by Sara Rosett
I scribbled my own note under Caroline’s and headed through the French doors into the sunroom. I stepped onto the deck and heard the gentle ripple of water from the pool. So that’s where Bill was. The gray clouds had moved out overnight and now the sun was sparkling on the wake flowing out behind him as he cut neatly through the water. He did a smooth flip turn and I decided not to interrupt him. He was pretty focused. I set off around the house, my breathing sending out wispy white puffs in the chilly air.
The neighborhood was quiet, my quick footfalls the only sound besides the occasional car as it passed me. I normally worked out several times a week with the Stroller Brigade, a group of moms who met for a morning power walk interspersed with strength and toning routines. I wasn’t about to stop and do push-ups or squats, since I was by myself—I would have felt silly—but I could keep my pace up. Without the stroller, I felt light and fast as I strode around the neighborhood.
By the time I circled back to the house, I was breathing hard and had taken off the sweatshirt and tied it around my waist. The sun was higher and the frosty bite was receding from the air. I slowed my pace to cool down, but then I spotted an unfamiliar car, a dark four-door sedan, parked behind our van in the already full circular drive. I picked up the pace again because it had the unmistakable look of an unmarked police car.
As I walked up the driveway, I saw Detective Kalra walking along the curve of the drive. I hurried up to her and asked, “Is there any news?”
She paused and looked at me for a moment before answering, as if she was trying to place who I was. “You’re the Averys’ daughter-in-law?”
“Yes, Ellie Avery,” I said, not sure if I should put my hand out to shake hers or not.
She watched me for another second or two and I got the feeling that she was one of those people who very rarely said anything rashly or flippantly. She nodded and said, “I’ve informed your father-in-law that Mr. Franklin’s body has been released to the funeral home and burial can proceed.”
She made a move to open the car door, but I asked, “What did the autopsy find?”
“It was a natural death, a stroke,” she said with the same careful, measured delivery.
“So what does that mean for the investigation?” I asked, and she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes slightly.
“It’s closed. No evidence of an intruder was found, or even of a break-in. The damage to the window most likely occurred during the storm.”
I was cooling down from the workout and the air felt icy on my arms. I untied the sweatshirt and slipped it over my head. “So . . . there’s no sign of foul play, then?”
She opened her car door and rested her arm along the top of it. “No, there’s no sign.” The intensity of her examination of me went up a notch. It was like a spotlight had suddenly zeroed in on me. “Do you have something you’d like to tell me? Or perhaps your aunt has something to add?”
“No, I just wanted to know what had happened,” I said, thinking that she must have picked up on Aunt Christine’s strange shift in behavior.
“Then, in that case, you have your answer.” She turned to slide into the car, then stopped and looked back at me. “I know about you—that you’re a . . . well, I’ll call you a tipster. You like to get involved in police investigations. Refrain from that while you’re here. There’s nothing to indicate that this situation is anything more than a natural death that happened to occur on the night of a severe thunderstorm. But if there’s anything else, anything the family is trying to cover up, I’ll find it. If you know something, you might as well tell me now.”
Was she threatening me? And calling me a busybody, too? I felt my cheeks flush. I took a breath and reminded myself that she didn’t seem like the type of person to throw words out without thinking. Her statements had a purpose—to throw me off guard and get me riled up. “I have passed along important information I have found out to the police in the past.” I said, trying to match her measured tone.
Her face broke into a grin. “Oh, I’d say you were more than a mere informant. ‘Instrumental’ was the word I heard, if I remember right.”
I ignored that statement. She was just letting me know she knew about my past involvement in a few police cases. And if she thought I was truly a busybody, she was assuming that if I knew anything further about Grandpa Franklin’s death, I’d be dying to share it. “You just said the investigation is closed,” I countered, hopefully taking us away from the subject of me.
“But it can always be reopened.” She handed me her business card before she sat down in the driver’s seat and buckled her seat belt. “Keep that in mind. And you might want to pass that fact along to any other family members who would be interested.”
Chapter Five
I entered the house through the sunroom and walked into a beehive of activity. Mitch’s dad had showered and changed and now stood in the kitchen rolling out biscuits. Mitch’s mom had also just arrived back and was putting her coat away in the hall closet. The kids were zipping around the house like miniature meteorites. They were blurs of bed-head hair and pajamas as they dodged into the room, then out again. The television was announcing the five-day outlook, all suns and cool temperatures, while Mitch looked on with the remote control in one hand and a glass of juice in the other.
“There you are,” he said, tossing the remote on a chair and walking over to me. He planted a kiss on my cheek, then whispered, “No fair disappearing on me this morning. It’s no fun waking up alone.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “I was definitely alone when I woke up this morning.”
“I had to break up a pillow fight at six-fifty.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. I feel so sorry for you,” I said. “Doesn’t look like you would have gotten to sleep much longer, anyway,” I said, nodding to the activity in the kitchen.
