Funerals Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 5)

by Susan Santangelo

  Normally that would have ticked me off, but under the current circumstances, the guy did have a point.

  I crossed my heart and said, “Scout’s honor, Jim. Now, get some rest.” I blew him a kiss from the bedroom door and headed for the kitchen.

  I realized my heart was racing enough after my adventure, so instead of fixing myself a cup of black high-test coffee, I decided a cup of chamomile tea was exactly what I needed to calm myself. I’m not a tea lover. Something about the acid in the brew always upsets my stomach, so I needed something to snack on, too.

  Which led to my rummaging in the refrigerator and finding a small piece of cherry pie that was left over from last night’s supper. I congratulated myself that Nancy had missed it when she foraged in my fridge earlier today.

  Since cherry is a fruit, and Weight Watchers encourages folks to eat five portions of fruit and vegetables every day to stay healthy, I figured this counted.

  I’m always impressed with how I can justify anything I want to do.

  Lucy padded into the kitchen from the direction of the family room, followed by Ethel. Both canines gave me a reproachful stare.

  I tossed them half a dog biscuit each. “Don’t look at me like that. If I’m counting calories for myself, I’m going to count them for you, too.”

  I ignored the dirty look Lucy aimed at me, and continued, “I suppose both of you had your little black noses pressed against the window and saw what happened outside in the yard.” Not much escapes their notice.

  Lucy gave me another look, telegraphing loud and clear that she thought what happened in the yard was still another ridiculous example of human behavior. As opposed to the far more superior canine behavior mantra—eat, play, sleep.

  “You’re supposed to be on my side, Lucy,” I said. “We girls have to stick together.” At least, I hoped that she and Ethel wouldn’t blab about my latest misadventure to some of their canine buddies at the local dog park.

  Which was more than I could say about Phyllis Stevens.

  I don’t mean that Phyllis cavorts around the dog park, mind you. She and her husband Bill are members of the “Old Guard” of the area, and one of the few couples in our neighborhood who are older than Jim and me. The self-appointed head of the Old Fairport Turnpike Homeowners Association, her family has owned the house directly across the street from us for three generations.

  Which Phyllis interprets as a mandate to comment/judge anything and everything that’s going on in the neighborhood, from the exterior color of a house (we live in an historic district in town and all the houses, plus the shutters and fences, must conform to a pre-selected color palate), to the shingles on the roof, to the care and maintenance of anything else she felt like commenting on/criticizing.

  Although she and Bill did come to my rescue, however unwillingly, the night I discovered a dead body in my living room. Maybe some of you remember that. It certainly is a night I’ll never forget.

  Phyllis is known to have the loosest lips in the neighborhood. Which meant that I had some damage control to do asap, before she had a chance to call or e-mail the neighbors with an overdramatized description of my lawnmower fiasco. And while I was at it, I’d see if I could get some more information about Will Finnegan and his landscaping company. The guy seemed on the up and up, but before we parted with any of our cash, I wanted to be absolutely sure hiring him was a good idea.

  I dumped the dregs of my tea in the sink (I finished the cherry pie, but I bet you already figured that out for yourself) and announced to the dogs that I was going to nip across the street for a quick chat with Phyllis.

  Lucy gave me another of her looks. Then she butted her head against my legs, forcing me to look down at what I was wearing. My pants were stained with dirt and grass stains. Big oops. I certainly couldn’t pay a social call on Phyllis looking like that.

  “Okay, Lucy. I’ll take a quick shower and change. I appreciate the paws’ up, but I hate it when you’re right.” I gave her a quick thank-you scratch behind her long silky ears.

  I pushed aside the thought that the canines in the house were rapidly becoming smarter than the humans. Or maybe they always were, and I’m only noticing now.

  My dog, the fashionista!

  Chapter 6

  Please distract me. I’m trying to think.

  I’ll be honest with you. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about heading across Old Fairport Turnpike in the direction of the Stevens house. So, even though I knew that time was of the essence if I was going to head off Phyllis and her loose lips, I took some extra time in the shower. Hey, washing out a few twigs that had found their way into my hair wasn’t easy.

  And I took particular care with what to wear, too. I chose a pair of ironed chino pants with knife pleats that would impress any dry cleaner—and which I had done all by myself once I wiped the dust off my iron—topped by a pale blue cashmere sweater that matched my eyes. A little blush, a swipe of lipstick, and I was good to go.

  I did tape a note to Jim on the bathroom mirror, since I couldn’t count on Lucy and Ethel to give him a message and I didn’t want to wake the poor guy.

  Mindful of the ever increasing traffic on Old Fairport Turnpike, which runs parallel to Fairport Turnpike—our town’s main artery, in case you didn’t know that—I made sure to look both ways several times before I sprinted across the street.

  Two cyclists swerved to avoid me. Where the heck did they come from? I didn’t even see them.

  I took my time going up the walkway toward the front door. I wanted to check out the landscaping and see if Will Finnegan did a good job.

  What I saw was a neatly trimmed lawn, a well designed pattern of shrubbery interspersed with brightly colored mums, and a stone walkway leading to the main entrance. I was impressed that there was no grass growing between the stone pavers. We always have a problem with that, despite Jim’s frequent attempts at weeding.

