The Obituary Society

by Jessica L. Randall

  “Registration?”

  “Just a moment.”

  She jerked on the handle of the glove compartment until it gave way, and a torrent of papers tumbled out, some of them curled and yellow as if they were decades old.

  “Crap.”

  “What's that, Ma'am?”

  She pushed aside a pile of receipts, looking for anything that might be a registration. Who knows if Ada even registered this thing.

  “I'm officer Snyder, Miss Moore. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  “I—yes.” She sifted through the mess of papers, her eyes darting to the officer, and back again.

  He stared at her, waiting for her to answer as if she were a child.

  She placed her hands on the wheel, squeezing tight with the effort to keep the attitude out of her voice. It would not do to anger a potentially psychotic cop. “Because I almost missed the four-way stop.”

  “Outsiders tend to blow right through that.”

  His comment dug at her, as he must have intended.

  “I'm sorry. It's been one of those days. I wasn't thinking straight.”

  “Miss Moore, emotional driving is dangerous driving.” He sneered. “You having trouble with that lawyer friend of yours?”

  She scowled. “That's none—no.”

  “Sit tight a minute.”

  Carl loped back to his police car while Lila searched the truck for the registration. Her stomach flipped with each rotation of the lights on his car. So he was a cop. That didn't necessarily make him innocent. But how was it going to look when she told the sheriff about him right after getting a ticket? And the last thing she needed was to be on Carl's radar, so to speak. He wasn't just a simple guy with a hot temper; he was a simple guy with a hot temper, a gun, and a position of power. With no substantial proof to back up her suspicions, she should probably take her ticket and go home. It was that kind of day anyway.

  Carl returned to her window. “Still no registration?”

  She attempted a charming smile, but felt it fall flat. “You see, this isn't my truck, and I don't know where my aunt keeps her paperwork.” She glanced at the cluttered seat.

  “It looks like she has all kinds of paperwork, just no registration.” He puffed out his chest and thrust a ticket through the window. Then he held up her license. “I could suspend your license. I'll let you take it, with the stipulation that you find that paperwork, or get this truck registered immediately. And on a personal note, I'm going to recommend you be careful who you associate with around here. I'd hate to see you get into trouble.”

  She pulled the card out of his hand, clenching her teeth. “Thank you, officer.”

  He nodded, his lips turned down. “I'll be watching you.”

  *****

  Lila knew she should call it a day and go home, but she'd come this far. She may as well get as much suffering as possible over with in one day. Besides, she wasn't going to keep her mouth shut just because Carl was a cop.

  She reached the station and hastily turned at the first available parking spot, nearly clipping the tail end of a truck. She exhaled loudly and backed up to try it again. Carl may as well have taken her license. As much as she hated to say it, she was in no state of mind for driving, and it seemed to be happening more and more often.

  She hurried into the station, glancing over her shoulder in case Carl was still nearby. When she pushed open the glass door she was hit with a stale, mildewy smell, probably due in part to the tightly woven grey carpet. Faux-wood paneling lined the bottom half of the walls. A few people murmured into a phone or shuffled through piles of paperwork under the humming florescent lights. They briefly glanced at Lila, as if to inform her they'd be with her as soon as they could manage. She smiled at them and confidently walked toward an open doorway that cast a glow into a dim hallway. The name plate beside it read Sheriff Larson.

  She lingered in the doorway, and he looked up from his paperwork. “Good morning. What brings you here today, Miss Moore?”

  “Could I could talk to you for a few minutes?”

  The sheriff removed his reading glasses. He put up a finger and went to close the door, then offered Lila the chair opposite his. “I'm listening.” He sat down and looked at her with his hound dog eyes. “Is this about the other day?”

  “Maybe. I don't know what you can tell me, but I heard that Clint's death wasn't, what do they call it on TV, an open and shut case?”

  He sighed and lowered his brows. “I have no idea how Betsy got hold of that report, but her imagination has run rampant through this town for many years. Don't pay her any mind.”