“Sad, but true. The kids have already eaten. They’ve found a box of toys that my mom keeps in the guest room.” The teasing smile dropped off of Mitch’s face. “Did you hear the news? The investigation’s closed and Grandpa Franklin’s body has been released. Dad’s called everyone and they’re on their way over here now. He’s already been on the phone to the funeral home.”
“Yes, I saw Detective Kalra as I was coming inside,” I said. “Did you get the impression she wasn’t . . . satisfied with the autopsy?”
“No. She was straightforward. Told us the results and that the case was closed, then she left.”
“So she didn’t have any more questions for anyone?” I asked, glancing around the room, looking to see if Aunt Christine was here, but I didn’t see her.
“No. What are you saying?”
I shrugged. “When I talked to her, she hinted that the case could be reopened.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. She said if anyone knew anything else—”
“Ellie!” Mitch’s dad called as he slid a tray of biscuits into the oven. “Come on in here and have some breakfast. The grits are coming right up.”
“Great, you know how I love those grits.”
“Bill, stop teasing her,” Caroline admonished, and shoved the platter of bacon and pancakes at me. “Help yourself, dear.” It was a running family joke. On my first visit to Smarr, Mitch’s dad had pretended to be shocked when I told him I’d never eaten grits. “Well, you can’t marry Mitch until you’ve had some grits,” he’d declared, and said he’d cook some for me himself. Caroline had rolled her eyes and told me “to pay him no mind.” She had leaned closer and said, “You do see what you’re getting yourself into, don’t you? He’s always like this. And he’s just one member of the family.”
Caroline looked better today than she had for the last few days. She had on her full complement of jewelry—thin sliver hoop earrings that matched her silver necklace, bracelet, and ring. In her black sweater and herringbone pants with low-heeled pumps, she looked every inch the successful Realtor.
“I’ll clean up first,” I said. I didn’t want th
e whole family to see me without makeup and in sweaty workout clothes. By the time I’d showered and changed into jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, the kitchen and living room were crowded and opinions were flying in a lively discussion. I filled a plate—no grits—and sat down at the table next to Aunt Nanette, amazed at the transformation in the atmosphere of the house. Yesterday it had been tense and quiet, today it was noisy and . . . relieved, I realized. Bill had the coffee pot in his hand and was walking around the room, refilling cups.
“The Twenty-third Psalm,” Aunt Nanette declared. “That has to be one of the readings.”
“Yes, but that’s so short,” Aunt Christine countered. She was alone again today and I wondered again about her relationship with Roy and if she was deliberately keeping it from the family. She sat in the living room, a wrinkled tissue in her hand. She had on a faded baby blue sweatshirt, but she was wearing her boot-cut jeans. I did a double take at her boots. They were at least two inches high. I avoided heels whenever I could, but if she wanted to wear them, then that was fine by me. I was proud of her for branching out and trying new things.
Felicity was sitting at the kitchen island, breaking off pieces of a croissant and scattering flaky bits all over the counter. Felicity’s antics hadn’t escaped the family’s notice, but in the uncertainty surrounding the investigation of Grandpa Franklin’s death and the break-in at his house, they’d avoided an all-out confrontation with her. “What about one of those letters from Addison McClure? He certainly talked about them enough and she’s, you know, famous,” Felicity said.
I shook my head, “I’m still surprised that’s true. I thought that was another one of his tall tales.”
Bill paused, coffee pot poised over Aunt Nanette’s mug. “Oh, no. It was true. She knew everyone around here back then and babysat for most everybody in Smarr.”
“Wow,” I said, trying to picture one of the world’s most well-known yet reclusive authors changing diapers. Nope, I couldn’t do it. The only thing that came to mind when I thought of Addison McClure was Deep Down Things, a coming-of-age story about a young girl, set in the South during the Civil Rights era.
“I can’t wait to read those letters,” Felicity said as she ripped off another piece of croissant and stuck it in her mouth.
Aunt Nanette lowered her chin and sent Felicity a disapproving stare. “You know he always said those were private letters and that he’d—”
“Take them to the grave with him. I know, I know,” Felicity snapped back. “But he’s not here. Those letters are important. Addison McClure is famous. People want to know more about her.”
Aunt Christine sucked in a breath. “Felicity, I cannot believe you’re talking like this. Of course, we will respect what he wanted. It doesn’t matter what people want to know. Sometimes they don’t need to know everything.”
“It’s her own fault,” Felicity said, sullenly. “If she’d give a few interviews or write some new books, people wouldn’t be so crazy to find out more about her. You saw the ruckus last year when all those news crews came to town for the book festival.” Felicity seemed to sense that she didn’t have—and wasn’t going to win—the approval of most of the room, so she swiveled toward me. “It was the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of her first book. She was the guest of honor at Book Daze that year, and would she give a speech? No. Even with all those camera crews hanging on her every word, all she came up with was two sentences. Two sentences and she was done!” Felicity’s eyebrows were up near her hairline. “I mean, can you imagine? All those people wanting to talk to you, put you on TV, and she mutters ‘thank you,’ and walks away.”
