The Grass is Always Greener and other stories

by Sandra Balzo

As the officer walked me into the house, I caught sight of a reflection in the mirrored storm door. A big, sandy-haired man in police uniform. And a shriveled, shuffling old man in his underwear.

  Daddy?

  -The End-

  My Best Friend's Funeral

  by Sandra Balzo

  Philosopher George Santayana once said, "An invitation to the dance is not rendered ironical because the dance cannot last forever."

  That "dance" George is talking about is life. He figured that wasting the time you do have on this earth, worrying about the time you don't have, is...well, George called it "ironical."

  Me? I call it stupid--though, admittedly, lucrative.

  You see, I plan parties. For the dead.

  I know what you're thinking--that maybe I'm one of those guys on TV hawking "pre-planned" funerals. You know: Pick your box, pick your plot. Now what's for lunch?

  That's not me. I'm a special event planner, and what could be more special, I ask people, than the day you kick-off?

  My clients pay me big bucks to make sure they leave this earthly dance on happy feet. Want to be shot up in rocket? Easy. Carried out to sea in a bottle, while bikini-clad mourners get lei-ed on shore? No problem. Relax and enjoy the afterlife secure from nuclear fall-out, acid rain, or--once--Kryptonite? Got you covered. At the moment, I was working with a woman who loved the old Andy Griffith show and wanted her funeral at a bed-and-breakfast that was an exact replica of Sheriff Andy Taylor's house in Mayberry. For an extra $30,000, I had a line on getting her ashes a permanent spot on Aunt Bee's dresser.

  My office door is stenciled in gold leaf, "Joe Cardigan's Going Out in Style: Funerals Done Your Way." Baby-boomers, especially, seem to love the idea they can micro-manage even the last item on their cosmic calendars. Control freaks, every one of them. And, God bless them, they have disposable income. It becomes even more disposable when they're dead. The hell with the kids--let's have a party.

  "I've been to way too many crappy funerals lately." The boomer across the table from me picked up his wine glass. "It's not until afterwards, when everybody is swapping stories in the bar across the street, that you feel like you even knew the poor schmuck who died."

  "Better to start off in the bar," I agreed, lifting my own glass in a salute. It was an interesting thought. Liquor licenses for funeral parlors? Quite the revenue stream, I would bet. "But you know what they say, Mr. Tazak. Funerals are for the living."

  "But not yours, right?"

  "The ones I plan, you mean?" I said, with a smile. "No. Mine are all about the client--the deceased."

  "I was at the gig you threw for Andrew Dunn," Frederick Tazak said. "Great party, not to mention a nice racket for you. By the time you actually do your job, you've been paid and the 'client' is dead." He set down his glass and pulled out a check for $100,000--fifty down and fifty to go into escrow for "the day of reckoning." The deceased, with his Maker. Me, with my accountant.

  "I've had very few complaints," I admitted, taking the check and setting it on top of my portfolio. I keep copious notes, detailing the arrangements and the people who provide them. That way I don't have to reinvent the wheel--or cryogenics lab--every time a request comes in.

  Tazak laughed. "You haven't met my wife. She'd go nuts if she knew I was paying you this kind of money."

  "Ahh, but your wife isn't my client. You are."

  "Yup, and it's worth every penny knowing I won't have to listen to her bitch that last time."

  "No, sir, you won't. That will be my job. So what's your pleasure? You want to be fed to sharks? Tossed off a mountain?" I nodded at his wine glass. "Maybe planted in your favorite vineyard, so your descendents can drink to your posthumous health?"

  "No descendents, and it's not the 'what' or the 'where,' so much as the 'who.' I have a guest list for you." He fished in the pocket of his khakis and came up with a folded sheet of lined paper, ragged from where it had been torn out of a notebook. "I want you to invite these lovers to my funeral. Think you can do that?"

  Believe it or not, it wasn't the first time I'd been asked Tazak's question. In fact, I'd come to think of it as a humane thing to do. I mean, mistresses need closure, too.

  "Sure," I said, reaching for the paper. "How many of them are there?"

  "Twelve."