  From the street (or from my living room windows), the house looked like one of the smaller ones on our block. But, although the house had a narrow front, generations of Phyllis’s family had bumped out the structure in the back. The latest addition was a large first-floor master bedroom suite.

  The main reason I know this is that, five years ago when the addition was completed, Phyllis made sure her house was included in the Historical Society’s annual Christmas Stroll, a fundraiser which benefits local charities in our town.

  In fact, although our two families have been across-the-street neighbors for almost thirty years, I realized I’d never been invited into the home as a guest. Any party invitations had come from Jim and me, and the parties were held at our house. It’s not that the Phyllis and Bill were unfriendly. But they’d never had any children, and had very little in common with most of the other neighbors. Like us.

  I pushed away the memory of the only other time I’d landed on their doorstep, squared my shoulders and rang the doorbell. The door immediately swung open to reveal Phyllis, with Bill standing right behind her.

  I bet they’ve been watching me all the time from their picture window.

  Phyllis pasted a smile on her face and gestured me inside.

  “I was wondering if you’d stop in,” she said. After making a complete jackass of yourself.

  She didn’t really say that last part, of course. She didn’t need to. The expression of disapproval on her round face said it for her.

  “I wanted to thank you so much for sending Will Finnegan over to help me,” I said, ignoring Phyllis and speaking directly to Bill.

  “Are you all right, Carol?” Bill asked.

  “That was quite a spectacle,” Phyllis added.

  I laughed nervously. “Just my feeble attempt to entertain the neighborhood,” I said.

  “We certainly can count on you for that,” Phyllis replied.

  So far, the three of us were still standing at the front do
or. I wondered how to suggest they invite me inside without appearing too pushy. My mother did raise me to be polite. Under most circumstances.

  “As long as you’re all right,” Bill said. “When I saw what happened, I sent Will over right away.”

  “It was my idea,” Phyllis corrected, not wanting to give her husband any credit. “Will’s been so helpful to us.”

  “It was lucky this was the day he did a fall cleanup here,” Bill said.

  I saw an opening and jumped right in. “Actually, that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. Jim and I are thinking of hiring Will to do some work for us. Do you have a minute to tell me more about what he does for you?”

  “Come on in, Carol,” Bill said, shooting a quick glance at Phyllis.

  Probably asking for permission.

  “Let’s sit down in the family room.” He turned and headed toward the back of the house, with me and a reluctant Phyllis trailing behind him.

  “This is such a beautiful house,” I gushed. The last time I was here, I never noticed.

  I didn’t say the last part. But some of you may know that.

  I’d hit on the exact right thing to warm Phyllis up. “This is a beautiful house,” she agreed, sitting in a comfortable wing chair that I suspected was a recliner in disguise. Bill took his place in its twin, and I settled myself on the sofa facing them. “It’s been in my family for three generations,” Phyllis said. “We consider it a privilege to live here, a sacred trust. I’m not sure anyone can understand what this house means to us, Carol.”

  “And, unfortunately, we have no family to leave it to,” Bill said. “I’m not sure what will happen to the house when we’re both gone.”

  For a brief second, a flicker of sadness passed over Phyllis’s face. Followed immediately by an expression of annoyance.

  “You know that’s our private business, Bill,” she snapped. “Carol doesn’t need to know everything about our personal lives.”

  Bill looked absolutely mortified at being reprimanded like a ten-year-old in front of me. Poor guy.

  “There’s no need for you to worry, Phyllis,” I said as sincerely as I could. “I won’t mention what you told me to Jim.”

  I took a deep breath, then said, “And I hope I can count on you to do the same for me about my lawnmower adventure, Phyllis.”

  Now, it was Phyllis’s turn to look embarrassed. Which I interpreted to mean that she’d already started spreading the news.

  She recovered her composure quickly, though. “Of course, Carol,” she lied. “But I can’t say the same for any of the other neighbors. I doubt that Bill and I were the only ones who saw what happened.”

  Nice save, Phyllis. That way, if I hear any neighborhood gossip featuring me as the star, I can’t blame you.

  “So, what about Will Finnegan?” I asked. “Would you recommend him?”

  “Absolutely,” said Phyllis and Bill at the exact same time.

  “He’s very reliable,” Bill said.

  “He’s a real treasure,” Phyllis added. “We were one of his first customers when he started Finnegan’s Rakes. Now the company has more customers than Will can handle by himself. So he had to hire more people.”

  “He always does our work personally,” Bill put in, daring to interrupt his wife.

  Phyllis’s face was getting a little pink. “Will promised that he’ll never send anyone else to do our lawn. Because I’m…I mean, we’re…special. Since we were one of his first official customers.”

  What an interesting way to talk about a business relationship. Or did prim and proper Phyllis also experience a zing where Will Finnegan was concerned? Food for my overactive imagination.

  “Of course, Will’s a local boy,” Bill said. “His family lived in Fairport until he was twelve. Then his father got a new job and the family moved to the D.C. area.”

  I was surprised. “I wonder if Jenny or Mike went to school with him,” I said.

