It was six AM—an hour earlier than I usually awoke—when a cool breeze wafted through the window, announcing that fall was knocking at the door. A gently snoring Diva was burrowing into my side. I wondered how her little body had reached the great height of the bed, and then I zeroed in on a bench, lower to the floor, and newly positioned sometime in the night. I jostled the pup awake.
“See this?” I said, placing her in the corner, where I had fashioned a blanket into a makeshift bed on the floor. “This is yours.”
She wagged her tail.
Once downstairs, the leash in my hand, we exited the front door. Of course, I had to return moments later to retrieve the environmentally correct waste removal kit. This dog business was consuming.
Generator groan reverberated across the lake—a nonstop reminder of Mother Nature’s vicious attack. However, most wires and debris were now cleared, suggesting we were just a few days from full power restoration. Maybe I should check to see if Mrs. Arlington’s house was still dark.
After a breakfast of leftover avocado toast for me and kibble for Diva, I carried my tea to the train room. The segments with sculpted mountains dusted in snow were in direct contrast to the hot muggy New England August we had been having, yet they were a reminder of what was in store. Newer residents were always startled at how much snow dumped on Ridgefield compared to our neighbors. The high elevation probably hadn’t been a consideration when droves of city folk fled to escape COVID confinement.
Just as property in Ridgefield was scarce, places to build in the train room were becoming harder to come by. However, there was a small spot next to the newly added cemetery and overlooking the lake where I would add the cottage I had decided would be my next project.
I was about to go online to see what kinds of kits I could find to build when my phone rang its haunted tune. The clock read seven forty-five AM.
“I’m terribly sorry to call so early,” came a woman’s breathless pitch. “I need an obituary written and was told that you were the one to call.”
“Sorry, who is this?” I asked. “And who might the obituary be for?”
“Oh dear, I’m so out of sorts. My husband died yesterday.” Her words came in the frenetic staccato of someone who might still be in shock.
“And you are?” I prompted again.
“Marietta,” she said in a breaking sigh. “I cannot believe it. They took Burton’s body away yesterday afternoon. One of the officers—Bellini—told me to call you.”
“Marietta Hemlocker?” I asked, connecting the dots.
Marietta was married to Burton Hemlocker, key holder to the Arlington house. Was that the call that had sent Tom and Kip on the run yesterday? If so, why hadn’t they mentioned that Mrs. Arlington’s key holder was now dead?
“Yes, that’s me,” she said with a sniffle. “Can you get it done?”
Bereaved families rarely prioritized an obituary before more immediate concerns. There was the emotional tsunami to absorb, even in an expected death. Then there was the litany of calls to family and friends and the personal shuffling of the survivor’s schedule. Aside from the obvious impact on the departed, death was also highly inconvenient for the living.
Burton still had a bit of a journey ahead of him before any funeral plans could take place. After the state medical examiner’s office was notified, an autopsy might be required, which would be performed at the thirty-thousand-square-foot facility located at UConn Health in Farmington, about an hour away. Dying wasn’t a simple matter of picking out viewing clothes and setting up a funeral date. It was a complicated process beginning with the loss of life and ending with a death certificate.
Being called so soon to do the obit was a surprise, though I gathered it was due to Tom’s recommendation. I cringed at the thought of having to thank him.
I slid behind the desk in the study and pulled out a pad of paper and pen to start jotting notes as Marietta talked. We agreed to meet later in the afternoon, because she didn’t want to wait until funeral arrangements were completed before sending out the obituary. “So many people will want to know. I’ll need it out by Friday,” she said.
First Leocadia Arlington and now Marietta Hemlocker—both insisting on a lightning-fast turnaround.
I spent the remaining part of the morning answering calls and setting up appointments in the city for the next few weeks. The agent who was helping me look for an apartment, had space to show me. A CFO from a well-known corporation wanted to meet to discuss how to preplan his funeral arrangements. A nurse from Danbury Hospital had read some of my COVID tributes and asked me to write one for her mother, who’d passed away from “plain old A-G-E,” as she put it.
After another walk with Diva, a shower, and a quick bite for both of us, I was ready to face the afternoon. Before meeting with Marietta, I would visit Books on the Common, keeping my fingers crossed that they could give me a name from Lottie’s book club. I loaded my satchel with the tools of my trade—a notebook, multiple pens, my phone with its voice recorder, an obituary kit I put together for my clients, and of course, my laptop.
I then packed Diva’s things—her leash, her waste removal supplies, everything she needed for an afternoon with Uncle Richard. I left her shoe toy home.
A short time later, I was standing outside Books on the Common, totally perplexed about what to do next. Was it safe to tie Diva to the bench while I went inside, or was that akin to pet abuse?
Tom’s booming voice broke into my thoughts, and I looked two doors down to Tazza, where he sat at one of the outdoor tables. Kip sat opposite, pointing a finger in his face.
“Hey, you two,” I called as I waved and headed to their table. “It looks like you’re plotting a take-over.”
“Winter, hi,” Tom said, looking uncomfortably surprised. “We’re just reviewing some work stuff.”
I couldn’t read Kip’s expression, and he was politely distant as he said, “Hello, Winter,” before leaning down to give Diva a pet.
Tom’s eyes were bloodshot from last night’s binge. What should have been a crisp uniform looked like it had spent the night crumpled on the floor. Kip, on the other hand, looked razor sharp as he stood and offered me his seat.
“I can’t stay. I have an appointment with Mrs. Hemlocker to write her husband’s obituary. Thank you for the referral, Tom.”
“Maybe that will make up for my behavior last night,” he replied.
