The Stranger's Obituary

by Jessica L. Randall

  The Stranger's Obituary

  an Obituary Society Novel, Volume 2

  Jessica L. Randall

  Published by Jessica Randall, 2015.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 | Unwanted Guests

  Chapter 2 | Out of the Pot, Into the Frying Pan

  Chapter 3 | The Gut Buster

  Chapter 4 | The Life-Saver

  Chapter 5 | The Old Hodgers and Mr. Mars

  Chapter 6 | In a Scrape

  Chapter 7 | Dinner and a Show

  Chapter 8 | Cracked

  Chapter 9 | Blown Away

  Chapter 10 | Calvin's Song

  Chapter 11 | Reception

  Chapter 12 | A Picture's Worth a Diner Brawl

  Chapter 13 | Old Melody

  Chapter 14 | The Sheriff’s Secret

  Chapter 15 | Exposed

  Chapter 16 | Bringing Back Bernadette

  Chapter 17 | Gardening and Ghostbusting

  Chapter 18 | Midwest Mouthfuls

  Chapter 19 | The Better Burger

  Chapter 20 | A Nine Letter Word for Meddle

  Chapter 21 | Plenty of Bark but No More Bite

  Chapter 22 | Pacify the Dead

  Chapter 23 | Evan’s Web

  Chapter 24 | The Borrowed Body

  Chapter 25 | You Are Now Leaving Auburn

  Chapter 26 | No Turning Back

  Chapter 27 | A Mother’s Love

  Chapter 28 | Enough

  Chapter 29 | Letting Go

  Chapter 30 | Italian Fortune Cookies

  Other books by Jessica L. Randall, Newsletter, & Other Fun Stuff

  Dan’s Perfect Chocolate Chip Cookies

  Inspiration Cake

  Jessica’s Peanut Butter Brownies

  Old Brownie Pudding – or a Devil’s Float

  The Obituary Society’s Last Stand | Chapter 1 | The Little Ghost Boy

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 Jessica L. Randall. Cover photo © Sjhuls Dreamstime.com © This is a work of fiction. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author with the exception of brief quotations used in reviews.

  Acknowledgments

  To Katia, Grant, Ayla, Savy, and Ellis. I’m so lucky to have people that are proud of me, encourage me, and inspire me.

  Also thanks to all my beta readers and the people who encouraged me to keep writing. I’d also like to thank my Editor, Amy Stone.

  Thanks to Melissa Rasmussen, who supports me and helps me along when I’m banging my head against a wall. She’s always insightful to talk to and notices little details that others might miss.

  Chapter 1

  Unwanted Guests

  In Mina's dream, she lay on a beach, millions of grains of golden sand stretching out on either side of her. She couldn't see the ocean exactly, but she could hear it, and imagine the depths of green crested with white foam. She was so close.

  The roar of the waves in Mina's dreams became murmuring voices, then shouts, until she finally

  accepted the reality that they weren't dreams, but nightmares come to life. She rolled over in her bed, staring at the ceiling as she listened to the chaos outside of her house. She pressed hard on her chest, and waited for the pounding in her ears to quiet.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Mina just wanted to live in a quiet house in a quiet town. She'd established a rapport with her neighbors: Leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone. So what was going on outside?

  There was, of course, a logical explanation for what was happening, and it most likely didn't include a mob of blog readers who had come to Auburn, Nebraska to call her out as a sham. She just needed to get out of bed and find out what it was.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her toes curled at the cold touch of the wood floor. She crept to the closet to grab her robe, pulled it tight around her, then peeked out her bedroom window. There was nothing but the fifty year old elm tree, its branches pleading to the bleak March sky to break open and offer sunshine, its roots safe and secure.

  Forcing herself to put one foot before the other, Mina stepped out of her room, down the hall, and into the living room.

  Dark shapes shifted on the other side of the drawn curtains.

