by Sandra Balzo
He growled and it took me a second to realize it was because I’d paused in dismantling the poor chicken and was waving a drumstick at him.
I dumped the chicken I’d pulled off into Frank’s dish and added water and a scoop of dehydrated raw vegetable dog food that promised a well-balanced, holistic doggy diet. The stuff rehydrated into green goo and cost a fortune, but after both Frank and I had weighed in at a little over fighting weight at our respective doctors, I’d made a pact with myself that we’d eat better in the future.
I’d kept half the pact, at least.
Setting the dog’s bowl on the floor, I poured myself a glass of red wine and pulled a sleeve of butter crackers and can of spray cheese out of the cupboard. The meal hit the major food groups, or would have if I’d added the vegetable sludge. Not an option, given the cost of the sludge.
Frank glanced up from his dish, wearing a green vegetable beard and a disgusted look.
‘You win,’ I said, setting down my meal. ‘Pizza it is.’
‘Since when do you go to funerals?’ I asked Sarah the next morning.
We were sitting at a table in our own coffeehouse, enjoying lattes and sticky buns after the morning commuter rush.
‘When it comes to the “Holy Hannah’s Ladies of Ronny House,” I’ll make an exception.’
‘Just what is your deal?’ I took a sip of my latte.
‘What deal?’
‘I mean, why don’t you like Hannah? She’s a perfectly nice person.’
‘Something’s just … off.’ Sarah pointed. ‘You’ve got foam on your lip.’
I licked it off, lest it be wasted. ‘Somehow I have a feeling the “something off” you’re referring to is not my foam mustache.’
‘Good call. I’m talking about little miss perfect.’ She stuck a leftover pecan from the long-ago devoured sticky bun into her mouth.
‘Hannah, because she took in her mother and her mother’s friend?’
‘“As anybody of good conscience would do.”’
It took me a second to realize she was mimicking Hannah. ‘Are you going to say nasty things about me, too, when Pavlik comes to stay?’
‘I already say nasty things about you.’
It was true. Not that she meant them. Or so I thought.
‘Besides,’ Sarah continued, ‘I know you’re going to be busting your butt, working and playing nurse to Pavlik.’ A sly grin. ‘Though that doesn’t sound half bad, come to think of it.’
I ignored her fantasy. ‘I was thinking I might take a few days off.’
‘Yeah, well, think again. But you’re making my point. Exactly how has the lovely Hannah made a living while she was caring for the oldsters in the house Celeste bought?’
I shrugged. ‘How do I know? Maybe Hannah works from home. Or has family money or something.’
‘I think that’s probably just it. She’s living off her mother. But here’s another thing. Why didn’t Hannah have the power of attorney?’
Now she’d completely lost me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This is what got me thinking,’ Sarah said. ‘Remember Christy telling us about the closing on the house?’
‘What about it?’
‘The way it works is if you can’t be present at a closing, the papers can be overnighted to you to sign. Or you can give your power of attorney to somebody else and have them sign in your stead.’
‘Which is exactly what Celeste did, according to Christy.’
‘But to a lawyer, not her daughter. Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘What I think is that you’re ornery that Christy sold your cousin’s house on her own rather than have you broker the deal.’
‘Ronny is not my cousin.’ Sarah jabbed her finger a tad too vigorously at an errant flake of bun on the table, sending it off onto the floor.
‘OK, your criminal cousin by marriage.’ I retrieved the crumb with a napkin as the bells on the front door jangled.
I jumped up. Nobody likes to see their servers having more fun than they are.
‘Sit, sit,’ Langdon Shepherd admonished, his hand gesture identical to the one that signaled people to take their seats in the pews. It was customary in most churches for the congregation to sit for the sermon. But at Christ Christian it was also self-preservation. Langdon’s record was an hour and four minutes.
‘How is your sheriff doing?’ he asked, leaning down to give me a one-armed hug.
‘I saw Pavlik last night and he’s good, thank you,’ I said, wincing as he squeezed. The man was all bones. ‘Fixated on work, of course.’
