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I ARRIVED AT the Crystal Harbor Public Library a little late. The town meeting had already started in the big community room in the basement. All the folding chairs, two hundred or so, were filled, with about a hundred more people standing cheek to jowl along the sides and in back. I hadn’t expected it to be so packed, though in retrospect I probably should have. I squeezed through the throng blocking the doorway, nodding to the folks I knew. Anyone who lived and/or worked in Crystal Harbor was welcome to attend a town meeting.
I greeted Susanne Travert, the Frenchwoman who owned Patisserie Susanne, with a three-pointed European cheek kiss. I said hi to the young couple who owned the pottery gallery next to Janey’s Place—I never could remember their names. Dean Phillips was there, too, standing on the left side of the room. We exchanged waves.
His ex-wife Sophie was at the front of the room, where a lectern and microphone had been placed. A redheaded middle-aged woman I didn’t recognize stood at her seat, complaining shrilly about some parking situation in front of her home, located near the middle school.
Sophie had called this meeting to discuss issues of general interest to Crystal Harbor residents, but the record attendance told me my neighbors couldn’t wait for the latest juicy tidbit about the murder case currently under investigation.
I was surprised to see Officers Geri Marvin and Howie Werker standing in back. There isn’t normally a police presence at these meetings. I managed to make my way over to them. “Hey, guys, what are you doing here?”
“We’re not at liberty—” Geri started, but Howie cut her off.
“Detective wants us to keep our eyes and ears open.” He jerked his head, indicating the front of the room. I recognized the back of Bonnie Hernandez’s sleek head. She sat in the front row. I also spied Lacey and her son, Colin, his arm protectively around her shoulder. I’d heard that Porter wasn’t contesting his wife’s accusation but was claiming self-defense in the killing of Ernie. He’d retained a big-name lawyer and was out on bail, though not present at the meeting. No surprise there.
Dom and Martin had snagged seats in the center of the room, their heads together at the moment, no doubt sharing rude comments about the proceedings. They had not, I noticed, saved me a seat. Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to intrude on a budding bromance.
I never claimed to be the most mature person, so you can just keep it to yourself.
Crystal Harbor was your basic WASP enclave, so dark faces tended to stand out in the sea of white. Maia Armstrong, the caterer, possessed such a face, as did Ben Ralston. The private investigator appeared amused as the argument intensified between the redheaded woman and Nina Wallace, on her feet now and shouting from the other side of the room while her husband, Mal, sat quietly beside her.
Nina said, “There are no parking restrictions in front of your house or anywhere else on that block.”
“It’s a zoo every afternoon,” the redhead yelled. “Homeowners have rights too. I pay my taxes.”
Nina spread her arms. “Where are parents supposed to park to pick up their kids?”
“Not in front of my house, that’s where!”
Sophie tried to intercede. “Ladies, let’s keep it civil—”
“I’ve seen you.” Nina stabbed her finger toward the other woman. “Out there with your video camera, recording people’s license plates. What is that, intimidation? Sorry, lady, I’m a Hannigan.” Nina was descended from the notorious Prohibition gangster Hank “Hokum” Hannigan, who’d smuggled booze through Crystal Harbor back in the day. “Hannigans don’t intimidate.”
Others in the room chimed in with shouted encouragement, on one side or the other of the debate.
Sophie raised her voice to be heard over the cacophony. “All right, settle down.” She looked to the back of the room. “Officers, what is the law regarding parking on Argyle Place to pick up middle schoolers?”
Howie spoke up first. “Parking on Argyle is legal. Period.”
This only ramped up the redhead’s outrage. “It’s my street! I have rights!”
“It’s not your street,” Nina cried. “It belongs to the town. Are you the one who put dog poop in the door handle of my new Lexus? You are, aren’t you?”
She started toward the redhead before Mal could stop her. The redhead advanced, making bring-it-sister gestures.
Howie groaned. “I do not want to have to break up a brawl between a crazy lady and a pregnant crazy lady.”
History had just been made. I agreed with Nina Wallace on something. As it turned out, Howie didn’t need to get involved. Nina and the redhead had to pass Sten Jakobsen to get to each other. Sten stood, all six feet four of him, and the two women abruptly halted. The old lawyer had presence, and when he chose to, he positively oozed authority. He chose to do so now.
