by Morgana Best
“So tell me about Tiffany,” Tara said. “You said you were helping her?”
“I’m trying to.” I quickly filled her in about what had happened, including when Danny had confronted me in the restaurant parking lot.
“He was there that night?”
“A coincidence, I think,” I said. “He was just out with friends. But he scared me, that’s for sure.”
“I can turn him into a frog for you, if you want,” Tara said.
I gasped. “Really?”
Tara had a fit of the giggles. “No,” she said when she was finally able to speak, “but I’d like to.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“So it’s him then, right? He’s the suspect.”
I shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. She was sleeping with her boss. Who knows what’s going on there?”
“Her boss seemed upset at the funeral though, right? Isn’t that what you said?” Tara asked.
“Well sure,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. If I killed someone, you better believe I would look sad at their funeral.”
Chapter 14
I spent a long time in front of my closet the morning I was to be interviewed by the local paper, trying to find the perfect outfit. I wasn’t sure if they would even take a photo of me, but in case they did, I wanted to look nice and respectable. I ended up choosing a skirt and blouse, with black flats. I was careful to apply more makeup, but even then, I ended up half an hour early. I went to my office to do some dreaded paperwork.
It was strange for me to sit in the office because I kept thinking of it as Dad’s, even though it was mine now. It didn’t feel right to call it my office, so I hadn’t been able to yet. It still felt like it was Dad’s, and I was just substituting for him. Yet I knew only too well that it was a substitution that would last the rest of my life.
As I worked up a final bill for the KISS funeral, my mind wandered. It was pretty clear to me that I was going to stay and run the business. What option did I have? As I thought things over, I realized that I had never actually made the official decision. It had just been a ‘let’s wait and see’ thing, but I had somehow fallen into the reality of it all.
Ten minutes before the journalist from the paper was due to arrive, I felt a disturbing presence at the door. I looked up, hoping it was Tiffany or Ernie, but instead I saw my mother. If I had put some effort into finding an outfit that morning, my mother must have woken at four in the morning and obsessively slaved over what she was going to wear. To be quite honest, I had never seen her look nicer.
“Wow, Mom,” I said. “You look great.”
“Thank you. You look nice, too.”
I smiled. “Thanks. Uh, why are you so dressed up?”
Mom frowned. “The paper, same reason as you.”
“They’re coming to talk about the KISS funeral,” I said. “I thought you hated the KISS funeral.”
“I never said that, Laurel! Anyway, any publicity is good publicity,” Mom said with her best smug look.
I sighed. Of course, my mother would never miss an opportunity to be in the newspaper. I think she would even shake hands with Satan himself if he could guarantee her a five minute interview on national television.
“Mom, I don’t really want you talking to the reporter,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” my mother asked, folding her arms across her chest defensively.
“It means I don’t want you talking to the reporter.”
“Oh, Laurel, don’t be so dramatic. Why can’t I talk to the reporter?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think we have the same ideas on the business. I don’t want conflicting reports out there.”
“You know, my friends at church have nice daughters. They never speak to their mothers in such a way.”
I felt a little bad, because my mom could have been right. I thought that I had been shorter with my mom than I needed to lately, mainly because we were living in the same house. I really needed to find my own place. I sighed. “Mom, I’m sorry. I just, you know, the KISS thing was great for us, but it’s still tight money wise. This bill won’t be paid and through the system right away, and we need to book some more funerals. We have nothing going on right now.”
“Well, I guess I’ll cross my fingers that more people will die,” my mother said waspishly.
I rolled my eyes and was mad at myself for feeling bad just a moment ago. “That’s the business!” I said. “I actually don’t want people to die.”
The front doorbell rang. As I went to answer the door, my mother tried to hurry in front of me, and I put on a burst of speed. We half ran, half speed-walked to the door, jostling each other like children. I got my hand on the doorknob first. “Ha!” I said. I pulled the door open to reveal two men. One was a short stocky man with a messenger bag. He smiled and introduced himself. “I’m David Baranski,” he said, offering his hand. I shook it.
I could tell that David was the reporter, because the man he was with had a camera hanging around his neck, giving away the fact that he was the photographer. The photographer was taller, with blazing red hair. “I’m Ray Greenfield,” he said, nodding his head toward me.
I introduced myself and my mother.
“This is wicked,” the photographer said. I had kept up the KISS wake decorations like I had said I would.
“You and I agree on that,” my mother said, and I wasn’t sure if she knew the photographer meant wicked as in wicked good, or if she was making a joke. I had heard my mother joke less than I had seen her run, so I was confused.
“A man really had a funeral like this?” Ray asked.
David looked at me. “We could talk if you’d like, while Ray gets some shots, and then we can do some shots of you two as well.”
I nodded. “That sounds good,” I said. “We can speak in my office if you’d like.”
David agreed. “All right, then.”