  “So she actually saw the autopsy report?”

  He closed his eyes a moment. Lila imagined a slew of colorful language regarding Betsy Barker flashing across the insides of the lids.

  “There must have been something in there that got her worked up. Something about a needle mark, and bruising? Maybe an excess of calcium in his system?”

  “Fine. They found a needle mark. Which is often accompanied by bruising. Considering Clint's health issues, it's probably nothing. We're checking out his recent medical history, doctor's visits and such. Rest assured, we'll look into it.”

  “And the calcium? What does that mean?”

  The sheriff looked tired, like the last time she'd seen him. Maybe he always looked tired. “It means Clint was a big milk drinker. Is that what you came to speak to me about?”

  “No.” She lowered her voice. “I wanted to talk to you about Carl Snyder.”

  “Carl? He's one of my officers.”

  “I know.” She decided she may as well be upfront, and waved her ticket. “I just had a conversation with him.”

  Sheriff Larson rolled his eyes and held his hand out, as if offering to take a look. “I know he's an ornery cuss. What's he done?”

  Lila stuck it back in her purse. “I'm afraid I earned it. Anyway, it's not about that.”

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “It's just . . . he came into Clint's and Asher's law office one day a while back. He was really angry at Clint. Asher told him they would talk it out, and he said that wasn't what he had in mind.”

  “And that sounded like a threat to you?”

  She picked at her fingernails. “Well, maybe. He was so mad that I was nervous about leaving him there with Asher. It sounded like something about a divorce, and he thought Clint had interfered.”

  “It's not a pretty situation.” The sheriff frowned and pulled out his notepad. She wondered if there would ever be a day that this town ran on digital devices like most places. She hoped not.

  “Carl's been known to lose his cool on occasion,” the sheriff continued, “and he's prone to the occasional power trip. But he's all right.”

  “You don't think it's possible that he killed Clint and made it look like a natural death?”

  The sheriff looked at her, his brows knotted, and sighed. “I think Clint had a heart attack. Anyway, Carl could never pull off something that intricate, and he'd be more likely to punch someone square in the jaw if he had a problem with them. All the same I'd like to write down exactly what happened, word for word, just in case. Sound good?”

  There wasn't much left to tell, but Lila went over the short scene in detail. She had a feeling the sheriff was humoring her anyway.

  “That everything?” Sheriff Larsen asked.

  “Yes. Actually, there was one more thing I wanted to ask you about. You've been around awhile.”

  He stroked his white hair and smiled for the first time since she'd met him. “What gave me away?”

  Lila's cheeks warmed. “I mean, you know everyone here, and you've probably seen things up close that people would rather stay hidden. I wanted to ask you about my grandfather. Do you know why he left? Were there reports of anything strange going on at his place just before, anything like that?”

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, and shook his head. “Nothing came in, as far as I can remember. Isaac
was a good man. We were sorry to see him go. As to why he left, I can't help you there.”

  “And my uncle David? What can you tell me about him?”

  “I can tell you—,” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. Not a wrinkle on his face twitched. “We weren't sorry to see him go.”

  *****

  Lila stopped by the law office on a whim. Asher needed someone to talk to, and considering the day she'd just had, so did she. They'd both suffered loss, and were both trying to find their way in a new place. Besides, it would be nice to have an evening with someone close to her own age. And as far as she could tell, Asher was single and interested. She wasn't going to compete with Max's high school sweetheart, and the mother of his child.

  When she walked in, Asher was leaning over the front desk collecting notes from his secretary. His face lit up when he saw her. “Lila. What a nice surprise.” He cocked his head, and walked toward her, his eyes stuck on her hair.

  “I'm kind of surprised myself.”

  Asher's fingers brushed against her hair. His mouth hung slightly open.

  Lila laughed nervously. “Do you like it?”

