by Libby Howard
What if the roof started to leak? Or a pipe broke? It was October and I was starting to think about firing the furnace up for the coming colder weather. Oh, Lord, what if the furnace didn’t start?
I tried to steady my breathing, noticing that I’d just knitted two rows of completely the wrong pattern on the scarf I was making for Suzette. As I started to unravel my stitches, I saw Judge Beck eying me over the edge of his book.
Two more weeks. One problem at a time.
And seriously, this really was one of those first world problems. Having to hand-wash dishes didn’t constitute a crisis. If it had been me living here alone, or if Eli had still been alive, I wouldn’t have bothered to replace the thing. I completely realized that this was more about my embarrassment over being unable to afford a new dishwasher, and particularly Judge Beck knowing I couldn’t afford one.
Daisy already knew. But Judge Beck…I didn’t want him to think me poor. I didn’t want him thinking he had to jump in and bail me out every time something went wrong with the house. I didn’t want our relationship sullied by the grime of lent money.
And because of that, I found myself in the position of having to come up with an additional four hundred dollars in the next two weeks.
Chapter 3
“Have you tried that secondhand appliance store in Milford?” Suzette asked me as she expertly tooled the golf cart around a corner.
“Secondhand appliances?” The image of Mr. Peter’s junk-filled yard came to mind. “I’m not sure I want to replace an old broken-down dishwasher with another old broken-down dishwasher and pay a few hundred dollars for the privilege.”
Suzette pulled the golf cart up close to the third hole, and we watched the Balance Sheet Babes take their putts. Being in charge of one of three drink carts at the tourney was a complete blast. The hosting golf course was donating twenty percent of beverage sales to the Fill the Food Bank drive the tourney benefited. I wasn’t sure that factored into the amount we were selling or this was normal behavior amongst golfers, but people were downing booze like the state had just reenacted prohibition.
Ten teams filled the eighteen-hole golf course. It was a best-ball scramble, whatever that meant. Scramble must have been something fun because the golfers were shouting and laughing, ribbing each other over a shot gone awry and racing all over the fairway in their golf carts like a bunch of Keystone Cops.
I’d quickly discovered there was also an ego thing that involved playing fast enough so that the team behind you wasn’t waiting. Evidently allowing another group to “play through” in these tournaments was an embarrassment. And there was some cache in playing quick enough to rush the team ahead of you, to be able to stand at the tee, waiting, and making criticisms about their play.
I didn’t care as long as they all had fun and we raised our goal for the food bank.
“Those appliances are used, but the people there fix them up before they sell them,” Suzette told me. “Lots of people with rental places buy there. It’s a good way to get a sturdy reliable appliance cheap if you don’t mind that it doesn’t have all the bells and whistles and might have a ding or two on the door. I bet you could get a pretty nice one for a few hundred dollars.”
I thought about the embarrassment of replacing an old dishwasher with another old, albeit functional, one and winced. But it was a good fallback plan if someone didn’t show up with a sack of money on my doorstep and I didn’t have enough for a new appliance in two weeks.
“Can you text me the name of the place?” I asked Suzette. “I’ll run by on Monday and check it out.”
We didn’t have time to discuss my appliance woes any longer, because the Balance Sheet Babes were done putting and were heading toward our beverage-laden golf cart as if they were coming out of the desert.
“I’ll take a Coors Light, please,” one woman told me, smoothing a gloved hand over her forehead.
“Better take two, Tricia,” Olive told her. “After that sand trap? Seriously, you already worked off those calories.”
“Stupid wedge.” Tricia laughed, paying me for the two beers. “I need a better club.”
“It’s always the club’s fault,” one of the other women agreed, signaling that she’d like another Budweiser to replace the empty one in her hand. How she’d managed to putt while still carrying her beer was beyond me. These were clearly some talented ladies.
“Blame the club, the shoddy grounds keeping, the guy ahead of you who didn’t replace a divot, a sudden wind….” Olive snickered. “Anything but the fact that you haven’t been on a course or practice range in three months.”
