Importance of Being Urnest Read online

  ‘In a way, living your own life is easier when you accept that death is the default position.’

  I stopped mid-pour. ‘What do you mean?’

  He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. ‘Just that death – ashes to ashes, dust to dust – it’s what we all revert to. Nobody is immune.’

  A sneeze from in the back.

  I continued pouring as I thought about it. ‘You’re saying that living is the anomaly?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mort said, nodding. ‘We need to hang onto life with all we can, while we can. Because when we let go – whether it’s because we’re sick or hurt, tired or it’s just time, we …’

  I set down the pitcher. ‘Revert to the “default.”’

  ‘Exactly, I—’

  ‘We should take our drinks to go,’ Hannah cut in. ‘We told – what’s her name, Mort?’

  He turned. ‘Clare Twohig.’

  ‘Yes, we told Clare we’d be at her shop at ten and we’re already late.’

  I stuck my head out of the service window and looked up at the three oversized clocks above what had been the depot’s ticket windows. Eight-ten, ten-ten and six-thirty – the first clock being Pacific Time, the second our Central time zone and the third – which was supposed to be Eastern – stopped, both hour and minute hands dangling at six. ‘Clare usually comes by to pick up a latte on her way in just before ten but she hasn’t been here today. Maybe she’s running late as well.’

  ‘Or she passed up her coffee to be there on time and here we are—’

  ‘You need your coffee,’ Mort said testily. ‘As do I.’

  ‘I’m sure Clare won’t mind,’ I said, pouring Mort’s shots into a to-go cup and starting two more. ‘In fact, if you’ll wait a few seconds, I’ll give you her drink to take to her.’

  ‘Of course, happy to,’ Mort said. ‘Hannah is having a little trouble deciding where Celeste’s ashes should be kept, and I thought Clare’s shop might give us some ideas.’

  ‘Is someone staying with Nancy?’ Amy asked, and then blushed. ‘I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Hannah said, taking a tissue out of her bag. ‘Doctor Goode gave her something to sleep.’ She blew her nose.

  Amy put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. ‘The reason I ask is because Christy told me that Nancy is taking your mother’s death very hard. If there’s anything I can do, sit with her or whatever, please let me know.’

  Amy really was too good for us, in so many ways. Kind and giving, with a love for the environment and an eye for marketing, she inspired Sarah and me to be better people.

  So far we were fighting it, but maybe there was still hope.

  ‘… Kind of you,’ Hannah was saying, pushing an errant lock of hair out of her face. ‘But I think we’re fine. I tried to get her to come with us today to pick out the urn but she doesn’t want to leave the house or even see anyone other than me.’

  ‘She barely tolerates me.’ Mort’s smile was back. ‘But I did think it important that Hannah get out and I thought she’d enjoy meeting Clare.’

  ‘Clare’s great,’ I said, pressing the covers onto three to-go cups. ‘Do you two think you can handle these or do you want—’

  The sound of something akin to a cat choking on a hair ball interrupted me. Sarah in the office … gargling with saltwater?

  I continued, ‘A drink tray to—’

  She hawked up something.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, untying my apron. ‘Why don’t I walk over there with you?’

  THIRTEEN

  Clare was grateful for the latte, though I had to admit bringing it personally was a poor excuse for escaping Sarah. And leaving Amy alone with her and her phlegm. Fact was, though, that our barista was far better – and infinitely more patient – at soothing the savage beast that could be Sarah than I was. I was hoping she’d soothe her right out of the door and home by the time I got back.

  Clare showed Hannah around, stopping at the coffee and tea servers on the stairs. The shop smelled of lavender sachets and early-blooming fresh lilacs from the floral corner. The antiques themselves added a bit of a must and mildew, partly diminished by the fresh air wafting in from the front door, which Nancy had propped open with an antique flat iron – the kind heated on the stove and used to press clothes. Or so I heard tell. Ironing clothes, even in the age of electric irons, was not my thing.

  The display of urns was as lovely as I remembered it, but I noticed for the first time that there was a velvet rope across the top of the staircase. Storage for the store, most likely, or maybe Clare had a private office or living space on the second floor.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Mort said, pointing at an ornate two-handled urn set on a pedestal with four tiny ball-and-claw feet.