“Apology accepted. I do need a favor, though.” I explained my Diva dilemma.
“Hemlocker? Wasn’t he Mrs. Arlington’s key holder?” interrupted Kip. “When did you find out about him?”
Tom shrugged. “I heard about it yesterday after work.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t mention it last night. It seems like an important piece of information as it relates to Mrs. Arlington,” pressed Kip.
“Look, I had a bit too much to drink,” said Tom. “It didn’t really cross my mind.”
“Well, I for one appreciate that you gave my number to your friend,” I said, trying to diffuse the undeniable tension between the two.
“Not a friend, just an acquaintance,” said Tom. “I’ve only met her a couple times.”
People don’t always know how to proceed when they find that a loved one has died, and the police department is a go-to place for all sorts of questions. Maybe Marietta had called a cop she knew for help.
Just then a nearby parked car erupted in honks and whistles. Diva yelped in surprise. Tom jumped from his seat, splashing coffee on his rumpled pants.
“We could take her for a few minutes,” said Tom, as he wiped at the dark stain with a napkin. “But hurry, because we’re on duty.”
The storm clouds I had come to associate with Kip in only a day were on the horizon. I couldn’t decide if he was mad at me for asking the favor or frustrated with his partner’s behavior the night before and his lack of information sharing. When I held out my hand with the leash, he was the one who took it.
The building Books on the Common occupied had once housed the multiple levels of Bedient’s Hardware—a place where every imaginable tool or household gadget could be found. It had been the sort of place that might have invented the phrase If we don’t sell it, you don’t need it. I walked across creaky floors, passing wall-to-wall book displays, to the front desk in hopes of finding one of the store owners.
Instead, a very helpful salesperson told me that while she sympathized with my plight in trying to find friends of Mrs. Arlington, she did not feel she could share private information about individual book club members. She did agree to contact all the registered book clubs and ask them to volunteer anything they could about my client. Although I gave her my contact information, this felt like a dead end.
Back outside, Kip and Tom had resumed whatever heated conversation they had been engaged in when I showed up. Diva sat at their feet, looking from one to the other and cowering as their voices grew louder. When she saw me, she stood and wagged her tail, and the conversation screeched to a halt. Before I could ask Kip again for David Wysocki’s info, he handed me back the leash and said a hasty goodbye. Tom echoed his partner as they hurried to their parked cruiser.
“You don’t happen to know what they were arguing about, do you?” I asked my furry friend, who seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds.
She wagged her tail in response.
We walked up Main Street and crossed toward Catoonah, where Scoop’s apartment was located. When we got to his place, his scooter was gone and there was no answer to my knock.
Downstairs, the funeral home, with its dark-stained shingles and crisp white trim, was always meticulously maintained and gave off a peaceful vibe. I had been to countless wakes and memorials there and would no doubt attend many more. It was where many residents in our small town assumed they would be taken care of after the fact.
When I stopped to say hello, I found a funeral assistant, Carla, at the desk.
“Where’d the dog come from?” she asked, looking Diva over with a frown.
“I guess I shouldn’t be bringing her in here.” I could envision Carla hurrying to vacuum up the flurry of Diva’s fur that had already reached the carpet.
Carla led me out a back door, where she diplomatically said the dog might like a little fresh air.
“I thought I’d check to see if there are any details on Burton Hemlocker yet,” I said. “I’m doing the obit.”
“Wow, that was fast,” said Carla, liberating a piece of gum from its wrapper. “Want one?”
I shook my head no, and she continued.
“No details yet. You know the drill. He might have to have to go up to the state, although he was old and everyone’s talking heart attack.” Carla snapped her gum vigorously and said apologetically, “I gave up smoking.”
“Never too soon,” I said. “How old was Burton?”
“I believe he was close to eighty.”
Carla herself was somewhere in her thirties. She had dark-brown corkscrew curls that framed a round, cherublike face with full cheeks and pale-blue eyes. Plump arms, which she usually covered with long sleeves during work hours, were shrouded in tattoos. I’d once asked her what they were about, because they seemed to spill into each other.
“Survival,” she answered. “Each one signifies a major challenge I’ve overcome. They remind me not to quit.”
I recalled the guilty thought I couldn’t suppress—hers was probably a story I’d enjoy writing.
“Not even eighty? That’s not terribly old these days. We’ve had presidents that age.” Some people say seventy is the new fifty, the mark Uncle Richard wasn’t far from crossing.
She shrugged. “The state looks at age as a factor when they decide whether or not to do an autopsy. I’m guessing with Burton’s age and whatever medical problems he had, they might skip it. They like to release a body as quickly as possible, especially at that age. Bereaved families don’t want to wait forever for their loved ones.”
“Will Burton’s remains be buried or cremated?”
Carla snapped her gum again, twirled on one of her curls thoughtfully, then shook her head. “I don’t know yet.”
“Keep me in the loop if you can. I’ve got to get this done right away.”
“Sure,” she said. As she turned to go, I thought of one more thing.
“Carla, when were you notified about Burton?”
“We got the call yesterday—midafternoon.”
“Do you recall which officer was on the scene?”
Maybe Tom had been informed by a fellow cop and then taken it upon himself to call Marietta to recommend me as a way of gaining favor. But then why not mention it at dinner last night?
“Sorry, I don’t have any idea. I could ask for you. I’m seeing one of the cops—you know, like dating him.”
She looked at me shyly and smiled.
I smiled back, hoping it wasn’t anyone I knew. The last thing sweet Carla, survivor of many challenges, needed was someone like Tom in her life. And then there was Kip. Don’t go there, I told myself.
“Great,” I said. “Let me know.”