Rust in Peace (A Giovanna Ferrari Repair-it-all Mystery Book 1)

by J. J. Murray

  She sinks into her beanbag bed. “That’s the vibe I get from you.”

  I put off a “lives alone” vibe. Great. “Twenty years in a cabin on a creek with the barest of necessities.”

  “You have a commune of one,” Ayana says. “I envy you.”

  I wish I did. “You’ll have to visit.”

  “I would, but you only have a box fan. I need my AC.”

  I laugh. “I thought you were old-fashioned.”

  “Not when it comes to getting a good night’s sleep,” she says. “I am a modern hippie. I also have to have a DQ Chocolate Extreme Blizzard in a plain waffle cone at least once a month. It’s my crack, and I am seriously addicted.”

  “I’ll have to try one.”

  “You’ll get hooked after one taste.”

  I look out her window and see a squirrel staring back at me from a nearby oak tree. “Are you going to Mr. Simmons’ funeral tomorrow?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I may even get dressed up. Oh, not in anything as politically correct as a dress.” She points to her clothes in cherry wardrobe. “I’ll probably show up in a purple braided twine headband, oversized dark sunglasses, a purple paisley full-length skirt, thick black leather wristbands, a black leather vest with long leather fringe, and a lacy long-sleeved white blouse.”

  “You’ll roast,” I say. “Preston’s Chapel doesn’t have AC.”

  She sighs. “Tie-dye halter and cut-off hip huggers then. They won’t turn me away, will they?”

  “I won’t let them.”

  “Good. A natural soul has left us, Gio, and it’s up to the rest of us natural souls to say goodbye in any way we see fit. What are you going to wear?”

  “I may wear overalls and a Massey-Ferguson baseball cap,” I say.

  “No, seriously,” she says.

  “Seriously.”

  Saturday, June 10

  Chapter 16

  Built in 1914, Preston’s Chapel is an old white clapboard church with a tin roof, double red doors, shiny wooden pews, and eight windows with Swiss cheese screens.

  Swarms of gnats and several dozen stinkbugs have decided to join us today.

  Nonno looks sharp in his black pinstripe suit, and I wear my only “little black dress” with flats and my new earrings. It was simply too hot (ninety-six degrees at nine a.m.) to wear coveralls, and I would have melted like mozzarella before the service even started because it’s standing room only at Preston’s Chapel. At least we’re giving Mr. Simmons a nice send-off.

  When we arrive, Nonno and I walk up to Mr. Simmons’ massive but simple pine casket with wooden handles. Mr. Simmons wears a black suit that almost fits him, his hands resting on his massive stomach. He still isn’t wearing his wedding ring. I had hoped the CSI techs would have found it. Or maybe they did and didn’t remember to put it back onto his finger.

  Maybe they couldn’t get it on his finger.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Simmons,” I whisper. “Hope you, Blanche, and your son have a nice eternity.”

  “Riposa in pace, amico mio,” Nonno says.

  Though I really don’t want to, Nonno and I give our condolences to Billie, Bobbie, and Melville Taylor and family, shaking hands and giving hugs. Melville’s wife has too much dyed black hair frizzing out in this heat, and no one in the official mourning party wears mourning clothes. It’s as if they all decided to wear their brightest Easter outfits to the funeral. Billie and Bobbie, who share their father’s jawline and ears, are swimming in sweat and makeup.

  “Sorry for your loss,” Nonno says.

  I’m sure they’re hearing “our loss is our gain” instead.

  I hug Dodie Loney, who dabs at tears in the pew where she has sat for at least fifty years.

  “Good to see you, Dodie,” I say.

  “Wish it was under different circumstances,” Dodie whispers. “Freddy looks good, though, doesn’t he?”

  “He looks at peace,” I say.

  She smiles. “Yes, he does.”

  I walk past Owen and Kimiko, him smiling and her scowling. If I were pregnant in a hot church, I’d be scowling, too.

