog?” Sam asked. “Scruffy. Scruff.”
“A terrific guy,” said Suzanne. “Which is why I’m probably going to give him to you.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure, I have great faith you’ll be a wonderful pet parent. Besides, you could probably use the company, a single guy like you.”
“What if I, um, meet someone?”
“You probably meet lots of women in your line of work.”
“I mean someone I really care about?”
“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “Maybe...” She was blushing now. “A blended family? Isn’t that the term these days?”
“You two are looking way too cozy,” said a throaty, female voice.
They both turned to find Carmen Copeland standing there, smiling at Sam.
“Hi, Carmen,” said Suzanne.
“Hello,” said Sam.
But Carmen was focused only on Sam. “Lovely to see you again, Dr. Hazelet.” She was clad in a snug black dress that screamed evening rather man mourning. Her cleavage, which was prominently displayed, seemed to be edging its way toward Sam. A diamond the size of Mount Rushmore hung from a chunky gold chain.
“How goes the literary world?” asked Sam, being polite. “Must be awfully favorable, since I see your novels all over the place.”
“Yes,” said Carmen, with a predatory smile. “They are rather popular.”
“I keep meaning to pick one up,” said Sam.
“No need,” said C
armen, moving a step closer to Sam. “I’d be delighted to drop a couple of books by the clinic.”
“Kind of you,” said Sam.
“Forward,” said Suzanne.
“Excuse me?” said Carmen, her jaw going slack as she finally acknowledged Suzanne.
“We need to keep moving forward,” said Suzanne. “Sam and I. We’re, urn, in line to offer condolences.”
“Of course,” said Carmen, with a disdainful curl of her lip.
“You two don’t like each other much, do you?” asked Sam. “You were both acting like those weird frilled lizards, facing off against each other, hissing and spitting away.”
“It’s not so much dislike as ...”
“Distaste?” filled in Sam.
“Maybe that,” said Suzanne, “with a little mistrust thrown in for good measure.”
“And you don’t trust her with ... me?”
“Oh please,” said Suzanne. “You’re your own independent adult person. You can do whatever you ...” She hesitated, then said, “You can do whatever.”
Sam gave her a searching look, his brows knit together. “Is that all we mean to each other? Whatever?”
Suzanne blushed. “Really,” she said, “should we even be having this conversation? We’re, like, ten feet from a dead body.”
“Where should we continue this conversation?” Sam pressed.
“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. It was way too early for talk this serious, wasn’t it?
“I can think of a nice place,” said Sam.
Suzanne glanced around, then stepped closer and pressed her shoulder up against his. “I’ll bet you can.”
Once Sam took off for the hospital, Suzanne circled the room, looking to collect Toni. Instead, she noticed that the room seemed filled with electoral candidates, incumbents, and more than a few staff from city hall. And when Suzanne noticed Allan Sharp whispering in Mayor Mobley’s .ear, she sought out Sheriff Doogie again.
“What if those two clowns had been trying to fix the election?” she asked him. “And Peebler, as mayoral candidate, got wind of it?”
Doogie turned flat eyes on Sharp and Mobley. “It’s not easy investigating a town’s mayor.”
“Then what about Sharp?” Suzanne asked. “What pies does he have his bony fingers in these days? Is there any sort of trail to follow?”
“Only dung I can think of,” said Doogie, “is that Sharp was trying to get a parcel of land rezoned so he could build a pizza place and a sandwich shop.”
“And he’s doing it by the book?”
“Suppose so.”
“Can you look at Allan Sharp a little closer?”
Doogie didn’t look happy. “Maybe.”
Still Suzanne persisted. “Then there’s the small matter of Jane.”
Doogie rolled his eyes. “I knew you were going to bring her up.”
“You don’t actually believe Jane’s connected to any of this, do you?”
Doogie held his ground. “I gotta look at all the angles. Even if they’re not pretty or popular with everyone.”
“Okay,” said Suzanne. Her eyes skittered across the crowd, falling on Carmen, who was now overtly flirting with Lester Drummond. “There’s another shady character,” Suzanne murmured, meaning Drummond.
“Face it,” said Doogie, “you really don’t like him.”
“No, I don’t,” said Suzanne, gazing at Drummond’s overdeveloped shoulders, which seemed ready to burst from his black leather jacket “I really don’t.”
Thirty minutes later, Suzanne was strolling down Laurel Lane, walking Baxter and Scruff. They’d fallen into a sort of sniff, shuffle, stop, then sniff again routine. A little maddening for Suzanne, but highly desirous to her two canine companions.
“C’mon you guys,” Suzanne urged, “I hereby declare that sniff time is over. So let’s pick up the pace and focus on the walking portion of the evening. And try to get home and in bed before midnight.”
Both dogs stopped to stare at her with furrowed brows and expressions of dismay. Did she not understand the correlation between sniffing and happiness? Did she not understand a canine’s primary sensory pleasure?
Pausing in a dark spot to scope out a bed of withered hostas, the dogs tugged urgently at their leashes. Suzanne sighed, then relented, giving them the latitude they needed. While off to her left, a car, running without its lights, slid slowly into the intersection.
