by Morgana Best
Chapter 5
The rest of us sat in nervous silence for several minutes. I was at a total loss for words, wondering what the questions were going to be about. I assumed they were mostly going to ask me about Mom and the six guests, although given that I was in a nearby building when the murder occurred, I could just as easily be a suspect.
Finally, James came back, looking relatively relieved, but before he had a chance to speak to Jenny, Wilkinson called her to the room.
“What did they talk to you about?” Basil asked James, clearly not afraid not to beat around the bush.
James sighed and cleared his throat. “They asked me why Jenny and I were here. I talked about our work for a while, and then they started asking more personal questions, like how long we’ve been together and if our marriage is a happy one.”
“What did you say?” Ian asked, seemingly unaware or uncaring whether or not the question was appropriate.
James shrugged before replying. “I told them the truth. Everything is fine. I’m not even really sure how those questions were relevant.”
They were wondering if James or Jenny had some past relationship with the victim, I realized, but decided not to say anything. “Did they ask you anything else?” I asked, hoping to get some sense of what the questioning was about. I assumed it would all be quite straight forward, but there was no sense in not learning as much as I possibly could.
“Things you’d expect, really,” James said. “They asked about my therapy work, though they didn’t press me too much on that subject. They asked where I was at certain times, if I knew the victim, and so on. It wasn’t exactly grueling, though it’s harder than I thought it would be to recall when and where I was at a specific time.”
I sighed, worried that maybe the detectives would interview everybody else first and I would be stuck there worrying for what would feel like hours until they finally got to me. Even though I knew I was innocent, I was nervous about being questioned. I figured it was like driving past a police officer and suddenly worrying that I was speeding, even though I already knew I wasn’t.
Jenny came back before long, and Robert was called up next. We asked Jenny about her experience, though it was unsurprisingly similar to James’ explanation. The detectives had asked her what she did for a living, where she had been all morning, and what her relationship with James was like.
It seemed to me that the relationship questions were a matter of figuring out whether or not somebody would have had reason to hire an escort, which could then lead to further questioning about a possible grudge. It seemed likely one of the guests was the murderer of the deceased escort, who, I might add, was still floating around in a nude state.
Robert returned and then Louise was up, with Bradley following. They all reported the same experience; they were asked about their relationships, the stories they were writing about ghosts, their alibi, and so on. It all seemed to be quite standard, which made me think that the detectives did not consider any of them to be prime suspects. Then again, it was possible that one of the guests was lying about the questions they had been asked so as to avoid suspicion from the rest of us.
“Mrs. Musgrave,” Detective Prescott said flatly. Bec stood up wordlessly and followed him into the study.
“Mind helping me outside for a moment, Laurel?” Basil asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, um, no,” I said, wondering what could be happening. Basil nodded slightly, and I looked over to see Ernie beckoning to us, his head stuck through the front door.
I closed the door behind us and then walked around the edge of the building where we wouldn’t be overheard, and sighed loudly. “This hasn’t been a great day,” I admitted, rubbing my temples. “What did…”
Before I could finish, the ghost of the victim appeared, still entirely nude.
“Oh, geez!” Basil said, looking away suddenly. “Would you put some clothes on?”
“Ernie, please ask him to put some pants on, at least,” I asked, covering my eyes.
“What’s wrong? Can’t bare it?” Ernie asked, clearly more amused than he had any right to be.
“Please, no puns,” I pleaded. “Just ask him.”
Ernie shrugged. “Can you put some pants on, Naked Gun? Maybe a shirt, too?”
The ghost vanished for a full minute before returning, fully clothed.
“Thank you,” I said, relieved. “I’m not sure why that took you so long.”
The ghost was silent for a moment. “I wasn’t really sure about the logistics of clothes now that I’m, you know, well, how I am.”
“You’re quite dead,” Basil said, though he sounded more sympathetic than his simple phrasing suggested.
“Yes, I suppose I am.” The victim looked down at himself. “Anyway, I’m glad I can talk to you. You’re not ghosts, are you? How is it you can communicate with me? With us?” he added, looking at Ernie.
“It’s a long story, and the detectives are going to be back any moment,” I said, hoping to instill a sense of urgency. “We need to ask you a couple of questions quickly.”
The ghost nodded.
“Did you see who killed you, Tom?” Basil asked, going straight to the most important question.
“No,” the ghost responded simply. “But my name’s not Tom. It’s Frank, Frank Wright.”
“Right,” I said, then mentally kicked myself. “What’s the last thing you remember?” I asked him.
“I was in the room, with my back to the door,” Frank said. “Somebody came inside—I heard the door opening, you see—and I just assumed it was Thelma. That was the last thing I heard.”
“You don’t remember anything else?” I asked, stifling a frustrated sigh.
“No, it’s not that. I remember with perfect clarity; it’s not that I’ve forgotten, but that was the last thing that happened to me,” the ghost clarified.
“Frankly, I think you’re Wright,” Ernie said.
Basil and I groaned. “We’d better get back,” I said to Basil, before turning to the ghost. “Thanks. We’ll talk later. Meanwhile, try to think of anyone with a reason to kill you.”