  I nod at Mayor Parsons, Mr. Deed and his wife and two of his sons, Trula Reed, Brenda Morse, Sherry Stringfield, Beulah Barnes, and Mrs. Wilcox on my way to the back pew where Louise has saved us some seats. Mr. and Mrs. Hemmingsford and many of their ranch hands including Fernando sit on the right side of the church while Sheriff Morris—he exists!—and Deputy Bradley act as if they’re guarding the entrance. Fernando looks nice in jeans, boots, and a black blazer. Look at all that thick, dark hair.

  Ayana arrives wearing her full hippie outfit and a dozen rope necklaces. I knew she wouldn’t wear a halter-top and hip huggers to church. I hear her purple paisley skirt swishing back and forth until she arrives at the casket. Ayana reaches in, holds Mr. Simmons’ hand, and seems to be talking to him.

  “Did you see that?” Sherry whispers loud enough for all of Southwest Virginia to hear.

  “Oh, I know,” Beulah whispers. “No respect for the dead at all.”

  Sherry dyes her stringy hair blonde and wears more makeup than two clowns do, and she runs Blue Ridge Realty, the only realty company in the county. Since no one sells family land in Gray County, and since no one has built any new homes since the early 1980s, Sherry has to be the most underused realtor on earth. She does have a monopoly, however, on trailers and doublewides that seem to pop up overnight in the woods. Sherry always overdresses in poofy dresses and impractical high heels, and her gold bracelets and necklaces announce her entrance to any room. Mama used to say that Sherry had her nose so high in the air she could drown in a rainstorm.

  Beulah, who my papa said was so ugly she’d force a train to take a dirt road, is one of the most feared women in the county because she gives flu shots at the health department. “Bull’s eye!” she shouted when she gave me my flu shot last fall. Beulah drives that needle deep. “That didn’t hurt a bit, now, did it?”

  I had a bruise for a week.

  I scoot closer to Nonno so Ayana can join us.

  Ayana sits and flaps her skirt. “You weren’t kidding about the heat.”

  I smile at her white tennis shoes. “You wore Nikes.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Ayana smiles. “You look so ordinary. Except for the earrings. Those are stylish.”

  “I am such a rebel,” I say. I lean closer. “What did you say to Mr. Simmons?”

  “I introduced myself,” Ayana says. “So we won’t have to have an awkward moment when I get to heaven.”

  “So you’re …”

  “A Christian, yes,” Ayana says. “I’m a member in good standing at the Harper Avenue Church of God in Christ. I still send them my tithes. You never met a Christian hippie before?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, you have now,” Ayana says.

  Sherry turns and puts a finger to her lips.

  “It isn’t as if we’re going to disturb Mr. Simmons,” Ayana says. “He’s in a much better and cooler place than this.”

  “This is a funeral,” Sherry says through lipstick-stained teeth. “You need to respect—”

  “This is a home-going, not a funeral,” Ayana interrupts. “Mr. Simmons is talking to Jesus right now. I doubt I’m interrupting them.”

  Sherry faces forward.

  Ayana leans close to my ear. “That woman’s so buck-toothed she could eat corn through a picket fence.”

  I bite my lips to keep from laughing.

  “Funerals shouldn’t be this sad,” Ayana says. “Where’s the music?”

  “The organ is a bit flat,” I whisper.

  “We should hum ‘The Storm is Over Now’ or ‘That Other Shore’ or ‘Peace in the Valley’ or something,” Ayana says.

  “Or even ‘Bridge over Troubled Water,’” I whisper.

  “What water?” Ayana asks.

  Beulah looks back, and Ayana blinks at her until Beulah huffs and faces the pulpit.

  Four men close the casket and cover it
with a white quilt.

  “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” Ayana says. “The man can’t even watch his own funeral. The preacher is about to talk about him, and he won’t be able to hear what’s being said.”

  Sherry turns her head so fast I jump a little. “Will you be quiet?”

  Ayana leans forward. “Will you stop teasing your hair? You make your hair angry if you tease it too much.”

  Sherry scowls and turns toward the front, her head shaking.

  “I hope no one lights a match,” Ayana says. “All the AquaNet fumes in here would burn this place to the ground in a flash.”

  I squeeze Ayana’s arm. “Will you attend church with me every week?”

  “I don’t know,” Ayana says. “I have a rep to protect.”

  “Please?”