Car trouble? Or up to no good? she wondered, tugging hastily on the leashes and quickly shepherding her pups down the street where they could stand under a friendly spill of light from a streetlamp. The car moved slowly on and Suzanne and her charges hurried for home.
Probably not a good idea to be out wandering around, she decided. Especially in the wake of two murders.
Back home, doors locked, lights on, leashes stowed, dogs happy, Suzanne wandered into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice. Ever since she’d traded words with Sam tonight, she’d been in a state of emotional flux.
Should she get involved with him? Or shouldn’t she?
She took a sip of juice, decided for about the hundredth time that after their little snuggle party Tuesday night she was already involved.
For better or worse? And all that implied?
Wandering back through the house, still sipping and ruminating, Suzanne was drawn to Walter’s old office. Though she was pretty sure she’d be cool about the whole thing, a rush of sadness suddenly swept over her when she stepped inside. Everything that screamed Walter was still in place in this office. His Tiffany pen set, his books on fly tying, photos of him fly-fishing in Canada, even a framed poster from a long-ago Eric Clapton concert.
Maybe, Suzanne decided, it was time to pack some of these things away. Turn this place into a cozy library or music room.
Or a home office for me.
But before she did any packing and redecorating, there was one thing she wanted to look for.
Suzanne sat down at Walter’s desk, paused for a moment as the cushy chair yielded to her, then slid open the top drawer on the left. It was Walter’s kookaloo drawer, basically a junk drawer, and it was jammed with pens, batteries, sunglasses, old Juicy Fruit gum, a magnifying glass, and even a half-eaten Salted Nut Roll. Suzanne grabbed the petrified nut roll, tossed it into the trash can, and heard it land with a hard thud.
Then she continued rifling through the odd stamps, postcards, and year-old receipts until she found what she was looking for. A white key card. She grabbed it, held it in her hand, then tapped it against the top of the desk. It was a souvenir they’d kept from a weekend splurge at the Edgewater East in Chicago.
Carrying the key card into the kitchen, Suzanne dug around in her own catchall drawer, pawing through twine, old Christmas seals, notepaper, paper clips, and packets of colorful beads, until she found what she was looking for. A small box of tempera paints.
Laying the key card flat on the counter, she took a paintbrush, dipped it into one of the paint vials, and making broad swipes, very carefully colored the key card light blue.
Chapter Seventeen
Pushing open one of the oak double doors of Hope Church, Suzanne and Toni stepped inside one of the oldest houses of worship in Logan County. Light streamed through stained-glass windows filling the room with warmth and a kaleidoscope of sparkling colors. Massive hand-carved wooden arches spanned the width of the white plaster ceiling.
An usher, wearing a dark suit and a Peebler for Mayor button pinned to his lapel, hastily handed memorial cards to Suzanne and Toni.
“Darn,” said Toni, as they strolled down the center aisle, “I wish I’d worn my Peebler button, too. It would have been a nice tribute.”
Suzanne scanned the church, noting that it was barely filled. “Where do you want to sit?” she asked. “Aisle? Farther in?”
“Not the aisle,” said Toni, looking nervous. Like most folks, Toni preferred to be as far away from a rolling coffin as humanly possible.
They edged t
heir way into a pew and sat down on a hard bench just as Agnes Bennet, the organist in the choir loft, began pumping away. She was a tiny woman, a septuagenarian who’d been the church organist for almost fifty
years. Even though she seemed the size of a child when seated at the enormous pipe organ, her legs pumped up and down with the athletic skill of an NFL quarterback. Fantasia in C Minor filled the church with a sumptuous sound making it feel as if the Lord himself was bearing witness.
“Not too many people showed up,” Toni whispered.
Suzanne glanced toward the front of the church and gave a nod. “Mobley and his flunky Allan Sharp are here,” she whispered back.
“Jerks,” said Toni. Then, feeling guilty at her uncharitable remark, she quickly dropped her head and made the sign of the cross.
Glancing down at the memorial card she’d been handed, Suzanne stared at the fuzzy photo of Peebler. Under the photo, in a sort of Gothic script, the years of his life were defined by a dash between his birthday and his ... what would you call it? His death day? Suzanne shivered, just as the doors at the back of the church swung open and something metallic bumped across the sill.
Suzanne and Toni scrambled to their feet, along with the rest of the mourners. Then, from the back of the church, six pallbearers began to wheel the copper-colored coffin, blessedly sealed today, up the center aisle. A spray of white roses jiggled on top, a final floral tribute to the man who probably would have been elected Kindred’s mayor.
When the procession reached the altar, Peebler’s coffin was jockeyed back and forth and angled next to a half dozen floral arrangements that had been hastily brought over from the funeral home.
“So sad,” Toni murmured. “You see that wreath with the miniature...”
“Golf club,” said Suzanne, nodding. Golf had been one of Peebler’s passions. Now he’d gone to that great fairway in the sky. Or could his poor soul be stuck in a sand trap?
As Suzanne shook her head to clear it, Reverend Strait entered the chancel. His salt-and-pepper hair seemed to reflect the light that seeped through the stained-glass windows on either side of the altar. As he began to intone, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” his comforting presence seemed to spread out across the room.