  Her chest was so tight she was certain it would explode. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Mina tip-toed to the window. Slowly, she pulled the curtain aside. When she saw the crowd of people clutching cameras she breathed in sharply, forgetting to breathe out. A man darted toward her and shoved a large lens in her face. She screamed and stumbled backward, tripping over something and landing hard on the floor.

  Her heart threatened to burst through her ribcage as she lay there with her eyes closed. Why were these people in her yard? Did they know something? Her worst fears flooded through her brain, paralyzing her. What should she do? She'd die inside this house before she faced those people, no matter why they were assembled on her front lawn. Frank. She'd call Frank. They'd listen to him. Wouldn't they?

  As she lay there trying to calm her nerves enough to get off the floor, she wondered what she'd tripped over. She turned her head and saw a pair of shiny red high-heels. Suddenly she knew who was responsible for this. And she knew she wasn't alone.

  “No.”

  Slowly, Mina pulled herself off the floor and turned around. Sure enough, a thin frame lay stretched across her sofa, half covered by the blue afghan Gladys Ellison had made. Perfectly manicured toenails stuck out through the holes near the bottom, pulling the delicate blanket out of shape. Neither the noise outside nor the racket Mina just made had so much as stirred the sleeper.

  Mina stomped to the sofa and ripped the afghan away.

  “Why are you here?” She grabbed a bare shoulder and shook it roughly. “Bernie! Wake up!”

  A pair of wide, blue-green eyes opened. They looked around the room before settling on Mina. Bernie reached out and snatched the afghan back, then threw it over her head and rolled over.

  Mina grabbed the afghan and pulled, but Bernie's hands clutched it tightly. Finally Bernie turned, pulling back harder as Mina's efforts increased. Mina fell backward, still clutching it. Bernie launched forward but refused to let go, sending her off the sofa onto the floor.

  “Get your foot out of my face, Mina.”

  “Get your face out of my house, Bernie.”

  “Don't call me Bernie. And this is my house too.”

  “You're too good for this house. You belong in a stucco palace in Hollywood.” Mina untangled herself from her sister and scooted back. “Why are you here?”

  Bernie's eyes misted for a moment before she blinked and her jaw hardened. She stood and glared down at Mina.

  “I was just passing through. I didn't know you'd be so horrified to see me.”

  “Just passing through.” Mina got up, inspecting the blanket and attempting to pull it back into shape. “After refusing to speak to me for eight years?”

  “I refused? I didn't see any missed calls from you. And I sent gift baskets.”

  “You mean your people sent them. They were very personal. I'm sure Mom appreciated getting a hundred scented soaps instead of a phone call or a visit from her daughter.” Mina gestured toward the window. “You made certain all these photographers knew your every move, but you couldn't tell me you were dropping by?”

  Bernie's sigh was harsh and exaggerated. “They're paparazzi and tabloid reporters. I didn't know they were coming. I hoped to be on my way before they caught up to me.”

&n
bsp; “Right. Just passing through. I'm lucky I got to see you, and I didn't even have to make an appointment. How did you get in, anyway?”

  “I still know how you think, Mina. I just looked for a spare key under the rock that looks like Idaho.”

  Mina glared. Lucky guess. Bernie didn't know her anymore.

  Bernie sauntered into the kitchen, then poked through the cabinets with a sour expression, like a sou chef in a greasy spoon. She pulled a carton of orange juice and a half-empty bag of bagels out of the fridge.

  “You don't have much to eat around here. Don't have time to shop for groceries?”

  The pointed look she gave Mina said she knew something. “Frank told me you don't leave the house,” Bernie said.

  “That's ridiculous. I leave the house.”

  “Like, once a week?”

  “You still talk to Frank? Nice to know you haven't forgotten us completely.”

  “He contacted me a few years ago. We talk every month or so. He's the closest thing to family I have.”

  Mina had been stewing in gasoline and Bernie had just dropped a lighted match. “How dare you—You left us without a word.”