In his precise baritone, he intoned, “Ladies, please sit.”
That’s all. A simple request. The redhead opened her mouth to deliver a parting shot. Sten’s expression shut it. Grumbling, the ladies returned to their seats.
Before anyone else could introduce another topic of earthshattering importance, Sophie spoke into the mic. “Let’s move on to the reason we’re all here so I can get to my trivia game on time.” Murray’s Pub featured a raucous trivia contest every Wednesday night. Sophie was a regular fixture and she played to win.
Rocky’s voice rang out. “I’ve put together a crack team this week, Mayor. We’re going to beat the pants off you.”
“No one wants to see that, Rocky,” she said, to general amusement. “Guess I’ll have to keep wiping the floor with you.”
Kyle Kenneally, owner of the Harbor Room and a frozen giant tortoise, called out, “Did Porter Vargas do it?”
I saw Lacey jerk, and Colin’s arm tighten around her shoulders. He bent to whisper in her ear.
Sophie gestured toward Bonnie. “Detective Hernandez is here to shed some light on the investigation. So keep it down and let her speak.”
Bonnie stepped up to the mic, looking as pretty and put together as always. “Thank you, Mayor. In the week that’s elapsed since the discovery of Ernest Waterfield’s remains, the police investigation has focused on several persons of interest.” She didn’t mention that the mayor herself had been the primary “person of interest,” at least until Lacey Vargas had accused her husband. Someone else mentioned it for her.
“So Sophie’s off the hook?” Barbara O’Rourke hollered. She sat with her husband, Patrick, in the last row of folding chairs.
Sophie borrowed the mic from Bonnie. “If I have to stop the car and come back there, you’ll be sorry.”
Everyone chuckled except Detective Hernandez, for whom murder clearly was no laughing matter. “Obviously I can’t discuss specifics. Some details have been withheld from the public to aid the investigation. Suffice it to say that while we have acted on certain leads, the case is far from solved.”
The room hummed with surprised whispers. Hadn’t Porter confessed?
Bonnie continued, “I urge all of you who were living here in Crystal Harbor at the time of Ernest Waterfield’s supposed suicide to dig into your memory banks for information that might help us identify his killer. If you remember anything at all from back then, call the Crystal Harbor Police Department and ask for me. Any bit of information is welcome, no matter how inconsequential.”
An old man stood and waved his wooden walking cane for attention, causing those sitting nearby to duck. Even from the back I recognized Norman Butterwick, a neighbor of Sophie’s. Norman’s luxuriant thatch of thick white hair and bespoke, Sputnik-era tweed sport jacket gave him away. His family had lived for generations in the house across from hers on the far west end of Main Street. Norman had to be well into his nineties and had been eccentric and forgetful for as long as I’d known him, which was more than two decades. He did, however, possess a strong, refined voice that carried.
He said, “I remember something from back then.”
Sophie took the mic again. “That’s great, Norman. Detective Hernandez will speak with you after—”
“I remember that a gallon of gas cost a little over a dollar. Also, they messed around with the formula for Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola, of all darn things!”
“Thank you, Norman,” Sophie said. “I’ll make a note of that. So that’s the story,” she told the crowd. “Put on your thinking caps and see if you can’t help out the police. Do it because it’s your civic duty.” Her gaze swept the room, landing on individual faces. “Or do it for me. And Ernie. Because he was a wonderful man and didn’t deserve what happened to him.”
The somber hush that greeted this statement was broken by Norman Butterwick, who said, “I remember more things from back then, Detective.”
“If your recollections have anything to do with Ernest Waterfield’s murder,” she said, “then please phone the police department tomorrow.”
Sophie spoke again. “Now I’m going to turn over the podium to a relatively new resident of Crystal Harbor, one who’s found herself at the center of some unwanted attention this week. My pal Jane Delaney has a few words for her neighbors.”
I plucked my notes from my purse as I started up the center aisle to the front of the room. I’d selected my most businesslike outfit, the one I wore for assignments at funeral homes: tailored gray skirt suit, snowy white blouse, black pumps with ladylike two-inch heels, and a string of faux pearls. I’d pulled my strawberry-blond hair into a neat French twist and kept the makeup to a minimum, hoping to banish all thoughts of hot pink push-’em-up bras and sex-obsessed satanic Death Divas. Sophie had offered me this forum so I could begin to rehabilitate my public image.