  “It certainly is a change.” He flashed a smile at her. “You'd look lovely if you dyed it blue.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about that.”

  He paused and studied her face, brows creased, then laughed. “I think your grandmother would be proud, although she might prefer pink.”

  She smiled. “So I just stopped by—I don't know if things have settled down, but I wondered if you were still interested in—”

  “Dinner with someone irresistible?”

  She ducked her head and grinned. “Yeah. I'd like to cash in on that date. You weren't cheap.”

  “Come with me.”

  She followed him to his office, where he opened a wooden cabinet. He pulled out a box wrapped in silver paper.

  Wasn't it a little soon for gift giving? “What's this about?”

  He held it out to her, hand twitching, eyes bright with anticipation. Hesitantly she took the box, then peeled off the paper and opened the lid. Inside were a pair of flip-flops, trimmed with tiny white pearls.

  “These are beautiful.” She laughed. “Very fancy. When am I supposed to wear these?”

  “How about tomorrow night? I thought you'd like to be comfortable, so I skipped the jewelry.”

  “Good guess.”

  “Guess? I rather like to think I'm getting to know you. Can I pick you up at seven?”

  “I've never done one of these things. Isn't the bidder responsible for—”

  “I'm an old-fashioned guy. Mind if I take care of things this time?”

  “Sure. I'll be at my grandpa's house. You can pick me up there.”

  Chapter 19

  Vintage Snapple

  Lila enjoyed staying with Ada, but she'd never had a place of her own before. She chose a bedroom in the old house (not the first door on the right, which she referred to as “the raven room”). She'd ordered a cheap mattress and replaced the ragged curtains. She hadn't decided how long she'd be staying, but she wanted to know what it felt like to live in the home her grandpa and father had grown up in, even if it was just for a little while.

  Work on the plumbing was underway, and soon she'd update the heating and add insulation to the walls. She'd ordered a couple of space heaters in case things cooled down before the work was done.

  Ada had sent over some dishes and towels for her to use. With the sheets pulled off the furniture and a few personal items strewn about, the house had taken a raspy breath and stirred to life again.

  Ada had also sent over a newspaper clipping. Lila had positioned it beside Isaac's, using a First United Methodist Church of Auburn fridge magnet. She'd stared at the black-and-white picture of Clint, and the facts about his childhood and life's work. She'd thought about how there was nothing in there about shortbread cookies or the day he almost got arrested in Lincoln or the way he used a hanky like a gentleman but guffawed and wrapped an arm around a person like a big, grinning bear. They should have asked Ada to write it.

  After talking to Asher the day before, Lila had stopped by the paint store and picked out a neutral color for the living room; Spectre Grey, it was called. She'd begun painting in the morning, and was pleased with how the color contrasted subtly with the white trim and gave the room a fresh look.

  Lila was almost finished painting when the doorbell rang. The sound made her jump, and she nearly tipped the paint tray over. As she grabbed for it, she jerked the roller back, and it hit her in the face.

  Was it seven already? She rubbed the back of her hand across the smear of paint on her face. Maybe she could pretend she wasn't home. Asher knocked on the window this time. He peered through the glass and waved. Lila inhaled deeply, bracing herself for embarrassment.

  She opened the front door. Asher stood on the porch in a dark suit and a vibrant blue tie that brought out the color in his eyes. He could have come directly out of the pages of a celebrity magazine, were it not for the piece of cinnamon gum, which he chomped nervously. His brows creased with worry as he looked her up and down.

  She pulled him into the room. “I didn't forget. I just lost track of time. I never have my phone on me. Remind me to get a clock in here.” She ran across the room to wipe up the puddle of paint she'd spilled on the wood floor during her mishap. “Could you give me a few minutes?”

  He grinned and glanced at his watch. Lila had never dated a man who wore a wristwatch. “Sure. My next date's not for a couple of hours.”

