CHAPTER NINE

 

"Stop fidgeting," Maizy said twelve hours later. We were sitting on a cold concrete reflection bench in front of a mausoleum at the Gate of Heaven Cemetery, where Maizy had decided the late Agnes Crumpmeier would be the recipient of our bogus respects, since Agnes happened to have an unobstructed view of Dorcas's final resting place. I'd like to think Agnes didn't mind that we were visiting under false pretenses. In every sense of the word.

"I can't help it. This thing itches." I glared at her from under a tangled gray wig that was three sizes too large. It skidded around on my scalp every time I moved my head, and it was making me grumpy. Maizy's idea of a disguise was dressing me as her version of a senior citizen, right down to the ghastly mustard colored sweater with giant fake ivory buttons, long, shapeless plaid wool skirt, and black orthopedic shoes that were two sizes too small. If it weren't for my foresight in wearing sweats underneath the frump, I'd be freezing in the bracing November breeze. The finishing touch was a neck roll Maizy had pilfered from her mother's bed and stuffed up the back of my sweater to simulate, in her words, the "old lady hump." I could see I was going to have to help Maizy improve her perspective on aging.

In comparison to my humped dumpiness, Maizy was stylish in polyester bell-bottom pants, a flowing poncho that skimmed her knees, and an ancient, scuffed pair of Earth Shoes. She was wearing round blue sunglasses and a blue scarf to hide her blue hair. She looked like a geriatric flower child.

I blew a knot of hair out of my eyes. "Where did you get this thing, anyway?"

Maizy made a quick, subtle movement and snapped a picture. "You don't want to ask too many questions."

I swallowed hard. "Does it have a curfew?"

Maizy rolled her eyes. "I didn't take it off anyone's head, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, good." I smiled. "That's good. I thought for a minute there—"

"She leaves it on the dresser when she goes to bed," Maizy said.

"But it's eleven in the morning."

"Yeah." Maizy shrugged. "I'm kind of hoping she overslept."

I scratched my head with one finger while I tried not to think about the cosmic payback for stealing an old woman's hair. It couldn't be good. I sneaked a glance at Dorcas's funeral party. There were a few people lurking at the fringes of the graveside service that I hadn't seen at the wake. None of them looked like the type to bash anyone over the head with anything. I shifted my gaze to more familiar faces. Weaver was slumped between his brother and sister-in-law. Seaver's arm was around his shoulders, and Deirdre was clutching his left hand. Charlotte was in the second row next to a woman I didn't recognize. The woman's arms were crossed, and her foot bobbed up and down as if she had somewhere else to be and was impatient to get there. Checkered Pants was back, standing behind the last row of chairs, nearly blending into the mausoleum backdrop in a long steel-colored overcoat of Eisenhower vintage that did nothing to spruce up his natural pastiness. His eyes were narrowed, his gaze again focused on Weaver. No hankie, no tissues, no outward show of grief. I shivered inside my moth-eaten sweater. This was the least mournful group of mourners I'd ever seen.

My attention shifted to Artemis Angle. Speaking of creepy, he stood out even sitting alone in the back row, or maybe because of that. It was as if he had a force field around him that repelled contact. I focused on him for a few seconds. Except for his eyes, he didn't move a muscle. Impressive body control and a little scary.

If Maizy had expected someone to throw himself or herself across the casket with a wailing confession, that wasn't happening. It seemed to be a quiet, dignified, respectful service.

The funeral procession had parked along the access road that ran between Dorcas's gravesite and the mausoleum. Behind the hearse and the flower car, there were two black limousines along with a few nondescript sedans. And two black SUVs. We might have seen who was driving them if Maizy hadn't insisted on keeping the Escort tucked away out of sight. Which basically meant we'd parked in Ohio and made it to Gate of Heaven on foot just as the service was beginning. But I had learned one thing already. I was never again going to wear undersized orthopedic shoes while hiking two miles to a cemetery. My feet were killing me.

"Look." Maizy elbowed me in the ribs and pointed her chin at the SUVs. "Do you recognize either of those?"

I shrugged. "I'm not sure. It might be the one in the front."

"I think it's the one in the back," Maizy said. "That one's got tinted windows."

"I don't think it had tinted windows," I said. "It had a big silver grill, though."

"No it didn't," Maizy said. "The grill was black."

"Well, it had running boards," I said.

We both looked at the SUVs. No running boards.

"Huh," Maizy said. "Talk about unreliable eyewitness testimony." A sob drifted over to us from Dorcas's graveside. Maizy didn't seem to notice. "Wait here. I'm gonna go take a picture of the license plates just in case."

I straightened with alarm. My wig wobbled and slipped over my right eye. "How are you going to do that? They'll see you!"

"They won't see me," she said. "Nobody sees old women." And she was gone before I could stop her, leaping over puddles and hurdling another concrete reflection bench. I shook my head. They'd see that old woman. That old woman might turn up on YouTube.

