The parking lot was full, as well as the spaces lining the street. We finally found a spot two blocks away. Betty Ann hurriedly applied lipstick before getting out. She said, “I feel funny going in there. I’ve got a thing about death.”
“You work in a nursing home. Aren’t you used to it by now?”
“That’s different. When someone dies at Green Pastures, you’re aware it happened, but you never come face to face with it. Two men in black suits show up carrying a collapsible gurney. No one looks at them. No one talks to them. It’s like they’re invisible. Upstairs, they zip the deceased into a body bag, load it on the gurney and then take the service elevator down. Poof, they’re gone.”
“Don’t you ever attend the wakes?”
She shook her head. “The administrator has a policy. If you go to one, you must go to all of them. Otherwise, you’re showing favoritism.”
“That’s a pretty heavy-handed policy,” I said.
“I suppose it is, but no one’s fighting it.”
We stood on the curb across the street from the funeral home. Cars crawled past us, rubbernecks gawking at the long line snaking out the side door and onto the driveway. Eying the crowd, Betty Ann said, “I’ll bet most of them are nothing but curiosity seekers.”
I didn’t mention that we, too, belonged in that category. Although I was representing the newspaper, I would have attended anyway. Furthermore, it was only natural that the wake of a murder victim whose death had sexual overtones would attract sensation seekers. Although Dr. Klinger’s life had been one of respectability and prestige, her death had become tabloid fodder. Consider, for instance, the headline in a recent Boston Herald, which read The Corpse in the Freudian Slip.
Finally, we crossed the street and got at the end of the line. Before long we were joined by the Zacks, who stood behind us. Doris wore a popsicle-orange pantsuit and matching lipstick while Harold wore a cardigan sweater.
“I hope I don’t fall to pieces when I see her,” Doris whispered to me.
“You do, and I’m leaving,” Harold said.
“Think the casket will be open?” Betty Ann asked me.
Overhearing the question, Doris piped up. “Absolutely. My friend Loretta does the hair for all the Frost wakes.” She turned to me. “Rose, you remember Loretta. She was lunch monitor at the high school. After a nervous breakdown she went back to school and got her hairdressing license.”
“Uh huh,” I said, having no idea who Doris was talking about.
She continued. “Loretta said the Klinger family wanted the casket closed until they saw what a nice job she did.” She lowered her voice. “She used hairpieces to cover, you know, in the back.”
Harold shook his head. “Nice work if you can get it.”
Instead of being put off, Betty Ann appeared intrigued with Doris’s insider information. She said, “When my sister was in nursing school, she worked nights at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital preparing the deceased for the undertaker. It was better than babysitting, she said.”
Doris nodded approvingly. “Smart girl.”
As the crowd moved forward, a buzz stirred the air. People cast eager glances at the side door through which the line disappeared. Chief Alfano, wearing a dark uniform covered with medals, stood on one side. Mayor Froggett, wearing a dark gray suit, was opposite. His salt-and-pepper toupee was combed in a style similar to Mad Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman.
As we inched closer to the door, I nudged Betty Ann. “Get ready. We’re almost there.” Moments later we reached the three steps leading to the side door. After a nod from Chief Alfano, we ascended and stood poised at the entrance.
Inside, the reception area had been enlarged, its partitions removed to accommodate the crowd. Fifteen feet from the entrance a receiving line of three people stood under a dim chandelier. Doris tugged at the sleeve of my blazer. “Those two at the front are her folks. I don’t know who the bald guy is at the end.”
Mr. Koski, the funeral director, appeared and like a maitre ‘d asked, “Two?” With a sweeping motion of his hand he indicated the receiving line. We nodded our thanks and approached.
The first person in the trio, a short, trim man, offered his hand. “I’m Lawrence Klinger. Thank you for coming.” Deep grooves gave his face the appearance of a Tiki god. “This is my wife Veronica.” He passed us off to an elegant woman on his right.
She was taller than her husband, the dark silk dress emphasizing her body’s sharp angles. I shook her cold, limp hand and smiled into empty gray eyes. “I’m Rose McNichols, Mrs. Klinger. I write for the Granite Cove Gazette. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
I introduced Betty Ann, who added, “We were very fond of your daughter.” Up until that point she’d shown not a flicker of interest. Now she widened her eyes and asked, “And how did you know Vivian?” Her glance said she suspected we bought our underwear at Goodwill.