Which was true, as far as it went. It also reminded me that I’d better check my Internet provider to make sure I had enough bandwidth to handle Pavlik’s phone, tablet and computer. All up and running simultaneously, even when Pavlik couldn’t be up or running.
‘And the other officer? Deputy Hartsfield?’
‘No update last night. But Pete was in intensive care yesterday, according to Father Jim.’
‘Oh, is the father here?’ Langdon asked, glancing around like he expected Jim to pop out from under one of the empty tables. ‘I wanted to share some ideas for a joint Easter celebration we’ve been discussing.’
‘Just missed him by eighteen hours,’ Sarah said, getting up to gather our plates and cups.
‘Jim was in yesterday afternoon,’ I explained, standing myself. ‘You’ll probably find him at the church, though.’
‘I’ll have to stop by. Easter will be here before we know it and we’ll need to get the word out if we’re going to do something. You know, social media, advertising, press releases.’
I did know, given I’d done corporate public relations prior to opening Uncommon Grounds. I was just surprised that Langdon was embracing marketing. Traditionally, his approach was more … traditional. Like church bulletins.
‘I can’t remember the two churches ever doing something together,’ I said.
‘An entirely new endeavor,’ the pastor said as I ducked behind the counter to make his cappuccino. ‘Despite our differences in doctrine we are united in the need to bring people into church.’
I reemerged at the ordering window. ‘I thought Christmas and Easter were the two holidays people did come to church. Why do a joint service then? Won’t you be taking away from your own attendances?’
‘Oh, this wouldn’t be on Easter Sunday itself. More of a festival on that Saturday, with the children.’
‘Like an Easter egg hunt?’
‘Exactly.’
Didn’t sound like all that novel an idea, but maybe the real collaboration was not so much between the two churches as it was the Easter bunny and Jesus.
‘Christmas, Easter, marry and bury, my father used to say,’ Langdon went on, smiling a little painfully.
‘Oh, was your father a pastor, too?’ I picked up the portafilter and slipped it under the espresso grinder/dispenser, only to realize the bean hopper above it was empty.
‘More agnostic, I’m afraid, laying out his parameters. My mother had to twist his arm to get him to attend church even for those milestones.’
Looking at Langdon, you’d imagine he came from a family with its roots in the bedrock of the church. ‘Was it your mother who inspired you to become a pastor?’
Langdon smiled. ‘Honestly, I think it was more my father’s resistance than anything else. I was quite the contrary young man.’
Sarah appeared with a bag of espresso beans from the storeroom. ‘That’s hard to imagine.’
‘That I was a young man or that I was contrary?’ Langdon knew Sarah too well.
‘Both.’ Sarah grinned and dropped the five-pound bag of roasted beans on the counter.
‘Did your dad ever forgive you for being holier than he?’
‘I’m afraid not, though he did come to hear my first homily.’ Langdon barely averted a roll of his eyes – an implied judgment I was sure he’d normally be loath to make.
‘That was good, at least,’ I said, using scis
sors to slice the bag so I could pour the beans into the hopper.
‘I’ll let you be the judge. He dropped a dime in the collection plate as it went around.’ He held up his hands. ‘Not that I’m saying God requires payment.’
‘But …’ Sarah was leading the witness.
Langdon allowed himself to look perturbed. ‘My father was well enough off. To my mind, it was an insult. Like dining at a restaurant and leaving a penny as the tip for the waiter. It’s worse than no tip at all.’
‘And you were the waiter,’ I said.
A wave of Langdon’s hand said it was no matter. His face said otherwise. ‘That’s all in the past. But the fact is churches are in difficult straits because of people like my father, who partake but don’t pay.’
‘To be fair, your father didn’t want to partake either,’ Sarah pointed out. ‘Or order, if you want to keep the dinner analogy going.’
Like Langdon, I thought maybe it was time to let this go. ‘Is Christ Christian struggling financially?’ I asked as I switched on the grinder.
‘Most churches are,’ Langdon said, not quite answering the question. ‘Even at Angel of Mercy, which traditionally has done quite well, Father Jim says they’re struggling.’
