Undertaking Irene

by Pamela Burford

“I stuck around to keep an eye on Irene,” he said. “She looked like she was going to stroke out any second.”

  “She flipped out?”

  He shook his head. “If anything, she was too calm. Like it didn’t mean anything to her.”

  “Yikes.” I knew that look of Irene’s too. Danger! Danger! “How come I never heard anything about this? I mean, I can understand why Irene wouldn’t have told me. She was too proud to advertise this kind of defeat.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Which is why she swore everyone there to secrecy, once Colette had gathered up her winnings and left the house.”

  Never to set foot in it again. “Who else was there?” I asked.

  “Let’s see… the judge, of course. He died five or six years ago. And Stan Golden. Stan and Maggie moved to Arizona last year to be closer to their daughter and her family. And Dom.”

  My head whipped up. “Dom was there?” Well, of course Dom was there. My ex had always gotten along famously with Irene. He’s so damn personable, he gets along with everyone. During Dom’s brief interludes between wives, Irene was always scheming to get the two of us back together.

  At the time of this momentous poker game, Dom’s little smoothie shop, Janey’s Place, which he’d established at age nineteen with financial backing from Irene, had already morphed into the biggest health-food chain in the New York metropolitan area. He’d bought fancy digs in Crystal Harbor eleven years ago when he and Meryl got married—nothing but the best for Mrs. Faso Number Three—and had sweet-talked Irene into letting him join the Poker Posse.

  It was Meryl’s idea. Irene’s game room on Thursday evenings was the most coveted invitation in Crystal Harbor. Dom’s then wife saw it as a way for him to indulge his love of poker and make important business connections at the same time. Which had made me roll my eyes until Dom expanded his chain of Janey’s Place shops into New Jersey and Connecticut with the cooperation of fellow Posse member Stan Golden, a major real estate developer in the tri-state area.

  “I can’t believe Dom never told me about that game, about Colette winning the brooch,” I said.

  “Why would he? You guys were long divorced by then, right?”

  “Right, but we remained friends.” Sad to say, my ex was still my best pal. Which I suppose says something about me, right? Something kinda sad about my ability to adapt to changing circumstances, to form new and satisfying relationships?

  Don’t answer that.

  “Listen,” Jonah said, “once you’re in the Posse, the last thing you want is to be ejected from it for any reason. That kind of thing gets around, you’re a pariah. Irene says don’t blab about what happened here tonight…” He mimed zipping his lip.

  “Until now.”

  He executed an eye-shrug. “No more Poker Posse.”

  “Hey, you can all reconvene in my one-room basement apartment in Sandy Cove,” I said. “I’ll borrow my landlord’s card table and rip open a bag of Cheetos.”

  He grinned. “I’ll bring the Bud Light.” Jonah was the kind of guy who made you forget he was good-looking until he turned that hundred-watt smile on you, then you had to remind yourself of his happy fifteen-year marriage to the lovely Rachel.

  “Listen,” I said, “I know Irene was the backbone of the Posse, there’s all that history associated with this place, but she wouldn’t have wanted the game shut down just because she wasn’t around anymore.”

  He wore a skeptical smile. “Are you sure about that? With her ego?”

  All right, maybe he had a point. “But that doesn’t mean you have to disband. Who’s in the Posse now? It’s you, Dom, Nina Wallace… who else?”

  “Sten Jakobsen and Sophie Halperin.”

  “Well, I can’t see Sophie just letting the Posse fade away,” I said. Sophie Halperin is the mayor of Crystal Harbor, a well-padded fireplug of a woman with a big personality.

  “She’s the reason I was in the ER this evening,” he said.

  I frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “She’s fine.” He waved it off. “She had a scare, but it turned out to be nothing.”

  “Glad to hear it.” I liked Sophie. She was one of the few people in Crystal Harbor who could be counted on to call them as she saw them.