“You try juggling a new payables system at work and three new employees.” Tricia laughed, taking a swig out of one of her bottles.
“It’s not work, it’s the internet dating,” one of the other women teased. “All those men blowing up your phone, girl.”
Tricia laughed. “Ninety percent of those men are internet scammers in some third-world country trying to get me to send them money for an ‘emergency.’ Please.”
They all finished paying for their drinks, went back to their golf carts, and were off in a rush. I looked up the fairway and saw the next group already midway down.
“I’m glad Olive’s enjoying herself,” I told Suzette. “After what she told us last night about her uncle, I was worried.”
“It’s good for her to get out like this and not think about it,” the other woman agreed. “There’s really nothing she can do, and it’s all so stressful. Hey, we’re both going out for sushi later today. Want to join us?”
Suzette and Olive had met at one of my get-togethers and had fast become friends. Besties, as Madison would have called them. They were always off together checking out festivals, new restaurants, museums, and different bands. I loved hearing about their weekend plans and tried to go along when I was invited. These two were a total hoot and so much fun to hang out with.
But as inexpensive as sushi was, I was on a budget. And unagi definitely wasn’t in that budget.
“Maybe next time,” I told Suzette, thinking that perhaps I should swallow my pride and think about buying one of those no-frills cheap, secondhand appliances. Maybe then I could afford to go get sushi with my friends.
We drove on to the next team, carefully checking before driving across the fairway of the fifth hole to make sure no one beaned us with a ball. By noon we had to swing back to the clubhouse to restock our more popular beers. The sun was really beating down on us today, and I was sweaty in spite of the cool October weather, so I decided to splurge and get a beer for myself.
Matt waved away my money. “I appreciate you helping out today, Kay. Least I can do is buy you a beer. Actually, how about we grab some pizza tomorrow night. My treat for all your hard work getting sponsors for the tourney.”
I hesitated.
“We can go over the numbers for the food bank,” he quickly added. “And discuss which companies to hit up early for next year’s hole sponsorships.”
Matt had quickly learned to phrase his “non-dates” in a way that made them sound…well, made them sound like a non-date. Sometimes he emphasized the two-friends-getting-together angle, but mostly he used his charity work as the excuse. It was never anywhere too fancy or intimate, and he always insisted on paying. Although we did often discuss the charity work, that was usually over within the first half hour, and the rest was devoted to personal conversation.
I liked Matt. I liked doing these charity things with him. It gave me a sense of purpose, made me feel like I was giving back to the community. It was also nice to know there was an attractive man who thought I was worth spending time with. But beyond that…let’s just say I was careful not to encourage Matt to take these non-dates in a different direction.
Much to Daisy’s chagrin.
I politely explained I had other plans, promising to do lunch in a week or so, then Suzette and I took off, zooming around for hours selling beverages to thirsty golfers. When the last team was in
with their scorecards, Suzette and I parked the golf cart, settled up with the beverage manager, and went into the clubhouse to join the festivities.
Everyone had a beer or wine in hand, making me a bit worried about who was driving all these tipsy golfers home. The alcohol seemed to be doing the trick, though, because the silent auction was closing down and from the jubilant expression on Matt’s face, it seemed bidding had been higher than normal.
I grabbed a plate of food and a sweet tea, then headed through the crowd, searching for someone I knew.
“Mrs. Carrera! Kay! Hey there!”
I turned at the greeting and blinked, not recognizing the deputy for a moment without his uniform.
“Miles! Goodness, I didn’t know you golfed.”
His face turned red. “I don’t. And if you saw our score sheet, you’d realize that. The county team needed a sub and I drew the short straw.”
I patted his shoulder. “It’s all for charity, Miles. No one is going to be ribbing you about your handicap.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know the guys at work,” he muttered. “I kept hoping I’d get an urgent phone call, but just my luck that crime decided to take a vacation today.”