  "An even dozen, huh?" I unfolded the list. "Of course, I can't be held accountable for the number who ultimately attend."

  "Understood. By the time you know who does come, God knows I won't be able to ask for a refund."

  I was looking over the list. All male names. "Is your wife aware you're bisexual?" I liked to know how far away I should be standing from the bereaved spouse when the shit hit the fan.

  He looked at me, confused for a second. Then it dawned on him. "No, no--these aren't men I had affairs with. They're ones my wife did."

  Oh, now that made more sense. Or not. "Let me get this straight." I flattened out the paper on the table between us. "You want me to invite these men--your wife's lovers--to your funeral? Why in the world would they come?"

  "Oh, they're all friends of mine, too. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that power and money in this town are incestuous. We all know each other. Do business. Play golf. And, apparently, screw each other's wives."

  Tazak pointed to the first name on the list. "See Frank Gleason? He's my doctor. Next guy down, Marcus Datzer? My accountant. Raymond Cheney, my mechanic. Brian Colorez? He's a reporter on the Rocksville rag and my best friend since high school."

  Tazak sat back and shook his head. "My best friend," he repeated. "Can you believe that?"

  I didn't answer, thinking that I knew a thing or two about insidious "best friends."

  Tazak flashed a grin. "But you know what? Once I'm dead, this," he tapped the check, "ensures that you are my new best friend. And as such, you'll want to read a little something during the eulogy." He held out a sealed white envelope.

  A "little something," my ass. The guy wanted me to be the hammer nailing a cheating wife and her lovers at his own funeral. Still, I liked the idea of keeping your secrets sealed in a #10 envelope, to be read at the appropriate--or inappropriate--moment. I mean, confession is good for the soul, right? Did it matter if that soul was already separated from its body?

  I took the envelope, feeling a twinge of disloyalty. One of the names on Tazak's list belonged to Marcus Datzer. Marcus was my accountant, too, as well as my friend. Ever the businessman, though, I thought Marcus would understand. After all, ours is not to reason why, ours is to make a living.

  Off the dead.

  I just didn't know who all was going to be dead. Or how soon.

  ******

  How soon was 8 a.m. the next morning, or at least that's when the police detective knocked on the door of my office.

  I was in early, negotiating with Aunt Bee via cellphone. "Okay, if not on the dresser, how about a dustbin?" I asked, as I made for the door. "You must have one for authenticity--right? You can just throw the ashes in there."

  I nodded at the female officer's badge and unlocked the door. "Listen," I said into the phone. "I'm going to need to call you back. I know we can figure out something that will both fulfill this poor woman's dying wish and be in keeping with the dignity of your establishment." Maybe Opie had a sandbox.

  I flipped the cell phone closed. I'd never done a cop's funeral, though I once hired a stripper dressed as a cop to perform for the stiff. "Can I help you?"

  "Detective Christina Starck." She flashed me her ID.

  Starck looked to be about 30, wearing one of those dark pants suits cut like a guy's, but in this case, worn with a little red v-neck number underneath. Just enough cleavage showing to make sure everyone knew she wasn't one of the guys.

  Starck said, "I'm looking for information on one of your customers. He's dead."

  I pointed toward the lettering on the door. "'Fraid you'll have to be a little more specific."

  The detective stepped in and pulled a slim pad from her pocket
. "Right. I guess all of your customers are dead."

  I smiled. "Not as many as you would think. My clients book their funerals ahead. They might live for another thirty years."

  Starck checked her notes. "Or die within a year, and this one was three-hundred-sixty-four days and twenty-three hours shy of even that." She looked up. "Frederick Tazak, remember him? He wrote you a check for a hundred thousand dollars yesterday."

  I didn't point out, as I usually did when this subject came up, that people who plan their funerals are usually acutely aware of their own mortality--some with good reason. Still, Tazak's death was too quick for comfort. I hadn't even sent the check to Datzer to divvy up between my account and escrow. I needed to really hustle to contact all the lovers in time. After the funeral home picked up the body, I'd--

  "Mr. Cardigan?"

  "Yes, sorry. I was thinking of the arrangements. I usually have a little more lead time."

