Mourning After
The Funeral Fakers, Book 4
Stephanie Damore
© 2018, Stephanie Damore.
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
To Sheri,
For working your magic
this time and every time.
Thank you.
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
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
More from Sweet Promise
More from this Series
About the Author
1
“First, second, third, fourth.”
I said each number as the car ground from gear to gear.
“That will show him to make fun of my abilities. Think I can’t drive a stick? Watch me.”
Traffic came to a stop. I bit my bottom lip, realizing the stoplight was at a steep incline. I did not want to roll back into the car behind me. Driving the sports car had been much easier on the open road. Give me straight highways any day to maneuvering the mountains of North Carolina.
The traffic light turned green, and I lifted my foot off the clutch while simultaneously pushing down on the accelerator.
The car revved forward with the full power of its eight cylinders. “Whoops, a bit too much gas.” I quickly jumped forward a couple of gears to bring the RPMs under control.
For not the first time since coming into the Smoky Mountains, I thought about how much money the zippy car would fetch me.
A parting gift was how Bradley had worded it.
As if I was retiring or willfully walking away.
And it wasn’t the truth. Not a gift.
Hush money.
He might as well have said, “Take the car and leave. Don’t ever come back.”
Not that there was anything left for me in New York City. Not now. I couldn’t even mount the energy to contemplate a comeback when I was still reeling from the backlash. Not that I had struck it big, but man, I was close. So close. People had started to notice me. The people that mattered—directors, producers, the press. I was going to be somebody.
And now I wasn’t.
I refused to let any more tears fall on the matter. Not now, when I was driving this beast and one slip of the accelerator would have me rocketing into the car in front of me. Besides, crying ruined my mascara, and I wasn’t prepared to have a makeup overhaul on the side of the road, so I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the traffic.
Outside my window, the small town of Bakers, North Carolina, located just outside of Asheville, welcomed me home.
Home.
Even those words sounded foreign. It had been so long since I had considered any place home. I didn’t even know where that was anymore. I wondered when that feeling would lift or if I would stick around long enough to let it.
Probably not.
The truth of the matter was Gran was the only family member who hadn’t said told you so when I announced I was leaving acting. So, off to Gran I went.
Thankfully, Gran’s house wasn’t hard to find. It was tucked into a little retirement community called Pleasant View. Here the houses appeared uniform in their single-story design with their postage-stamp yards that I was sure maintenance took care of, and concrete back patios set for entertaining. Gran’s home was on the first street when you entered the community. Her little smart car was parked in the driveway. It was cute and spunky, just like her. I parked the Porsche at the curb and started to get out.
“Coming to ask Mother for more money?”
The middle-aged woman’s voice caught me off guard. For a second, I thought she was talking to me until I turned around and saw another woman walking down the sidewalk. The first woman appeared to be leaving Gran’s house while the other was just arriving, but as to who they were, I had no clue. What I did know was that if I had been doing a study on opposites, I imagine this is what it would look like. The first woman was polished and put together—black dress pants, white silk blouse, and black heels with the jewelry to match. The other was a sloppy mess—white sweatpants, black tank top with a bleach stain splashed down the front, black flip-flops, sans jewelry. I’d guess their ages to be somewhere between forty and fifty. It was too hard to tell from this far away.
I hung back and pretended to retrieve my bags from the car.
“What are you doing here?” the sloppy woman snapped in reply.
“Not that it’s your business, but I gave Mother a ride. Mabel’s granddaughter just got into town. They’re having a party. Bet you’ll like that.”
I stopped with my head ducked inside my car at mention of Gran’s name. She hadn’t mentioned a party, but that didn’t surprise me. Gran loved to entertain. Welcoming me home would be just the excuse she’d need to bust out the bubbly.
“Shut up, Gwen.”
“Make me,” the polished woman shot back. “Besides, what are you doing here? It’s not like you were invited.”
“I just got off work. Thought I’d stop by Mabel’s and see if she needed a hand.”
“Nice uniform,” the woman said under her breath. “And like I believe that. The day you become charitable is the day pigs fly. Just head on home. No one needs your problems, and that’s all you’ve got.”
“When did you become so nasty? Is that why Jim left you? Wait, no, that wasn’t it now was it?” The sloppy woman folded her arms across her chest and just glared.
“Why you … I swear, if it wasn’t for Mother—”
“You’d what, Gwen? C’mon, let’s hear it. What’s that?” The woman let the silence hang in the air. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. If anyone should just head on home, it’s you. Go on home to your sad, lonely little life.”
“Whatever, Roseanne. I do just fine on my own,” Gwen said, tossing her shiny brown and silver locks over her shoulder and revealing a designer handbag. Between the handbag and the oversized sunglasses perched on her head, I had to believe she was telling the truth. If her accessories were any indication, her life was just fine.