  “How do you make a living without leaving the house, Mina?”

  “Not that it's any of your business, but I blog. I'm a blogger.” Mina shut her mouth, gathering up her temper, but not bothering to pack up the sarcasm. “Not like I could go very far without a car anyway, right?”

  Bernie pursed her lips. “I sent you the money for the car.”

  “Four years later. Don't worry about it. If I'd wanted a car I would have bought one by now. And I get so much exercise walking to the grocery store. Why the sudden concern about me?”

  “It's not that I haven't thought about you,” Bernie said, pouring her juice, but frowning into her cup as if it wasn't up to par. “Honestly, I didn't think you wanted to hear from me, especially since you so disapproved of my life.”

  Mina sighed and rubbed her head with the palm of her hand. The noise outside reminded her that her home had been invaded by people with cameras, as if she was the hotspot destination of the year. She couldn't think.

  “It's not that—just, can you make them leave?” She glanced toward the door and dropped down into a kitchen chair, suddenly feeling weak. “Please.”

  Bernie's eyes softened. She held the glass with two hands, her fingers fluttering. Mina felt a pang of sympathy as her sister took a long, slow breath and closed her eyes for a moment. Wasn't Bernie used to being followed by photographers? As far back as she could remember, her sister had always relished any bit of attention she could get. Something was wrong.

  Then Mina caught a glance of the Bernie she knew well, stubborn and resolute.

  “Fine. Just give me a few minutes.”

  Bernie strutted to her suitcase, which she'd deposited in the corner of the living room, and pulled out a large tote covered with Swarovski crystals. Bernie always loved those. For all Mina knew they could be real diamonds, though. Bernie could probably afford them. After dumping the contents on the sofa, she collected an assortment of powders, a tube of lip gloss, some mascara, and eyeliner. Of course. She couldn't face her public as if she had just rolled off the living room sofa.

  Mina sat deflated in her chair as Bernie carried her collection to the bathroom. It felt like her chest was trapped in a vice, and every minute she sat there listening to the crowd outside the device cranked a degree tighter. She knew how long Bernie could take in the bathroom. They'd probably die of starvation before she emerged to make those people leave. Could she make them leave?

  Just in case, Mina hurried to her room and grabbed her cell to call Frank. Voicemail. How many times had she begged Frank to keep his phone charged and use it? Nobody could get by in this day and age without a cell, especially a sheriff. She squeezed the phone. No matter. This was a small town. She was surprised Frank didn't know about this already, since even a cell phone was no match for the gossip vine of Auburn. Surely he'd be here soon.

  Mina pulled on jeans and grabbed a navy sweater from her closet, then put her hair in a ponytail. She puffed up her chest and walked purposely to the front door before swinging around and walking back down the hall. She was repeating this pattern for the eighth time when Bernie emerged from the bathroom looking, well, like a movie star. It seemed she was going for the “understatedly-fabulous-without-having-tried” look, her pale hair combed smoothly over her shoulder, her make-up carefully applied to look natural.

  Holding her chin high, Bernie stalked past Mina and opened the door. Mina barely had time to dive out of the way. She crouched beneath the window and listened as the murmuring outside raised to a roar.

  “Miss Fairchild, is it true that Hollywood's most cherished couple has separated?”

  “I have no comment at this time.” Bernie's back remained straight, her voice firm and confident.

  “Do you still love Evan Locke?”

  “Miss Fairchild, are you aware Mr. Locke is pressing charges?”

  “Is there any chance for reconciliation?”

  “Is it true that you dyed his dog fuchsia?”

  “Did you attack his Farrari with a stiletto heel?”

  “Bernadette, when did you learn about the affair between Mr. Locke and your younger co-star?”

  “People say you're having a nervous breakdown. Care to comment on that?”

  “I—I have no—” She shuffled backward, putting one hand on the doorframe.