  She covers my hand with hers. “I’ll think about it.” She looks toward the nearest window. “Not even one box fan.”

  Minister William Preston VII, direct descendant of Revolutionary War hero Colonel William Preston who owned most of the land for miles around, ascends the pulpit. “Frederick Rose Simmons came humbly into this life. He lived hopefully. Earlier this week he passed away, and now he is home.”

  “Amen,” Ayana says.

  Sherry’s face turns a brighter shade of red. “Will you …”

  Ayana smiles. “Finish your sentence. Go ahead. Everyone’s listening. God’s listening.”

  Sherry bites her lips and faces the pulpit.

  “Must be the heat,” Ayana says. “Makes some people tongue-tied.”

  “‘Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,’” Minister Preston says. “Frederick Simmons is precious in the sight of the Lord right now. ‘Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Frederick Simmons is at rest with the Lord right now. ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ Frederick Simmons is no longer troubled and no longer afraid. Frederick Simmons is at peace right now. He came humbly, he lived hopefully, and now he is home.”

  “Amen,” I say.

  Sherry and Beulah start to turn but don’t. Oh, I wish you would.

  “Let us pray,” Minister Preston says. “Oh Lord …”

  Ayana puts her lips near my ear. “That’s it?”

  I nod.

  “No testimonials?” Ayana asks.

  I shake my head.

  “I was going to say something,” Ayana says. “Someone should say something. Ninety-eight years, and no one has one good word to say about him. Not even his family.”

  It takes eight ranch hands to carry Mr. Simmons’ casket out of the church. While many fade away to the parking lot or continue on to The Swinging Bridge for lunch, Ayana, Nonno, Louise, and I follow the casket and Mr. Simmons’ extended family up a gently sloping hill to Thompson Cemetery. Though it has to be at least one hundred degrees, the cemetery has plenty of shade trees to break up some of the sun. I look out at a spectacular view of Zengler’s Mill, the beginnings of the buffalo farm, and Motts Mountain while Minister Preston prays.

  “Almighty God, into Your hands we commend Your son Frederick Rose Simmons in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord. This body we commit to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Go forth with God’s peace and may the Almighty bless you now and forevermore. Amen.”

  Mr. Simmons’ family picks up daisies from a pile on a small wooden table, lays them on the casket, and escapes down the hill.

  “Daisies?” Ayana whispers. “No roses?”

  “Daisies don’t need a lot of water to grow,” I whisper.

  I hold Dodie’s elbow at the casket so she can reach up to place her daisy. “Goodbye, Freddy,” she whispers.

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right, Dodie. Freddy’s in a better place.”

  “I know, I know.” She takes two steps and looks at Blanche’s headstone. “She doesn’t deserve to have Freddy buried next to her.”

  “Dodie …”

  She looks up at me. “He should have been buried next to me.” She points at Frederick Junior’s headstone. “And he should have been my son. You think I could squeeze in between them when I go?”

  “I don’t know about that, Dodie.”

  “I bet they could squeeze me in,” Dodie says. “I’m skinny enough.”

  While Nonno and Louise start down the long hill with the keys to cool off the Jeep, Ayana and I remain with the Hemmingsfords and the ranch hands to watch the casket lowered into the ground.

  “Who was that ancient lady?” Ayana asks.

  “Dodie Loney. She once dated Mr. Simmons about seventy years ago.”

  “I hope I don’t hold grudges that long,” Ayana says. “I hope I don’t live that long.”

  Minister Preston nods and smiles at us. “Go in peace.” He wipes sweat from his forehead. “And stay hydrated.”

  We start down the hill. “Ayana, I can’t see you holding a grudge for any length of time.”

  “I got a few. Everyone has a few. Even you.”

  “I can’t think of any.” That I want to share.

  “You’re what, thirty-five?”

  “I’m forty-two.”

  Ayana grips my elbow. “I hate you for being forty-two.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you. Will you be my best friend for life?”

  Ayana laughs. “Sure. How old do you think I am?”

  “Thirty … four.”

  “I’m thirty-three,” Ayana says.