“You just keep telling yourself that,” Roseanne said over her shoulder as she walked up to Gran’s house. The combination of walking and talking was a disaster. Roseanne ended up tripping on the front step and landing face-first on the concrete. I temporarily forgot my ruse and left my bags in my car, jogging across the street to see if she needed any help.
“You’re such a mess. It’s embarrassing.” Gwen started to walk toward her sister.
“Go away. You’re the last person I need help from.” Roseanne had rolled onto her backside and wiped her palms on her pants.
“You okay?” I asked, not even apologizing for my intrusion.
Gwen inspected her manicure, unconcerne
d. “I’m sure she’s fine. Don’t let her try and milk you for any sympathy.”
I, on the other hand, couldn’t hide my shock. Roseanne’s palms were bleeding, and I was sure her wrists had to be aching from bracing herself. These women weren’t senior citizens, but they weren’t spring chickens either. Heck, I was in my twenties and knew a fall like that would have me smarting.
“I’m fine. I don’t need anyone’s help,” Roseanne shot back to both us. Again, I was shocked by the woman’s attitude. What was with these ladies? Roseanne turned and walked up the front steps the rest of the way and disappeared inside Gran’s house.
Gwen rolled her eyes and clicked the doors open on the Mercedes parked at the curb in front of my fancy pants car.
“Nice car,” she said to me with a wink.
“Oh, thanks.”
She clicked away in her heels before I could say anything else.
I wasn't sure what to expect when I walked in the door to Gran’s, but it certainly wasn't a dozen or so senior citizens each holding a glass of peach-colored champagne, ready to toast my arrival. The bubbly matched the peach and cream interior of Gran’s living room and somehow managed to complement the turquoise silk tracksuit she was wearing.
“Woo-wee, there’s my girl!” Gran said when she spotted me. “Everyone, this is my granddaughter I've been telling you so much about.”
There was a round of welcomes and smiles while I mentally fought to switch from the confrontation outside to the party within.
“Harold, grab our guest of honor a glass of champagne. Maven, you come over here and give me some love,” Gran said.
She wrapped me in a full embrace and in that one second, I felt more love than I had the whole previous year in the Big Apple.
“Where is Harold? Oh, over flirting with Greta again. That man.” No matter the words, Gran’s voice was full of admiration. He caught Gran’s eye and winked.
“On it,” he replied, apparently having heard Gran’s request. Harold was short in stature and moved faster than I had expected for a man with a humped back and a cane. Far too soon, he handed me my own glass of champagne.
“Here go, darlin’.”
I thanked him and readily accepted the crystal glass. Leave it to Gran to celebrate in style.
“My pleasure.” Harold might be ancient, but his Appalachian drawl was as fresh as could be.
"To Maven—welcome home, sweetie.” Gran lifted her glass into the air, and her friends followed suit. I was speechless and thankful no one was expecting a speech. If I were Gran, I would have had more than a few words prepared. It was just her style. It used to be mine, too. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get that back.
The group accepted my smile in response. I took a sip from my glass and raised my eyebrows in appreciation. Peach moscato was a favorite of mine, as most of the sweet wines were.
"Now let me introduce you to everyone." Gran slipped her arm through mine, and I willingly allowed her to steer me about the room.
“Harold you met. He’s a charmer. You need anything—a dinner date, a movie date—give him a call. He’ll be sure you have a good time.” Gran winked and Harold chuckled. My intuition told me there was something between him and Gran, but I didn’t say anything.
“This is my next-door neighbor, Greta. She makes the finest black forest cake in all of Bakers.”
“Yes, it is very good. It was my grandmother’s recipe. I only wish I could make it more often.” Greta had a slight accent punctuating the consonants, making them sound thicker. German perhaps? I was sure Gran would fill me in tonight over coffee. That’s one thing I could never do—drink caffeine before bed—but my Gran made a pot of coffee every night and drank half of it before bed. At least she used to. I’m assuming she still did.
I didn’t even have a chance to politely reply to Greta before Gran carted me off in another direction. It was then that I spotted Roseanne through the kitchen doorway, rummaging around in drawers and cupboards, clearly looking for something. The way she moved about the kitchen told me she was familiar with the place. As to who she was exactly, I had no idea. I thought about excusing myself to give her hand, but then I remembered her short temper and the way she had snapped at me outside just moments ago and decided to give her some space.
Gran followed my line of sight.
“That’s Hazel’s youngest,” Gran said, waving the woman away. Now Hazel I knew. She was Gran’s right-hand gal pal. Those two ladies were trouble of the best kind. They had made the trip up to New York City when I starred in an off-Broadway adaption of Hairspray. A very off-Broadway adaptation. Okay, it was dinner theater, but that still counted, right?