Since Jim was new to the church, that worried me. And mystified me as well. I’d go to Angel of Mercy to hear Jim if I didn’t have to work Sundays, and I wasn’t even Catholic. I couldn’t say all that to Langdon, of course, so I said, ‘Why do you think that is?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Langdon said. ‘Father Jim is a gifted speaker and has brought young people into the church. Actual attendance is on the upswing but collections remain stagnant. The key, we both feel, is to get people involved so they join the congregation and have a stake in its future.’
‘So why Easter?’ I asked, switching off the grinder and going to pull the shot. ‘Like you said, that’s one of the times the churches are full. Why not concentrate on increasing attendance during the downtimes?’
‘Easter celebrations bring in young families, which is important for growing our membership basis. If we get them in for an Easter or Christmas event, maybe we can keep them coming.’
‘And paying,’ Sarah said, and then listened. ‘Is that your phone I hear vibrating?’
The irony of ‘hearing’ vibration. But I heard it, too. I fished my phone out of my apron pocket, but the vibrating had stopped and it read ‘missed call.’
‘Good morning,’ Clare Twohig called out.
The owner of Clare’s Antiques was small – maybe five feet tall, with blonde hair cut short – but you couldn’t miss her melodic voice or the vintage pieces she wove into her otherwise modern style.
She was also a ‘double latte, skim milk, no foam’, which she picked up on the way to the antiques shop every morning at about a quarter to ten.
Exactly what it was now.
I slipped my phone back into my apron and started Langdon’s milk frothing. ‘Morning, Clare. Can I get you your usual?’
‘Please.’ Today Clare was wearing a pillbox hat with jeans and a military-style blouse.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ I said, finishing up Langdon’s cappuccino.
‘Do what?’ Clare was glancing around like she didn’t know what I was talking about.
Which she didn’t, of course, because for her the look was effortless. Me, I was lucky if I was wearing two of the same shoes. ‘How you put together outfits like that.’
Sarah was passing behind me and backtracked so she could get a better look at Clare. ‘Nice outfit.’
Not snide. Not sarcastic. A genuine compliment.
‘Oh, this? It’s nothing.’ Clare tried to pirouette but fell out of it, giggling.
‘It is very fetching, my dear,’ Langdon said, taking the cappuccino and passing a five to me.
‘Why thank you, Langdon,’ Clare said. ‘I thought since the pillbox hat that was so popular for women in the forties is believed to be inspired by military headgear, it would be kind of fun.’
‘Well, I’m sure you wear the chapeau more beautifully than any soldier could have.’ With that, Langdon bowed out. Literally.
‘Did you all see somebody is moving into the building across the street from me?’ Clare asked as she set her wallet on the counter.
‘That’s where Penn and Ink, the graphic design firm was,’ I said, pulling a gallon of skim milk out of the refrigerator.
‘Penn dumped Ink,’ Sarah informed Clare. ‘It got messy.’
Clare laughed. ‘I bet. Any idea what kind of business is moving in?’
‘No clue,’ Sarah said, ‘but customers have been complaining about the trucks blocking the street in that direction.’
Clare’s nose crinkled. ‘It’s just the one lane, leaving plenty of room for cars to get around.’
‘You’re not from here, are you?’ Sarah asked.
‘No, Minneapolis. Why?’
‘In most cities,’ Sarah was saying, ‘a double-parked truck is business as usual. In Brookhills, it’s a reason to call the cops.’
Clare grinned. ‘I do get a kick out of the police report in the Observer. Did you see the one last week where somebody reported they were sure they’d left their car windows down but, when they returned, they were up?’
‘That was good,’ I agreed, ‘but my all-time favorite one was the guy who is allergic to poppy seeds calling the police because his wife bought three-seed bagels and he decided she was trying to kill him.’
‘Ooh, that must have been before I moved here.’ Clare’s blue eyes sparkled. ‘And I love the way they’re reported. In a kind of “just the facts, ma’am” way.’
‘That’s the work of one of my original partners in Uncommon Grounds.’ I poured milk into the frothing pitcher. ‘Caron Egan. You might have seen her byline.’
‘Caron Egan, of course,’ Clare repeated. ‘She wrote the article on the mortician, too.’
