Chapter Sixteen
I wasn't particularly looking forward to attending Warren's 'visitation' at Isaac's Funeral Home Wednesday night, especially since I'd already had a couple of advance peeks at the guest of honor. Unfortunately, I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter; Mom had raised me 'right', and paying respect to the family of the deceased definitely falls under the category of the 'right' thing to do.
The visitation was scheduled to last from seven until eight-thirty and, since I'd worked another three to seven on-air shift, I was pretty rushed for time. I snuck out the back door of the station, managing to escape without another Herb encounter, and got home by a quarter after seven.
I was out of cans of glop for Delbert and had to give him some of that dry stuff which thoroughly irritated him. I limited my 'beauty' routine to a brief tooth brushing and a swipe of the hairbrush, having given up on the porcelain bisque.
Since the denim skirt and AKUS t-shirt I'd worn to work wasn't considered proper visitation attire, (according to the Maggie Sheffield rules of behavior and dress) I slipped on a short sleeve gray and white coatdress Mom had bought me for some occasion or another, and a pair of black leather Aerosole's, also a gift from Mom.
By eight o'clock, out of breath, and hungry, I was making a left off of Main Street into the parking lot of the squat red-brick building that serves as Isaac's Funeral Home. The lot was jam-packed with what appeared to be half the cars in Glenvar. I circled around the lot, waving to people and scoping for a place to park. Just when I was about to give up, I spied a couple of spots all the way at the back, next to a thicket of trees that serve as a barrier to the cemetery.
I backed into one of the spaces and climbed out. Vanessa beeped her horn and waved as she pulled into a space a couple of cars down from me. I tugged at the back of my dress, trying to unstick it from my sweaty legs
One of the bad things about owning a vintage automobile is the lack of A.C. Little rivulets of sweat trickled down the side of my face and the back of my neck. It was still hotter than hell and the mosquitoes practically ate me alive while I waited for Vanessa to get out of her van. There was a steady stream of people going in and coming out of the funeral home. I was surprised that Warren was getting such a big turnout.
"Look at you," I said, when Vanessa finally appeared by my side. "Your hair looks terrific!"
"Thanks!" She patted at her hair, super-short and freshly colored. No more gray roots, no more rats nest. "You were right. Charli knew just what to do. She had everything all planned and ready before I even woke up. The girl who does her hair came in early so no one would see me. She did a good job, didn't she?"
"Yes, she did. It suits you." It really did, the color was a little redder than she usually wore and the style took years from her face, emphasizing her cheekbones and calling attention to her unusual eyes. She had on a hunter green dress. Its color and design helped hide the fact that she was so thin.
We headed toward the building. From the outside, it looks almost exactly like the police station, or for that matter, any other plain, ordinary looking brick office building.
I'd talked to Charli Tuesday night after the softball game, and she'd told me about the haircut and assured me that Vanessa was okay. Still, I hadn't seen her or talked to her myself since Monday night.
"How are you feeling," I asked her.
"Much better, I guess." She fidgeted with her hair, smoothing it down in the back. "I just can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate everything you and Charli have done for me these last few days."
"Don't worry about it. You'd do the same thing for us." The back of my neck was soaked and I was beginning to wish that my hair was cut short, too.
I dug in my tote bag and found a napkin from a fast-food place to wipe the sweat off with. "Tim told me that they weren't going to charge you with anything for taking the watch."
"Thank God. Detective Luray talked to me for about three hours yesterday. I owe her big time. She really went to bat for me. I like her, she's nice."
I wrinkled my forehead. "Sure. Nice."
Vanessa narrowed her eyes and looked at me. "What's the matter? Don't you like her?"
"Oh, sure. Sure. It's just that, well, I don't know, she just seems sort of fake or something. Did you notice how she's always smiling? It's a little scary, if you ask me."
I waved to our parish priest who was getting into his car. "Hi Marty, Vanessa," he called out.
"Hey, Father," we hollered back.
I twisted the napkin around, making it into a little rope. "You'll never guess who has a thing for her! Tim! Can you believe it? She's not even his type."
Vanessa smiled. "Jealous?"
"Who me?" I tried to laugh, but it came out more of squeak. "No way. I just don't want to see Tim get hurt, that's all. You know how inexperienced he is when it comes to women. And, what lousy taste he usually has in them."