“Well, just for being a good sport, swing by the office Monday. I’ll bring pastries. What’s your favorite?”
His face brightened at the prospect. It might be a stereotype, but I got the feeling the way to Miles’s heart was truly through his stomach. Which made me wonder why he was still single. He was a nice-looking guy. He was sweet as could be. And he was a cop.
But I wasn’t a matchmaker, in spite of my tentative success at encouraging J.T. and Daisy.
“The double chocolate muffins were my favorite,” he confessed with a shy smile. “But those espresso chip scones sure were good, too.”
I nodded, my mind still thinking over who I could pair this detective with. “How old are you, Miles?”
He blinked. “Old enough that it’s okay if you put some rum in those double chocolate muffins, Mrs.—I mean Kay.”
I grinned. “Humor me. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” he told me. “Is that a problem? Do you only make pastries for the over thirty crowd?”
“Silly. Come by Monday morning, and I’ll get you all muffined up.”
I walked away, realizing that probably didn’t sound right. Oh, well. I was sure Miles didn’t think someone my age was hitting on him. Instead, my brain was trying to think of who I could possibly set him up with. I didn’t know a lot of twenty-something women. Violet Smith? Hmm.
Judge Beck was over in the corner with the other members of his team. I took a few steps that way, only to hesitate. They all looked so intimidating standing there, drinks in hand as they discussed…whatever. Judge Beck was the youngest among them. The other three were all my age and older by what I could tell. That shouldn’t have bothered me. I didn’t normally have any problem walking up to anyone and having a conversation. I wasn’t sure why suddenly these men seemed unapproachable. I just felt that if I went over there, I’d seem like some silly schoolgirl interrupting her betters.
So instead I detoured over to where Olive and her team were laughing over the contents of one of the silent auction baskets they’d won. Suzette had already made her way there and was chatting with one of the other women. I saw Olive take her phone out of her pocket, look at the screen, then move away from the others with a frown as she answered it.
Oh, no. I hoped the good day she’d had wasn’t about to come to an end. Sharing a concerned glance with Suzette, I turned to see what was in the basket.
Spices. Really fancy spices. And really fancy coffee. And a cookbook full of fancy recipes. “See something you like?” one of the ladies asked me. “We’re sharing it. Pick out a spice. Or take this recipe book.”
I picked it up and paged through it, figuring that Madison might like to try a dish or two from it. Or I might. Kentucky short ribs looked pretty darned good.
“I’m sorry, but I have to leave.” Olive’s voice was strained, and I turned to see her clutching her phone, her lips in a tight line.
“Everything okay?” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“Your uncle?” Suzette asked, putting a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “Can I help? What can I do?”
Olive sighed. “You know, I hate to ask the two of you to do this, but I really don’t want to be alone right now. Can you both come with me to the cemetery? They’re disinterring my cousin, David.”
Chapter 4
My eyes nearly fell out of my head.
“What?” Suzette exclaimed. “For your Uncle Ford? I can’t believe your Aunt Sarah really went that far!”
“I know.” Olive rubbed her forehead. “Evidently, she’s paying for it, and the sick thing is for the cost of disinterring David’s remains and burying him elsewhere, she could have bought half a dozen plots. But no, she’s fixated on this one, and cousin DeLanie finally gave in. I feel so sorry for her.”
Suzette hugged Olive. “Of course I’ll come.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll definitely come too,” I told Olive, at a loss about what to say. It was so unfair that they had to go through all this, so unfair that her aunt just couldn’t let the past stay in the past.
“The worst thing is Aunt Sarah wants me to be there. Now. They’re digging him up now, and she can’t face DeLanie, so she wants me to be there.” Olive sniffed, her mouth twisting. “I almost said ‘no.’ I love Aunt Sarah. She was so good to me when I was a child, and I just can’t reconcile this woman with the one I grew up with. Maybe Uncle Ford’s death broke something in her, because this is just wrong. Asking a cousin to dig up her child…. It’s wrong.”
