by Terri Thayer
They walked to where she’d parked her car, in the bank parking lot across the street.
Vince had such a steadiness to him, she believed him. Ed was lucky. Someday, she’d like to find a man like Vince. For now, it was enough that he could take care of her dad, leaving her free to find out what happened to Frankie Imperiale.
And she knew where to start. George Weber had been the code enforcement officer when the Castle was being built. He would have known Frankie. Someone at his wake might be able to tell her the connections between the two. Maybe they knew each other through church. This was a small town. Most people’s lives intersected somewhere. She just needed to find out where.
She glanced at her watch. It was just after seven. “I promised my mother I’d go to George’s wake.”
Vince grimaced and hit his palm against the car door frame. “Damn. I should be there, too. George’s been a fixture at our job sites for a long time.”
“How about I go as Retro Reproductions’ representative?” April said.
Vince smiled. “That’d be nice. Please give my love to his kids, and tell them I’m sorry I can’t be there.”
Her last stint as Ed’s proxy hadn’t worked out very well. She had to tell Vince what she hadn’t told Ed. “Vince, Mrs. H. kicked Retro Reproductions off the Mirabella job.”
He grimaced. “I know. She’s left sixteen voice mails on the machine.”
April said earnestly, “I’m going to fix it. Tomorrow. She’ll change her mind.”
He nodded. “Good girl. I’ve got other jobs the men can go to tomorrow. But I need them back at the mansion by Monday.”
That gave her one day to fix what she’d ruined: the mural and Retro Reproductions’ relationship with Mrs. H.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, she had to find out as much as she could about the short life of Frankie Imperiale.
April ran back to the barn for a quick shower. She chose a pair of black linen pants, hoping that the wrinkles made the statement that she was a free spirit, not a lazy bum. She dug out a lacy black cardigan to tone down the azure blue tank, and slipped on her heavy silver bracelet. Had Ken known the value of the silver and turquoise Navajo cuff, it would be in the same pawnshop as her engagement ring.
In the car, she kept thinking about Yost’s bullet fragment. Had Frankie Imperiale been shot? That changed everything. Of course, she knew her father couldn’t have killed a man in cold blood like that, but who could?
According to the sign outside the funeral home, the service for George Weber was at eight o’clock in the Willow Pond Room. She opened the main doors and went down the hall indicated by the sign. The quiet surrounded her, and she was grateful that the hall was carpeted so her steps wouldn’t disturb the wake. She felt as if she were the only person not in place.
A table halfway up the hall held the Weber funeral cards that they’d stamped last night. She took one. Through the open door, she could see a priest saying prayers over a closed casket. Every chair was full, with people standing in the back of the room. Deana and Mark were side by side under the windows. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. Deana turned to him, hiding an inappropriate grin behind a cupped hand. April felt a stab of jealousy at the intimate exchange. Her friend had a great husband, one she could work and play with. April felt her own failure with Ken.
She didn’t see how she could sneak in without causing a disturbance. She stepped away from the door. George’s after-wake party would be held downstairs. She turned back and used the wide central marble steps to the reception hall.
On the landing, just before the last three steps that turned into the hall, an easel held a poster board of pictures. Written across the top, arched in rainbow lettering, was “George Weber, 1920-2008.”
“Cheers,” April heard just before she felt the hearty slap on the back. Clive circled around her, watching her face. He looked as if he expected her to be delighted to see him again. His natural goofiness seemed out of place at a funeral, but he was oblivious.
There wasn’t much room on the landing, but she dodged the kiss on the cheek. “Hello, Clive.”
“Seen your mother yet?” he asked.
April shook her head. “I only just got here. Isn’t she with you?
“She got away from me. She’s probably in the kitchen,” he said.
That figured. April felt her face twist, reflecting the anger she felt. She’d wanted to talk to her mother, tell her about Ed, in private. “Figures. She’s not happy unless she has a dishrag in her hand.”
Clive caught the look. “Look, give her a break. She’s shy. Like me.”