Vanessa smiled again. "Tim? Lousy taste? Sure, Marty, sure."
I opened my mouth to make a smart aleck remark, but we had reached the double glass doors leading into the funeral home, and several people from Mom's newspaper were coming out. We chatted with them before going inside.
The contrast in temperatures was unbelievable. They must have had the thermostat set on about forty degrees. Several people were standing around the lobby, talking quietly. Vanessa pulled on my arm and headed toward an elegant desk where a somber looking man in a gray suit sat, his hands neatly folded on top of the table.
"May I direct you, please?" he asked. His voice was so solemn, it made me feel like I should be crying.
"Wart, uh, I mean Warren Turner?" I said.
"Yes, madam, Mr. Turner is in parlor A. Right this way." He motioned to a set of double wooden doors to our left. "You will find the registration book directly inside to your right. Please be so kind as to sign it."
"Uh, okay, sure thing." I said.
Parlor A was about half-filled with people. There were twenty-three huge floral arrangements in the room. (I counted.) I sneezed and looked around, trying to find Tim and Charli. Or Zach. I didn't see them, but Nancy Winslow was standing by a monstrous wreath of red and white mums talking to several women I recognized as being softball players on the team Warren had coached. A red banner stretched across the wreath, 'COACH' spelled out in silver glitter.
Vanessa pecked me on the shoulder and bent close to my ear. Even though everyone was speaking softly, the noise level was about what you'd expect to find at a cocktail party. Only without the tinkling of glasses full of ice.
"I'm going to go speak to Beth and see if I can help her with anything tomorrow," she said.
"I think I'll wait, see if I can find Mom or Charli, before I talk to her. I'll see you later," I said, a little louder than I'd intended.
Several people looked up at me, frowning at my breach of etiquette. I ignored them, and glanced up to the front of the room, where Vanessa was joining in the line of people waiting to talk to Warren's family. Nancy Winslow had also joined the line, and was talking to Vanessa, waving her itty-bitty hands around in earnest. Vanessa looked uncomfortable, but kept a fake looking smile on her face.
Beth Turner and her in-laws stood to the left of the copper-colored casket, a bank of greenery and floral arrangements directly behind them. The lid of the casket was up and several elderly men and women were standing in front of it, looking in. An eight by ten high school graduation portrait of Warren, a softball hat labeled 'coach', and a bunch of other memorabilia sat on a polished mahogany table off to one side of the receiving line.
Beth was evidently using the occasion to put herself back on the market. Her eye-poppingly low cut, burgundy dress was short, tight, and showed off way more of her spectacular figure than seemed appropriate for the occasion. Her makeup was way over-done, more fitting for a street walker than a grieving widow. In fact, she looked like she was ready to hit up Big Beef’s, the local hook-up bar and dance club.
Mr. and Mr
s. Turner seemed dazed, as if they weren't quite sure where they were or why they were there. Occasionally, Mrs. Turner broke down and bawled. Each time, everybody in the place stopped talking, and turned around to stare at her. And every time her mother-in-law let loose, Beth cringed and tried to shush her.
"Just look at how that hussy is a acting. Her husband deader than a doorknob and she ain’t shed a tear one. Next thing you know she'll be out gallivanting all over the town with ever last man there is. You just mark my word," a woman behind me said.
"I heard tell that she's just been plumb awful to Ida and Ezra since all this come about," her companion chimed in. "I reckon she's just showin' her true colors."
Beth didn't disappoint them a bit. She kept trying to inch out of the receiving line. Warren's older sister, a matronly, sour-faced woman, pulled her back over into the line several times. The last time she did it, she kept her hand locked onto Beth's wrist in a vise-like grip. Beth didn't look too thrilled, but she never said anything to her sister-in-law.
After the gossips had moved out of my hearing range, I sneezed a few more times and looked at my watch. It was almost eight-thirty, so I screwed up my courage and went over to join the line. A half-dozen, "I'm so sorry!'s" later, I was directly in front of the widow.
"Beth, I, uh, I'm so very sorry for your loss." I gave her a little hug. She stiffened when I squeezed her shoulders, so I cut it short.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she said, "you and everybody else." Her pale blue eyes almost bore a hole through me.