“Asking you to be there is wrong,” Suzette shot back. “She’s the one pushing this feud. You shouldn’t have to be the buffer between her and DeLanie.”
“I know. She wants me to be there…I don’t know, I guess to witness it all or something. I’m going more to let DeLanie know that not everyone on our side of the family supports this madness. And maybe to let her know I’m sympathetic to what she’s going through here. Whether that grave plot was hers or not doesn’t matter in my mind. She’d buried her son there. It’s only respectful to let him lie. Besides, she shouldn’t be alone while they move David. And I’d feel a lot better if I had some friends with me.”
I tracked down Matt and let him know that Suzette and I needed to leave early. Our work at the tourney was pretty much done anyway. I’d intended on staying and helping Matt with clean up and running the totals, but he had enough volunteers to assist him, so I didn’t feel like I was skipping out on a commitment. Besides, if Olive needed me along for moral support, then I was going to be there.
Suzette went with Olive in her car, while I followed in my own. Windy Oaks wasn’t the oldest cemetery in town, but it had been around for over a hundred years. Olive’s great-grandparents had purchased their plots when it wasn’t quite as large as it was now. Driving down the narrow maze of lanes, I passed by the turn to Eli’s grave. I’d only been able to afford a small rectangle engraved marker, but a few rows down were a few huge monuments and tall rounded headstones.
Olive’s family section looked pretty much like the rest of the cemetery. Neat rows of big rectangular markers were interspersed with the same flat rectangular stones I’d used for Eli’s grave. Their marker announced this section held those in the Driver family, and I quickly went through Olive’s family tree in my head, reconciling the Driver family name with Olive’s last name of Johnson and her aunt and uncle’s last name of Branch.
A large white canopy had been erected over the spot close to where we parked. It reminded me of the set up for the graveside service we’d held, the only difference being the small excavator parked at the end of the grave. A rough-hewn wooden box sat next to it all, to hold the dirt, I supposed. Off to the side was a small flatbed truck with a hoist attached.
Three men stood around the grave site, dressed
in neat work overalls. A woman in her late twenties stood next to them. And all around them were ghosts.
The shadows made the whole cemetery seem murky and foggy. I hadn’t remembered seeing all these ghosts when I’d buried Eli, or when I’d come to visit his grave. Yes, in the last seven months I’d seen the occasional shadowy spirit out of the corner of my eye while here, but nothing like this. It was as if an entire mob of ghosts had gathered to bear witness to the relocation of these remains.
The woman approached us. She was nicely dressed in a pantsuit with tasteful jewelry and subtle makeup. Her hair in a neat bun low on the back of her head, and she fiddled with a chain at her neck, tucking what looked to be a circular pendant in the collar of her crisp button-down shirt. She was carrying a clipboard and a pen in the other hand. I recognized her from when I’d organized Eli’s interment, but couldn’t remember her name.
“Are you the next of kin?” she asked Olive in a voice that was the perfect mix of calm efficiency and mild sympathy—flat but kind. Inoffensive, with just enough emotion to keep from sounding…well, unfeeling.
“No, I’m Olive Johnson, here to represent Sarah Branch. I’m her niece.”
The woman nodded and tapped the clipboard. “I’m Melanie Swanson, cemetery manager here at Windy Oaks. I’ll be calling your aunt later today about the arrangement for her husband. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Johnson.”
Olive glanced over to the grave. “I’m sorry we’re putting you through all this, Miss Swanson.”
“Oh, please call me Melanie. And it’s no trouble at all. We’re always here to help families during their time of grief,” the woman replied with a practiced graciousness. “That does occasionally include relocation of a loved one.”
She was just as diplomatic as I’d remembered her. It made me wonder if she ever cut loose once she was out of the cemetery grounds. I tried to envision her angry and cursing up a storm at someone, or drunk and dancing around with a lampshade on her head, and failed.