I angled myself so that I could watch the funeral, and that's when I noticed the woman standing behind the group off to the side, half hidden behind a tree. She blended into the background, dressed in deep browns with a hat covering her hair, the brim pulled low. She didn't seem to be one of the mourners. In fact, she was watching the service and smirking.

Until she caught sight of Maizy. Then I saw her mouth fall open and her eyes go wide. I couldn't blame her. It wasn't every day you saw Hippie Grandma drop and roll behind an SUV.

Maizy was safely out of everyone's sightline but mine when she came up on her knees and snapped a photo of the license plate of the SUV in the front. Then she did a frog walk around its bumper and waddled down to the second SUV to take a photo of its plate. She grinned back at me and did a fist pump. I pointed in the direction of the funeral crasher. Maizy frowned and mouthed, What? She couldn't see the crasher from where she was. She didn't get it.

But the crasher did. When I glanced back at her, our eyes met and held, and I knew she'd seen me pointing at her. I reached for my cell phone to take a picture, but she dropped back a few steps, lowered her head, and speed walked off in the opposite direction, toward another access road that lay beyond a small hill. I had an idea what might be parked there, and every instinct screamed at me not to let her get away.

I sprang up from the bench and took off after her, the sudden movement drawing the attention of some of the funeral party. I could feel their eyes on me, and sense their pity at my appearance. Or maybe that was just me. Anyway, it couldn't be helped. I was a senior citizen on a mission. Hopefully distance and Maizy's disguise would do their jobs.

It wasn't easy going. The neck roll slid downward as I moved, giving me a backside that started at my ribs. The wig bobbled on my head with every step, the skirt clung to my legs like seaweed, and I felt as if I was trying to run in orthopedic baby shoes. My arches felt great but my toes were folded in under the balls of my feet. I could practically feel the blisters forming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maizy still crouched beside the SUV, her head turning as she watched me. I made a Follow me gesture, and she was beside me in an instant. Easy for her—she didn't have to drag five yards of wool and a Quasimodo hump along with her. She wasn't even breathing hard. "Who are we chasing?"

I sucked some air. "That…woman…" I pointed.

Maizy looked in the direction of my point. "I think that's Tippi McWirth!"

"See…what…she…" A stitch seized my side, squeezing the wind out of me. I clutched at my ribs. I had to slow down. Really, I had to lie down, but I had some pride. Not that you'd know it, given my appearance, but still. My ribs threatened to poke out of my skin if I took a deep breath. My feet had cramped up. My hump was sweaty.

"You okay?" Maizy asked. She slowed down with me, but kept jogging in place. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes were bright. Her breathing was slow and even.

"…drives," I finished. "Go!"

She took off like a thoroughbred, her polyester pants swooshing hard enough with every step to spark a fire. Not that they were slowing her down any. In a blink, she had scaled the hill and disappeared over its crest.

I doubled over, my hands on my knees, gulping in mouthfuls of air.

The wig fell off.

I snatched it up and slapped it back on my head. I'd rather have thrown it in an open grave, but if some old woman could walk around under that ghastly thing for the rest of her life, I could do it for twenty minutes. Besides, there was no quit in me. A fair amount of shame, but no quit. Not when half a funeral party and every bird in the area was staring at me with their mouths hanging open. I gave the neck roll an upward shove and hobbled up the hill, pain lancing my feet at each step.

I limped over to a reflection bench and sat down, thinking unkind thoughts about the universe while my butt got cold and I basted in the smells of camphor oil and old hair. I couldn't feel my feet. This never would have happened if I'd been able to feel my feet, but Maizy's Keebler elf shoes had cut off circulation below the ankles. And her master plan had apparently cut off circulation above the neck. I don't know what I'd been thinking going along with this. I wasn't learning anything, except that I never wanted to get old.

What's worse, there was no sign of Tippi McWirth or whatever she might be driving. No sign of Maizy, either, but at the moment that was fine by me.

Very deliberately, I untied my left shoe, then my right, worked them off of my feet, carefully set them aside, and rubbed and wiggled my toes until they'd regained as much feeling as they were going to regain on a windy forty degree day. Then I closed my eyes and let out a long, exhausted sigh.

"She drives an SUV."

I cracked one eye open. Maizy was standing there, still dressed, still not sweaty, and hump-free. My Escort sat running on the access road behind her. I closed my eye again.

"Hey." She nudged me with her toe. "Did you hear me? Tippi McWirth drives an SUV."

I nodded. I wasn't cold anymore. Wasn't that a bad sign, when you weren't cold anymore? "Is it black?" I asked.

"It's black. And it's got running boards. And let me tell you, that woman drives like a maniac."

Come to think of it, I was almost warm. Especially my toes. Once I'd unfolded my feet, I'd gotten the blood circulation back into my toes, and now I could feel them again. I wiggled them, just because I could.

"I got her license plate number," Maizy said. "I bet she has lots of tickets, driving like that."