  Clare smiled. ‘You have a good eye. That samovar dates back to the seventeen hundreds.’

  The urn, embellished with carved silver garlands of leaves and flowers, was a little gaudy for my taste. ‘Is that a coat of arms?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clare said, lifting the thing. ‘And there’s a viscount’s coronet here, too. Isn’t it gorgeous?’

  ‘It’s the perfect size,’ Mort said, taking it from her. ‘Was your mother a tea-drinker, Hannah?’

  ‘No – coffee-drinkers, both she and Nancy. They could go through pots in a day.’ She was misting up.

  Mort was admiring his find. ‘I may get it anyway. It truly is the perfect vessel.’

  It did look like something you’d put ashes in. Or maybe a genie. There was even a spigot for him or her to materialize from.

  Hannah had moved on to the other side of the stairs. ‘My grandmother had one just like this.’ She indicated an engraved silver pot with handles and a spout.

  ‘Another beautiful piece,’ the shop owner said, picking it up to show her. ‘Victorian.’

  ‘Do you think Celeste would like that?’ Mort asked, setting down the samovar to join Hannah.

  Tears in her eyes, Hannah glanced at him and then down. ‘I think she would.’

  ‘Good,’ Mort said. ‘Then we’ll take both of these.’

  He lifted the samovar again and waved Clare and the coffee urn over to the cash register. ‘Let’s tally this up, and then can I get your business card? I’d like to put you on our list of recommended merchants.’

  ‘Of course,’ Clare said, picking one up from a porcelain dish on the counter. ‘In addition to our antiques, we provide flowers for all types of …’

  As the two talked, I focused on Hannah, who was still standing by the urns. ‘How are you doing?’

  She looked up like she’d forgotten I was there. ‘Me? Sad. I feel like I’m losing both of them.’ She reddened. ‘First Mother and now Nancy to this sudden ennui. She’s moody and angry, forgets things and seems to go in and out of focus. It reminds me of my mother sometimes, but not quite.’

  ‘Triggered by Celeste’s death, do you think?’

  ‘That’s all I can figure. It’s like a switch has turned off in her.’

  ‘Has Nancy been seen by a doctor?’

  Her eyes flicked in my direction and then back. ‘Not besides Doctor Goode, who Mort asked to give her something so she could sleep.’

  ‘Professional courtesy,’ Mort said, joining us.

  A wan smile from Hannah. ‘Neither Mother nor Nancy liked doctors. And hospitals are where people go to die. I guess I got some of that attitude from them. If Nancy doesn’t want to see a doctor, I won’t force her.’

  ‘Even if she’s not herself?’ Mort asked. ‘From what I’ve seen, she really is incapable of making those decisions at this point.’

  ‘The dislike of doctors predates all this.’ Clare’s fists clenched at her sides. ‘She – my mother, I mean – died peacefully at home. I’m grateful for that.’

  ‘As am I,’ Mort said with a little bow and checked his watch. ‘Nearly eleven, my dear. You need to be at the attorney’s office in twenty minutes and I need to get back to the mortuary with th
e urn if we’re going to be ready for your mother’s service at three p.m.’

  ‘Today?’ I asked. ‘I thought it was tomorrow.’ Hadn’t Jim told me that?

  ‘No, it’s today at the mortuary,’ Hannah said, checking her own timepiece. ‘Oh, dear. I wanted to stop at the house and check on Nancy before I saw the lawyer.’

  ‘Would you like me to run over to your house?’ I asked. ‘Or send Amy?’ Better idea.

  ‘That’s nice, but—’

  ‘It’s no problem for me to stop by on my way to the mortuary,’ Mort said. ‘It’s right next door and, as I’ve said, the old girl does tolerate me.’

  ‘Not for long if you call her “old girl,”’ Hannah said with a wan smile. ‘But thank you.’

  She turned to me. ‘And thank you and Amy, too. It’ll be better, though, if it’s somebody she knows. I wouldn’t leave her this long, but it’s important I see the new lawyer and get to the bank, too, before the memorial.’

  ‘Christy was saying how difficult dealing with the business side of death can be.’