  Mina's mouth dropped open. The issues between her and her sister fell away, and she wished she had the guts to march out there and tell those vultures where to get off. As blinding lights flashed through the front door, and question after question pelted Bernie, her big sister sat paralyzed under the window. She was supposed to protect her.

  Mina slid her back up the wall and slowly turned, pulling the curtain aside to watch the crowd move closer and closer, rabid dogs shoving each other aside to get a piece of meat.

  Her eye caught on one man, standing still near the back of the crowd. Olive-skinned and dark-haired, he wore a tie tucked into a sweater vest, his white shirt loosely cuffed below the elbows. He was tall and lean, and stood apart from the fray, as if he expected his prey to come to him.

  His eyes met Mina's and held her there, even though her first instinct was to duck. Her heart thudded in her chest. She winced as she prepared for another camera aimed at her face. Instead, he cleared his throat. Somehow his voice rose above the others, clear and confident.

  “How long can you hide from the world in there?” His eyes never left hers as he spoke.

  Mina dropped to the floor, breathless. He wasn't talking to her. He didn't even know her. She pushed the sound of his voice, the penetrating dark eyes, out of her mind. This wasn't about her, it was about Bernie, who obviously needed more help than she was willing to admit.

  Mina gathered every shred of courage she had left, stood, and headed to the door. She grabbed Bernie and pulled her into the house just as blue and red lights flashed outside, followed by the bloop of a police car.

  Chapter 2

  Out of the Pot, Into the Frying Pan

  Bernadette shuffled into the kitchen, clawing her hair into submission and pinning it as she walked. How she wished for just ten minutes with her stylist, Jean André. She wondered what it would take to get him to come to Auburn. Of course, just the idea of a stranger staying in the house would have her sister gasping into a paper bag.

  The clock above the sink said twelve fifteen. She glanced at her sister, who was staring at her judgmentally from a dining chair. She'd wanted to sleep through this day and perhaps the next. Coming here was a mistake. She'd leave, but she still didn't know where else to go.

  She passed Mina without a word and peeked into the fridge, as if something new might have materialized.

  “Ketchup packet?” Mina asked.

  Bernadette groaned. “I was hoping for something more along the lines of an egg-white omelet with a side of fresh organic fr
uit. How long is this going to last?”

  Bernadette shrugged. “They'll get bored eventually.”

  She kept hoping that Mina would give in first and go pick up some groceries. This was Mina's town, after all, and those scavengers outside weren't here for her. But eventually she realized that what Frank had said was true. She saw it in the look of fear, the way Mina tensed up, her fingers curling into bony claws when she peeked outside, which she did a few times a day. Mina wasn't going anywhere.

  “Couldn't you call Frank or someone?”

  “Probably. But I'm sure our sheriff has better things to do than take care of your fan club.”

  “I told you, they're—” It didn't matter what she said. This was a stand-off. She stiffened. She needed to show her sister that she was capable of taking care of things herself.

  “Why don't you call Doug?” Mina said. “Ask him to bring you something from the diner?”

  Bernadette glared at Mina, her stomach turning as if she'd drunk the remains of the expired milk in the fridge. But at least Mina had answered something she hadn't dared ask. Doug was still here. Still at the diner. She'd rather run out among all those reporters naked than have to face him. She didn't want to know how he'd take her sudden return. She wasn't actually sure how welcome she'd be with most of the town, and yet here she was.

  It didn't matter. As soon as these buzzards found someone else to peck at, and she figured out what to do about the mess she'd made, she'd be out of here.

  Bernadette walked to the window and peeked out. Most of the paparazzi were gone, but six of them hadn't given up yet. Four men and two women. They rubbed their cold hands together and sipped from water bottles. Two days ago they'd acquired coffee from somewhere in town, in white foam cups. She'd watched one of them take a drink and spew it into the street, groaning in disgust. Sooner or later they'd have to give up and go back, back to the land of a million Starbucks. This small-town life was not for them any more than it was for Bernadette Fairchild.