  Nina Wallace was the newly elected president of the Historical Society, having replaced Irene, who’d held the position for years. It had been a contentious election, with several of Irene’s longtime pals in the organization squirming out of her camp to throw their support behind Nina. I suspected that even Irene’s most loyal friends were weary of her heavy-handed style and more than ready for a change in leadership. Irene had been bitter about it—she wasn’t accustomed to losing—and privately there was no love lost between the two women, but publicly they both put on a good show.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “If Colette and Burt needed money so badly, why didn’t she sell the brooch?”

  “Because she cared more about keeping Irene from having it.” Jonah reached over to adjust the makeshift ice bag on my knee. “The first thing Irene did was try to buy it back. When Colette refused, she upped the offering price. Irene’s mistake was letting Colette know how badly she wanted it. Colette knew that if she sold it to anyone else, anywhere on the planet, Irene would find it and get it back, and that she would never allow.”

  “Did she hate her old friend that much?”

  He took a deep breath. “Their relationship was a series of little humiliations for Colette. That’s the way she saw it anyway. For one thing, Irene never let her forget that she’d married better—if the definition of marrying well is landing a wealthy husband, which for their generation it was.”

  While Irene had held out for a man who could support her in the style to which she was determined to become accustomed, Colette had married for love. She’d been barely seventeen when she’d exchanged hasty wedding vows with handsome young Burt, fresh from Korea with a Purple Heart. It wasn’t long before Patrick arrived, and Burt spent the rest of his life struggling to support his small family.

  I refrained from mentioning that Jonah hadn’t done so badly for himself in the “marrying up” department. His wife, Rachel, came from serious money. The fortune she brought to the marriage was the only reason they were able to raise their family in this exclusive neighborhood. It was the reason Jonah was able to book exotic adventure vacations, collect rare wines, maintain cripplingly expensive country-club and elite gym memberships, and bet so extravagantly during Irene’s poker games. No internist—not even a concierge physician in swanky Crystal Harbor—made enough on his practice alone to afford that kind of opulent lifestyle.

  Thinking of the Chanel suit and Hermès scarf Colette was being buried in, I said, “I do know that any really nice things Colette had—the designer clothes, all that—were hand-me-downs from Irene when they were still on speaking terms.” Back when The Harbor Room was doing well, Burt had bought a modest home in the least fashionable area of Crystal Harbor. Later he’d refinanced it to try to keep the restaurant afloat, and succeeded, barely.

  “Colette must have told her family that the brooch was worthless so they’d honor her decision to have it buried with her.” Jonah shook his head. “It wasn’t just Colette and Burt who could’ve used the money. Their son Patrick has always struggled to support his family. The guy has a troubled background—I don’t know if you’re aware.”

  “I heard some things,” I said. “I take it Patrick was a hell-raiser in his youth. There was an arrest?”

  He nodded. “Drugs. He did a couple of years, then tried to join the army, but they wouldn’t have him. Eventually he got himself straightened out, but by then it was too late to go to college and really make something of himself. It’s been a string of lousy jobs. But Barbara works too, so they’ve managed.”

  I thought of the used-up-looking man I’d met earlier at his mother’s wake, struggling to salvage a decent life for himself and his family after a perfect storm of bad decisions.

 
“The point is,” he continued, “Colette adored Patrick, adored his wife and kids, and not even for them did she sell the brooch. That’s how strong her feud with Irene was.”

  “Which is why Colette didn’t brag about winning the brooch,” I said. “Her husband and son would have found out she was sitting on something worth a hundred grand. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

  “In the end,” he said, “Colette and Irene’s relationship was all about revenge and one-upmanship.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  He offered a crooked smile. “People tell things to their doctors.”

  “Well, I for one can’t imagine the tournament this weekend without those two in it,” I said. Every year the Crystal Harbor Historical Society sponsors a poker tournament to raise funds for the work it does. It’s held on the first Saturday in April and is the biggest event on the village calendar. The five-thousand-dollar buy-in is hefty enough to discourage casual players. Needless to say, Irene and Colette entered every year, and one or the other of them was usually the first-place winner.