  "So Mr. Tazak did pay you one hundred thousand dollars yesterday?"

  "He did."

  "Do you still have that check?"

  What was this all about? Did Starck think I killed the guy? "Yes. I just met with him last night. I haven't had a chance to pass it on to my accountant." I explained about the half upfront and the half in escrow. "So how did he die?"

  "Car accident." She was practically staring a hole through me. "He was on his way home from seeing you, and his brakes failed."

  "So...what? You think I somehow tampered with his car in the parking lot while I was talking to him inside the restaurant? Pretty tough to do."

  "You wouldn't have had to do it yourself. At least that's what the widow said when I showed her the carbon of the check he wrote you."

  Ahh, the widow. No doubt the cheating whore wanted her money back. "And sent him to the other side before I cashed his check? However would I pay the contract killer?" I gave a little grin, just enough to soften the comment and slide it from sarcastic to facetious.

  An echoing grin played around the edges of Starck's mouth. "Good point. You don't look like a stupid man."

  I liked to think I was smart enough, at least, to be willing to cut my losses if circumstances required it. I pulled the check out of my desk drawer. "Here's the check Mr. Tazak gave me. You can tell his wife that if she doesn't want to use my services, we're even."

  Starck didn't reach for it. Probably figured if I didn't physically have the check it would be tough to prove I killed Tazak for it, as crazy as that sounded. "That's between you and Mrs. Tazak for now," she said.

  I shrugged and set the check down, then saw another piece of paper on the desk. It was the list Tazak had given me and, next to it, the sealed envelope with his eulogy. I started to pick up the list, thinking I would give Starck twelve suspects, as well as the cheating widow, to think about. Then I changed my mind.

  "I'm not sure what else I can tell you," I said to Starck. "Mr. Tazak and I had dinner, talked about the arrangements, and he paid me. We left the restaurant at about nine-thirty, and he got into his car and drove off. Everything seemed fine."

  "Until fifteen minutes later when he overshot the curve on Lake Drive and went off the bluff."

  It was nasty curve and an even nastier bluff, though likely a quick way to go. "And you're sure it was the brakes?" I asked. "He did have a couple of glasses of wine."

  "It was the brakes," Christina Starck said, starting for the door and then hesitating. The "afterthought" question, just like on TV. "So what kind of 'arrangements' did Tazak pay you a hundred thousand for?"

  I held up my hands apologetically. "'Fraid I can't say. I'm an attorney as well, and 'client confidentiality' provides additional peace of mind. It's one of the reasons my clients are willing to pay top dollar."

  "Confidentiality, huh?" Starck mused, turning away. "Now why would a dead man need that?"

  ******

  In truth, the confidentiality benefited the live man--that would be me--more than the dead one. Many an heir or surviving spouse had problems with the way the dearly departed had spent his or her money on the way out. Cryogenics, space shuttles and all that jazz cost big bucks, bucks that the family thought could be better spent on...well, them.

  Pointing out I was an attorney, presumably protected by confidentiality privileges, put a quick end to the snooping. In reality, someone might try to make a case that my clients were consulting me as a glorified party-planner, not an attorney. Let 'em try. There was only one person besides yours truly who knew whether the deceased was aware I was an attorney and, therefore, had an expectation of privacy. And he wasn't talking.

  All of which is a long way 'round to explaining why I didn't have much of an ethical problem calling on Mrs. Tazak, cheaters-list in hand. I was going there, ostensibly, to generously offer her the check. My real purpose, though, was to let her know I knew she'd been unfaithful, and that it gave her a better reason for wanting her husband dead than I certainly had. Given that, I figured she would back off.

  I had it a little wrong.

  "Have you lost your mind?" Doris Tazak asked, after a quick glance at the list. "Do I look like a 'black-widow' for God's sake?"

  At five-feet tall, with white hair and pink dimples, Mrs. Tazak was not at all the femme fatale I'd expected.

  "Listen," I said. "I have no idea what was going on between your husband and you or even how long you were married. Maybe this," I pointed at the list, "happened years ago."

  Mrs. Tazak shook her head sadly, and waved me into the house. "I didn't cheat on him once," she said, settling heavily into a chair. "Not once."