I led the way, followed by David and my mother. There was no running like children in school this time, but I knew it was a race to the chair behind the desk. Once again, I beat my mother. I was faster in my flats than she was in her heels. I sat behind the desk and David sat across from me. In what was no doubt a show of immature defiance, my mother remained standing, near the door. She was frowning so hard I thought her face would crack.
The interview seemed to go well. David was good at his job, framing questions about my father delicately, and showing genuine interest in how a funeral home worked. I answered all his questions, and he nodded from time to time. Every now and then he asked my mother a question, and she seemed pleased to be included in the conversation.
“Just great,” David said, when the interview came to an end. “You certainly lead an interesting life, and this is certainly the most interesting funeral home I’ve ever heard of.”
I smiled.
David went on. “I’m sure Ray has finished. Let’s go see about those pictures, and then we can get out of your hair.”
We went back out to find Ray sitting on a chair. He stood up when he saw us. “Hey, this is the coolest funeral home I’ve ever seen.”
I laughed. “You should have been here for the KISS music,” I said.
“There was music?” Ray asked, his eyes lighting up like a child’s.
“It was horrible,” my mother chimed in. “You should have seen the pastor when he came by. I’ve never been so embarrassed.”
“You didn’t like the funeral?” David asked my mother.
She shook her head. I flashed her a look but I knew there was no hope that she’d be quiet.
“What did the pastor do?” David pressed.
“He wore that horrible make up,” my mother said. “I don’t approve at all.”
“I see. Are you very religious?”
Oh no. David had managed to hit the jackpot. I knew I wouldn’t be able to shut my mother up now.
“Of course I am,” my mother said. “Deeply. Everything I do is a testament to God.”
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br /> David nodded. “I see.”
“Do you two go to church?” my mom asked.
“Mom,” I said, but she was stepping forward, an accusatory glance in her eye.
“I used to,” Ray said with a shrug. “My parents did.”
“And you don’t now?” my mother asked the young man.
“No.”
“I see. So you don’t mind the fact that you will face an eternal torment in the lake of fire and brimstone in Hell itself?” my mom asked, waving a finger in the photographer’s face.
When the poor man did not respond, Mom turned to David. “What about you?”
“I go to temple,” he said. “I’m Jewish.”
I didn’t know how that was going to go down.
“Well, at least you believe in the God of Abraham,” she said as she threw a glance at Ray. I wondered if my mother was mellowing in her old age.
“But it’s not the right thing,” she said, proving my thought wrong. “Stay here. I have something for you both.” She hurried out the front door.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, shaking my head a bit. “She’s um, um....” I couldn’t think of a polite term, so let my sentence hang in the air.
Ray seemed amused by the whole thing. I couldn’t get a read on David. Mom soon returned with two thin books in her hands. She handed one to each man. “Take this, and save yourselves,” my mother said. “I can’t do it for you, so you have to do it. It’s literature on the right path through life. You’re both on the wrong path, like my heathen daughter.”
David looked at my mother. “So will this funeral home serve someone who doesn’t share your beliefs?” he asked.
I opened my mouth, but my mother jumped in before I could.
“No way,” she said. “Death is about going to God. If you don’t believe, then I’m not going to help you celebrate that, or help your family cope with their loss.”
“I see,” David said rather crossly.
“No, that’s not right,” I hurried to say. “We are happy to help anyone and everyone. We don’t discriminate based on any factor whatsoever.”
“Which of you runs the place?” David asked, suddenly interested in the conversation.
“I do,” my mother and I said at the same time.
“My father left the funeral home to me,” I said.
“I was working here before she was even born,” my mother argued.
“Interesting,” David said. I could tell he was taking mental notes.
“Uh, how about those pictures out front?” Ray asked. He was clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.
“Fine,” my mother snapped, and we followed her outside. I was suddenly nervous about the interview. In fact, I was dreading reading the article in a few days. Who knew what David was going to say about us now?
Chapter 15
It had been a long day, and all I really wanted to do was take a hot shower, lie in bed, and read. It wasn’t even dark yet. I was pretty sure a sign of getting older was the desire to lie in bed with a book when the sun was still up, but I would have to leave a meltdown crisis about my youth leaving me for some other day. Right now, I was simply too tired to care. I pushed open the front door of the house, and stepped inside. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear voices. One was obviously my mother’s, and there was another I didn’t recognize. At the top of the stairs, I realized with some horror that the voices were coming from my bedroom.
I’m not a terribly private person, but the idea of my mom in my room at all wasn’t one I loved. If she was in my room, then she had something to complain about. There was no doubt about that. I had grown up in that room, until I graduated from high school and had to get out of it and the town. Looking back, I was pretty sure it had simply been an undeniable desire to get away from my overbearing mother. Hearing her in my room now, as an adult, I remembered the feeling well.
