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

by Susan Santangelo

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “He gave me a peck on the cheek.”

  “I think that’s sweet, Mom,” she said. “Just imagine. Mr. Stevens could have been harboring a secret yen for you all these years, and finally had the guts to let you know about it.”

  “Now you’re really being ridiculous,” I said, as I caught a glimpse of a shirtless Will Finnegan trying to bring some order out of yesterday’s chaos.

  Jenny followed my look. “That’s the lawn man? He’s gorgeous.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I lied. “He’s the nice man who came to my rescue yesterday. And Dad met him and decided to hire him to do our outside work.

  “He does snowplowing, too,” I added.

  “I’ll just bet he does,” my daughter said with a knowing look. “Now I know why you staged the riding mower incident yesterday. You wanted an excuse to hire Will Finnegan.”

  “Jenny! That’s not true.”

  “Methinks my mother doth protest too much,” Jenny said. “But I won’t worry about you getting into trouble so much now. Or maybe,” she added with a gesture in Will’s direction, “I should worry more!”

  Chapter 9

  It always amazes me that if I keep something in my closet for a while, it shrinks at least two sizes all by itself.

  “Stand up and applaud, Mary Alice,” Claire said. “Our resident celebrity is here.”

  “Very funny,” I said, sliding into a chair at The Admiral’s Table, one of Fairport’s most exclusive restaurants, and grabbing a luncheon menu.

  “You know I said that with love, right?” Claire asked. “After all, it’s not every day that someone I went to grammar school with is featured in an Internet video.”

  “I’ve had all the teasing about that horrible riding mower video that I can tolerate,” I snapped. “I thought you guys, at least, would cut me some slack.”

  My face flamed. “Do you know that when I stopped at the Mobil station to buy gas, the smart aleck who works there asked me if I wanted extra gas for the mower so I could chase it around the yard again today? The nerve!”

  “I’m sure Claire didn’t mean anything, Carol,” said Mary Alice in the soothing tone I was sure she reserved for her difficult patients. And being a nurse, she’s had a lot of those over the years.

  “I’m sorry, Carol,” Claire said. “I guess I got a little bit carried away.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said. I’m not one to bear a grudge, despite what some people may have told you. Most of the time, that is.

  “It’s my turn to pick a subject,” I said. I swiveled around in my chair to take in the spectacular view of Long Island Sound.

  “How did we get to have lunch at The Admiral’s Table? I thought it was only open to members of the Fairport Yacht Club.”

  “Nancy knows somebody,” Claire said.

  “Doesn’t she always?” I said, laughing. “That woman has more connections than AT&T.”

  “Where is Nancy?” Mary Alice asked. “I’d hate to have some club employee figure out we don’t belong here and tell us to leave. That would be so mortifying.”

  “I doubt that would happen,” I said. “But let’s behave ourselves, just in case. No dancing on the tables, like we usually do.”

  Mary Alice swatted me. “You are too much.”

  A cloud of Chanel Number 5 announced the arrival of our hostess, otherwise known as Fairport’s most successful Realtor (her words, not mine).

  Nancy slid into a chair and exchanged air kisses with everyone.

  “I just love this place,” she said, gesturing around the beautiful restaurant as though she’d designed it herself. “What a beautiful spot. Why did it take us so long to come here? I simply cannot believe that view.”

  She looked at all of us for confirmation, and being the obedient Catholic school girls we are, we nodded.

  “It took us so long to come here because we’re not members of the Fairport Yacht Club,” I pointed out. “Unless one of us has been keeping a secret all these years.”

  Nancy laughed. “It’s not necessary to be a full member of the yacht club to use the restaurant. There’s an associate membership, which is priced very reasonably. I joined last week. I’m planning on bringing potential real estate clients here, if the food is as good as I’ve been told it is.

  “You three are my guinea pigs.”

  “You certainly have a way of putting things, Nancy,” Claire said. “I really feel special now.”

  Nancy ignored her.

  “Sorry if I was a little late,” she said. “I was on the phone with a seller, and she was going on and on and on. Refusing to make some of the minor tweaks I’d suggested to make her house more saleable. Honestly, most people really have an inflated view of what their house is really worth. Especially in today’s market.”

  Since Nancy had represented Jim and me in a recent real estate transaction, which hadn’t come to fruition thanks to the untimely death of the buyer, I tried not to take offense at her remark.

  Besides, I had another score to settle with her.

  “Thanks a lot for your comment on the Fairport Patch about my driving skills,” I said, glaring at her. “I was humiliated enough without you putting in your two cents’ worth.”

  “Sweetie, you know I was only kidding,” Nancy said. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

  “Yeah, right. Why am I not convinced?”

  “We’ve all apologized, Carol. We should know by now how hypersensitive you are,” Claire said.

  “It’s time to order our lunch,” Mary Alice said. “The server has been hovering a few feet away for at least ten minutes.”

  “Why don’t you order for us, Nancy?” I suggested with a hint of malice. “Since you’re the member and we’re merely your guinea pigs. I mean, your guests.”

