by Sam Cheever
Mourning Commute
The Funeral Fakers, Book 2
Sam Cheever
© 2018, Sam Cheever.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Sweet Promise Press
PO Box 72
Brighton, MI 48116
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Sneak Peek
More from Sweet Promise
More from this Series
More from Sam Cheever
About the Author
1
I tucked the tiny bottle of fake tears more deeply into my tissue and sniffed daintily, scoping out the assembled crowd of mourners with a practiced eye. My baby blues caught on a handsome, dark-haired man standing back from the rest, and I did one of those embarrassing jerk-away things with my eyes, hoping he didn’t notice me noticing him again.
He totally noticed me.
He’d been staring at me since I’d arrived at the viewing an hour earlier. And his expression was anything but friendly. Somehow my eyes kept traveling to him, though I swear on the life of my spunky Pomeranian, Shakespeare, that it was pure accident.
I wasn’t ogling the mourners.
Really, I wasn’t.
Of its own volition, my gaze accidentally slipped over the spot where he’d been again, and I blinked.
He was gone.
To cover my surprise, I turned to the elderly woman next to me and let my bottom lip quiver. I gave a practiced little sob and squeezed the fake tears in my tissue just as a big hand landed on my shoulder.
I yelped, gripped the tiny bottle as if it was the only thing keeping me from plunging a thousand feet off a bridge to my death, and then yelped again as I shot a stream of faux sadness right into one wide blue eye.
Fake tears ran like the River Jordan down my artificially pale cheek. “Oh!” I exclaimed as I tried to deal with the mess.
I jerked around to eye the owner of the hand and forgot how to speak.
Across the room he’d been yummy, definitely an eight-star performance on opening night. But up close and personal, Mr. Hostile was a solid fifteen stars, with a good three-minute standing ovation added in.
Even with the glare on his face.
I couldn’t help wondering why he seemed so angry with me. Surely it wasn’t because I was ogling him at the viewing of the man who was supposed to be my boyfriend. I gave that one a few moments of thought.
Nah. That couldn’t be it.
Hostile Hottie stuck the hand he’d accosted me with in front of my face, all but daring me to shake it. “Eddie Deitz.”
I blinked. “Huh?” Brilliant, MayBell. Oscar-worthy response.
My poor tissue was swamped with fake tears, and there were more of them trailing down one cheek. I couldn’t seem to get them under control. So, I decided to embrace the dramatic substance of the moment. I quivered my bottom lip and sniffled behind the lump of saturated tissue.
Accepting his challenge, I placed a limp paw into his and allowed it to be pumped. “MayBell Ferth. It’s a pleasure.”
Ugh! I wanted to kick myself. Who says that at a funeral? Jeezopete!
His gorgeous green gaze narrowed slightly, bringing my attention to the thick fringe of black lashes framing his eyes.
I’d do a year’s worth of PiYo classes to have lashes like that. And that was saying something because I hated PiYo with the power of a thousand suns.
“Is there something wrong with your eye?” he asked.
I mopped ineffectually at the fake tears with my soggy tissue. “Um, no, I’m just sad.”
Stupid, May. Stupid.
His expression told me he didn’t believe I was sad out of only one eye. I couldn’t blame him for his skepticism.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. But even though it sounded for all the world like a come on, the hostility in his gaze didn’t support that hypothesis.
Nodding, I cast a look toward the open casket across the room and sniffled. “Josh and I had only dated a few weeks.” I could feel Eddie’s gaze on me. It was beyond hostile. I felt as if he was accusing me of something.
Like lying about having dated his…Josh.
Mr. Eddie Deitz was looking at me like I’d been caught standing next to Colonel Mustard in the library clutching the bloody murder weapon.
Nerves jangling under his regard, I shoved a loose dark gold curl back into the chignon I’d forced my heavy hair into for the viewing.
“You dated?” he asked, one dark brow peaking in surprise.
My smile was the perfect mix of sad and nostalgic, with a touch of regret thrown in for good measure. “Yes. I’m going to miss him so much.” He eyed the lump of soggy tissue in my hand, no doubt noting the way all the fibers had melded together into a single slightly scary science experiment with a telltale, bottle-shaped lump in the center.
“Funny.” Eddie Deitz leaned one broad shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his well-cut chest. “Josh never mentioned you.”
At that point, I was actually pretty proud of my performance. I allowed tears to leak from my eyes. Both of them. And took a deep, shaky breath. “Our love was new. Delicate. We weren’t talking about it yet.”
Scraping the drenched remains of my tissue under my nose, I tried to catch a glimpse of Eddie Deitz from under my lashes. My “not nearly as thick and long as his” lashes.
He was still eyeing me like I should be wearing prison orange.
“Eddie. How are you, son?”