  I cocked my head toward the list. "That's not what he thought."

  "Don't get me wrong." She folded up the paper, but didn't hand it back to me, instead tapping her chair with a corner of it. "Life with Fred was no picnic. He was always jealous and, as we grew older, that got worse. Sometimes the man made me crazy, but he was my husband."

  I wasn't sure what to say, but it didn't matter, as Mrs. Tazak was still talking. "Fred and I were married for thirty years. Fred's mom and dad? For fifty. The Tazaks are very long-lived, you know. Fred's father is ninety-five. His grandfather and great uncles all made it past a hundred--outlived their wives, each and every one." Under her breath, she added, "Poor women never had a day of peace to themselves."

  I cleared my throat. Like I said, I know when to cut my losses. "As far as the funeral. If you don't--"

  "No." She extended the folded list to me. "Take this, and invite all these men. If this is Fred's last wish--his last fantasy--then let him have it. He deserves that, at least."

  I took the paper and stood up. "If that's what you want, Mrs. Tazak." I started to the door and then turned. My equivalent of the detective's "afterthought." "By the way, the police said you think I might have something to do with--"

  Mrs. Tazak waved me off as she opened the door. "I'm sorry about that. I was just so upset. When Detective Starck showed me that check carbon, I said the first thing that came into my mind."

  "Understood. And I'll do right by your husband. As you did."

  Mrs. Tazak closed the door. As I walked down the steps of the porch, I heard what sounded like sobbing coming from inside the house.

  ******

  "Doris Tazak??"

  I was sitting in the office of Marcus Datzer, CPA. Snappy dresser, shaved head.

  Marcus continued with, "Fred thought I was screwing the old lady?"

  "In a sexual way, Marcus. God knows you screw all your clients somehow." I finished endorsing the back of the check and slid it across the desk to him. "But honestly, I think Tazak was just a lunatic. I opened the letter I'm supposed to read at the funeral, and it's an illegible rant. I think the guy had a screw loose."

  "Then it was the only thing 'loose' about him," Marcus said with a grin. "I've never known anybody tighter, money-wise. He and Doris were in my office last week to talk about the tax implications of selling stock."

  "Probably in order to come up with my fee," I said. Tazak was right:
We were an incestuous little group. My client goes to my accountant to get the funds to pay me. If Doris Tazak had been with her husband, though, she had to know what he was doing.

  But Marcus was shaking his head. "No, he never did sell the stock, even though he obviously did pay you." He waved the check. "I spent an hour explaining the tax laws and how they would have to cough up capital gains on the difference between what they originally paid for the stock--the cost basis--and what they sold it for. When Fred finally understood me, he walked out. The wife was disappointed, I could tell. I think she had in mind to have some fun with their money for once."

  "A waste," I said, rising. "Why have money if you won't use it? Makes me feel almost noble about what I do."

  Marcus came around his desk to see me to the door. "The good news is that with Fred dead, the cost-basis reverts to date-of-death value. That means Doris can sell that stock tomorrow and pay practically nothing in taxes. With their holdings, it will make a huge difference."

  I stopped so abruptly that Marcus ran into me. "Did she know that?" I asked, turning.

  He nodded slowly. "It's part of the canned spiel I give when counseling someone on stock sales. Hey, you don't think...?"

  "What I think is that you and I have to talk." I did a three-sixty, and we went back into his office.

  ******

  I had a lot on my mind when I finally did leave Marcus, so I was even less excited about finding a police detective waiting at my office than I'd normally be. And that was saying something.

  "Detective Starck," I said, unlocking the door to let us both in. "Did you need something else?"

  She didn't follow me. "I understand you stopped by to see Mrs. Tazak. You must have really charmed her. She seems to be completely happy to have you handle the funeral. Even apologized for accusing you of having something to do with her husband's death."

  "Does that mean I'm off the hook?"

  She smiled grimly. "You would be off the hook, anyway. Mr. Tazak's accident appears to have been just that--an accident. He had some work done on his brakes recently."

  Likely by another member of our little circle--and name on Tazak's list--Raymond Cheney. "Is the garage liable?"