by Libby Howard
A Grave Situation
Libby Howard
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Libby Howard
Chapter 1
“I’ll be there at seven,” I promised Matt as I handed him a beer. He’d joined us for our Friday happy hour on the porch this week. Honestly I was surprised to see him. The charity golf tournament was tomorrow morning, and I assumed he had a million things to do. But Matt Poffenberger was one of the most energetic and organized men I’d ever met. He could juggle six events like this with a smile on his face, and they’d all go off without a hitch. I, on the other hand, was a frazzled mess and all I’d done was coordinate some hole sponsors and solicit baskets for the silent auction. My work should have been done, but Matt had just asked me to come drive one of the golf carts around that sold beer and wine as well as non-alcoholic beverages to the golfers at the tourney tomorrow. Which was probably one of the reasons he was here on my porch drinking a beer and not off making last minute calls or picking up signs or something.
“You’ve been a huge help, Kay.” The man’s smile was charming. “I owe you lunch for this.”
He didn’t owe me anything for this, but Matt always found an excuse to treat me to coffee or lunch as a non-dating, platonic way of seeing me outside of the fundraisers I was helping him with. Between those not-dates, his occasional porch happy hour attendance, and the monthly lunches at the nursing home with him and his father, I saw Matt socially two or three times a month—much to Daisy’s delight.
I didn’t mind. He was my age, long divorced, fit and attractive. Okay, more than attractive. And he made no secret of the fact he’d be happy to move our not-dates into the actual date category if I wished. He was a good guy, a friend, and a lot of fun to be with, but I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for that. So not-dates it was.
Ironic how I was urging my best friend to give the excruciatingly slow-burn romance she had with J.T. Pierson every chance to flourish and bloom, while I was definitely putting Matt into what Madison would have called the “friend-zone.” Of course, Daisy wasn’t newly widowed like I was.
Newly. It had been seven months since Eli had passed away. There were times that still felt raw and painful, and times when I felt the healing balm of time. It was the latter times I felt the guiltiest. Seven months and I was already beginning to heal? It seemed disrespectful, even though I knew Eli wouldn’t have wanted me to mourn forever.
Although seven months was hardly forever. Heck, if I’d been a widow two hundred years ago, I would probably still have been wearing black clothing and not attending balls.
“I’m ready to win that trophy tomorrow, Matt.” Judge Beck dug a beer out of the ice chest and grinned up at the other man.
Matt snorted. “Good luck with that. Those realtor women win every year.”
“As long as we beat Smith, Barnes, and Dorvinski’s Legal Eagles team this year, I’ll be happy,” the judge replied.
Each team had come up with a catchy name, and Matt had printed up signs for their golf carts and for the photo ops. Judge Beck’s team was comprised of him and three of his judge buddies. The kids had brainstormed with us one night over tacos and come up with the name of Guilty On The Green. It had been Henry’s idea and I still chuckled at how clever it was.
Matt nodded over to where Olive was chatting with Suzette and Daisy. “Watch out for the Balance Sheet Babes this year, too. The pro over at Oak Valley says that woman has a solid drive of over two-hundred and a darned good putt.”
I did a double-take. “Olive? I didn’t even know she golfed.”
“I’ve seen her out on the course,” Judge Beck admitted. “I didn’t realize she was on a team this year. Guess we better hope for third place then.”
“More like fourth place,” Matt teased. “I’ve seen your putting, Nate. Those Legal Eagles are going to crush you judges.”
“If I’d stayed in private practice and been able to keep a lovely nine-to-five, I’d have a better putting game,” the judge complained.
I laughed, because I knew full well that the Smith, Barnes, and Dorvinski lawyers didn’t keep nine-to-five at all. But if Judge Beck wanted to use that as an excuse for his lousy putting, I wasn’t going to call him out on it.
“New rule this year, Matt?” Judge Beck asked with a grin. “Women need to tee off the men’s tee. It’s only fair, you know.”
Matt smirked. “They’d still beat you, Nate.”
I left the two to their golf banter and headed over toward Daisy, Suzette, and Olive, curious about my newest friend’s talents. CPA. Golfer. And a medium who could communicate with the dead. What next, professional scuba diver? Expert in Ancient Korean culture? Donkey whisperer?
The subject of my wild imaginations was sipping a glass of Merlot, her hair an edgy up-do of beaded braids. She’d come straight from work in a taupe pants suit with a gorgeous plum and forest green infinity scarf draped around her neck and a designer bag over her shoulder.
“I hear you’re the Tiger Woods of Locust Point,” I teased her.
“My love of golf began on the Enchanted Planet putt-putt course at the age of six,” she informed me. “The rest is history.”
“Well, be warned that Judge Beck is over there lobbying for you to use the men’s tee,” I told her, not at all guilty for ratting out my roommate.
She snorted. “I’d still beat him. The man putts like he’s using a weed wacker.”
The comment caught Suzette mid-drink, and she sputtered, laughing and coughing at the same time.
Olive patted her on the back. “Careful, girl. I’ve already got one funeral to attend this week. Don’t need another.”
“Oh, no,” Daisy chimed in. “Was it a relative? A co-worker?”