"You should go back to school now," I told her.

"I took a vacation day," Maizy said. "Hey, when'd everyone leave?"

I opened both eyes, turned and looked down the hill. Dorcas's service was over. Everyone was gone. I'd managed to miss the departure of the entire funeral party.

That could only mean one thing. The cosmic payback had begun.

 

*   *   *

 

After my flameout at the cemetery, Maizy went to look up Tippi McWirth's DMV record, and I retreated back to the usual grinding tedium of the office. An hour after I got there, Curt showed up dressed in his navy blue work shirt and pants. Everything was neatly tucked and buttoned and quasi-nerdy, but he made it look good anyway. Curt spent his days as a package delivery driver, hoisting heavy packages off his truck and heaving them haphazardly at front doors around the Delaware Valley. He had a business degree, but hated the idea of confinement in an office, so the job suited him. So did the uniform. I couldn't picture him wearing a suit and tie every day. Curt had two ties, one for funerals and one for weddings. He had one suit that went either way.

He nodded at Missy and asked me, "Is Wally here?"

I nodded. "In his office."

Missy spun around in her chair with a hopeful expression. "Is this going to be good?"

"It's gonna be quick," Curt told her. "Call him down here."

Missy whipped out her cell phone. "I think I want to record this."

"We're going to make a man out of Wally," I told her. I got on the phone and asked Wally to come downstairs to make sure I deciphered the handwriting correctly on his latest million-dollar complaint. I'd barely hung up when I heard some clicking on the stairs, and Wally came charging in. He slowed when he spotted Curt, looking uncertain.

Curt stared at him a tick longer than politeness allowed. He stuck out a hand. "Curt Emerson."

Wally winced a little when they shook. "Wallace Randall. Esquire."

"Yeah." Curt looked at him some more. "Here." He slapped something into Wally's palm. "Go here and get this. On your arm." He eyeballed Wally's blond hair and slapped something else into Wally's palm. "Then make an appointment here and get that fixed. Your hair is brown." He narrowed his eyes. "You wear a raincoat?"

Wally nodded.

"Don't." Curt looked at me. "See you tonight. Diner good?"

I stared at him, not quite sure what had just happened. Missy was smiling when Curt left through the front door. A moment later I heard Curt's truck fire up and watched it roll past the front window.

Wally glanced down at his hand, looked up at me and Missy, turned on his heel, and went back upstairs without saying a word.

"That man," Missy told me, "is magic."

I felt better than I had all day when I went back to slogging through Wally's complaint. His eighteen-year-old client had wrapped his car around a telephone pole after a six-hour marijuana bender at his cousin Floyd's house. Wally had decided the telephone pole was in the wrong place and was squeezing everyone from the utility company to the loggers who'd cut down the tree.

The phong rang while Wally was wherefor'ing his way to asking for big bucks. "Parker, Dennis," I told it.

There was a pause, punctuated by sniffling. "This is Weaver Beeber calling."
I glanced at the clock, surprised that he wasn't at a luncheon of some sort after the funeral. "Mr. Beeber." I gripped the phone tightly, wondering why I felt guilty when I hadn't done anything. Except make a spectacle of myself at his wife's funeral. I could only hope he'd been one of the few who hadn't noticed me. "Again, I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Miss—?"

"Winters," I said. "Please, call me Jamie."

"Thank you, Jamie. My beloved thought a lot of you too."

That was news to me. I heard Chandler yapping in the background, which made me think of the little bone-shaped flower arrangement at the wake. Which made my throat hitch again. I really had to get a grip. It wasn't as if Chandler had actually ordered the thing. If he had, he hopefully would have gone for something pricier than carnations.

I dragged my mind back to the telephone. "It was a lovely wake," I said. "The flowers were beautiful. Your suit was very nice. And the casket was…" I bit my lip and stopped talking before I said something stupid. Might have been a little late. "How can I help you, Mr. Beeber?"

"I'd like to make an appointment with Howard, please. I'm afraid"—he inserted another sniffle—"I have to set about the unthinkable task of executing my beloved's will."

"Of course." I opened the scheduling calendar on my computer and scanned it quickly. "He has something available on Monday at one, if that's convenient for you. Just bring all the paperwork, and Howard will get you started on the process."

"Shall I bring the insurance papers as well?" Another sniffle. "I don't know if I have the strength to deal with those people right now."

"We can handle that for you," I told him. "Just bring whatever you have."

"I appreciate that." He hesitated. "Would you mind terribly if I bring Chandler? He does love to go visiting, and I can't bear to leave him by himself yet. He reminds me too much of dear Dorcas."

I could see how, with that attitude. "Feel free to bring Chandler," I said. "I'd be happy to see him." Leaving, that is. Chandler and I had never had a kind word to say to each other.

Weaver said goodbye in a wavering voice and was gone. I inserted his name into the appropriate appointment time slot, closed the program, and called it a day.