Mr. Deitz and I jerked around to find the father of the deceased heading our way. I was torn between relief and guilt.
Had Mr. Mitner caught me ogling the mourners? Well, to be fair, not every mourner. Just the extremely grumpy Mr. Deitz.
Alex Mitner dropped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. I fought the guilt, trying to decipher if the squeeze was a silent reprimand. Something along the lines of, “How dare you molest the mourners when I’m paying you to pretend you’re my son’s girlfriend.”
Had he squeezed a bit harder than necessary?
“How are you holding up, May?”
I let a tear slide from my eyes and nodded, sniffling. The smile I gave him was sad, touched with regret, and had a tinge of romantic longing peppered in for good measure.
I think it was some of my best work.
Mr. Mitner seemed to like it. He gave me another squeeze and nodded as if he understood.
Eddie Deitz didn’t look convinced by my performance.
Le sigh… Everybody’s a critic.
“I was just tel
ling MayBell that Josh had never mentioned her to me,” Deitz said.
Mr. Mitner’s mouth turned grim. “I’m sure there were a lot of things you two didn’t discuss. You haven’t been around much lately.”
And just like that, the tension spiked into the stratosphere. I forgot to pretend to mourn for a beat as I looked from one to the other of the two men, trying to read their body language.
It was something that I was pretty good at doing. Excellent really. And I credited it with a lot of my success as an actor. I could ascertain the most microscopic emotions in a human expression…decipher the smallest reaction in body language. Then I used that information to strengthen the roles I undertook in Community Theater.
Or, at least, I had. Until I quit recently because I couldn’t stand the politics and personal drama anymore. I was currently working for a professional mourning company named Exit Stage Left. It was a much better gig overall. Even if I was occasionally distracted by the motives, emotions, and unwitting cues of the people around the deceased.
Right at that moment, the father of the deceased was rigid with anger, as if he blamed Mr. Deitz for his son’s death. And Mr. Deitz seemed cool as a cucumber. Too cool, I thought. Given that he’d apparently been close to Joshua Mitner in some capacity.
“I have a job to do, Alex. I’m sorry I couldn’t devote every day to babysitting Josh.”
My client turned to stone before my very eyes. His fists clenched into boulders at his sides, and his broad jaw transformed to granite. He beamed rage toward a seemingly unconcerned Mr. Deitz.
Apparently, Mr. Eddie Deitz had hostility only for me.
“I’m sure Josh wouldn’t have wanted a babysitter,” I said before realizing what I’d done.
Never, never, never take sides against the client.
Stupid, stupid, May.
What had I done?
Mr. Mitner’s granite jaw tensed for a moment and then, incredibly, softened. He rubbed a hand over it, sighing. “You’re right, my dear. I’m so sorry, Ed. That was unfair of me. I’m just so…” Genuine emotion swamped the older man and his shoulders rounded beneath it. He seemed to crumble before my very eyes.
I found myself reaching for him. Wrapping my arms around him and giving him what comfort I could. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Mitner.”
He took a long, shuddering breath and pulled out of my embrace, nodding. Though his steely gray eyes were shiny with tears, he somehow willed the drops not to fall.
Alex Mitner sniffed loudly, dragging a hand under his slightly oversized nose. “Thank you, May. That’s very kind of you.” Mitner scanned Eddie a quick look and then fixed an intense gaze on me. “Especially since you have your own grief to manage.” He held my gaze just a beat longer than necessary, and I caught his message.
I’d veered perilously close to stepping out of character.
Patting his arm, I nodded. “We take comfort being with others who share our pain.”
He seemed to like that. Nodding brusquely, he offered Eddie his hand. “Come by the house after? We’re just having close friends and family over.”
Eddie nodded. “Of course.”
We watched him return to his wife, who was so distraught she’d slumped into a chair when they’d first arrived and hadn’t risen from it yet. Her face was an unhealthy color, and her eyes were rimmed with red. I didn’t think she’d stopped crying since entering the viewing room.
If I hadn’t been warned by Ruthie Colburn, the owner of Exit Stage Left, not to interact with Joshua’s mother, I would have felt the need to console her too.
But apparently Mrs. Mitner wasn’t entirely on board with the whole “personal mourner” concept, and it was best not to rub her nose in it.
A warm hand encircled my arm and I turned to find Eddie staring down at me. He had a look in his eye that concerned me a lot.
Then he smiled, and icy fingers of fear slipped along my spine. “How about you and I go pay our respects to Josh. I don’t think I’ve seen you up there yet.”
He hadn’t. And dang him, I was hoping he wouldn’t. Not that I couldn’t do my part with the deceased in the casket; it was just that it was a delicate matter. The core of my performance. I preferred to do it when there’s no negativity staining my efforts.