“My uncle.” Olive shook her head. “It’s a blessing really. He’s no longer suffering and is finally at rest. I have a lot of fond memories of Uncle Ford and Aunt Sarah growing up. He was only diagnosed six months ago, but had been ill before that. Glioblastoma multiforme, they called it. Malignant brain tumor.”
“I’m so sorry,” I told her. “When is the funeral? And where?”
“Well….” She looked down at her half-empty wine glass. “Are you gals ready for a story? Fill this up, and I’ll tell you about a family feud that you won’t believe.”
Daisy took off like a shot, bringing the entire bottle of Merlot over and keeping it at the ready after filling Olive’s glass. The woman took a sip, then shot me a wry smile.
“Viewing is Wednesday, with the funeral and burial supposedly on Saturday. I know, I know, these things are supposed to happen at the end of the week and on the weekend, so folks can be off work and travel in, but my family? Well, we’ve got drama. Lots of drama.”
Daisy picked up the wine bottle and topped off all of our glasses. “What kind of drama?” she asked in hushed tones.
Olive stared mournfully down at her glass. “People die and it seems like the vultures are circling before the sun goes down. There’s some sister of Uncle Ford’s who thinks she should be getting the china and silver instead of his wife because it was their m
other’s. Then there’s always someone who claims the deceased promised them this or that, or owed them money or something. It’s crazy.”
Suzette wrapped an arm around Olive’s shoulder. “Oh, I know. When Gran left me the family farmhouse, some of my aunts and uncles went crazy. They thought they should have gotten it. Although they would have sold it, and I’m pretty sure the reason Gran left it to me was because she knew I’d want to keep the house, to treasure the memories of generations who’d lived there before me.”
“Well, in my case, there’s two sides of my family who are at odds. It was never really a feud or anything until this past year, but it’s been building.” Olive took another sip and looked a bit embarrassed. “Aunt Sarah and her first cousin, DeLanie. They were close growing up, but ever since their grandparents died—my great-grandparents—they’ve been poking at each other over who should get what. Didn’t help that DeLanie’s father passed before Great-grandma, so Aunt Sarah’s mother got most of the family heirlooms as their only surviving child.”
I was never so glad that Eli and I had been only children, our parents and grandparents long gone. Yes, we had cousins here and there, but no close relatives to come out of the woodwork upon Eli’s death to insist that some painting or diamond cufflinks should have gone to them rather than me.
Not that there’d been any valuable paintings or diamond cufflinks.
Olive shook her head. “Just when the heirloom stuff got worked out, things went up in flames over the gravesites.”
Daisy, Suzette, and I all exchanged equally perplexed glances. “Gravesites?”
“Get ready for math. And drama,” Olive declared. “My great-grandparents bought eight cemetery plots back when my grandparents were only children. Sadly, they had to bury a daughter young, then Great-grandpa passed, then Great-uncle Morty, DeLanie’s father. You with me so far?”
We all nodded, keeping count on our fingers.
“That’s seven gravesites taken once they laid all my great aunts and uncles and my great-grandma to rest. So, one grave plot left, and three grandchildren—DeLanie from Great-uncle Morty’s line, my father, and Aunt Sarah from Grandma’s line. Still with me?”
I held up seven fingers. “Yep.”
“Now, DeLanie figured the plot belonged to her because her father was the eldest of Great-grandma’s children. Aunt Sarah said it should be hers or my father’s because our grandmother survived Uncle Morty and at the time of Great-grandma’s death, their mother was the only living child.”
“Got it,” I told her.
“Now, my father flat out told them he didn’t want none of that. He was being cremated and stuck under that workshop he spends so much time at. Aunt Sarah didn’t agree.”
Daisy tilted her head and frowned. “Didn’t agree with your father being buried under the workshop?”
“No, Aunt Sarah didn’t agree with the plot going to DeLanie.”
I was still holding up my fingers, which greatly hindered my ability to drink my wine. “Why didn’t your great-grandparents buy just seven plots? The two of them, plus the daughter that died young, plus two other children and their spouses is seven. Why eight?”
Olive shrugged. “Maybe they figured my aunt that died young wouldn’t die and would marry? Maybe it was a buy-seven-get-one-free deal? I’ve got no idea, Kay. All I know is that one extra plot is going to drive us all to an early grave.”
“Wait.” Daisy wiggled seven fingers. “So your great-grandparents are gone and buried. Their children and spouses are gone and buried. There’s one plot left. Taking this to its natural conclusion, I’m assuming your Aunt Sarah wants that for your Uncle Ford? And cousin DeLanie feels it’s hers?”
“Worse.” Olive grimaced and took a healthy swig of her wine. “Six months ago, DeLanie lost her son to an overdose. David was only thirty—the same age as me. It was a horrible tragedy. Everyone put their differences aside to support her, because there isn’t much worse in the world than having to bury your child.”
We all nodded in sympathy. Then it suddenly dawned on me what the drama was.
“DeLanie buried her son David in the plot,” I guessed.