“The Women’s Professional League,” I blurted out.
“I see.” She looked off into the distance as though willing us away.
“We’d better be going,” Betty Ann said, nudging me. Unfortunately, to my left was a wall of people, those who’d passed through the receiving line and were reluctant to move on and miss all the fun. They prevented us from advancing. Since we were temporarily stuck, I decided to bite the bullet and speak to Mrs. Klinger. I doubted I’d get another chance.
Leaning toward her, I said, “I wonder if sometime in the future we could talk. I’m doing a story on Dr. Klinger and her impact upon our community.” I reached into my pocket and removed a business card which I pressed into her lifeless hand. It fluttered to the floor. Betty Ann looked at me and shrugged.
The awkward moment did not go unnoticed. The last member of the receiving line, a distinguished-looking man in a natty pinstripe suit, bent his tall frame and said, “I’m Doctor Bingham. I’m with the family. It’s awfully good of you ladies to come out tonight.”
Mrs. Klinger, roused from her reverie, now stared downward and muttered something unintelligible. Dr. Bingham moved to wrap a protective arm around her. “What’s that, Veronica?”
“Why do they glow like that?” she said, her voice unusually loud. We followed her gaze. In the dim chandelier’s light, Betty Ann’s toenails glowed a fluorescent mauve. Seconds passed as we stared, entranced.
“It’s the polish,” Betty Ann explained. “It must glow in the dark.” She glared at me. “Let’s move on, Rose, and give other people a chance to pay their respects.”
“Yes, let’s.” I surveyed the mass with dismay. At that point I was ready to get down on all fours and crawl through the legs of those blocking our escape. As it turned out, Lawrence Klinger was also suffering. He’d gotten stuck with Doris Zack, who was detailing the programs offered by the Granite Cove Elder Services.
Desperate, he spotted Mr. Koski and snapped his fingers. The funeral director, unaccustomed to being snapped at, nonetheless approached. The two men had a brief discussion after which Mr. Koski strode away. Seconds later he returned with Chief Alfano, already rolling up his sleeves. Together the pair herded the crowd into an adjacent room.
Betty Ann and I, swept along with the crowd, found ourselves in the center of the room. People pressed against us on all sides. It was like being at a huge cocktail party, minus the drinks. Betty Ann smoothed the skirt of her dress. “Thank God we got away. That woman is the most arrogant person I’ve ever met.”
“She’s in a state of shock. Imagine how you’d feel if your only child was killed.”
“I don’t have a child,” she said peevishly.
“Don’t be a nitpicker. By the way, who’s the doctor with the British accent?”
Betty Ann rolled her eyes. “You mean you don’t recognize Chandler Bingham? According to Back Bay Living, he’s the most prestigious psychiatrist in Boston. All of Louisburg Square goes to him.”
“I don’t hang in those circles,” I said. “He looks like Prince Philip, the Queen’s husband. Is he related to the Klin
gers?’”
“I doubt it. I suppose he’s here to keep an eye on Veronica. She doesn’t seem too tightly wrapped.”
“Imagine that, the Klingers travel with their own doctor.”
“I have to wait four weeks for an appointment with mine,” she said, raising herself on tiptoe and scanning the room. “I wonder where the food is.”
“Betty Ann, this is a wake, not a luau.”
“I’m not expecting prime rib. Cheese and crackers, maybe wine.”
I was about to respond when I heard Spencer Farley’s voice over the crowd. I turned. He was huddled with his wife Martha and a short, bronzed man in a canary yellow sports coat. I motioned to B.A., whispering, “Don’t turn around. The Farleys are behind us. Who’s the guy dressed like Big Bird?”
Despite my words of caution, she turned to gape. “That’s Bunny Alfano, the police chief’s brother. Jeez, Rose, for a journalist you don’t know much.”
B.A. takes pride in her celebrity acumen. She’s followed the goings-on of the rich and famous since high school, where she was president of the New England chapter of the Joan Collins Fan Club.