  Lila hurried up the stairs, nearly tripping on every other one. She threw her paint-covered clothes on the floor, then balanced on the edge of the bathtub, sticking a limb at a time under the faucet. However hard she scrubbed and scraped, there was always more paint hiding around a fingernail, or on the back of her arm where she could barely see it. She decided to call it close enough.

  Her new cut made her hair a quick fix. Aside from a few paint-encrusted strands, it was soon under control. Lila wrapped a towel around herself and ran to her room. She threw on a white summer dress, then took the flip-flops Asher had given her out of the box and slipped them on. She had to give him credit. No one had ever given her such a thoughtful gift, and he'd only just met her. She appreciated it, especially since every pair she had looked too informal next to Asher.

  But it made her uncomfortable too. The shoes didn't look like anything you'd find around here, which meant he went out of his way to get them for her. It seemed like a lot of effort for a first date.

  Lila applied mascara and a smear of lip gloss at the little vanity, then attempted to smooth the wrinkles in her dress with her hands. She took a deep breath. It had been a long and difficult week. She deserved one relaxing evening.

  She walked down the stairs slowly, determined not to appear rushed and flustered, or trip on her way down. In the living room, Asher's suit coat lay draped over the back of the sofa. He stood in the corner, his back to her, finishing up the last bit of painting.

  “Aren't you worried you'll get paint all over your clothes?”

  He shrugged. “They're just clothes.”

  “I'm glad to hear you say that,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You got a little on your sleeve.”

  Asher jerked his head to look, and the distress in his face betrayed him. He grinned sheepishly at her.

  “That's what I thought.”

  He turned back to the wall. Three long strokes finished the job. “Finis.” He gestured grandly. “This place is starting to look really nice; like a home. Does that mean you're staying?”

  Lila threw him a towel and watched as he meticulously wiped his hands. “Honestly, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm here for now.”

  He raised a brow. “Well, I'd like to get you out of here. You look too good to be stuck inside any longer.”

  “I'm definitely ready for a break. So what establishment in this town has a dress code that excludes unadorned flip-flops?”
/>
  “You want to know where we're going.” Asher grabbed his coat and dropped it over his arm, then handed Lila her purse. “It's a surprise.”

  When they stepped outside, he looked up at the pink house. “I'll bet you're dying to get the outside painted. Who's responsible for that anyway? I can't imagine a man living here.”

  Lila smiled. “My grandma loved pink. And my grandpa loved my grandma.”

  “I guess I can understand that logic. What we won't do for love.”

  Asher took her arm and they turned toward the driveway, where a sleek black Lexus waited. They stopped short when they saw the faded-blue Ford pick-up parked crookedly behind it. Max stood with his arms crossed, stepping forward, then backward, as if he wasn't sure whether to stay or go. A skinny tree nearly as tall as him slumped in a white bucket near his feet.

  Lila looked at Asher's clouded expression, wondering what he would do. She wasn't surprised when he gained control of himself and smiled at Max, a little condescendingly, then walked toward him. “Can I help you with something?”

  Max stood tall and met Asher halfway, glowering in his face, then looked past him at Lila. “You cut your hair.”

  “Yeah. Awhile ago.”

  Max moved toward her, but Asher blocked him. Max's fists were white. When he turned back to Asher, his arms twitching as if he were trying to hold them down, Lila stepped forward.

  She touched Asher's arm. “Give us a minute.”

  Asher's jaw tightened as he moved toward the Lexus, keeping his eyes steadily on Max.

  Max looked from Lila to Asher, and back again. “I'm sorry I didn't come by sooner. Some things came up. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “You don't have to say anything, Max. I get it.”

  Max reached for her arm, and she pulled back. Asher tensed, ready to move forward.

  “I have to go.” Her voice was frigid.

  “Okay.” Max rubbed his clean-shaven chin and backed away. “Just be careful.”

  “Why, because your grandma doesn't approve of Asher? If Gladys has something to tell me, she can do it directly.”