Undertaking Irene

by Pamela Burford

  “In the back.”

  I waited. “Um… can you let him know I’m here?”

  “Daddy!” she bellowed, making me jump. “Someone here to see you!”

  The customer at the table gave Cheyenne a disapproving look. The girl responded with a flat, hard stare until the woman returned her eyes to her magazine. Cheyenne turned to me. “What can I get you?”

  Resigned, I scanned the menu offerings on the wall behind her, each accompanied by an appetizing photograph. I recognized the pale orange smoothie from Irene’s fridge, the one Maria had said tasted worse than medicine. I was curious, and heck, I was no fan of any of this stuff, so why not try the kind Irene had favored?

  “I’ll have a papaya-ginger smoothie,” I said.

  “What size?” Could the girl look more bored?

  “Um, small, I guess.”

  All the smoothies were accompanied by florid descriptions of the wonders they performed, from boosting your immune system to scouring your colon to promoting mental serenity to bringing up hairballs. Okay, you got me, I made that last one up, but to me it sounds no more outlandish than the other claims. I mean, come on, they’re fruit shakes. And yes, Dom believes every word of it. He would never knowingly misrepresent a product he sells. I might not buy in to all this health-food stuff myself, but I’ve always found his sincerity endearing as hell.

  And yeah, kind of sexy too. So sue me.

  I assumed most customers purchased these sweet drinks based more on taste than their purported healing properties. The description of the papaya-ginger smoothie said it was good for digestive problems and helped settle the stomach. I frowned, thinking of the antacids I’d found in Irene’s sweater pocket.

  I was watching Cheyenne toss ingredients into the blender—and before you ask, yes, she’d put on gloves—so I didn’t notice Patrick until he was right next to me.

  “It’s Mary, right?” He smiled. “You were at Mom’s wake.”

  A great big wad of dread lodged in my throat, rendering me mute. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “Patrick, could I drag you away from your responsibilities for a couple of minutes? We need to talk.”

  His smile faded as he took in my expression. “Sure, no problem. Cheyenne can handle the counter. Heck, she could just about run the place single-handed. Right, hon?” he asked his daughter as she handed me my smoothie. Her response was a sullen shrug. She took my money and managed to make change, then Patrick and I took a table out of earshot of the other customer.

  “At least you’re not limping anymore,” he observed. “Your knee looked pretty bad the other night.”

  “It feels better,” I said. “A little sore is all.”

  I’d made up my mind during another long night in which I’d gotten a scant three or four hours of shuteye. Patrick deserved to know the truth about the brooch. Despite Irene’s attempt to rewrite history, Colette had won the thing fair and square—nobody had forced Irene to toss it onto the poker table—and I had to assume Colette’s only son was meant to inherit everything that was hers. It didn’t get much more cut and dried.

  The fact is, I was ashamed of the part I’d played in Irene’s scheme to get it back, although ironically I wished I’d succeeded, for the simple reason that then I could have handed the brooch over to Patrick. There would have been an awkward conversation, though not as awkward as the one we were about to have.

  Diffuse light from the big picture window found every line in his face and emphasized the weariness underlying his features. I looked him in the eye. “My name isn’t Mary. I lied to you the other night.”

  His gaze sharpened. He waited.

  My mouth felt dry as dust. I licked my lips. “I’m Jane Delaney. I went to your mother’s wake because Irene McAuliffe asked… because she hired me to.”

  I watched realization dawn. “You’re the one they call the Death Diva,” he said.

  I cringed inwardly and nodded. After two decades, the detested moniker wasn’t going away. Heck, I even thought of myself as the Death Diva. Maybe I should stop fighting it and add it to my business cards: Call the Death Diva for those ghoulish chores that really creep you out.

  “You’re Dom’s wife,” he added, then corrected himself. “His ex. Janey’s Place is named for you.”

  I managed a weak smile. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, but you’re really raking it in now.” He grinned. “With twenty-seven stores and three more opening before summer.”