“I know him, I just don’t recognize him,” I said. “It’s the nose. It used to be bigger, like the chief’s.”
“He’s probably had some work done. Bunny winters in Palm Beach. Can you believe he’s running for office? Do you know who his opponent is… was?”
“Of course. Vivian Klinger.”
Despite our attempt to keep a low profile, Spencer Farley spotted us. It’s hard to conceal Betty Ann, who’s six feet and has a voice to match. He maneuvered through the crowd until he reached our side. His mood was somber. “Hello, Betty Ann, Rose. Good to see you both.”
As we shook hands, Bunny and Martha joined us, the latter reluctantly. She wore a navy double-breasted coat dress that made her look like a high-ranking prison matron. Her long face indicated she’d rather be shucking oysters with her front teeth than socializing with us. Like royalty, Martha Farley never speaks first. Thus, I flashed a phony smile and also remained silent.
Bunny Alfano was another story. A short, barrel-chested man, he gazed up at me in wonder. “So you’re Rose McNichols. Do you know how much I enjoy your stories in the Granite Cove Gazette?”
I smiled modestly as he pumped my hand, his grin bigger and whiter than Dawnette Vicari’s, the local beauty queen. The man’s enthusiasm was a stark contrast to his brother, who’s never been known to smile.
Yet despite his cheerful countenance, I’d heard stories about Chief Alfano’s corrupt brother. Bunny certainly looked the part. The gaudy jacket, gold chains and perennial tan shouted Atlantic City off-season. Yet, though I was prepared to dislike the man and what he stood for, it’s hard to diss someone who acts like I’m the greatest thing since tortilla wraps. Sadly, it’s one of my biggest character flaws. When someone sucks up, I’m a sucker for it.
He continued shaking my hand. “I’d love you to interview me as soon as I get my campaign up and running.” He lowered his voice. “After a period of respect for the deceased, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, attempting to extricate my hand from Bunny’s grip.
Betty Ann saved me by announcing, “Rose, it’s time we paid our respects in the mourning chapel.”
I yanked my hand loose. “You folks will excuse us?”
Bunny pouted while Martha looked relieved. Spencer nodded benevolently. “You two go right ahead. We’ll follow later.”
“What’s the rush?” I asked, catching up to B.A, who plowed through the crowd.
She spun around and jabbed her finger in my chest. “Listen, McNichols, I like wakes about as much as I like Martha Farley. When I have to deal with both at the same time, I get nauseous. Furthermore, how can you be civil to that man? Don’t you know what he and Martha are up to? They plan to put up villas at Settler’s Dunes. Villas!”
“They can’t. That’s town land.”
“That’s what everyone thinks. Now I hear that all these years it’s been held in a trust by the Frost family. The last remaining member has the option to sell. Guess what? It turns out he’s broke.”
Betty Ann’s words were preposterous and at the same time plausible. “If that were so, the Gazette would be covering it.”
“Really? When Bunny Alfano is involved, people don’t intrude. It’s bad for their health. Now can we please go home?”
“Shh. We said we’re going to the mourning chapel, remember?”
“So what? Pretend I left my glasses at home. It’s dark in there. I might trip over a body.”
“Betty Ann, it would be rude to walk out now after saying we’re going inside. What if they’re watching?” As if on cue, we turned and spotted Bunny grinning and waving from across the room. “See? We can’t sneak out now.”
“Yes we can. I’m not like you, Rose. I don’t have a compulsion to be nice to phonies.”
Her remark touched a sore spot. It’s true I crave approval from the guardians of good taste, but at the same time I enjoy shocking them. This dichotomy, the yin and yang of my character, is most likely genetic. From my dad I inherited a feisty iconoclasm, and from my mother, a dread of calling attention to oneself. After all, her family motto was die, but don’t let the neighbors know.
In any event, B.A was attracting attention. I took her arm as if she were a cranky child in need of humoring. Leading her to the double doors of the chapel, I said, “You can stay here or you can go inside with me. In either case, I’m going in to pay my respects.”
She patted me on the head. “You’re cute when you get spunky.” Then she reached over my head and swung open the door. “I might as well go with you. Just make sure I don’t trip over any short people.”