April reared back, unsure if he was kidding. “Shy?” The rock star was protesting shyness?
He was serious. His eyes narrowed and his pretty mouth pursed. “I am, you know. I’ve only lived in this town for ten years, and the locals don’t take well to outsiders. You wouldn’t believe what they say about me sometimes. Call me a bleeding Limey—”
April stopped him. She wasn’t worried about his troubles. Her mother was not shy. “What’s my mother’s excuse? She’s lived here her whole life.”
He said patiently, “Her reluctance to mingle is of a different sort. She’s lived her life under scrutiny.”
April felt a twinge of pain. As hard as it had been for her after Ed left, she’d graduated early and escaped to the West Coast. Her mother had remained behind—with the whole town knowing her husband had left her for a man.
Clive took April’s arm. He grinned at her. He was used to his winning smile doing all the work for him. “How about it? Shall we rescue her?”
April pushed his hand away. She already had a father. Two, in fact. She didn’t need another. “I will help you get my mother out of the kitchen. But only because I want to talk to her. Besides, she’s probably getting in the way of Deana’s hired help.”
“That’ll do,” Clive said, eyes twinkling.
April felt as though she’d just been conned, seduced into doing something she wasn’t sure she wanted to do. Her mother liked being in the kitchen. If she didn’t want to come out and be with Clive, that was his business. Not hers.
Clive was leading her down the steps. He was like the gnats that made it impossible to sit outside on a warm summer night. Small, annoying and resistant to eradication.
She took the rest of the steps and turned into the reception hall. Despite the fact that the Willow Pond Room had looked full, this room was already teeming with people. She looked for a familiar face.
The kitchen was separated from the rest of the room by a wide countertop, nearly the length of the wall. It served as a buffet. A door to the right led into the workspace. She could see her mother moving about, opening the refrigerator and setting out cream next to the enormous coffeepot. Two young people in white chef’s coats stood to one side, obviously hired for the occasion but intimidated by Bonnie.
She felt a surge of annoyance as she crossed the room. Her mother was always serving someone. That made it impossible to have a conversation with her. There was always something that needed to be stirred or basted or fried between them.
“Hey, Mom. Come on out.”
Clive stayed behind April, hearing in her voice that she didn’t need backup.
Bonnie shook her head. “I told Deana I’d keep the bread basket filled.”
“Why did she hire those two?” April looked meaningfully at the two servers and back at Bonnie. Bonnie’s eyes flashed.
“Mom, please,” April pleaded.
Bonnie acquiesced. She took off her apron and came out of the kitchen. April and she stood looking at each other for a moment. April suddenly didn’t know what to say.
Bonnie picked up a plate and a napkin wrapped around a plastic fork and knife. She held it over the food and asked April, “Make you a plate?”
The counter was crowded with casseroles of all shapes and sizes. This was a full-on Pennsylvania potluck dinner. April’s mouth watered. She knew without looking what the fare was. There’d be hot
German potato salad and cold ham and sliced turkey. Cabbage rolls and pickled eggs. Green bean casserole and Jell-O molds with mayonnaise. Not gourmet food, but the very definition of comfort food.
In addition to the counter covered with dishes, two eight-foot tables lined the side wall, filled with enough cookies and pastries to feed a small army. Plastic ziplock bags and paper plates were stacked at the end so that the leftovers could go home with the attendees. Hospitality was important when saying good-bye to the dead.
April shook her head. “No, Mom.” Her stomach growled, and her mother smiled knowingly.
Bonnie started dishing up pierogies on her plate. The potato-filled dumplings were a local delicacy, homemade in huge batches by the church women each Friday. Bonnie had put three on her plate before April stopped her.
“Hang on, Mom,” she said. “Whoa.”
Her mother looked up, startled. “You love pierogies.”
April’s teeth were clenched. “I’ll get my own food, thank you.”
Bonnie set the plate on the counter with a jerk. She picked up a clean plate and nodded her head toward Clive. He pointed, and she loaded up the dish. April sighed. Her mother wouldn’t stop until everyone had eaten and wouldn’t eat until everyone had gone home. Her news would have to wait.