Olive nodded. “No one thought about it at all. We were all feeling terrible for DeLanie. Then after the funeral when we went to the interment at the cemetery, there’s David being buried in the one last plot—the one Aunt Sarah considered to be hers.”
I caught my breath in horror. “Was there a scene?”
“There was a whole lot of muttering at the grave-side service, then afterward when we were all eating chicken salad sandwiches at the church, Aunt Sarah and DeLanie got into it. Yelling. Screaming. Fingers pointed in each other’s faces.” Olive shook her head. “All over a stupid piece of land in a cemetery. They’ve never gotten along. My whole life I remember there being friction between the two of them. But this was downright shameful. I love my Aunt Sarah, but DeLanie had just lost a child, a thirty-year-old son. Some things you just gotta let go. Priorities, you know?”
We nodded. Daisy offered Olive more wine, which she waved away.
“But even if David hadn’t been buried there, it was only one plot,” Suzette commented. “Was your Aunt Sarah really going to bury her husband there and have herself interred elsewhere? It seems like this was the best use for it after all—a tragedy, an unexpected death.”
“Oh, tell that to Aunt Sarah!” Olive let out a bitter laugh. “Uncle Ford was very ill when David died and had a terminal diagnosis the very next week. Aunt Sarah claimed that she wanted to use the plot for him, then have herself cremated and put in the same plot. Evidently there’s room to do that.”
Daisy frowned. “If there’s room to do that, then why not have your Uncle Ford cremated and put at the foot of one of the other family graves, and her at the foot of another? Seems like that’s the easy solution.”
“It would be if you were anyone but Aunt Sarah. I’ve got no idea what goes on in that woman’s head. Last I heard, she was insisting that DeLanie dig up David’s remains and move him somewhere else so she could bury Uncle Ford in the plot. It’s crazy.”
I sucked in a breath. “Oh, Olive. I’m so sorry. What a nightmare for you to be dealing with the loss of an uncle and this family feud at the same time. Is there anything we can do to help?”
“Pray for us.” Olive chuckled. “Pray for us and keep that wine coming.”
We did keep the wine coming, and by the time everyone wrapped up and walked home, I was a bit tipsy. Daisy stayed to help me clean up from the happy hour, while Judge Beck went in to make dinner. It was just him and me until Sunday when Heather brought Madison and Henry back over for our week, so I was pretty sure dinner would consist of either hamburgers or one of the frozen pizzas stuffed in the freezer. I actually enjoyed these no-fuss evenings where casual dining was frequently followed by movies downstairs with a tub of ice cream.
“I’d invite you to stay for dinner, but I hear you have other plans,” I teased Daisy. Her offer to help clean up wasn’t unusual, but there was a certain nervousness about her this evening, and I knew why.
“Thirty minutes. I’m packed and ready, and even three glasses of wine hasn’t loosened this knot in the pit of my stomach,” she confessed as she wiped the table with far more vigor than necessary.
“It’ll be fine,” I assured her. “You’ve been going out for over a month now. You enjoy his company. You love boating. It’s going to be a wonderful trip. Just relax.”
J.T. had asked Daisy to accompany him on a fishing trip to the Keys, and, in an impulsive moment, she’d agreed. He’d gone all out. Fancy hotel. Deep sea fishing charter.
Separate bedrooms.
Daisy hadn’t even needed to insist. In fact, she’d seemed a bit disappointed when she’d told me about it. They weren’t even adjoining rooms, either. I bit back a smile at the thought, because I knew exactly where my boss was going with that. His feelings for Daisy were clearly deep. He’d been courting her with the sort of slow-and-steady ease of
a man looking toward the long game. They’d kissed, but he’d waited for Daisy to make every move forward to take their friendship into a more romantic and physical direction. There was no way he’d have booked them a shared room, and an adjoining one was a few cocktails away from something he’d rather they both be fully sober to participate in.
He wanted Daisy to mean it. No “oh, it was the wine talking,” or any uncertainty. And having the entire decision laid at her feet made my friend nervous.
“What if I decide to not stay in my room?” She fretted. “What if I have a great time, and the whole sun-and-boat-and-beach setting convinces me to cross that line, but then I regret it later? What if….”
I set down the empty wine bottle and took her by the shoulders. “J.T. is a good man. If you get carried away and decide later that you want to back things up and take more time, he’ll be okay with that. As long as you’re honest with him, and with yourself, about your feelings, he’ll give you as much time as you need.”
Tears glistened in my friend’s eyes. “I don’t want to screw this up, Kay. I’ve screwed up every relationship I’ve ever had. I’m an unmarried woman pushing sixty. I’m no good at this sort of thing.”
“J.T. is an unmarried man of the same age,” I told her. “You think he doesn’t worry about screwing this up too? Why do you think he’d been taking things so slow and letting you make all the moves? Daisy, just have fun. Fish. Get some sun. Drink a frozen margarita with an umbrella in it. Dance until the sun comes up. Watch the sun rise over the ocean. And if you end up in bed with a good man who adores you, then enjoy yourself and don’t overthink it.”
Daisy rubbed her face. “You’re right. It’s just…scary. It’s been a long time, you know? I probably just need to get laid.”