  Here we go again. Every time I had this depressing conversation, I wanted to go home to my cramped basement apartment, scrub the rust stains out of the tub, slip into a nice warm bubble bath, and open my veins. “Yeah, well, they’re Dom’s stores, not mine.”

  His smile faltered. “But you musta got a piece of the action, right? In the divorce?”

  “Well, you see, Patrick—and this is actually pretty funny—Dom offered me a fifty-percent share when we divorced because, you know, we kind of started it together and Dom always does the decent thing. It was just this one little shop then, the one we’re sitting in now, and it hadn’t really taken off yet and I thought, hell, who needs this? It’s a money suck that’ll tie me to my ex forever. I’m my own woman. I want no encumbrances. And stuff like that.” I cleared my throat. “So instead I asked for this little antique student desk we found once at a flea market.”

  There was a long, painful silence while I watched Patrick digest this. Finally he said, “That’s not actually such a funny story.”

  It was a nice little student desk, the one-piece kind with chair and desktop bolted to a metal frame. It was pretty old, made of real tree wood and with a depression for an inkwell. I still had it. It served as combination writing surface and snack table in my Lilliputian apartment. I could just manage to fold myself into it and, more important, wriggle myself out of it. I was one sack of White Castle sliders away from a lingering and ignominious end. Mystery surrounds the grisly death of a Sandy Cove woman found trapped in a charming antique kiddie desk. Nearby pile of hamburger wrappers offers no clue.

  “Honest to God,” Patrick said, “I thought that Death Diva thing was just some kinda weird hobby.”

  “More like a weird way to feed myself.”

  “About the wake,” he said. “I know that Mom and Irene weren’t on speaking terms lately. Well, for years, right? I’m guessing Irene figured she wouldn’t be welcome at the wake, so she sent you in her place. It isn’t true. We would’ve been glad to see her there. Her and Mom meant something to each other at one time. I, uh…” He cleared his throat. His eyes were shiny. “I was sorry to hear about Irene.” His grief was more for his mother, I knew, than for Irene, whom he probably hadn’t set eyes on during the past decade.

  How easy it would be to accept his assumption without comment, to let him believe my presence at Ahearn’s had been that benign. “It’s not that simple, Patrick. I wish it were. Irene hired me…” My palms were damp. “She hired me to steal your mother’s mermaid brooch before it was buried with her.”

  He frowned and reared back a little. “The thing that priest took? That cheap trinket?”

  “The thing is… well, it isn’t a cheap trinket, as it turns out. I thought it was at the time. It turns out the brooch is worth over a hundred thousand dollars. Your mom won it from Irene in a poker game nine years ago.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He shook his head. “Is this some kinda joke?”

  I raised my hand. “It’s all true, Patrick, I swear. We could get into why your mom kept the true value of that brooch secret, why she wanted it buried with her, all that. It comes down to her relationship with Irene, which basically ended with that poker game. But right now we have something more urgent to discuss.”

  “For real?” he asked. “A hundred grand?”

  “A hundred and four, actually. Well, that was the figure back when Colette won it. Who knows? It could be worth more now. I doubt it’s lost value.”

  I let him sit an
d digest that for a few moments. Finally he looked down at my untouched smoothie. “Have you had that before? It’s one of our more popular flavors.”

  “I haven’t. I’ve, uh, heard about it, though.” I unwrapped my straw and poked it through the opening in the cup’s lid. If this thing tasted as hideous as Maria had claimed, I only hoped I could keep from barfing it back up, considering my current agitated state.

  I took a tentative sip. The bright flavors of papaya, ginger, and yogurt erupted in my mouth, along with notes of lemon and mint. It was delicious! I drew deeper on the straw, taking a nice big gulp. I shared my verdict with Patrick, who beamed as if he alone were responsible for the recipe. Maybe Maria had an aversion to ginger.

  The customer at the other table slipped her magazine into her shoulder bag, placed her trash in the bin, and strolled into the grocery section of the store.

  “So the something more urgent we gotta talk about,” Patrick said. “That’d be the priest that ran off with Mom’s brooch.”