Me and Aretha. All we want is some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
I managed to maintain my composure as an older female voice yelled, “How did you know to look for Ernie under that tree if you’re not an agent of the devil?”
Then some creep in a bespoke suit and three-hundred-dollar haircut wondered aloud, in his overeducated Thurston Howell the Third lockjaw, what I was wearing under that prim outfit, prompting Dom to spring out of his seat and lunge over four rows of chairs to get at him. The padre yanked him back and forcibly shoved him into his seat. Dom fumed, giving the creep the evil death-laser stare. Martin said something in Dom’s ear that managed not only to defuse him, but to prompt a burst of sputtering laughter.
Just a few more rows to go and I’d be through this mortifying gauntlet and—
Oh! I stumbled to a halt, my bottom stinging. Someone pinched me! I knew I had to ignore it and keep on moving, knew it would be a mistake to confront the pincher. And I was immensely grateful it had happened outside my ex-husband’s line of sight. It would have taken ten Martins to hold Dom back if he’d seen some stranger put his hands on me.
I was about to resume the walk of shame when I heard the snickers. I couldn’t help myself. I glanced back and recognized the smug young pincher, though I knew he wouldn’t make a connection between the devil-worshipping sex addict whose person he’d just violated and the plain-Jane nobody he’d briefly met about five years earlier. He was the grandson of one of Irene’s friends, now showing off for his buddies, all of them doubtless home from college for the summer.
I pasted on the sweetest smile in my arsenal and approached the lanky fellow, who was slumped lazily in his chair with one flip-flop-clad foot extending into the aisle. Yeah, that’s right, he was one of those guys who can’t sit without spreading his legs as wide as they’ll go.
“Logan, hi!” I chirped. “I thought that was you.” I watched his face register alarm at my use of his name and then I nonchalantly pressed the heel of one of my ladylike pumps into his instep. Hard. His mouth gaped open and he sucked air.
“How’s your grandmother doing?” I asked in my most solicitous tone. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen Edith. She’s always been so proud of you.”
His mouth worked silently, eyes bulging, as he tried in vain to reclaim his foot. Meanwhile his buddies had a guffaw at his expense, unable to see us playing footsie in the aisle and assuming his red-faced discomfort was due purely to embarrassment at being recognized.
“What’s that, dear? I didn’t catch what you said.” I leaned in close.
“You crazy bitch,” he wheezed. “Get the hell off my foot.”
“Oh, I sure will, Logan,” I cooed, pressing harder. “I’ll call Edith tomorrow and let her know we ran into each other. I’ll tell her all about it.”
I turned and strode swiftly to the podium, thanked Sophie, and launched right into it. “I see a lot of familiar faces here. I’ve lived in town for just a few months, but I’ve known many of you for years or even decades. I started my unique service twenty-two years ago when I was still in high school, and most of my regular clients live here in Crystal Harbor.” Over the years, Irene had actively solicited new clients for me from among her friends. I probably wouldn’t have a business if it weren’t for her.
“Those of you who know me probably had a good chuckle at my embarrassing television debut,” I said. “Those who didn’t know me probably thought, Who is this weird Death Diva person and what does she do with dead bodies?”
From his seat, Dom scanned the crowd, his scowl daring anyone to make another rude comment, much to the amusement of the padre.
“I’m grateful for all the offers of work I’ve received during the past week,” I continued. “The list of what I do for clients is quite long, and getting longer all the time as people come up with unique and original ways to honor loved ones who’ve passed. Unfortunately my TV appearance has caused some confusion regarding the scope of my services. I’d like to take this opportunity to correct a few misapprehensions and list some of the things that I am not and never will be available to perform.”
I cleared my throat. “I will not mix human ashes into anyone’s food.” Even a detested mother-in-law’s oatmeal, as was recently requested. “I will not break into the morgue for any reason, including to procure an anatomical ‘relic’ from a recently deceased celebrity. I’m pretty sure that’s still illegal.”
From the back Howie called, “That would be correct, Jane.”
