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I’d never been to a bleaker funeral than the one held for Mrs. Claire Beaumont. Not that funerals weren’t bleak to begin with. There was just something different about her. An empty sadness overwhelmed the mourners.
Gerald Beaumont held the services at the funeral home, and waiting in line to view her, I heard the murmurs from people ahead. Mrs. Wilcox, a good friend of Mrs. Beaumont’s who was around her same age, turned away from the casket with eyes wide. With a shaking hand, she brought her handkerchief up to cover her open mouth.
“It’s a travesty,” she whispered. She walked away with a group of other ladies, who put their arms around her and helped her walk. “She doesn’t look right. She wouldn’t want this.”
My view of the casket was blocked by other mourners until I was right in front of it, and I immediately understood the mutters and comments. The casket was plain, a flat-board pine box and nothing else. It had no design cut into the wood and no brass. No frills at all. Inside, the casket’s lining was simple, nothing fancy or comforting. Mr. Beaumont seemed to have picked out the least expensive, stripped-down casket in the store. But that wasn’t all.
Mrs. Beaumont was on her back, hands crossed over her chest, and the color of her skin wasn’t right. It was caked with makeup to cover the grayness. The effect hadn’t worked out so well; the gray still peeked through the orange makeup. The rest of her face looked like a circus clown’s. The red rouge was smeared onto her cheeks, not blended in. Bright-green eye shadow had been slapped on her eyelids, and her mouth, covered with dark-red lipstick, was slightly open. They hadn’t even done that right.
She was a ghastly sight for someone so sweet. She didn’t deserve this. Tears bubbled to the surface of my eyes, and my stomach churned. I remembered her in the car behind the mortuary, staring into open air, and the tremble of desperation in her voice as she asked me if I knew where her husband was. We’d made a connection as I’d helped lead her to Sheriff Packard and opened the mortuary doors for them.
“This doesn’t look like her at all,” Jeff said, and I agreed.
I couldn’t help but flash back to the haunting memories of her bloated purple body surrounded by flies, head lolled on her shoulder and eyes wide open.
Numerous flower arrangements decorated the room and casket, and I read a few of the cards. None of them were from Mr. Beaumont. He’d bought no flowers from what I could tell.
He stood next to the casket to greet the mourners, only because it was customary. It was clear by the stoic look on his grim face and his constant yawning that he had no real interest in being there. It messed up his schedule.
He looked down at me as I approached, and I locked eyes with him. His long, lean, and lined face couldn’t break a smile to anyone, least of all me. There were sparks in our stare. He would’ve had to be blind not to see my anger, and his condescending, irritated expression loomed over me. I was a pain in his ass. His face seemed to say, I wouldn’t have had to provide this useless funeral if it hadn’t been for you. You just had to find her and run to the cops, didn’t you?
The funeral home was filled to capacity and then some. Many people loved Claire Beaumont, and we all craved the comforting words the service promised. There was only one speaker: the bishop of our church. I suspect Mr. Beaumont wouldn’t have allowed anyone to speak if our bishop hadn’t insisted.
The pianist played “Amazing Grace” and “How Great Thou Art” before Bishop Hammond spoke. Fortunately, he had great things to say about Claire Beaumont. He talked about her history, her upbringing, and all the charitable things she’d done with the Relief Society and our church. He shared examples of her bright personality and unwavering faith in Jesus Christ, and how she’d passed through the veil into a happier, peaceful place with loved ones and the Savior.
Gerald Beaumont’s gaze never even wandered toward the bishop, and a dark frown painted his face. He looked disgusted. But then again, so would the devil while a man of God was speaking.
To say Bishop Hammond saved the day was an understatement. Before he stepped up to speak, the tension in the room had felt like the precursor to a riot, but the words Bishop Hammond chose were inspired and reminded us of the beautiful spirit of Claire Beaumont.
I left feeling satisfied that she would be remembered well. There wasn’t a graveside service because Gerald had chosen to cremate her. The decision had caused upset among the congregation—especially her surviving sister, who swore it was against Claire’s wishes.
Everyone headed to our church after the services, where the Relief Society held a buffet in the cultural hall. Consisting of ham, rolls, Jell-O, and lots of funeral potatoes, the food was standard funeral fare, but it tasted good. We needed something to fill our empty stomachs—and hearts.
I saw Sheriff Packard across the room. He loaded up his plate and sat down among a group of people. Later, I noticed him look off in a daze, troubled and grim. He turned and caught my gaze. I half smiled, gave a nod, and turned away.
The look in his eyes told me we were on the same team, although I doubted he was ready to admit it yet. He clearly didn’t trust Beaumont, either, and he knew something was up. He just didn’t know what. I was sure Packard had evidence pointing to an unnatural cause of death, but not enough to convict anyone. I knew who had caused her death, just like I knew who had caused Joanna’s disappearance and her transformation. I just didn’t know why or how.
Many pieces of the puzzle were missing, and the answers waited inside the Crooked House.
Later that night, I dreamed of the ghost lady who haunted the Crooked House. I hadn’t thought of her in a while. I turned in my bed, and she stood in my doorway, in the crack between the door and jamb, clutching my pillow. With eyes like boiled eggs, she stared at me, mouth unmoving.
My entire body tingled with fear. My mouth went dry, and my heart leapt into my throat. Between sleeping and waking, I wasn’t sure if I was in a dream or if it was real. I was so mentally exhausted that I fell right back to sleep.
I woke up the next morning staring at the underside of the bunk bed above me. My thoughts drifted, then I remembered the strange dream. How could I forget that?
I rolled onto my side. The door was cracked open, just like in my dream. On the floor in front of it lay my pillow—the one I’d left in the Crooked House. It was gray, dirty, and flat. I wanted to scream.