  Oops. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I’ll be thirty-four next month. So, what are your grudges’ names?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “You’re forty-two, you’re unmarried, and you live alone,” Ayana says. “You have to have a few grudges.”

  I sigh. “Owen Bryan, the proprietor of The Swinging Bridge and my first love who left me for the Marine Corps and returned twenty years later with his young and pregnant Japanese wife.”

  Ayana blinks. “That sounds like a bad made-for-TV movie. Who else?”

  “Fernando Flores. He was one of the pallbearers. That’s him down there in the black blazer.”

  “Wow,” Ayana says. “Nice body. Great hair. I’m a sucker for muscular men.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “Unfortunately those muscles are attached to a man who is married with a wife and daughter in El Salvador.”

  She pushes me away slightly. “You can’t hold a grudge against him. He’s doing the right thing.”

  “You’re right.”

  “They both seem like good men,” Ayana says.

  “They are. Maybe one day there will be a third.”

  We reach Nonno and Louise, who sit in the back of the Jeep. I open my door and feel mercifully cool air.

  Ayana sticks her head in. “Hello.”

  “Let me introduce you,” I say. “Ayana Morton, this is my grandfather Franco and his friend, Louise Hill.”

  Nonno smiles. “It is good to meet you, Ayana. Would you care to join us for lunch?”

  Ayana turns to me. “Will there be meat involved?”

  “There’s always meat,” I say.

  Ayana grins. “I will be joining you for lunch. At your cabin?”

  “At our workshop in town,” I say.

  “I will follow you anywhere for meat.” Ayana winks. “I’m only a part-time vegetarian, okay?”

  “I will not judge you.”

  Chapter 17

  I see some thick white and gray fog behind the VW microbus as Ayana follows us to the shop. I hope that’s not real smoke. VW microbuses used to catch on fire back in the early seventies because their fuel hoses often came loose.

  We gather around the largest worktable in the workshop.

  And we feast.

  We have frittella—a mixture of fava beans, peas, and artichokes. We sl
urp zuppa primaverile, which is kind of like bacon vegetable soup. For the main course, we inhale carne alla pizzaiola, which is super tender slices of roast beef smothered in tomato sauce, onions, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheese. For dessert, we eat torta al pistachio, which is pistachio “pie” topped with vanilla ice cream drizzled with lemon juice.

  “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time, Mr. Ferrari,” Ayana says.

  “Call me Franco,” Nonno says.

  “Franco, you should start your own restaurant,” Ayana says. “You really should.”

  “Grazie,” Nonno says. “I am glad you enjoyed your meal.”

  “So many flavors,” Ayana says. “I knew there was some basil and oregano, but there was something else.”

  “Fresh rosemary,” Nonno says. “It has more flavor when it is fresh.”

  “I could eat here every night,” Ayana says.

  “You are always welcome,” Nonno says.

  While he and Louise clear the table and do the dishes, I give Ayana a tour of the workshop and garage.

  She holds up my welding helmet. “You weld?”

  I nod.

  “I solder,” she says. “And you know what all these tools and machines do.”

  “Yes.”

  She sits on the padded shop creeper I use when I’m under vehicles. “And if they broke down, you could repair them without a manual.”

  “Most of them.”

  She shakes her head. “No wonder.”

  “No wonder what?”

  “No wonder you don’t have a man, Gio,” Ayana says. “You have more testosterone than most men do.”

  “I really don’t,” I say. “I’ve just always been good with my hands, and I love to tinker.”

  “Well, I need you to tinker with the microbus,” she says. “It overheats from the second you think about starting it. It dreams about overheating when it’s not in use. If I put a couple eggs and some cheese in a pan in the back, they will be an omelet before we get to town.”

  “That’s bad.”

  Peace Goods’ “Magical Mystery Tour” microbus is a burst of sunshine in an otherwise dull Gray County vehicular landscape. A yellow submarine sprouts a yin/yang symbol from its periscope. Mushrooms with legs dance on rainbows. Janis Joplin “bowls” the Grateful Dead skull toward four bowling pins shaped like the Beatles. Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison plant flowering peace signs, and Scooby Doo characters wear tie-dyed shirts, hip-hugger bellbottoms, and granny glasses.