Icing Allison

by Pamela Burford

  “Wow,” I said, “they were serious.”

  “That’s when they brought out the big guns. They got my whole family involved, my sisters, my grandparents. Even my best friend, Seth, who I’d known forever. Everyone telling me how much this would hurt them, hurt the family. They treated it like some damn intervention.” He let out a long breath. “This was the night we were supposed to leave, Allie and me. She was waiting for me at her place.”

  I didn’t want to ask, but... “Did you ever get there?”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “She kept trying to call me, text me. ‘Where are you?’ I couldn’t answer her and deal with my family at the same time, and eventually... I didn’t want to answer her. I didn’t know what I could say to her.”

  “Because it was over,” I said quietly.

  Jim nodded miserably and stared out the window again, for longer this time. He still hadn’t touched his food. Finally he said, “I told myself we were just taking a break, Allie and me. Until I could get my head on straight, figure out what I wanted. But she knew even if I didn’t that, yeah, it was over.”

  “What did she do?” I asked.

  “She did what any self-respecting person in that situation would do,” he said. “She told me to get lost.”

  “Did you try to get her back?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. I could tell he didn’t want to answer. “I was hurt. I thought she should... I don’t know what I thought she should do. Sit on her hands and wait for me to come to my senses, I suppose. Anyway, there was this girl Seth had been trying to introduce me to. Tricia. I finally agreed to meet her, just to shut him up.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Tricia was someone more ‘appropriate.’ Someone your family approved of.”

  “My parents knew her parents,” Jim said. “They belonged to the same country club.”

  “Did you and Tricia get along?”

  He offered a wry smile. “We’ve been married for eight years.”

  Yep, that qualified as getting along, all right.

  “It was kind of a whirlwind thing,” he added, “the kind of engagement that just sweeps you along until one day you find yourself standing there saying, ‘I do,’ and you don’t quite know how you got there.”

  “Kids?”

  “We have two sons,” he said. “Two and a half and five.”

  I sucked down some of my smoothie, letting the creamy sweetness slide down my throat as I recalled Allison’s stand regarding prenups. This is why she hadn’t wanted to make Nick sign one. She hadn’t wanted to be like Jim’s parents, all about who has less and who has more. After everything... well, you know, that whole mess we went through. It left a bad taste in my mouth, to say the least.

  I asked, “Did you ever see Allison again?”

  “No. I was too ashamed to get in touch with her. And I’m sure she wanted nothing to do with me after the spineless way I handled the whole thing... But I never forgot her. I always kind of kept tabs on her from afar, just to see how she was doing, make sure she was all right. Nothing stalkerish.”

  “Following her on Facebook, that kind of thing?” I asked.

  “Allie wasn’t on Facebook. Instagram, yes, for her pictures. Google searches turned up gallery shows and stuff like that. And her wedding announcement was in the Times.”

  “No surprise there,” I said. “Mitchell was a prominent businessman.”

  “When I found out she’d died...” His throat worked. His eyes were shiny.

  I sipped my smoothie and waited.

  Jim composed himself with an effort. “Don’t misunderstand me, Jane. I love Tricia. I love my boys. I wouldn’t give them up for anything.”

  And Allison had loved her first husband, Mitchell. Yet I suspected she and Jim had never stopped loving each other, as well, even during all their years apart and their marriages to other people. “I believe you,” I said, thinking about Dom and me. “Life is complicated.” After a moment I added, “Allison never forgot you either.”

  Jim’s head came up. “Did she say something to you? About me?”

  I guess I’d made the decision. “No, I meant it when I said I never knew her that well. But she left something behind.” I reached into my purse and extracted the tiny silver flash drive. I set it on the table between us. “This is Allison’s,” I said. “It contains a series of short videos—twenty-seven of them. I guess you could call it a video diary.”

  He picked up the little device, turned it over in his hand. “Why me?”