  “Oh, all right,” Nancy said. She rattled off a series of appetizers and salads to the poor server, who was having some trouble keeping up with Nancy’s wide array of choices.

  “Why so many?” Claire asked. “We’ll never finish all this food.”

  “We can always have the club pack up any leftovers and take them home,” Nancy said. “That way, none of us will have to cook supper tonight. And we need to sample a lot of dishes to find out which are the best ones. After all, when I bring clients here, I want to look like I know what I’m talking about.”

  That made sense to me. Except for the part about the leftovers, of course.

  “Leftovers? You must be kidding,” I said. “You know that whenever we go out to lunch, we always protest that we can never finish what’s been served. It’s just too much food. We’ll have to take some home.”

  “But by the end of the meal, all our plates are empty,” Claire added. “I’m sure it’s because of our Catholic school training. Remember, all the nuns told us it was a sin to waste food.”

  “You go ahead and tell yourself that if it makes you feel any better, Claire,” I said. “Even though they also told us it was a sin to tell a lie.

  “So, what’s new with everybody?” I asked, not giving my tablemates a chance to revisit my video debacle again. “Or, in my case, what’s not new.”

  I sighed. “Jenny and Mark stopped in this morning. I was so surprised to see both of them. Usually, Jenny stops in for a quick cup of coffee and a mother/daughter chat on her way to school. I assumed they’d come together to announce that Jenny was pregnant. But I was wrong.”

  Best pals that they are, all my tablemates shared my disappointment. And some unasked-for advice.

  Notably, “Don’t push them.” As if I ever would!

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.” I know, I know.

  “When it happens, it will be perfect. And well worth waiting for.” I guess.

  “So why did they stop in, Carol? Any special reason?” Claire asked.

&nbs
p; “Trust you to get right to the point, Claire,” I said with a laugh. “That’s what comes from being married to a lawyer.”

  “So…?”

  I cleared my throat. “Unfortunately, the kids saw the Fairport Patch video, too. And speaking of jumping to conclusions, they decided that Jim and I need some help around the house. Or, to be exact, outside the house. They want to treat us to a landscaping company as an early Christmas present.”

  I omitted the fact that Jim and I had hired Finnegan’s Rakes ourselves yesterday after my adventure with the riding mower. Or that Will Finnegan was a hunk. No sense in confusing my friends. I had an important point to make.

  “I think that’s sweet,” Mary Alice said.

  “I do, too,” Nancy chimed in.

  “Ditto,” said Claire. “What the heck is your problem with it, Carol? Because, from the expression on your face, you’ve obviously got one.”

  “It’s just that I resent the implication that Jim and I are getting too old to take care of ourselves. Or our house. I don’t know. Maybe that’s not what they meant, but that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  “Good gracious, Carol, talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth,” Nancy said. “Before Jim retired, you had someone to clean your house once a week, and also someone to take care of the lawn. And after he retired, Jim decided that the household expenses needed to be trimmed. So you got rid of the house cleaner and the landscaper. And complained bitterly about it.”

  I couldn’t deny it. Nancy was absolutely right.

  “And when Jim had his heart episode a while back, you talked him into hiring someone to do some outside work,” Mary Alice reminded me. “Although that didn’t last very long.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “Exactly. Jim and I made those decisions. Not our kids. Don’t you understand the difference?”

  I looked at my three best friends, who are exactly the same age as I am. Despite Nancy’s protestations that she’s really several months younger.

  “We’re reaching the point in our lives where our kids think they should start making decisions for us, because we’re not capable of making them for ourselves any more. What’s next? Taking away our car keys and hiring a chauffeur, like in that movie, Driving Miss Daisy?”

  Nancy looked shocked. Claire looked troubled. Mary Alice looked confused.

  Finally, Claire spoke up. “I never thought of us as old before. But I guess we are. At least, in the eyes of younger folks.”

  It’ll probably come as no surprise to you that, after my tirade, none of us had an appetite for dessert. We had enough food for thought—calorie-free.

  Chapter 10

  Just when I was getting used to yesterday, today came along and confused the heck out of me!

  For the next few days, our yard was a beehive of activity. The number of workers varied. Sometimes, it was a crew of two or three guys, raking and mulching. One day, it was a carpenter, replacing the damaged section of our picket fence with a brand new one. When the carpenter left, a painter arrived to finish the job. All the workers wore tee-shirts with the Finnegan’s logo—a rake and a snow shovel in the shape of the letter X.

  I wondered how many people Will Finnegan employed. I never saw the same men twice.

  I tried not to feel slighted that a lot of the landscaping and repair work was being done by other people, since Phyllis Stevens had bragged that Will always did their work personally. After all, it was a busy time of year, and Finnegan’s Rakes had many other clients to take care of besides us.

  Some days, the boss came by and did some of the work himself. Unfortunately for me, the weather had turned cooler, so the chances of a shirtless Will sighting would have to wait until spring.

  Darn it.

  I was surprised that Jim, completely recovered from his cold—which, as you may recall, is what started this whole chain of events in the first place—wasn’t complaining about how much this was all costing. Nor did he complain that Will never got around to giving us the written estimate we’d asked for. Instead, Jim seemed to enjoy strolling around our yard when the workers were there, schmoozing and kibitzing and probably driving them all crazy.