“Be careful around her. She’s a rough one. Into drugs.” Gran kept her voice low.
Roseanne opened another kitchen drawer.
“Hope she’s not nicking the silver again,” Gran said, more annoyed than anything.
Wow, I mouthed. Roseanne settled for a glass from the cupboard and turned toward the sink to fill it. It looked like Gran’s utensils were safe for now.
“Her sister is Jen?” I asked.
“Gwen. Have you met her?” Gran tilted her head in question.
“Not officially. They got into it a bit as I was pulling up,” I confessed.
Gran waved my comment away. “Those two are always on the outs. Oil and water. Poor Hazel.”
“Poor me what?” Hazel asked, joining us. The only difference between her and my gran was that Hazel’s tracksuit was purple and her hair was white while Gran’s was Miss Clairol’s Apricot Glaze.
“Those girls of yours,” Gran replied.
“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll take all the sympathy I can get. You got any gin?” Hazel eyed her glass of champagne suspiciously.
“You know I do. Make me one while you’re at it.”
“Well, yeah. How about you, sweetheart?” Hazel asked me.
I scrunched my nose in response. I couldn’t even stand the smell of gin. There would be no dirty martinis in my future. Well, unless they were made with vodka.
“Our girl here can’t stomach the spirits,” Gran responded.
“Oh, I can stomach plenty of them, just not gin,” I countered.
“More for us,” Hazel said with a smile and trotted off to the bamboo liquor cabinet against the dining room wall.
Gran was introducing me to another set of guests when Roseanne walked out of the kitchen. I smiled politely and watched as she popped two pills into her mouth.
“They’re Tylenol,” she said to me with the pills between her teeth as if I were judging her.
“Okay.” I tried to act as if I couldn’t care less, but it was hard with the amount of hostility the woman gave off. I could have asked how her wrist was, or if there was anything I could get her, but truth be told, the woman was not nice. She rubbed me the wrong way, and I found myself wishing she would leave soon. I felt awful about that. Perhaps the big city had rubbed off on me more than I’d like to admit. It was going to take a bit for me to adjust to small town living again. And Bakers was small. The wooden sign I passed when I drove into town read “Population 600,” and I was pretty sure Gran knew all of them. It was just her way.
Roseanne snarled and continued to walk toward her mom, who was fixing gin and tonics by the look of the ingredients. Roseanne took the liquor bottle from her mom and poured herself a healthy glass. I tried not to stare, but the woman was such a train wreck, it was hard not to. I found other people watching as well—keeping Roseanne in their line of sight. Oh yeah, there was a story here.
Roseanne bent down and whispered something in her mom’s ear. Whatever it was, Hazel seemed exasperated.
“Again? I told you this was the last time. You have a job now. You have to start paying for things on your own.” Even though Hazel was lecturing Roseanne, she still fished some dollar bills out of her pants pocket and handed them to her daughter.
It was probably the worst moment for Gwen to reappear, but that’s exactly what happened.
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“Mother, how many times have I told you to quit enabling her. She’s never going to learn.” Gwen spoke as if her sister wasn’t even present.
“Eat dirt,” Roseanne shot back.
“Oh, are you cooking again?” Gwen replied sarcastically.
My eyes darted between Roseanne and Gwen before settling on Hazel, who looked absolutely mortified. The poor woman.
"Shut your mouth, Gwen. No one asked for your opinion. Why are you back?”
"I left my cell phone behind. I’m just swinging by to pick it up. Not that I need your permission.”
I turned away from the two sisters, who continued to bicker back-and-forth, and I felt mighty sorry for Hazel. She was clearly the loser in this case, having two kids who appeared to despise one another. I never considered it this way, but perhaps it was fortunate that I was an only child. I’m pretty sure worrying that I would’ve hated my sibling never factored into my parents’ decision. It was hard to be a jet-setter with a family in tow, and caregivers were more inclined to let you drop off one child on their doorstep.
“New York City. Well, I’ve been fixin’ to get back up there for ages but just haven’t been able to swing it.” Harold laughed nervously as he rejoined me. He seemed different somehow from a few minutes ago. I wasn’t sure, but his accent had a slight tremble to it. Sweat started to bead on his bald head and roll down. Seeing he was only five feet tall, the top of his head was clearly in view. I watched his eyes flicker to Roseanne and Gwen, who were still battling it out despite Hazel’s plea for them to knock it off or take it outside.
“Not a fan of confrontation?” I offered up.
“No, not even a little bit.” Harold pulled at the collar of his turtleneck to give himself some air.
Mourning After Page 1