  ‘More so than I ever imagined,’ Hannah said. ‘And I, at least, have Mort to guide me. And the attorney, too, but he’s being part of the problem. We have bills that are due and the funeral costs,’ she glanced at Mort’s back, ‘aren’t insubstantial. It’s complicated because my mother’s money is in a trust. Nancy is the trustee but she’s so confused and distraught she’s having trouble so much as signing her name.’

  ‘I thought trusts were supposed to make things easier. At least that’s what my lawyer friend Bernie is always telling me.’ In truth, that’s what he was always badgering me about. Not that I had anything to actually put in a trust.

  ‘Bernie Egan?’ Hannah looked surprised.

  ‘He’s a good friend and I worked with his wife Caron for years – both at First Financial and then in Uncommon Grounds.’

  ‘He’s the lawyer I’m going to see,’ Hannah said. ‘Small world.’

  ‘Small town,’ I countered.

  ‘From what I can tell, his specialty is copyright law?’

  ‘In the corporate world,’ I said, wanting to reassure her, ‘but now that he has his own practice he does a little bit of everything. Like I said, small town.’

  ‘And a very nice one.’ Mort slipped his credit card back in his wallet as Clare wrapped the urns in tissue paper and found a box to fit them in. I guessed the coffee urn would appear on Hannah’s bill from the mortuary along with a markup.

  ‘Well, I’d best be on my way,’ Hannah said, stepping out of the door. She was already down the path and on the front sidewalk when she turned and called up to Mort: ‘I leave the back door unlocked so just go around and let yourself in, OK?’

  ‘Will do, my dear. And don’t worry about a thing.’

  Hannah turned back, nearly colliding with a man walking in the other direction. She zigged and he zagged.

  Mort hefted the box. ‘Thank you so much. Will I see either of you at the service?’

  ‘I’ll try, if I can find somebody to mind the shop,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I told him.

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ Mort said. ‘Given the Bouchards are new in town, we don’t expect a large turnout. Hannah’s afraid that nobody will show up at all.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ Clare said, watching Mort load the urns into a black Mercedes. Apparently the BMW wasn’t his work car.

  ‘You mean Hannah’s mother?’

  ‘Sadly, she’s beyond sympathy now. I was talking about Hannah having to deal with all this.’

  ‘She does seem anxious, doesn’t she?’

  Clare seemed surprised. ‘Of course. Wouldn’t you expect her to be?’

  ‘I guess,’ I said, watching Hannah’s back disappear into the distance.

  FOURTEEN

  I left the antiques shop and walked slowly down the sidewalk toward Uncommon Grounds.

  Hannah had seemed worried. Maybe even more worried than sad, but who was I to say? Like Christy had said, the emotional piece is only part of the puzzle you need to deal with when somebody dies.

  But … if she thought Bernie only did trademark and copyright law – which he had at one time – why had she chosen him as her lawyer in dealing with the estate and trust?

  I could hear Sarah’s voice – probably raspy from her cold – saying in my ear, ‘And why isn’t Celeste’s own daughter her trustee? Why Nancy?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ I said out loud. ‘Because Nancy was her business partner, best friend and maybe more.’

  A man getting up from a bench with an Uncommon Grounds’ cup glanced over.

  I touched my ear, like I was adjusting my Bluetooth earpiece, albeit an invisible one. He smiled and kept going, and it was only then that I recognized him.

  Not only was he the man Hannah Bouchard had nearly collided with going the other way, but I’d seen him before. ‘Jack Andersen.’

  The man turned. ‘Yes?’

  Now what did I say? The man was a released felon and may have sheltered his prison escapee brother. In my book, Pauly Andersen was not only responsible for Pavlik’s injury but Pete Hartsfield’s and Al Taylor’s deaths as well.

  ‘You live at Brookhills Manor, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes?’ The blue eyes above his now peeling nose were twinkling. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No, but my friends Sophie and Henry are your next-door neighbors.’

  He cocked his head and then his eyes narrowed just a bit. ‘You’re the coffeehouse owner.’ He held up the cup.

  ‘Maggy Thorsen. I think you stopped in on Sunday, too, didn’t you?’

  ‘You know I did.’ The voice and the eyes had turned cold.

  ‘Jack,’ a familiar voice called and the eyes snapped back to friendly.