  “At least now I know why the fake priest stole that brooch.” I rubbed my fingers together to indicate filthy lucre.

  “Are you sure he’s a fake priest?”

  “Well, there is that whole vow-of-poverty thing,” I said.

  “Maybe the poor celibate guy was so taken with the naked mermaid, he couldn’t help himself.” Jonah’s grin was crooked. “She’s pretty hot stuff.”

  “Doesn’t it seem like too much of a coincidence, though? I mean, at the very same instant that I’m steal—” I raised my palm “—that I’m retrieving Irene’s brooch for her, this guy shows up to swipe it himself.”

  “Coincidences happen,” he said. “Didn’t you say you went at the very end of the wake? Less chance of being caught? The thief was probably thinking along the same lines.”

  “But he came right up behind me, got in my personal space, you know? Just when I was making my move. It got me so flustered—a priest, for crying out loud!—that I backed right off. It’s almost like he planned it that way. Like he wanted me to remember him, wanted to rub my nose in it.”

  Jonah’s expression was one of exaggerated patience. “How could he possibly know you were after the same thing he was? Did you or Irene tell anyone else about your plans?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Coincidence, Jane.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But how did he even know where the brooch would be? Wasn’t it this big secret that Colette even had it?”

  He frowned, thinking. “What are you saying? That Irene told him about your plans?”

  “I know I didn’t,” I said. “And think about it. She wouldn’t have just volunteered that kind of information. What if he somehow forced her to spill the beans and then… you know, did something to keep her quiet.”

  “Like what?”

  “Smothered her? Strangled her? I don’t know.” I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

  “Jane, there’s no physical evidence that anything like that happened. Irene had a heart attack, a massive one that killed her quickly. Who knows? Maybe the stress of waiting for you to come back with the brooch, of not knowing whether you’d be successful, maybe that was the trigger.”

  A weight sat on my chest. Was Irene still alive when I entered the house? Did she hear me clomping around overhead, looking for her? If I hadn’t wasted precious minutes searching the whole damn place, was there a chance I could have saved her?

  “Plus the timing doesn’t add up,” he said. “It’s clear that Irene died shortly before you got here. I don’t see how your priest could have killed her and then made it to Ahearn’s in time to steal the brooch.”

  Since he’d brought up timing, there was the movie to consider. “The scene in Jaws that was playing when I found her, it’s less than an hour into the film,” I said, “maybe forty-five minutes. I got here around nine-fifteen. I didn’t find her till about ten minutes later. That means she started the film around eight-thirty, eight-forty.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “And you’ve got this guy, what, sneaking in, forcing Irene to spill the beans about the brooch—good luck with that, by the way—and then killing her without leaving so much as a mark.” I tried to interrupt, but he plowed ahead. “Now it’s around a quarter to nine at the absolute earliest, if he arrived right after she started the movie. And then instead of racing straight over to Ahearn’s to beat you to the brooch, the murderer takes the time to dig up a priest’s getup and change into it. Maybe he keeps one in the trunk for just such emergencies.”

  “He was riding a motorcycle. Maybe he dressed as a priest before he got here?”

  “Okay, fairy-tale time is over,” Jonah said. “Are you familiar with Occam’s Razor?”

  “Umm…”

  “It’s the principle that says if you have competing theories about something, the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

  I fiddled with the bag of frozen berries. “The simplest explanation in this case being a heart attack.”

  “Exhibit A,” he said, tapping a finger. “An elderly woman with a heart condition. Exhibit B.” He tapped a second finger. “Scary movie.”

  “Oh, forget Exhibit B.” I waved away the outlandish suggestion. “Irene’s seen that movie countless times. She’s immune. Was,” I corrected myself. “And your cramped timeline doesn’t hold up. Think about it. You’re Irene. You just started watching your movie. A strange fellow barges into your home theater.”

  “Exhibit C,” he said. “Scary home invasion.”