  “She... was talking to you in them,” I said. “She said you’re the only one she was ever able to open up to. She also said there was no chance you’d see them. I thought she meant... Anyway, I think she would have wanted you to have them. Oh! I almost forgot. The drive is password-protected. ‘Shrooms’ will get you in.”

  At that he smiled, that warm, wide grin. “Allie always did have a thing for mushrooms. By which I mean regular old fungi,” he added, “not the magical variety.”

  “Oh, I know.” I returned the smile. “I’ve seen her nature photos. Shrooms galore. It’s how I guessed the password.”

  “Photography was always her refuge. She was really good, too. Even back in high school, that camera was always glued to her. I was happy to see she kept at it.” He closed his fist around the flash drive and reached across the table with his free hand to squeeze mine. “You didn’t have to do this, Jane. I’m glad you did. Thank you.”

  9

  Geoffrey, No!

  “WE ARE HERE to celebrate the life of Geoffrey T. Boatwright the Second.” Father Kade projected his voice to ensure that no one present at the graveside service would miss a word. Not that he had to project far. Only seven individuals had shown up, including me, and I’d been paid to do so.

  You guessed it, this was one of my Death Diva gigs. I’d made all the arrangements, which hadn’t been too involved since there’d been no church service in this case.

  “Geoffrey was loving and loyal,” Father Kade intoned, as Agnes Boatwright began to sniffle, “and will always be remembered for his happy-go-lucky nature.”

  It was Wednesday afternoon and unseasonably mild for January, as it had been for the past couple of weeks. Today my usual funeral uniform—the gray suit, the faux pearls—was completely hidden under a sedate camel-colored coat. I could have paired a sexy leather corset with my ladylike black pumps, and no one would have been the wiser.

  No, I do not own a sexy leather corset, and thank you very much for reminding me that I have no one to buy one for. Or to buy one for me. Oh, you know what I mean.

  Agnes’s sniffles turned to loud weeping. She was a small woman of around sixty. Her grown daughter stood next to her, patting her back, murmuring words of consolation, and offering the occasional sunflower seed to the crow sitting on Agnes’s shoulder. The inky black bird wore a little red harness attached to a leash.

  Well, you don’t want your crow taking off in the middle of a funeral, do you? I mean, be sensible.

  Father Kade wore a black overcoat, his clerical collar visible in the vee of his neatly tucked gray scarf. He continued to sing the praises of Geoffrey T. Boatwright II. “His loved ones tell me he made friends easily. A better listener never lived.”

  The crow occupied itself by emitting the occasional caw and trying to snatch its grieving owner’s eyeglasses off her face. Suddenly it screeched, “Geoffrey, no!”

  I jumped. So did Father Kade, who shot me a reproachful look for not warning him about the bird. Well, how could I have warned him if I didn’t know myself that Agnes would be bringing it? And yes, apparently crows can learn to mimic human speech. Who knew?

  “Geoffrey loved physical activity,” he continued. “His favorite pastimes were swimming in the pool and going for long walks. And I’m told he never met a tennis ball he didn’t like.” This prompted a warm chuckle of remembrance from the deceased’s nearest and dearest.

  “Geoffrey, no!” the crow cried again, as Agnes tried to hush it. The s
hells of sunflower seeds littered her hair and coat.

  “Geoffrey was obedient,” Father Kade said. “He never chewed furniture or did his business in the house.”

  On cue the crow screamed, “Geoffrey, no! Bad dog!” It flew off Agnes’s shoulder and landed on the small, ornate casket next to the open grave, which was about three feet long. The tombstone was already in place. The deceased’s portrait had been etched onto it, along with his name, the years of birth and death, and the words Loving Husband of Agnes.

  Agnes tugged on the leash, to no avail. “Geoffrey, stop that!” she said. “Come back here.”

  Yes, the bird had the same name as the dead dog. Well, not exactly the same. The crow was Geoffrey T. Boatwright III. You see, it’s the reincarnation of the deceased pug, who was Geoffrey T. Boatwright II, who in turn was the reincarnation of Geoffrey T. Boatwright, Agnes’s beloved husband. The original Geoffrey, the human one, had died fifteen years ago. Does that clarify things?