  “Right. Well, he isn’t really a priest, of course.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. A damn ghoul is more like it, stealing from the dead.” His expression morphed from outraged to sheepish. “I didn’t mean you.”

  “No, you’re right. I should never have accepted that assignment. It’s just that where Irene was concerned… I mean, I knew her for a long time and…” I shifted my gaze out the window, ambushed by my feelings, the conflicting whirl of emotions that had assailed me since Irene’s death. I struggled for composure.

  Patrick’s rough hand patted mine where it rested on the table. For a couple of seconds only, long enough to offer more understanding than I deserved.

  “Well.” I cleared my throat. “I was able to do a little digging. I managed to find out who the thief is.” I withdrew the padre’s calling card from my purse. The corners were getting a little battered. I’d never be able to look at that card again without thinking about his grandma McAuliffe and their special relationship. I pushed it across the table toward Patrick, who picked it up and examined it.

  His eyes widened. “The guy’s a McAuliffe?”

  I nodded. I told him about Martin’s family connection to Irene. I told him where he worked.

  He tossed the card onto the table. “I should’ve guessed that pin was worth something when you came back into Ahearn’s the other night and told me what he did. I mean, only a crazy guy would take that kind of risk for a piece of junk jewelry.”

  “Well, this crazy gal took the risk for the three hundred bucks Irene promised me.” I took another long pull of the smoothie. Was it my imagination or was the drink actually settling my nervous stomach? I blotted my mouth with a little napkin from the old-fashioned dispenser on the table. “She claimed its only value was sentimental. And gullible Jane bought it.” My mouth twisted.

  “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said. “If it weren’t for you being there Wednesday night, I’da had no idea the thing was even missing. So maybe it’s just as well Irene sent you. You know what they say—things happen for a reason.”

  “Which I assume means you’re going to share all this with the police?” I tried to sound supportive. This was why I’d come looking for Patrick, after all, to get him up to speed on the worth of his stolen property so he could make an informed decision.

  The thing is, once Martin came under police scrutiny, he would almost certainly follow through on the threat he’d made last night at the pub. He’d retaliate by entertaining the cops with fun facts from the two-decade work history of Jane Delaney, Death Diva, culminating in my failed attempt to make off with the brooch myself. It wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t the one who’d turned Martin in. He’d know who was behind it.

  “I guess I have to, huh?” Patrick tucked Martin’s card into his jeans pocket. “I mean, how can I let the bastard get away with it?”

  I got the feeling that voluntarily engaging with the police was not in this man’s experience or comfort zone.

  “It’s not about the money,” he added, avoiding my eyes. “I don’t really need it.”

  “Well, that’s good.” I tried to sound as if I believed him. The man had his pride. “I think you’re doing the right thing, Patrick.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell the cops what you were doing at Mom’s wake.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, “but I have a feeling they’ll have some questions for me anyway. For one thing, I was a witness to the theft.” For another, the thief was going to do everything in his power to bring me down with him. I only hoped whatever criminal record Martin possessed would make me look like Mother Theresa by comparison.

  “It’s been, what, a day and a half,” he said. “If the guy’s smart, he already fenced it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Unless he had a buyer lined up,” he said. “Someone that wanted that brooch real bad and hired him to get it. Like Irene hired you.”

  I liked to think the two scenarios were worlds apart, but he was right. I’d become a thief for hire. The thought made me queasy. I sucked down more of the smoothie and it had the desired effect. Next time I’d get a large.

  The first order of business was damage control. I intended to return to Irene’s home office at the earliest opportunity and make all gone with the more, shall we say, arresting work orders currently residing in Irene’s file cabinet. The most problematic work order was, of course, the most recent one, the very document to which Martin Kade McAuliffe, Victorian man about town, had affixed his gentleman’s calling card. Of the folks who knew what I’d been up to at Ahearn’s that night, I wasn’t worried about anyone except Martin ratting me out. Both Patrick and Jonah had promised to keep my secret. Sadly, the originator of the document was in no position to tell the tale.

