THE old man seemed to move in slow motion, leaping high like a ballet dancer. As the limo fishtailed, he floated above the roof, then landed on the sidewalk, just past the driver’s side door.
“You nearly killed him!” Alex screamed.
“I didn’t see him, ma’am!” Gerrold’s eyes flickered up to the rearview mirror. “He’s picking himself up like nothing happened. He’s fine . . .”
The driver’s knuckles were white as he navigated the turn and pulled up to the front of the Alfred P. Twombley Funeral Parlor.
As Max got out of the car, the building was vibrating. Or maybe that was Max. Alex quickly took his arm, and they headed toward the door on a rain-slickened brick sidewalk. From the front window, grim but curious faces stared out at the pink limo. The low clouds and steady drizzle seemed to wash out all color, making the neighborhood seem black and white. At the front door, a sour-faced man said, “The Grimsby service, I assume. You’ll find it in the large room to your left. And . . . my sincere condolences.”
Max shook off the shock of their near accident. The front hallway smelled of mothballs, mildew, stale cigars, and old wood. People quietly and glumly milled about, but he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “This feels weird,” he whispered.
“It’s a funeral, it should,” Alex replied.
“More than that,” Max said. “I keep thinking we’ll see you-know-who here.”
“Who?” Alex answered.
“The Evil Guy with the Skunk Hair and Missing Pinkie Who Must Not Be Named. I can’t really think about Basile without thinking about his boss.”
“Spencer Niemand is in a jail in Greenland, halfway around the world.”
Max cringed at the sound of their kidnapper’s name. “Don’t say that again.”
“What—Spencer Niemand?”
“Stop!”
In front of the room for the service was a huge portrait of Basile on an easel, his smile just as big and friendly as it was in real life. As they stared at it, a voice boomed out through the open doorway. A big-bellied man with a trim beard was standing in front of a closed coffin, addressing a room packed with people: “There was I, on the stage of La Scala opera house, before an adoring crowd, when I first heard the voice of dear, deeeear Basile—in the first row, eating popcorn and shouting, ‘Louder, my good man! And funnier!’”
A big laugh erupted through the dense shoulder-to-shoulder throng. There were massive men with wild, curly hair; women in sequined gowns who looked like they’d come through a time machine from the seventies; people with pink and purple hair and full-arm tattoos; at least three men dressed as women and two women dressed as men.
“Definitely Basile’s kind of peeps,” Alex said with a smile. “I love this.”
“Let’s invite them to our funerals,” Max suggested.
It was so crowded, they could only take a few steps into the room. They stood near a girl about Max’s age. Her face was beaded with sweat, her blonde hair pulled back with a headband. She wore a black dress that matched the one worn by a chic-looking red-haired woman standing next to her. With their broad faces, steel-blue eyes, and thick noses, they looked like thinner, female versions of Basile.
“Don’t stare at people,” Alex whispered.
“Sorry,” Max said. “They look sort of lumpy like Basile, that’s all.”
The woman’s eyes snapped up from a program, pinning Max with a sharp glare over a set of half glasses. As she pulled the girl closer to her side, people began turning toward Max and Alex. The silence gave way to murmuring voices:
“The Americans . . .”
“Found their way to the submarine . . .”
“Filthy rich . . .”
“If it weren’t for them . . .”
Alex clutched his hand. Now she was sweating too.
“Ahem!” The speaker cleared his throat loudly, then boomed out over the crowd: “As I was saying! Dear old Basile was not afraid to speak his mind, but he was never less than kind and helpful. And under that gruff, tough exterior, he was a barrel of monkeys!”
A bearded man shouted, “Hear, hear,” and the crowd applauded.
“He was not!” Max muttered to Alex.
Alex took his arm. “That’s an old-timey expression, meaning ‘a lot of fun.’”
“But it makes no sense,” Max shot back. “The monkeys would be angry and claustrophobic and maybe violent. They’d spit and scratch and scream.”
“Max, chill!” Alex hissed. “These people here? They already don’t like us. They’re blaming us for Basile’s death.”
The blonde girl turned and smiled at Alex. “We don’t blame you. We’re really grateful you took the trouble to come.” She stuck out her hand to Max. “Basile was my uncle. I’m Bitsy. And this is my mom. You’re right, we do look like him, and we’re proud of it.”
Max shook Bitsy’s hand, which felt like a cold octopus. “Why is your hand so wet?” he asked.
“Max!” Alex snapped.
Bitsy laughed. “That’s OK. Honesty is refreshing. I suffer from a very bad fear of crowds. I hide it as best I can. But my sebaceous glands don’t lie.”
“Me too!” Max said. “And I know what sebaceous means. Sweat.”
“Bitsy does very well managing her fear,” said her mother. “I am Gloria Bentham, Basile’s younger sister. From Kensington.”
Alex smiled at them both. “I’m Alex, and this is Max. We’re cousins. I’m from Canada. He’s from Ohio.”
“Darling girl, we know who you are,” sniffed Gloria Bentham.
As the speaker rattled on, another laugh rippled through the crowd. Behind Max, more latecomers were filing in. The room seemed to be getting warmer, the air thick as porridge. “I smell sweaty feet,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Bitsy said, looking downward at her shoes.
“Not yours. He smells sweaty feet when he feels smothered.” Alex took Max by the hand. “Come on, cuz, let’s get you some air.”
“Oh, good Lord, what a sensible idea,” Bitsy said. “I’ll join you.”
Gloria turned to her with a weary glance. “Darling Bitsy, the only way to confront your fears is to—”
Her voice faded into the din of the crowd as the three kids elbowed their way toward the back door. Max squeezed around a woman in a wheelchair, only to be blocked by a scrum of old couples in tweed coats and skirts. He was beginning to feel light-headed. “Sweaty feet!” he shouted. “Sweaty feeeeet!”
An elderly man stared at Max in confusion, until his wife pulled him away. “It’s the fungus, my dear,” she said. “Next time, use your powder.”
Now Alex had Max’s arm. His eyes were beginning to see swirls instead of people, but he did manage to spot Bitsy racing for the restroom. He took in deep breaths and stumbled over the lip of a thick carpet. His hand slipped out of Alex’s and he tripped, bumping into the back of a thin, shabby-looking man.
“Max!” Alex shouted.
The man leaped aside with a graceful little spin. Max scrambled to his feet, to face two black-suited funeral directors heading briskly toward him. One of them veered toward the old man with a stern expression. “Pardon us, sir, are you a guest at the Grimsby service?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” The old man’s voice was hoarse and oddly high-pitched as he turned toward Max with an elaborate bow.
That was when Max noticed his face. And the droopy left eye.
“Y-Y-You’re the guy in the street,” Max stammered. “The dancer—”
“Who the heck are you?” Alex asked.
“Well, to you, I suppose I’d be Uncle Nigel!” the old man said, pulling a yellowed card out of his jacket pocket.
“I don’t have an uncle Nigel,” Max said.
“Fifth cousin twice removed, I believe, is the exact relationship,” the man said. “And how long are you planning to stay, my children?”
“Why do you ask?” Alex said.
“Just for the funeral,” Max said, giving her a nervous look.
The two funeral directors gripped the old man’s arms. “This way, old chap.”
“As you wish.” The man who called himself Nigel held out the card to Max. “But you may want to reconsider your plans.”