  Well, that was way better than driving me crazy inside the house. Now that the colder weather was coming, and we would be together inside more, I might have to resort to the Honey Don’t list to save my sanity.

  You remember that, right? Jim and I each make a list of what habits the other person has that annoy us. Naturally, the list of my own annoying habits is much shorter than Jim’s.

  Anyway, we put each habit on a small piece of paper and stuff them into two jars—one marked “His” and the other “Hers.” And every morning (you don’t have to do it that often—it all depends on how crazy your partner is making you) we draw a paper from the other person’s jar. And that person has to refrain from that habit for the entire day. One point per day for good behavior. Minus a point for bad.

  At the end of the week, add up the points. Whoever has scored the highest gets to choose the reward for best behaved.

  I bet I don’t have to tell you what Jim chooses. So, I won’t.

  Sometimes, I think he rigs it so he usually wins.

  Smile.

  Chapter 11

  My house was clean last week. Too bad you missed it.

  “I don’t believe it!” I said. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the morning newspaper.

  “Jim,” I yelled in the general direction of the bedroom. “Jim! Have you seen this morning’s paper? Did you read the obituary page? You won’t believe who died!”

  No response.

  Honestly, that man wouldn’t hear a herd of elephants charging through the house. But let me whisper something to one of my friends that I don’t want him to know about, and he doesn’t miss a single word.

  “I give up,” I said, and headed toward the bedroom myself, newspaper in hand.

  To be fair, Jim was in the shower with the bathroom door closed. No wonder he couldn’t hear me.

  Not that I let that stop me. No sirree. When you’ve been married as long as Jim and I have, you’ve seen it all. If you get my drift.

  So I barged right into the bathroom. I know. I know. I probably shouldn’t have done that. But I was so upset that proper etiquette went right out the window.

  Jim turned off the taps and stuck his wet head out of the shower. “What are you yelling for, Carol? Can’t a man have a little peace and quiet in here? Is that asking too much?” He grabbed the towel I handed him and attempted to make himself decent.

  “What the hell is so important that it couldn’t wait until I was through with my shower?” he demanded.

  I thrust the morning paper at him. “Look at the obituary page, Jim,” I said. “You simply won’t believe it.”

  Jim wiped his hands on the towel, then began to root around the sink top for his eyeglasses.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, grabbing the paper back from him. “I’ll read it to you.”

  My eyes welled up and threatened to spill over. Then I began to read, in a shaky voice: “William Finnegan, forty-eight, of Fairport, died suddenly Tuesday night at Fairport Memorial Hospital as the result of a cardiac incident. Mr. Finnegan, the owner of Finnegan’s Rakes, a local landscaping and exterior maintenance company, leaves his wife of twenty-three years, Louisa, and two children, Brian, twenty-one, and Amy, nineteen. Calling hours will be Thursday evening from seven to nine p.m. at Mallory and Mallory Funeral Home, 323 Fairport Turnpike. At the request of the family, memorial donations in Mr. Finnegan’s memory may be made to the American Heart Association.”

  I sank down on the edge of the tub. “I simply can’t believe it. Will was so young. And he looked like he was the picture of good health. How in the world could this have happened?”

  “It’s shocking, all right,” Jim agreed, finally fi
nding his spectacles and reaching for the paper so he could read the obituary for himself. “Poor guy. I wonder if he had any warning at all. For all we know, he had a history of cardiac problems. Or a genetic pre-disposition. I’ve heard that’s pretty common.”

  He handed me back the newspaper, then said, “And now, I’d like to get dressed. In private.”

  I blinked. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say about this, Jim?”

  “Well, what do you want me to say? We hardly knew the guy. Yes, he did some lawn work for us. And helped us out of a jam after the riding mower debacle. But it’s not like he was a personal friend or a member of the family. He worked for us, for crying out loud. And only for a short time, at that.”

  I glared at him. “I can’t believe you’re reacting this way. Will Finnegan was a good man who died much too young. You sound like he was someone you met once on a train ride into New York, had a brief chat with about absolutely nothing important, and that was it.”

  Jim sighed. “All right, Carol. You win. We’ll make a donation to the American Heart Association in his name. Will that make you feel better and get me off the hook?”

  “That’s a little better,” I said. “But I think we should go to the wake, too, and express our condolences to the family.”

  “Are you nuts, Carol? There is no way I’m going to do that. It’s completely unnecessary.”

  I stuck to my guns. “I disagree. I think we should go out of respect.”

  “Respect for who?” Jim exploded. “The family won’t know who the hell we are.”

  “Whom,” I corrected automatically. “Respect for whom, not for who.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Jim said. “I think you want to go to the wake just because you’re nosy. You want to see what his wife looks like. And his kids, too.”

  Well! I wasn’t going to take that from Jim, even if a tiny part of it was true. I admit it, I am nosy. But I really did feel we should pay our respects. Writing a donation check was a real cop-out.