  “All right, all right. Jeez. So anyway, she pauses the movie. See? Or he does. They’re not going to sit there chatting about the brooch or whatever with Jaws blasting from the speakers. After he kills her, he turns the movie back on, turns off the lights, makes it look like his victim died of natural causes. If he got here shortly after the film started…” I crunched the numbers in my head. “He’d have had thirty, forty minutes to get to Ahearn’s, which is about an eight-minute drive from here. Maybe five on that Harley of his.”

  Jonah just stared at me, letting his bland expression say it all.

  I threw up my hands. “I’m just saying it’s not outside the realm of possibility, that’s all. If that guy hadn’t shown up at Ahearn’s to steal Irene’s brooch on the very same night that she died, I wouldn’t even be thinking along these lines. Oh!” I bolted upright. My ice bag slid onto the floor. “The footprints!”

  He frowned. “What footprints?”

  “In the laundry room.” I pointed toward it as he bent to replace the ice bag. “There’s a wet trail from the back door. Go look. Someone came in that way after it started raining tonight, which was what, around eight, right?”

  He did indeed go look. I yelled, “At first I figured it was Irene because, you know, SB won’t go out alone in the rain.” When he refrained from yelling a response, I added, “But now I’m thinking it could be the guy. You know? He sneaks in the back door, picks the lock or whatever—” He reappeared and I lowered my volume. “Well?”

  “The floor’s wet.” He shrugged. “So what? Irene took SB out to do his business, like you said.”

  “But there are no distinct footprints,” I said. “No way to tell if it was a man or an old woman with a little dog or… or Sasquatch.”

  “Occam’s Razor.” He resumed his pose against the kitchen island, arms crossed. “Nothing better for shaving Sasquatches.”

  “Enough with Occam and his razor. The simplest answer isn’t always the right one. And what about SB’s feet?”

  Jonah glanced at the hirsute pooch snoozing in his little bed. “SB has feet?”

  “I noticed he was dry earlier, when I saw the wet streaks in the laundry room. Which makes sense because Irene’s not going to take him out without an umbrella—but now that I think about it, his feet and legs are as dry as the rest of him.”

  He shrugged again.

  “When that animal goes out in
the wet grass,” I said, “he comes back with his legs sopping wet, umbrella or no umbrella. I mean, the poor little thing is basically a mop with a nose. It takes him forever to dry out. Oh! The umbrella!”

  I jumped up and walked as fast as my gimpy leg would allow into the laundry room. “Jonah, come look at this!”

  He took his time returning to the scene of my imaginary crime, and when he did, his expression spoke volumes on the subject of Occam, his razor, and wet dogs. “Jane, you’re getting yourself worked up—”

  “Look at Irene’s umbrella. Look at it!” I plucked the object in question out of the umbrella stand by the back door and shook it at him.

  “I give up.”

  “Dry.” Another shake. “It’s bone-dry, Jonah. Irene didn’t take SB out in the rain. These aren’t her footprints. Someone else came through this door after the rain started.”

  He didn’t have a ready answer for that. He scrubbed a hand over his beard, and I saw the strain behind his hazel eyes. It couldn’t have been an easy thing for him to rush over here after my panicked call, to pronounce Irene, more longtime friend than patient, dead.

  “Maybe Irene dashed outside after it started coming down,” he finally said. “Without dog or umbrella. Just to cover something out there, or to bring something in out of the rain.”

  My mouth twisted as I pondered this. He had a point.

  “You done?” he asked.

  I sighed. “I’m done.” I replaced the umbrella in its stand. My adrenaline high of a few moments ago had fizzled, leaving me wrung-out. “Thanks for being my sounding-board.” We returned to the kitchen. “You know, even if I’m full of it about… about how Irene died, there’s still the theft of the brooch,” I reminded him. “The fake priest is definitely guilty of that.”

  “Didn’t you say Patrick already decided not to report it?”

  “That was when we both thought the thing was a junky piece of tin,” I said. “When he finds out it’s worth a cool hundred grand…” I raised my palms and let my expression state the obvious.

  “Let him get through the funeral first,” he said. “There’s nothing more you can do tonight. I can give you something to help you sleep.”