  Yeah, I know, but a girl has to make a living. So does a boy. Tending bar at Murray’s provided the padre with a modest living, but just that. He supplemented his income by helping me out with the occasional Death Diva gig.

  Oh, didn’t I mention? When Martin is impersonating a priest, he calls himself Father Kade. He thinks he’s being fiendishly clever since his full name is Martin Kade McAuliffe.

  I almost had a real priest willing to do the service, but when he found out reincarnation was involved, that was the end of that. And I’m telling you, when Martin’s wearing that collar and doing his priest shtick, you’d never know he wasn’t the real deal. Agnes probably suspected, but she was so emotionally invested in a Catholic sendoff for Geoffrey II that she refrained from asking too many awkward questions.

  Martin paused in his eulogy while Agnes and her daughter struggled to corral Geoffrey III, who was having none of it. He hopped into the neatly dug hole, which caused Agnes to sob and scream, “Geoffrey, no! It’s not your time!” The other mourners got into the act, prompting the bird to try to fly off, still tethered to Agnes by its leash.

  At this rate it would be dinnertime before I got home. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Using the escalating mayhem for cover, I discreetly checked the screen. It was Jim Manning. I’d handed over the flash drive to him just yesterday. Normally I wouldn’t answer the phone in the middle of a funeral, but no one was likely to notice at the moment, and I was curious about Jim’s reactions to the videos.

  I moved a few yards away. The Best Friend Pet Cemetery was devoid of visitors except for our little group. I paused next to a row of three doggie headstones I was intimately familiar with, having arranged myself for their carving and placement, and having spent many years delivering flowers to these little graves on behalf of Irene McAuliffe. I’d started out pet-sitting for her when I was a teen, an after-school gig that gradually, through referrals, morphed into my Death Diva business.

  Irene had been a movie buff. The markers I was looking at bore the names of her previous toy poodles: Annie Hall, Dr. Strangelove, and Jaws.

  I answered the phone, keeping my voice low and one eye on the action at Geoffrey II’s gravesite. Geoffrey III was cawing up a storm, pecking and biting anyone who attempted to grab him.

  “Can you talk?” Jim asked.

  “Um... only for a minute. What’s up? Did you watch any of the videos?”

  “I watched all of them,” he said. “Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I was up all night. I have to tell you, I’m a little disturbed. What’s up with that Barbie doll?”

  “Oh, that,” I said. “Yeah, it bothered me too at first.”

  “It’s sick,” he said. “That someone would leave that thing for her to find.”

  “There was never anything else as far as I know,” I said. “I mean, no other incidents like that. It was a one-shot deal.”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?” he asked. “Someone tried to freak her out. Maybe threaten her.”

  “I know it looks that way, but the thinking is that it was just a kid playing a prank.”

  “Whose thinking?” he said. “Who did you talk to about this?”

  “A couple of police detectives I know. They actually looked into it a little on their own time, asked around to see if anyone had it in for Allison, that kind of thing.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” he asked.

  I continued to monitor the activity at the gravesite. It appeared that Martin had finally had enough. I watched him wade into the fray, and hoped Geoffrey III didn’t decide to go for his eyes.

  “Jim, I know it’s upsetting,” I said, “that headless doll, but what does it matter at this point? It had nothing to do with what happened to Allison.”

  After a moment he asked, “How can you be sure?”

  “The detectives didn’t find anything useful,” I said. “Not that they spent that long on it, but it was clear—”

  “What do you mean? How long did they work on it?”

  “A couple of days,” I said. “Um, Allison’s mom asked me to call them off. It was causing her and her husband more grief, and really, she was right. Jim, listen. The cops who were at the scene, the medical examiner, all the experts, they looked at the physical evidence and decided Allison’s death was an accident.”

  Somehow Martin managed to seize Geoffrey III. He took the leash from Agnes and prepared to resume the eulogy with a pet crow perched on his right arm. He shot me a pointed look. Would you care to join us?