“For that matter,” I added, “I will not steal anything from a corpse, even if you claim it rightfully belongs to you.” Not anymore, that is. In the not-so-distant past I possessed fewer scruples and a demanding client in the form of Irene McAuliffe. I avoided looking at the padre, whom I’d first met during my one and only attempt to pilfer from the dead.
“If your idea of honoring a deceased loved one involves cannibalism in any form,” I said, “do not contact your friendly neighborhood Death Diva. It’s not in my menu of services.” Several groans greeted this comment, whether due to disappointment or the bad pun, I couldn’t say. Martin called out, “Dang it all!”
“The same goes for feeding human body parts to animals,” I went on. “Yes, I know you love your dog, but if you think it through to its logical conclusion, being one with Fido after your death isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. If your goal is to spend more time in your backyard, buy a hammock.”
I continued, “On a related note, I will not create a human/pet turducken, I don’t care how much your granny loved her beagle, her cat, her guinea pig, and her gerbil.” If that means I don’t have an open mind, as I was accused when I vetoed that one, then so be it.
“Also, I will not dig up a grave, whether to take something out or put something in.” I sent Kyle Kenneally a pointed look.
On the plus side, I was in negotiations with the Smithsonian regarding Romeo. I’d feared the whole thing would fall through when they asked for documentation about the Darwin connection. Kyle didn’t have official paperwork, but he did have an original letter one of his ancestors had written about Romeo in the eighteen fifties, which apparently is the next best thing. They must have liked what they’d read, because they were sending someone to inspect the frozen carcass.
“Do not contact me about mutilating a corpse, no matter how free one’s husband was in life with the body part in question. Haven’t you people heard of Craigslist? And for you gardening buffs out there, yes, I am willing to fertilize your tomatoes and zucchini with your remains after you die, but only—only!—if you have chosen cremation.”
I proceeded to the next item on my list. “News flash, folks: human taxidermy is illegal, even if you’ve planned the most awesome Halloween decoration ever. Ditto for any Weekend at Bernie’s scenarios.”
Ben Ralston called out, “Can’t you take a joke?”
“You assume you’re the only one who asked,” I responded. “Also, don’t contact me with any request involving unspontaneous human combustion that doesn’t involve a cremation chamber. If you promised your pal he’d go out in a blaze of glory, stick a sparkler in his mouth.” Or somewhere.
And now for the biggie. “Okay, I shouldn’t even have to mention this one,” I said, “but here it is. I will not be a party to murder, no matter how much you offer. So if you find yourself in need of—” air quotes here “—‘a nice, reliable hit man,’ do not come knocking on my door.” As one of Crystal Harbor’s most respectable matrons had done this past week. I’d shared that particular request with Detective Hernandez, who’d arranged a sting by an undercover cop. The hopeful client, whose eye had wandered in turns from her hot young diving instructor to hubby’s life insurance, was now cooling her heels in the hoosegow.
The good news was, I had a waiting list of folks with legitimate assignments in mind. I’d increased my rates and they still kept coming. In the past few days, hiring the famous Death Diva had become something to brag about. I wondered how long my lucrative celebrity would last before the locals moved on to the Next Big Thing.
I ended my little presentation by stating how proud I was to be a small business owner in Crystal Harbor blah blah blah and setting a stack of my business cards on a nearby table. Sophie called the meeting to a close and the room was immediately alive with the sound of chairs scraping and scores of competing conversations.
Small groups lingered here and there, catching up with one another and gossiping—Crystal Harbor’s official town hobby. Martin was nowhere to be seen, but Dom was across the room talking to Bonnie. She gave him a teasing smile. They shared a laugh and she playfully smacked his chest. He bent to murmur something in her ear.
When last I’d looked, this formerly betrothed couple had been cautiously skirting around each other. Now... Now I didn’t know what I was seeing. I’d never known Dom to be a cheater, but in my book, messing around with your ex-fiancée while trying to convince your ex-wife to remarry you counts as cheating. Even if the ex-wife can’t make up her mind whether to give you another chance. I think. Then again, to be fair, Dom was on excellent terms with all his ex-wives, so why shouldn’t he be friendly with his ex-fiancée as well?
“There you are.” Sophie grabbed my arm. “I’m drafting you for trivia. Let’s get a move on.”