April picked up her plate and went down the line, taking the smallest spoonfuls of the richest foods, a little bit of her favorites and a lot of the green salad she found at the far end. She knew she’d hurt her mother’s feelings by not letting her feed her. But she was tired of playing second fiddle to a dishpan.
A wave of people came in from upstairs, at least four dozen people, all talking loudly. Softer, funeral voices abandoned, the talking grew louder, echoing as the hall filled.
April moved over to a corner of the room, finding an empty spot where she could watch and listen.
She saw a lot of almost familiar people. None she could put a name to, but recognizable just the same. Most people were dressed in black or navy. She smiled thinking about the last funeral she’d gone to in California. It wasn’t a funeral at all; it was a Wiccan crossing-over ceremony with everyone dressed in shades of red because that was the dead woman’s favorite color.
She heard people talking about Frankie. Despite the police’s best efforts to keep the tentative identification a secret, the Aldenville grapevine was thriving. She heard Frankie’s name mentioned more than George’s. Thankfully, she didn’t hear her father’s name mentioned. His march into the police station had gone unnoticed.
She dumped her empty plate in a green garbage can. Bonnie and Clive were talking to a group of Bonnie’s friends, mostly women from church.
April walked the periphery of the room. She wanted to ask about Frankie. She saw Tammy and Lyle talking to Mike McCarty. She recognized Mary Lou and her daughter, who came in with an older man and younger man. The young man, Kit’s husband, steered her to a chair and went to get her some food. Mary Lou smiled at him indulgently, like she was one lucky mother-in-law.
April crossed the room to the dessert table. She didn’t see Rocky or Piper. Their lives must not have intersected with George’s. He was not country club.
These were the middle-class folks who made up much of Aldenville’s population. Who filled the churches and the ball fields, and the town pool in the summertime. Some held jobs in the light-industrial parks nearby or were the hairdressers, truck drivers and grocery-store clerks. Some, like Bonnie, worked at the club. None of the old money she’d seen on the golf course earlier. George was a decidedly solid citizen.
Where was Mitch? She’d thought he would be here. He seemed genuinely upset yesterday morning when he’d heard about George’s death.
What did he know about Frankie Imperiale? There had been something in his eyes on the golf course earlier when Suzi told them whom the body belonged to. He’d claimed to be older, and not part of the crowd that partied at the Castle, but she’d seen recognition on his face when Frankie’s name came up.
He’d been a college student the summer Rocky graduated. Said he’d still been at school. Most colleges were finished, though, by the end of May. Wouldn’t he have been home for his sister’s graduation? What was he hiding? Maybe he’d bought the booze for some of the parties. Surely he’d had a fake ID from college. The drinking age was twenty-one, but he was a rich kid with the connections needed. If he had gotten caught providing liquor, he could have gotten into serious legal trouble. Yost had hinted he’d busted someone that night. Maybe it was Mitch.
It was possible Frankie had just died from an overdose, drugs or alcohol. But she’d seen the large dent in his head. He’d been dumped in the fireplace. And maybe shot.
April was greeted by an elderly bald man. He rubbed the top of his head with glee. “Remember me?”
April nodded. “You were at the Castle yesterday. Curly, right?”
Curly’s eyes glittered. “I saw Yost take your father in earlier. A tapestry of justice,” he sputtered. Saliva gathered in the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it clean with a shaky hand.
“A . . . ?” April started to ask, then realized he meant to say “travesty.” He must watch America’s Most Wanted a lot.
“I live on Main Street,” Curly explained. “Across from the police station.”
Clive appeared at April’s elbow, startling her with his sudden presence. “The police have your father? Does Bonnie know?” he asked, his voice shrill, his eyes big and wide. April couldn’t help but remember how on his old TV show, his eyes would bug out whenever there was a new revelation.