  “Okay, I get it,” Jim said, “but just tell me, could there be any more videos besides the ones on this flash drive? I’m asking because Allie maxed out the space on this drive, and the last video on it was made nine days before she died. She’d been making at least one a week since June, so I’m thinking we might be missing one or two.”

  “There are no more that I know of. Listen, I have to go.”

  “Do you think her husband would let you look around?” Jim asked. “You know, for a second flash drive. I mean, I heard what Allie had to say about him, I know the guy’s not likely to be cooperative, but maybe it’s worth a try.”

  What did he think, that if more videos came to light, all his questions would be answered? That he’d see Allison laughingly relate her discovery that a neighbor’s mischievous kid had left the doll in her mailbox? Or perhaps he envisioned her horror at learning that a particular individual wanted her dead.

  There was a desperate edge to his request. I understood his concern. I’d felt the same way until four days earlier when Joleen’s visit knocked some sense into me.

  Geoffrey III scooted up Martin’s arm to his shoulder, where he promptly pooped, then screamed, “Geoffrey, no! Not on the rug!”

  “If she left another flash drive, I’ll find it,” I promised Jim. “I’ll figure out a way.”

  “WHAT AM I supposed to do now?” I asked.

  “That depends,” Martin said. “Do you think there’s another flash drive floating around?”

  “How should I know?”

  We were in his 1966 Mustang convertible. Candy-apple red, natch. No, the top wasn’t down—it was January, remember? But that didn’t diminish the car’s appeal. It might not be as sexy as the big Harley the padre customarily rode, but it was still one hot ride. We were driving through Crystal Harbor’s residential back streets, having left the cemetery a few minutes earlier. I’d been telling Martin about my conversation with Jim.

  I plucked a tissue out of my purse and started scrubbing at the white blob Geoffrey III had deposited on the shoulder of Martin’s coat. “Jim does have a point,” I said. “There’s a nine-day gap after the last video, and she was making them more frequently than that. And since there was no more room on the flash drive she was using...” I shrugged. “Yeah, there very well could be another one. But if so, it would be well hidden, like the first one.”

  “You’ll find it. I have faith in you.”

  “You’ll excuse me if that doesn’t make me feel all warm and f
uzzy inside.” I wasn’t having much success cleaning Martin’s coat—unless making a small spot into a big spot and grinding it into black wool counted as success. I wagged the dirty tissue. “Where can I put this? Do you have a trash bag?”

  He snatched it from my fingers, lowered the window, and tossed it outside. Which, I must point out, is something I never, ever do. Not because I’m such a responsible citizen, but because I’m convinced that the instant the thing left my fingers, I’d be surrounded by a phalanx of cop cars, complete with screaming sirens and blaring bullhorns. Hands where I can see them!

  Martin said, “Just get in there and look for it.”

  “What, just knock on the door of Allison’s house and ask Nick if he minds me snooping through his stuff on the off chance I might stumble across his late wife’s secret video diary? Dang, why didn’t I think of that?”

  “It isn’t his house, though, is it?” Martin asked. “Doesn’t it belong to Allison’s folks?”

  “Yeah, but they’re giving him a decent amount of time to move out. That’s how her mother put it.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said. “They really think the guy’s going to give up a cushy crib like this without a fight?”

  Like this? I glanced out the window and saw we were passing Allison’s house. I’d been so absorbed in our conversation I hadn’t noticed where Martin was taking us. He made a couple of turns and parked on a quiet side street behind the neighborhood. The houses were spaced far apart, the backyards abutting a patch of woods.

  Martin said, “It looked like Nick was home.”

  How could he tell that from one quick drive-by? There’d been no car in the driveway, no one walking past a window. This questionable skill came under the general heading of Things I Would Rather Not Know About Martin. I was at peace with my ignorance. Kind of. I suspected that if I ever got the full story about this man’s mysterious and possibly felonious past—and present?—I’d run in the opposite direction as fast as my legs could carry me.