  The paranoid part of my brain worried that it was too late for damage control. In my mind’s eye I saw Martin whipping out his cell phone and photographing the juicier work orders during his middle-of-the-night not-burglary session. The rational part of my brain told the paranoid part that it had been watching too many of Irene’s spy flicks. Burglars don’t do stuff like that in real life.

  Do they?

  Bottom line: I’d do my best to stay under the cops’ radar, but I was prepared to take some heat if it came to that. Ditto for hits to Irene’s reputation. I simply couldn’t live with myself if I kept my yap shut and let an inheritance like the mermaid brooch slip through Patrick O’Rourke’s fingers. That kind of money could spell the difference between a college education for Fuzzy Slippers— I mean for Cheyenne and her brother, or a lifetime working the same kinds of dead-end jobs their dad had held.

  Not that managing the Janey’s Place flagship store occupied that category. It was a good job and he took justifiable pride in it.

  “So how long has Cheyenne been working here?” I watched the girl ring up a purchase for the Kermit-smoothie customer. The woman asked a question about the vitamins she was buying. Cheyenne responded with the same glum shrug I’d witnessed earlier.

  “Almost two months.” Patrick lowered his voice. “She graduated high school last June. I figured she’d start looking for a job, but all she wants to do is sleep late, watch TV all day, and stay out all hours with those no-good friends of hers.” He shrugged. “Kids. You know?”

  The smile I gave him said, Yeah, I get it, heh heh. Kids. But I didn’t get it. At Cheyenne’s age I’d been working after school for Irene for two years. After graduation I scrounged up every bit of work I could find to pay for college. Between work study, pet-sitting for Irene, and my budding Death Diva business, I managed to get my degree. It took me six long years of juggling work, classes, and all-night cramming sessions, and I can say with all honesty that at no point during that time did I consider chilling on my parents’ sofa to be a viable lifestyle choice.

  I groped for a neutral response. “It must be hard raising children nowadays.”

  “Hell, I was no better at that age,” he said. “W
orse, you wanna know the truth.” He glanced at his daughter, now leaning against her work station and texting on an expensive-looking smart phone. “Finally I laid down the law. She comes to work at the shop where I can keep an eye on her or she’s out on her ass. What they call tough love, you know?”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Only, it doesn’t seem to be working,” he said, “if I’m reading the signs right.”

  “Signs?” I said. “You think she’s involved in… um…” Did I know Patrick well enough to have this conversation? He seemed to have no such qualms.

  “Drugs,” he said without hesitation. “Same as me at that age. Okay, I know about the weed. I don’t care about that. Everyone does it and it’s never going away.”

  “You don’t think she’s into anything harder, do you?”

  Cheyenne’s customer passed us on her way out of the shop. Patrick exchanged have-a-good-days with her, then leaned closer to me. “It’s not that, it’s when I see her buying stuff and I don’t know where the money came from. Not from me or her mom, that’s for sure. And she won’t tell us.”

  I looked at Cheyenne with her fancy phone and remembered the iPad she’d been playing with at the wake. Those toys don’t come cheap. “You think she’s dealing?” I said.

  “She denies it.” His expression was eloquent. It spoke of the love, frustration, and never-ending worry that was parenthood. “I only wish that when I was her age, someone would’ve stepped in and knocked the stupid outta me. My folks loved me, but they didn’t see what was going on till it was too late. I’m not gonna make the same mistake with my kids.”

  Now I was patting his hand. “She’s lucky she has you for a father,” I said, and meant it.

  The door swung open and Nina Wallace entered the shop. She spied Patrick and me and made a beeline for us. Perfumed air kisses all around.

  Nina swanned around Crystal Harbor as if she owned the town. She didn’t, of course, but her great-grandfather had—or close enough. Hank “Hokum” Hannigan had been a notorious gangster and partner in crime of Dutch Schultz during the 1920s and ’30s. Hannigan made his fortune during Prohibition, bootlegging and running booze from Canada and the Caribbean to Crystal Harbor’s shoreline, where most of it made its way to the speakeasies of New York City.