The door was open a crack, and I couldn’t see my mother or her guest. I reached out and pushed the door open fully. My mother was standing near my small dresser, bent over it, motioning toward some candles I had there. A slim man stood with her. He was decades younger than my mother, with a thin mustache and black hair parted severely to the side. He turned to me when I came in, and I could already tell I wouldn’t like him.
“Oh hello, Laurel,” my mother said, tossing a glance my way over her shoulder, as if it was all right that she was in my bedroom.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“Ian here had some concerns,” she said.
“About my room?” I asked.
“Hello,” the man said, stepping forward and offering me his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“From my mother?”
“Oh yes. We’re great friends.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. He looked confused as to what exactly I could be sorry about.
“I do have friends, you know, Laurel,” my mother said, finally turning around to face me.
“I assume Ian here goes to your church?” I asked.
“Of course he does,” my mother answered.
“My relationship with God is the most important relationship I have,” Ian said to me. “When you find the same, you’ll be happier. I know your mother worries about you so much, dear.”
It was strange to hear someone my own age like Ian call me ‘dear’. I shuddered involuntarily. “I’m sorry, but you have no right to be in my bedroom,” I said.
“You should respect your mother and not speak to her like that,” Ian said. “If I had focused on relationships like that, perhaps I would still be married.”
My mother snorted. I wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t want me to know that one of her friends had been divorced, or for another reason. “Ian, don’t you fret,” she said stonily. “It’s not your fault you got divorced, as undesirable as that is, as I think you made the right choice.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Years ago, when my mother had heard that our next door neighbors were getting divorced, she had taken them off the Christmas card mailing list, and had them barred from a block party that summer. If I remembered correctly—and I pretty much always remembered the stuff my mother said, in case I ever decided to write a book about her—she had said, “Divorce is the very worst thing anyone could do. It’s making a mockery of God.”
“Divorce is making a mockery of God,” I said, turning to Ian. “According to my mother, that is.”
The man’s face fell and he nodded. “She’s right. Another gem of hard truth from your mother. She’s full of them, and I thank God that he brought us together in friendship.”
“Ian’s ex-wife was not a Godly woman, although she pretended to be,” my mother said, “and that’s all I’ll say about that.”
“That’s all I wish to hear about her as well,” Ian said, nodding.
I cleared my throat. “At any rate, I’d love to hear why you’re in my bedroom.”
“Well, I didn’t see a lock on the door, so I thought you wouldn’t mind,” my mother said somewhat defensively.
“I’d prefer you not to bring strange men into my room, Mother,” I said with an edge to my voice.
“Ian is not strange. He’s one of my best friends.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Why are you in my room?”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said. “Perhaps we should have asked before entering your private area. I know how privacy can matter so much to those who have yet to find God.”
I ignored his comment and turned back to my mother. I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at her.
“Ian has been seeing a woman for the last year or so. When they know each other, she likes to light candles. Ian was concerned that she might be into the New Age. I told him that you were New Age, and he came to compare the candles.”
“New Age?” I asked.
“You believe in the power of stones and things like that,” my mother said.
“The power of stones? Mom, I just like scented candles.”
My mom waved her hand at me. “Regardless,” she said, “I invited Ian over to see if the candles were that similar New Age type stuff.”
I turned to Ian. “And when you know each other? Don’t you know each other all the time?”
“Heavens, no,” Ian said, placing his hand over his chest. He looked like he would pass out, right there on the spot. “Only on Friday nights, after we listen to an hour of gospel music.”
I glanced at my mother, and she too looked absolutely appalled. I simply had no idea why they were so shocked.
Ian went on. “I know we shouldn’t know each other at all, but times are changing, even if Thelma here doesn’t like to admit it.”
My mother forced a laugh and placed her hand on Ian’s arm. I cringed at the sight.
“Well, I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. I’d love to relax in my own room,” I said. “Alone.”
“I was just leaving,” Ian said.
To my relief, he did just that. My mother followed him down to see him out.
I hurried around my room to see if anything was out of place, but the only misplaced items were my scented candles.
“Why must you always be so rude?” my mother asked me, upon her return.
“Mom, this is my bedroom!” I said. “Don’t bring people in here to smell my candles. It’s just too weird, not to mention downright rude.”
My mother snapped at me. “You’re calling me rude? I can’t believe the way you spoke to Ian. Besides, we weren’t smelling the candles—we were just looking at them, you silly girl. Ian’s girlfriend, Sandra, insists on lighting candles when they know each other. He says she won’t know him at all without the candles burning. She says it’s romantic, but he’s afraid it’s New Age. She doesn’t go to our church, you know.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked. I was beginning to lose my patience. “They either know each other or they don’t.”
Mom gasped, and her hand flew to her throat. “That very well might be how things go on with people your age outside the church, but inside the church, it’s a little more than that. You don’t just know anyone! You should only know one person your whole entire life.”