“Lots of people had a reason to kill me,” Frank said, in rather too pleased a tone. “Boyfriends, husbands.”
“Did you have a wife or a girlfriend?” I asked him.
Frank vanished.
Basil and I hurried back to the living room. Wilkinson was poking his head around the corner. When he spotted me, he said, “Follow me.”
Basil gave me a warm, reassuring smile. My heartbeat quickened as I followed the detectives down the hallway to the study.
“Please take a seat,” Detective Prescott said.
I did as he suggested, feeling immensely uncomfortable. I wondered what kind of questions they were going to ask. “How can I help?” I asked nervously.
“We mostly wanted to ask you about your mother,” Prescott said. “Has she always been so, well, religiously zealous?”
“Yes. She’s an extremely religious person,” I admitted. I thought it was best to be honest since she was innocent, though I had to be careful to make her sound harmless.
“She told us that she thought the victim was called Tom, and that he was a kind of literal escort. As in, a form of GPS, like a guide,” Wilkinson said with an eyebrow raised.
“That’s exactly what happened,” I admitted. “I kept telling her to get a Tom Tom, and I think she thought that I was stuttering. I don’t know if she’s ever heard the term ‘escort’ in any other sense.”
“Where were you at the time the victim was killed?” Prescott asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know when he was killed exactly,” I pointed out, wondering if this was some sort of trap. “I was doing paperwork all morning in the funeral home.”
“Did anyone see you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“And had you ever met the escort previously?”
I shook my head again. “No, and I didn’t even know of his
existence until Mom called and said he was dead. I thought she meant her GPS had failed her.”
Wilkinson and Prescott exchanged glances. This couldn’t be good.
Chapter 6
“Are you sure you don’t want some help?” Basil asked with more than a little hint of concern to his voice.
“Of course not, you have to get to work.” I appreciated the gesture, even if it was unlikely that Basil actually had the time to help. “Besides, I’m nearly done.”
Basil looked around the room with his eyebrows raised. “What exactly is the theme this time?” he asked, confounded. “Gold?”
I frowned. “Pretty much. For whatever reason, the widow of the deceased has requested—and more importantly, actually handsomely paid for—a Donald Trump themed funeral.”
“Oh,” Basil said with a chuckle. “That’s, um, different. And what’s this, then?” he asked, pointing to a large piece of painted foam leaning against the wall.
I exhaled loudly. “That’s part of the wall. Mom and Ian have decided that a gigantic wall, one covered in scriptures, no less, will sit in the aisle and separate the guests.”
“Why?” Basil asked, exactly as confused as any sane person ought to be.
“Don’t ask me,” I said with a shrug. “We’re trying to talk her out of it, but it’s not really up to us. Pastor Green and I, that is. It gets worse, too, but I won’t waste any more of your time with details. You’ve got to get to work!”
Basil checked his watch. “It’s not so urgent, but I’ll have to leave in a minute.”
“Before you go, then, do you mind talking about the murder a bit?” I asked. “I know it’s not really the time or place, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Besides, a funeral home seems a fine place to talk about murder. Or as fine as any place, at least. What’s on your mind?”
“I think that the murderer would have to be one of Mom’s guests,” I explained. “It’s just that I don’t have a clue as to which one. Or I suppose it could have even been more than one of them. Come to think of it, it could have been all of them, just like on Murder on the Orient Express.”
Basil patted my shoulder. “I’m sure they’re looking into it.”
I don’t now if Basil knew the effect his touch had on me. It took me a moment before I was able to speak. “I’m sure the detectives suspect the guests, but Mom would have to be a suspect, too.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, I’d better get going,” Basil said as he glanced at his watch once more. “Try not to worry. I’ll see you later.” He kissed me politely on the cheek, much to my dismay, before hurrying off to do math and filing, or whatever accountants do.
I turned back to face the bizarre decorations, and scratched my head. I’d attended some truly awful themed funerals in the past, but this had to be one of the strangest.
Either way, it was far too late to turn back now. The funeral was on in about an hour, and I had nearly finished setting everything up.
“He looks awful,” a voice from behind me said angrily.
“Who?” I asked, spinning around. “Basil?”
Janet laughed. “Of course not. Basil looks fine. Better than fine. Even better than John Jones. I mean the corpse.”
“Well, don’t most corpses look awful?” I asked, somewhat bewildered. I was also bewildered that she liked John Jones, a particularly unpleasant friend of Mom’s, a man who had developed a crush on me. “It seems a normal thing for a corpse to do. Possibly the only normal thing one should expect from a corpse.”
“I mean he looked awful after I finished applying the makeup, which is a first. Have you seen him?” Janet asked, crossing her arms.
“Um, no,” I admitted. “And I don’t think I want to go out of my way to do so. I don’t know if you noticed, Janet, but he’s a corpse. That is something I’d prefer to avoid seeing.”
“Normally I’d disagree, but this time you’re probably right about not wanting to see him,” Janet said. “Well, I’ve done my job, even if I hated it. How are you doing?”
“I managed to talk Mom out of handing out toupees, but otherwise she hasn’t budged on some of her ideas.”