I dropped her hands and moved away, trying to keep my mouth from flopping open. I bypassed the coffin and stopped in front of the memory table. A copy of the high school year book lay on the table. I picked it up and thumbed through.
"Hey, good looking." A hot breath on my neck accompanied the whispered greeting.
I quivered slightly. "Hey, Zach. How are you?" My voice had returned to that irritating squeak.
He was wearing a light blue polo shirt and a pair of navy Dockers. The blue of the shirt was the exact color of his eyes, which were twinkling like crazy. My body temperature rose about ten degrees. He gently picked up my hand and squeezed it, never taking his eyes off of mine. I fanned myself with the yearbook.
"I'm doing much better now. How about you?" he asked.
"Better, too." I broke his gaze, and glanced around the room, sure that everyone in the place could read my mind. No one was even looking our way.
"I was going to call you later," he said, still holding my hand, still twinkling, "see if maybe you wanted to get together tomorrow night."
I tried to lower my voice to a sexier pitch. It didn't work. "That'd be great. Why don't you come over to my place around eight or so? We can decide what to do from there."
"Sounds good." He squeezed my hand again. "I hate to run, but I brought Mom over. Dad was afraid he wouldn't be welcome, so he stayed home."
He glanced over to where his mother sat. She was staring blankly at a grotesque arrangement of pink carnations. "I need to get her on back to the house. She isn't feeling well. This is where we had Junior's funeral, and it brings back real bad memories for her."
"I'm so sorry. I hope she's going to be okay." I sounded like a complete idiot.
He let go of my hand and put his finger up against my cheek. "See you tomorrow night." He slid his finger softly over my face.
I watched him walk away. He looked almost as good from the rear as from the front. I suddenly realized I was still holding the yearbook and quickly put it back on the table.
Roberta seemed surprised when Zach pulled on her arm and helped her stand up. She looked better than she had Monday night, but I noticed that she stumbled a couple of times as she followed Zach through the crowd and out the door. The two women I'd overheard gossiping about Beth had moved up behind me, and they had noticed, too. Their comments were less than kind.
"I heard that Fred was fit to be tied about all that drinkin' and that he laid down the law to her, said he was a fixin' to get him a di-vorce," the one with the poodle-cut hair and purple eye shadow said.
"Well, who'd blame him?" the one in the green flowered pup tent said. "He's a fine lookin' man and deserves better than a wife who's dog-drunk half the time."
"Are those rumors about him and you-know-who true?" the first one asked.
I perked my ears up, but they moved off and I didn't find out who you-know-who was. I tried to follow them, but one of Mom's neighbors waylaid me. By the time she finished running her mouth, they were gone.
I'd had enough visitation, so I pushed my way through the room and out into the lobby. Most of the people were starting to leave, and the lobby was crowded. My mouth was dry and I didn't feel like trying to fight my way through the crowd quite yet. I decided to look for the lounge and get a soda.
I wandered off down the hallway and peeked in the other viewing rooms. There were four of them, counting the one Warren had been in. Parlor A was the biggest. Parlor B was slightly smaller, and the other two, C and D, were about half the size, although they had a fake wall between them and could be made into one large room.
All of them were carpeted in a dull gray Berber, and the walls were papered in a conservative grayish-pink stripe. There weren't any pictures on the walls in the parlors, but the hallway had color-coordinated -- and really dull -- still-lifes spread out at evenly spaced intervals.
Wart's visitors had overflowed into parlor B. People were laughing softly and talking about their families, friends, and jobs. The unpleasant business of giving their condolences to the family behind them, I suppose they were enjoying catching up with one another and celebrating being alive. I recognized several people I knew, but no one I wanted to talk to.
Parlor D was also in use, but for a different funeral. The casket in that room was a rich polished pine and a couple of very old men sat in front of it, whispering to each other. They looked up expectantly at me when I poked my head in, but immediately went back to their quiet conversation when they realized that they didn't know me.
The lounge was at the very end of the hall, past a water fountain and the restrooms. When I reached the closed door, I heard angry voices coming from inside. I hesitated debating whether I should go in or leave. Steve LeFever, Warren's best friend and former supervisor, yelled, "I don't give a damn who knows! Let 'em try and arrest me."
"I'm telling." The shrill voice came from behind me.
I turned around to see who it was and almost jumped out of my skin.