Inside, the stillness of the chapel seemed a world away from the milling crowd outside. The narrow room with its rows of upholstered benches was lit with candles and recessed lighting. A long burgundy runner led to an altar where a gleaming white coffin sat surrounded by flowers.
A prayer bench positioned before the coffin was occupied by two women I recognized as members of the Women’s Professional League. Betty Ann and I slowly approached. The runner’s thick pile and the soft music issuing from hidden speakers muffled our steps. We stopped a few feet away to wait our turn.
One of the women spoke up. “The suit is Armani. I saw it in a window on Newbury Street.”
“My dear, you’re mistaken. It’s Prada, their fall collection. Shall I check the label?”
“Forget it. What do you think of the blouse, that big bow?”
“It’s not as ghastly as the white casket. Don’t these people know the rules? Coffins and limos should always be one color, black.”
“The father probably picked it out. It just goes to show, money can’t buy class. By the way, do you know what Klinger Pharmaceuticals manufactures?”
“No, what?”
“Condoms.”
“Get out! Vivian claimed they made synthetic home care products.”
“Well, she wasn’t lying.”
When Betty Ann coughed, they turned, surprised to see us standing behind them. After making hasty signs of the cross, the pair rose. Heads lowered, they walked past us and out the door.
“Nice Catholic girls,” Betty Ann muttered. We took their place at the prayer bench. Before us, the body of Dr. Klinger reclined in tufted satin splendor. She was dressed in a charcoal suit with velvet trim. The dark hair, as glossy as the inside of a mussel shell, fanned the pillow. Her complexion was as pale as the silk bow tied under her chin. A beam of recessed light softly illuminated her features. Lifelike and serene, she seemed to be merely napping.
The effect, coupled with the heavy perfume of the flowers, was unsettling. I felt the room spin and ducked my head. “You okay?” Betty Ann whispered. When I didn’t respond, she got me to my feet, asking, “What’s wrong? You’re paler than death.”
“I feel dizzy… nauseous.”
Now it was Betty Ann’s turn to lead me. G
ripping my arm, she assisted me down the aisle and out the doors. Outside, she scanned the room, leading me to a chair near the window. “Sit for a minute,” she said.
I glanced out the window to the porch where a woman in a short knit dress was smoking a cigarette. A mass of champagne-colored hair tumbled down her back. Every time she brought the cigarette to her lips her hem rose six inches. The woman was definitely not a local.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Betty Ann fumbled in her bag for her glasses. Peering outside, she said, “Aha!” like a birder spotting a rare Baltic gull. “That’s Pamela Bingham, Dr. Bingham’s third wife.”
Once again I was impressed with my friend’s celebrity savvy. “You should write a gossip column, you know.”
“I enjoy following celebs. I’ll never make the team, but I like to know the players.”
We stared at the glamorous stranger whose high-heeled boots were incongruous at a funeral parlor. “Back Bay Living did a feature on the Binghams,” B.A. said. “They have a priceless collection of ancient Mayan death masks at their Louisburg Square brownstone.”
“Really?” I said. “Maybe Back Bay Living would be interested in my collection of ancient hotel ash trays.”
She laughed. “Kiddo, don’t be jealous. You’re worth a dozen Pamela Binghams. Besides, she’s definitely not society. He met her while skiing in Aspen. She was a cocktail waitress at his hotel.” She took in the long tanned legs of our subject. “But you’ve gotta admit, Pamela Bingham is a perfect example of a trophy wife.”
I studied the retro go-go hair and sniffed. “The trophy’s a little tarnished. She needs a root job.”
“I don’t think Dr. Bingham pays much attention to her roots,” she said.
Fascinated, we watched her toss the cigarette into the bushes and withdraw a compact from a tiny purse. Turning her back to the light, she peered into the mirror. This action caused her hem to rise so high, her leopard print panties were visible to one and all.
While this ritual was taking place, Mr. Koski was performing his own ritual, moving from window to window lowering the shades. When he reached a window overlooking the porch, he glanced outside and spotted Pamela Bingham. As a result, he lost his grip on the shade. The resulting whap caused everyone to jump.
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 6