I was sure Felicity would love to be in the spotlight. In fact, she’d be perfect for one of those reality shows. She’d thrive on the attention and act outrageously, too.
Bill said firmly, “We will abide by what Dad wanted. We’re not discussing the letters now.”
Felicity shrugged, “Doesn’t matter, anyway. He always said he’d take them to his grave, so he probably burned them or something stupid like that.”
“Felicity,” Bill said sharply, “that’s enough. Caroline, where were we?”
“The readings,” she said.
“Wait.” Aunt Christine pulled at the neckline of her blue sweatshirt as she said, “We’ve got to do something about his casket. I was there during his prearrangement meeting and of course he picked out the cheapest one—everyone’s going to think we’re cutting corners if we use that casket. We have to upgrade it or it’ll be an embarrassment.”
Bill leaned against the counter and crossed one scuffed loafer over the other. “Now, Christine, he picked what he wanted. We’ve got to leave it at that. Be glad he didn’t pick a plain pine box—that’s what he threatened to do, you know. He didn’t see the point of spending a lot of money on the casket.”
“That’s true,” Aunt Nanette confirmed, her long nose bobbing up and down as she nodded. “Always said he wasn’t actually going to be in it, so what did it matter?”
“Not in it?” Felicity said, shocked. “Of course, he’s going to be in it.”
“His soul,” Aunt Nanette clarified with disdain, and called Queen over to her side. She didn’t say it aloud, but her expression clearly conveyed that she thought young people these days were barely worth talking to.
Caroline pressed her lips together and I wondered if she was counting to ten . . . or maybe twenty. Finally, she spoke. “We can’t change the casket at this point. If it will make you feel better, we’ll have Pastor Davis mention Dad’s thrifty ways or something like that. We must finalize the funeral service. We already have ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ for the hymns, which were two of his favorites,” Caroline said. “Back to the readings. We need one more.”
“I’ve always been partial to ‘Remember,’ ” Uncle Bud said. He was a rough, tough kind of guy and reminded me of the illustrations of lumberjacks from storybooks. He was tall with broad shoulders and had a heavy brow that jutted out over his eyes. He tended to scowl. Today, his flannel shirt was a blue-and-black plaid and, since it was cold, he had the sleeves down, covering his phoenix tattoo. It was his only concession to the weather. I’d never seen him wear a coat, much less gloves. He hadn’t shaved today and stubble covered his face.
“Don’t know it,” snapped Aunt Nanette, and Queen turned her head to check and make sure she wasn’t in trouble.
Uncle Bud, who was leaning against the kitchen countertop holding a mug of coffee, promptly began to quote,
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
He finished, then looked down quickly at his mug and took a sip of coffee. And his eyes, were they glassy? I have to say hearing Uncle Bud quote poetry was about the last thing I’d ever expected, but the way he spoke the words had affected everyone. The room was completely still. The faint chatter from the kids was the only sound.
Caroline cleared her throat and said, “That’s lovely, Bud. Would you like to recite that at the funeral?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Well, that’s settled then,” Caroline said, and I noticed Aunt Nanette was discreetly wiping the corner of her eye with her napkin. Caroline glanced at the clock and said, “Grisholm’s can have the order of service printed for us.” She turned to Mitch. “You can drop off the
final version and catch up with Dermont, or was it Jake you went to school with? I always get those Grisholm boys mixed up.” I looked at Mitch with raised eyebrows.
“It was Dermont,” he said. Then he explained to me, “The Grisholm family owns one of the local funeral homes. All their kids work there and I went to school with Dermont.”
Caroline said, “Also, you’ll need to stop by Grandpa Franklin’s house and pick up a tie. Grisholm’s called and left a message earlier. They need a tie to go with the suit.”
“I forgot the tie?” Aunt Christine said. “I thought I picked one out.”
“It didn’t make it to the funeral home, so Mitch can take one over there,” Caroline said.
“But I’m sure I . . . well, maybe not. I remember coming out of his room with the suit and that was when I noticed the breeze, from the window, you know. After that, it was so confusing.”
Aunt Nanette said, “Good grief, Christine. It doesn’t matter. They need a tie. We’ll get the tie over there.”
Aunt Gwen called out, “Oh, that’s okay. We took care of it. Grisholm’s called us this morning when they didn’t get an answer here, so we ran by his house and picked up the tie we gave him for his birthday. We took it to the funeral home. You can mark one thing off your list, Caroline.”
Aunt Christine stiffened. “It wasn’t that awful one with the football helmets on it, was it? You didn’t take that one, did you?”
Aunt Gwen looked a little uncertain. “Well, of course it was. You remember,” she said, cajolingly. “Crimson banner and a football.”
“Of course I remember it and he’s not going to be buried in that tie,” Aunt Christine declared. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing to look at Aunt Christine, whose cheeks were flushed.