  “Not likely,” Phyllis said. “Will is in his early forties now. He would have been several years ahead of both your children.”

  “He was in my Boy Scout troop years ago,” Bill said.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize….”

  Phyllis cut me off.

  “None of this has anything to do with what you came to ask us, does it Carol?” She shot her husband a look.

  “I’m sorry, Carol,” Bill said. “Phyllis is right. I tend to go on about things too much. One of the curses of getting older, I guess.”

  Poor guy. I wondered if there was a special day of the week when Bill was allowed to speak without being criticized.

  “So, what else do you want to know?” said Phyllis, making a show out of looking at her watch. “I have to start dinner now. We always make a point of eating at five o’clock sharp.”

  Bill nodded. “That way we’re finished, and the dishes are all done, before our favorite television shows come on.

  “Say, Carol, do you and Jim watch Jeopardy!? Phyllis and I would never miss it. Maybe sometime we could get together and have a neighborhood trivia party.”

  “There you go again,” Phyllis said. “Boring Carol when I’m sure she has better things to do than listen to you.”

  Ouch.

  Realizing that this time she’d gone too far, Phyllis reached out and patted her husband’s hand. “You know I love listening to your stories, but Carol doesn’t need to. That’s what I meant to say.”

  Boy, I would never talk to Jim like that. I do tend to speak my mind, but my comments and suggestions are much gentler.

  At least, I sure hope they are.

  Note to self: Be cautious about your caustic comments. The man you hurt may be the man you love.

  It was up to me to move this non-coffee klatch along.

  “I don’t mean to keep you,” I said. “Jim will be wondering what’s taking me so long. But he did have a question about Will Finnegan’s rates. Is he reasonable? Does he charge by the hour, or by each job?”

  I addressed these questions directly to Bill, implying I was merely the messenger between one guy (my husband) and another.

  Of course, it was Phyllis who answered. No surprise.

  “We may get a special rate,” she said. “I don’t think it’s up to us to quote you any prices. That’s something between you and Will.”

  Phyllis favored me with the look she had recently used on Bill. And stood up.

  All righty, then. Don’t let anyone tell you that I can’t take a hint. I stood up and turned to leave. “I’ll walk you out, Carol,” Bill said, “so Phyllis can start cooking one of her delicious meals.”

  He gave me a wink. “You know the old saying, ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’ Right, Phyl?”

  “To this man’s heart, that’s for sure,” Phyllis said, turning and heading for the kitchen.

  “I’m glad you’re all right, Carol. And I’m sure that if you hire Will Finnegan, you won’t be sorry,” Bill said, ushering me toward the front of the house.

  As he opened the door so I could leave, he leaned over and said, in a low voice that couldn’t be overheard, “Don’t pay any attention to Phyllis. She can be on the cranky side sometimes, but she has a good heart. And I know she was as concerned about you as I was.”

  In a louder voice, Bill said, “Come back and see us again, any time. And give some thought to that neighborhood Jeopardy! party. I think it would be a lot of fun. Give our best to Jim.”

  And then, to my complete shock, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Believe me, that smooch got my body moving toward my own house double quick. All I needed to complicate my life even more was a geriatric neighbor with a crush on me.

  Chapter 7

  My husband is always P.C.—my Personal Curmudgeon.

  Since Jim still had the sniffles, I didn�
�t fuss much with dinner that night. After all, he couldn’t taste anything, so why bother?

  I defrosted a container of homemade chicken soup—I bet that surprises you!—and added some extra vegetables and noodles to make it more of a substantial meal. Some whole wheat dinner rolls, fresh (almost) from the local supermarket and I was all set. And if Jim wanted dessert, I still had some of that mocha chip ice cream aging in the freezer.

  Jim’s sweet tooth never deserts him, no matter how sick he is. Me, too. When I’m down with a cold, the only things that taste good to me are ice cream, pastries, and chocolate. As you can imagine, I often gain a pound or two while I’m coughing and sneezing!

  I hoped that Jim felt well enough to come to the kitchen table for supper. And I hoped even more that we wouldn’t talk about my lawnmower fiasco while we were eating. Lectures impede my digestion, and I felt guilty enough about my adventure already.

  And I do not take criticism well. At. All.

  I was just about to ladle the soup into bowls when my phone beeped, indicating an incoming text. I was thrilled to see it was from the Miami branch of the family, our son Mike. His breakup with his possible wife Marlie (perhaps you know about that?), plus the added responsibility of running Cosmo’s, a successful restaurant and bar, didn’t allow for a lot of time to keep in touch with good old Mom and Dad. At least, that’s what I always tell myself when we don’t hear from him for a while. Since I’ve learned to text, though, the communications are more frequent.

  By the way, Mike’s the only one who ever calls me Cosmo Girl—a nod to my long-ago job at Cosmopolitan magazine back in the Helen Gurley Brown days. I’ve deluded myself into believing that he named the restaurant in my honor.

  Mike: Hey, Cosmo Girl! I see you’ve had another adventure!

  Me: Hello to you, too. And what are you talking about? I’m here being a nurse to Dad, who has a cold.