April shook her head. She looked up. Her mother was working her way around the room, gathering up dirty paper plates. “Well, I wanted to tell her when I got here, but she was too busy,” she said. “Besides, they’re just questioning him.”
With a scowl, Clive left them. April watched as he drew Bonnie away from the garbage can. Bonnie’s eyes flicked to April as Clive told her about Ed, then away as though April couldn’t be trusted. April felt very alone. She knew her mother didn’t have room in her life for Ed, but she felt as if she was the one being rejected.
April knew there was only one way she could help her father.
She turned to the bald man. “My dad’ll be okay, Curly. Did you know the dead man, Frankie?”
“Sure, I watched him grow up. His mother lived on Main Street, too, next to the post office. She was a domestic.
Cleaned the bank and some of the offices around town. He was just a kid when he first started working for your dad. Of course, he wasn’t very old when he left town, either.”
But he hadn’t left town. Instead, he’d been killed. “You were at the Castle job back then, right? Did Frankie get along with everyone?”
Curly shrugged. “I don’t know.” His eyes unfocused. “I’ll tell you who didn’t like him. George.”
That got her attention. “George? Why not?”
She lost his. His gaze grew distant. “Such a shame about George. He’d been so down, so depressed about going into the nursing home. But Tuesday we had lunch, me and Mo and him, like we always did, at the diner. He and Mo’d been over to the Castle site and George was just as happy as could be. Said he had found the answers to all his problems.”
April wanted to get the conversation back to Frankie. Hearing about old men’s fears of nursing homes wasn’t what she was after.
An arm snaked around Curly’s shoulders. Lyle’s sharp jaw came into view. “So where are the sidewalk supervisors headed next? Don’t tell me. That sewer replacement job in Butler, am I right? I can’t compete with the heavy equipment.”
Curly smiled sheepishly.
“Nothing like digging up a street to get all the boys out,” Lyle told April. “They’re convinced they can help things along, if the Ditch Witch gets stuck.”
Curly’s eyes lit up and his head began to wobble dangerously again. “Have you seen the new one? It goes like a mother—”
“Yeah, Curly, I’ve seen it,” Lyle interrupted.
He gave Curly a smile and glanced at April. He was holding a red Solo paper cup. April could smell the liquor in it. She hadn’t seen a bar, but there must be one somewhere. She looked for Tammy, expecting her to join her husband, but April didn’t see her. April remembered some folks thought she’d been responsible for his death at the nursing home.
“Tammy not here?” she asked Lyle.
He shook his head, saying unconvincingly, “Migraine.”
Curly said, “I was just telling Miss Buchert here how happy George was on Tuesday.”
“George was?” Lyle said, his smile fading. His eyes searched Curly’s.
“Sure, he came back from the job site, just as happy as a kid.”
“I think he was excited that he was going to see something blow up. That George liked a big bang as much as anybody,” Lyle said with a wink.
Curly laughed lasciviously. “That he did.”
April said, “Well, you must know, Lyle. You saw him Tuesday, didn’t you? The day before the explosion?”
Lyle shook his head as if searching his memory. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I thought my dad said you were there, doing something with the dynamite.”
Lyle disagreed. “I wasn’t there.” His eyes got misty. “I didn’t see George at all before he died, sadly. The last I saw him was on the Donnybrook job the week before.”
“Oh, that was a good one,” Curly said. “With the big backhoe.” He rubbed his hands together in glee. April looked at Lyle, who shrugged and smiled.
“These old guys got to get their kicks somehow,” Lyle said. “The bigger the equipment, the bigger the thrill.”
April laughed. Curly enjoyed being teased by Lyle, that much was clear.
And he gave as good as he got. “You get yours blowing stuff up. At this stage, all I can do is watch.”
Curly looked off in the distance. The line at the buffet was three deep, and people were sitting in chairs lined up in rows, scarfing down potato salad and Jell-O. The business of burying a friend was an appetite-building one. Several men were passing a flask. In the room, the women and the men were in separate groups, the women arguing over the amount of sugar in the coleslaw and the men disagreeing about how much rain had been forecast.