  Vickie LaTour was hurrying up the sidewalk toward us. ‘Maggy, I didn’t know you knew Jack.’

  ‘I didn’t, really, until now,’ I said truthfully, though I thought I already had the man’s number. Jack Andersen may play at being charming but I’d wager that underneath he was as much of a snake as his brother was.

  Vickie hooked arms with Andersen. ‘Isn’t he handsome? Do you know he does his own Botox? Aren’t we just a match made in heaven?’

  Sure. I supposed a smooth brow and lack of expression was handy for a con man.

  ‘Glad two of my favorite people have met,’ Vickie was saying. ‘Maggy owns Uncommon Grounds, Jack.’

  ‘So I just realized,’ he said pleasantly.

  ‘Jack and I were going to meet there on Sunday but we just missed each other.’

  ‘I was early, I’m afraid,’ Jack said.

  ‘And I was late.’ Vickie smiled up at him. ‘It’s so us. We went on a cruise to the Bahamas and Jack was always up with the birds.’

  ‘Seagulls, in that case,’ he offered with a wide smile.

  I laughed, since that seemed to be what was expected of me by the happy couple. ‘Sophie mentioned you’d gone on a cruise.’

  She wagged a finger. ‘And don’t you tell her I went with Jack or I’ll never hear the end of it.’

  ‘She doesn’t like me for some reason.’ Jack said it with a can-you-believe-it smile.

  ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  I’d intended to just play along, but the words came out flat and Vickie gave me an uncertain glance. ‘Oh, Maggy. You can’t blame Jack for something his brother did.’

  Yes, I could. And I did.

  ‘That’s not fair, my dear,’ Jack said. ‘Pauly has done some awful things. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that sometimes I’m painted with the same brush.’

  Vickie’s eyes were as big as the Botox would allow. ‘But you were held hostage, Jack. For hours.’ The eyes swiveled to me. ‘My Jack was a victim as much as your sheriff was.’

  Now that was too much. ‘Really? Was Jack shot? And why would Pauly have even come to the manor if he didn’t think his brother would hide him?’

  A nerve in Jack’s jaw was
jumping but he said evenly, ‘I don’t blame you for how you feel. But I can’t control my brother or what he thinks. Believe me, I’ve tried.’

  ‘We need to be away from him, go someplace where he’ll never find you.’ Vickie turned to me. ‘I’m afraid that man is going to come through the window every night when we go to bed.’

  Which meant that it was Vickie and Jack that Sophie was hearing through the walls between the two apartments.

  ‘Botox Vickie’s doing the convict, huh?’ Sarah was sniffling.

  We were just inside the door of Brookhills Mortuary. Despite her cold, Sarah had insisted on coming to the funeral with me rather than going home.

  ‘Will you lower your voice,’ I pleaded, looking around.

  ‘Why? The place is a tomb. Literally. Helloooo …’

  I shushed her. ‘You realize you’re shouting, right?’

  ‘No, my ears are stuffed up. Besides, who’s going to hear me anyway?’ Sarah waved her arm at the empty hallway. ‘There’s nobody in the place except you and me.’

  ‘Well, it’s just quarter to three.’ I stopped. ‘Isn’t that a song?’

  ‘Isn’t what a song?’ She dug a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

  ‘“Quarter to three.” Isn’t that Sinatra?’

  ‘I don’t know. Google it.’

  ‘You say that when you want to shut me up.’

  ‘But, alas, it doesn’t work.’ A half sigh, half sniffle. ‘Are you sure it’s today? Maybe you got me out of my sick bed for nothing.’

  ‘You never even went to your sick bed. And if you had, I would have told you to stay in it. But no – you insisted on infecting everybody at the funeral.’

  ‘Which is you.’

  ‘Exactly my point.’

  ‘I’m on antibiotics so I’m not contagious anymore.’

  ‘Your doctor prescribed antibiotics for a cold?’ I demanded. ‘When? Your first sneeze was yesterday.’

  ‘Actually, I realized it was Sunday. Remember I sneezed when we were outside unchaining the furniture?’

  Unlike my partner, I didn’t catalog each sneeze. But I did remember this one, because I’d nearly choked myself. ‘That was Celeste’s perfume, don’t you think? But regardless, antibiotics aren’t effective against viruses. You’re—’