‘Christy mentioned the article but I didn’t realize Caron wrote it.’
‘Front page this past Thursday. Either your friend Caron is a gifted writer or Mort the Mortician is fascinating.’ Clare’s eyes were bright as she leaned in to ask, ‘Have you met him?’
‘Sure.’ I stuck the frothing wand into the milk and turned on the steam, moving the pitcher up and down to introduce air and get the froth the way I wanted it. ‘He’s part of the Goddard Gang that’s here every Sunday morning.’
‘Really.’ She was thinking. ‘I should come by to meet him.’
‘You could go by the funeral home if you’re really dying …’ I stopped frothing. ‘Sorry. Is this professional or personal?’
‘You mean am I looking to date a mortician or hire one?’ she asked with a smile. ‘Neither. But what Caron called Mort’s “thinking outside the box – or urn” in the article intrigued me. He believes both a funeral and a final resting place should make a statement about what was important in the deceased’s life. Ashes sent up in fireworks’ shells or stored in the departed’s favorite brand of bourbon bottle. Rock and roll celebrations of life.’
‘How about Weekend at Bernie’s?’ Sarah suggested. ‘Now there’s one I’d go to.’
‘That’s what I thought, too,’ Clare said. ‘Reading how creative Mort is, I thought my shop might have some … containers that might be perfect.’
‘Have to be one big-ass antique to fit a body,’ Sarah said. ‘Steamer trunk, maybe?’
Clare was peering into the bakery case. ‘Is that a sticky bun behind the muffins?’
‘The last one.’ I set the milk aside to rest. ‘We had a run on them this morning.’ And Sarah and I had eaten two.
‘I was half hoping you’d be out of them,’ Clare said ruefully. ‘Save me from myself.’
‘Better that you take it now than I take it home.’ I picked up a pair of tongs.
‘Says you. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I have several items that would work for ashes. For example, a guitar for the rock and roll funeral. Or that vintage coff
ee urn you’ve been eyeing, Maggy, for the coffee lover.’
I stopped, tonged bun in hand. ‘I said I liked it, not that I wanted to spend eternity in it.’
Clare chin-gestured for me to continue the roll’s journey. ‘But it is an interesting alternative to spending eternity in a plastic bag fastened with a twist tie, isn’t it?’
It was indeed.
TEN
‘Plastic bag and a twist tie? Really?’ Sarah said as I slipped Clare’s roll into a white paper bag, trying not to dislodge the pecans on top of it.
‘Damn it!’ A nut went flying.
‘That’s the way it’s done, according to the article,’ Clare’s voice said as I ducked behind the counter to retrieve the pecan before it cemented to the floor or the bottom of somebody’s shoe. ‘A sturdy plastic bag, no doubt, and an industrial-strength twist tie.’
‘That way the dead guy can’t make a run for it.’ Still bent, I tossed the pecan into the trash basket and missed. ‘And stays fresh, in the bargain.’
Resurfacing, I saw Mort Ashbury.
He was grinning. A curse on whoever stole my bells/early-warning system.
‘Mort,’ I said, ‘we were just talking about you. Well, not you, but your—’
‘Stay-fresh containers, I heard. And what could be better on a Tuesday morning than being the topic of discussion for three lovely women.’ The smile stayed on his face as he turned to Clare. ‘Morton Ashbury, at your service.’
Given the wink that accompanied his words – as well as what the mortician’s ‘service’ was – I had to believe that Ashbury was in on the joke, even if his new loyal follower, Christy, wasn’t.
Whether the name had spurred his decision to dedicate his life to burying and cremating people or the choice had been a pure coincidence, Morton Ashbury had decided to embrace it with a certain joie de vivre. Which Ashbury would no doubt term joie de mort.
The thought made me smile right back. ‘Clare owns the antiques and flower shop next door. We were talking about the article on you in the Observer, and I was just saying that her shop might be the perfect place for people to find just the right … vessel for their loved ones.’
Of course, it had been the other way around – Clare had made the suggestion, not me – but I’d always found it more effective to have somebody else blowing your horn than to do it yourself. And you can take that any way you wish.