“Even the wall?” Janet asked with a worried tone. I nodded, and her face fell. “Well, you should see the body, if you think that’s bad.”
I took the bait. “All right, what did you have to do? Why should I see him?”
Her expression turned deathly serious before she spoke. “I had to dress him to look just like Donald Trump.”
“You’re kidding,” I said flatly, though I already knew she wasn’t. It was only as insane as everything else about the funeral. “Down to every detail?”
Janet looked horror-stricken. “Every detail, yes. It was a nightmare to find a suitable wig, though I managed it in the end, if barely.”
I sighed and walked over to look in the casket. “Janet, why did you spray paint him gold?” I said in alarm.
Janet appeared to be on the point of crying. “Widow’s wishes, as you should know. That’s a spray tan. It was in the notes.” She stopped speaking for a moment. “Did you hear that?”
I nodded. Loud voices sounded from the entrance.
“We simply can’t do it, Thelma,” Pastor Green said sternly as he walked into the room with Mom and Ian in tow. “It’s not ethical, practical, or moral. I’m sorry you’ve already paid for the bricks, but I simply don’t think you can do it.”
Mom thought for a minute before replying. “But it’s a Trump-themed funeral,” she said flatly. “You know how much he likes walls. Besides, we’ve already bought the bricks for the wall. We just need to build it. We need the heathens on one side of the wall”—she looked at me as she said it—”and those of us who are righteous on the other.”
“I agree with Pastor Green,” I interjected, hoping that we could sway her before it came to a confrontation. “Don’t you think it’s a bad idea to separate all the people who have come to pay their respects?”
“But it’s covered in scriptures,” Ian said, as if that would somehow make it all okay.
“Maybe you’re right,” Mom said, much to my shock. “If we have the wall, then it will be harder for people to see everything else we’ve set up.”
I looked around at the bizarre Trump-inspired decorations and resisted the urge to argue.
“Plus we can hand out the foam bricks as gifts,” she continued.
Pastor Green and I shared a glance. I decided it would be wise not to say anything. It seemed the lesser of two evils.
“Oh, it looks wonderful, dear,” Ian said earnestly. “It captures his presence perfectly.”
I looked around at the bright orange, black, and gold decorations and shrugged lightly. “Don’t call me ‘dear,’ but thanks,” I said.
“Mr. Trump is such a wonderful man,” Ian continued. “It’s an inspiration to hold a funeral in his honor.”
Pastor Green raised an eyebrow. “The funeral isn’t in his honor. It’s just a theme.”
Mom beamed. “All the same, I think it’s very exciting, isn’t it, Ian?”
Ian readily agreed.
As a group, we made short work of the rest of the decorations. We set up the model White House and the Trump action figures in no time. I must say, I had been surprised to find such a thing as a Trump action figure, and in Australia, no less.
Before long, attendants shuffled in and took their pre-assigned seats. It was an open-casket funeral, and the casket itself had been spray painted bright gold and covered in gold glitter.
Once everybody was seated comfortably, Pastor Green took the stage, looking strangely nervous. He’d been at dozens of funerals even at his relatively young age, so I wasn’t sure what was wrong. Had something happened that I didn’t know about?
He cleared his throat and turned to face the casket. He pointed to it dramatically and yelled, “You’re fired!”
There was a silence so thick you could feel it. I stared at the widow
, and to my surprise, she was nodding happily. It must have been another one of her bizarre requests. I had to wonder what sort of person requested that. I also wondered how the rest of the mourners felt, though looking around it was hard to tell, as everybody was stony-faced.
Pastor Green spoke for a short while before introducing the first speaker and then hurrying to his seat.
I had always thought that a happy funeral was preferable to a sad one for obvious reasons, though it was obviously something that was harder to manage in practice. I thought that perhaps funerals were more fun if people did not like the deceased. If that were true, this dead man hadn’t been very popular, as most eulogies contained jokes at his expense.
At the end of the service, everybody moved to the ante room where we served tea, coffee, and cookies. Everybody accepted a scripture brick from Mom and Ian on their way from the chapel.
Pastor Green was fidgeting. I figured he was still embarrassed about having to say, “You’re fired,” at the beginning of the service.
As I walked past a group of mourners, I heard a voice demand, “Do you know where you will spend eternity?”
I spun around, and sure enough, John Jones was harassing an elderly lady.
“John, can I have a word with you, please?”
He followed me to a quiet corner of the room. “Did you know the deceased?” I snapped at him. He shook his head. “Then you’ll need to leave now. You have no right harassing mourners.”
John’s expression turned sullen. “Thelma invited me.”
“This is not a party, John. This is a funeral service, and if you’re going to harass mourners, then I’ll call the police. This is a serious matter.”
“So is going to hell!” John said firmly. “I’ve just been asking people when they last went to church. Excuse me for trying to save some souls!”
“Save your breath, John,” I said angrily. “Either keep your mouth shut or leave right now. If I catch you harassing anyone again, I will call the police. This is not an idle threat.”
“It’s easy to see why you think you can have authority over a man,” John said, “since you’re wearing men’s clothing. The Bible says women should not dress like men.”