And Mr. Eddie Deitz was about a hundred and eighty pounds of pure negativity.
2
I allowed Eddie to lead me to the casket, the soggy clump of tissue still clutched in my hand and fisted before my mouth for a dual purpose. It was a very effective sign of emotional turmoil, and it kept my fake tears handy in case thinking about gaining ten pounds just before swimsuit season didn’t bring tears to my eyes.
Though that usually worked.
Eddie kept throwing me looks as we approached. I wasn’t concerned. Having committed to the role, I was ready for him.
I was ready for anything.
I was super mourner. Hear me cry.
Eddie dropped my arm as we stopped beside the casket. His gaze slipped downward, a bit reluctantly I thought, and softened. One big hand found the side of the casket and the knuckles turned white.
His jaw tightened and tears shone in his dark green eyes.
I was watching him so carefully, gauging his reaction to seeing Joshua Mitner laid out for the viewing, that I nearly forgot to feign my own grief.
Whatever the relationship between the two men had been, Mr. Eddie Deitz was well and truly mourning Josh’s loss.
Without thinking, I reached out and clasped his hand, giving it a squeeze.
He lifted his drenched gaze to mine, surprise flitting quickly through it, and sniffled. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
I nodded, turning at last to the pale representation of a human lying in the casket.
It was clearly not Josh Mitner. Though I’d never met him in life, the form lying in that casket bore nothing of life in its shape and color.
It could just as easily have been a mannequin lying among the cream-colored satin.
Makeup and careful positioning just couldn’t mimic the vibrancy of existence. But I understood the need to see him one last time. Even if it wasn’t perfect, it was the last chance to say goodbye, to put differences behind and nurture the love that had been lost.
Unbidden, tears were sliding down my cheeks at the thought. It was one thing to practice pretending to be sad, and quite another to be faced with the reality of death and what it did to those left behind.
It was the people who’d loved Josh Mitner that I was crying for. My religious upbringing told me he was in a better place and didn’t need my tears.
“He looks terrible,” Eddie Deitz mumbled.
I swung a shocked gaze his way and saw his wide mouth turn up in a sad smile. “And he’d have been furious to find out they put makeup on him.”
I couldn’t help chuckling as I nodded my head. I didn’t know if it was true, but it certainly seemed likely given his choice of friends.
Of course, Eddie and Josh might not have been friends. They might have been lovers. Or they could have been related somehow. Cousins? But the difference in coloring was vast enough that it seemed unlikely.
Where Eddie was dark, with smoldering good looks that were only enhanced by his individual features…inky black hair combed straight back from a broad forehead, a full mouth filled with nearly perfect white teeth. One canine was missing the tip as if he’d been punched in the mouth or had fallen on his face once. Eddie’s thick black eyebrows were formed in a permanently judgmental slash over his forest green gaze.
A dark shadow covered his jaw and I couldn’t tell if it was intentional, or because it was after six o’clock in the evening. Just nature’s way of reminding him that he was thoroughly male.
He was a head taller than my own five feet nine and lean, though when he flexed his arm his biceps bulged nicely beneath the white button-down shirt he wore.
By contrast, I knew from photos of the deceased that Josh Mitner had been light-skinned, with
pale blue eyes that were over-scored by thick golden brows. His hair had been dark gold and so dense I figured he’d had trouble getting it to lie flat when he’d been alive. He was about the same height as Eddie Deitz, but leaner. Too lean, actually. As if he often forgot to eat. His bio described him as an accomplished athlete, a college basketball star with too much energy to sit still for very long.
Reading between the lines in his dossier, I’d formed a picture in my mind of an unfulfilled man whose existence hadn’t satisfied the constant ache for more, which he’d probably grappled with all his life. It was most likely the reason he’d catted around so much, traveling the world and being photographed with too many young women to count.
And why he’d never settled down with any one of them.
“He would have hated the way you’re looking at him right now,” Eddie said with a smile.
I blinked, wondering what my face had shown the very observant man. Shaking my head, I dragged the molded clump of residue that had once been a tissue under one eye. “I was just remembering how he was that last day…”
“When was that?” Deitz asked too quickly.
I panicked. I’d said too much. Gone too far. Those kinds of details weren’t part of my prep.
Fortunately, I was always over prepared. “We’d gone to the farmer’s market downtown,” I told him without missing a beat. “Josh was going to cook me breakfast. Frittatas. With green pepper, onion and goat cheese.”
Eddie’s gaze stayed on mine for a beat before he slowly nodded. “He did like to cook.”
I didn’t respond to that. Less was more. Just in case Josh had secretly confided to Eddie that he hated cooking and only pretended to do it to get girls or something. If I was going to be a sap for love, so be it. I could live with that.
