The Dearly Departed (15 page)

“A day late,” said Joey.

“They're for her, not Margaret. The card specifically said ‘Sunny.' They're from someone out of town. F.T.D. But that's all I know.”

With his hand on the doorknob, he asked, “Is she all square with you? Can I take her away?”

Mrs. Peacock squinted out the window. “Probably a boyfriend. Evette wouldn't tell me—some kind of confidentiality oath they take as florists . . . or so she said.”

“Very good to know,” said Joey.

“One last thing,” Sunny said to Joey, handing him the lilies. “I need to give Fletcher directions to the house.”

“Why?”

“We're splitting the funeral expenses. I want him to know where he can find me.”

“Tell him he's got a phone message in the office: An Emily wants him to call her on her cell phone.”

Sunny headed for the path to the cabins.

“I thought you couldn't stand him,” Joey yelled.

“I can't. I need the money. It'll just take a sec.”

Joey held the bowl. It still bore a card, in an envelope, perched on its plastic stick. He watched Sunny knock on the door of unit two, wait, knock again.

Joey slipped the card out of its prong and read quickly, “With deepest sympathy from your freinds at Harding,” Evette had transcribed to the best of her ability. The school. Just teachers. A group of them.

Fletcher appeared in blue jeans but no shirt, flabbier at the waist than his funeral suit revealed, feet bare, hair crazy. He smiled at Sunny. No wonder, thought Joey. Her hair was up in a twist with pieces flying out of it and curling down her neck. Fletcher went back inside, returned with a pen and a piece of paper. Sunny wrote something. Fletcher asked a question, got an answer. Fletcher put the slip of paper in his jeans pocket. Sunny nodded.

Joey watched carefully. Yesterday the guy was lobbying for kinship. Today he's taking a second look at his new sister, noticing that when she's not wearing a dress down to her ankles and a hat over her eyes, it's something else altogether. Bet he wishes he hadn't started the brother campaign. Bet he wishes he never opened his big mouth.

Keep it up, thought Joey. Fall for your half-sister. Fall as hard as you want. I don't know New Jersey law, Fletcher boy, but in this state, it's a sin.

 

T
he teenager had gone to bed hungry after finding only pizza with soy cheese and filleted raw fish in the dead guy's freezer. None of the cereals were normal, and none tasted sweet. On the plus side, he reminded himself, everything was hooked up—cable, electricity, gas. Who knew from the ratty outside that the inside would be excellent: The wood floor was shiny, as if it was newly laid. The air smelled like paint. The ceiling had floodlights that were sunk right into it. He'd decided not to turn on the lights at night, but now he fiddled with everything, slid the dimmers up and down, figured which remote control worked the television, which premium channels the dead guy got. It was great—a bachelor pad hideout, if only there were chips or Pop Tarts in the cupboard and some beer in the fridge.

The phone worked, too. What the hell. He had good news; the TV said the cop was saved by a bullet-proof vest and was back to work. So he hadn't killed anyone. He was innocent. He dialed Tiff's number. She didn't know any of it; didn't even know he'd borrowed the truck, or why he was so relieved now, but he felt like telling her how cool things were.

Tiff's mother answered. “Is this Billy?” she asked coldly when he didn't speak. “I know it's you.” After a longer pause she asked, “Where's 603?”

Shit, Caller ID. He'd forgotten. “Is Mike there?” he asked in what he hoped was a stranger's voice.

“There's no Mike here. And if this is Billy, don't call back.”

“Sorry, wrong number,” he mumbled and hung up.

Fletcher remembered the cabin as being such a depressing dump that he was heartened by what he saw at the end of the dirt driveway. Shingles not yet weathered to match the burnt-toast look of the original homestead announced an addition. “I remember it as a hell of a lot more ramshackle,” Fletcher said to Dickie, next to him in the driver's seat.

“He never told you he was renovating?”

“He probably said something. I should've figured he couldn't have lived here year-round the way it was.”

“The lake's gotten kind of fashionable,” said Dickie. “All it takes is a couple of New Yorkers buying tear-downs and hiring architects to get the market moving.”

Fletcher got out of the car and walked across the grass to the water. He looked left and right, and came back shaking his head. “So Boot Lake is hot,” he said, grinning. “Ain't America great?”

“Two words,” said Dickie. “Fly-fishing. Some outfit is building a lodge on the northeast shore, and since that was announced, the flatlanders have been sniffing around. Doctors and lawyers who get four, five weeks of vacation a year and like to vary their fresh and salt water.” Dickie hit the button that unlatched the trunk, but he didn't spring out of the car as usual.

Fletcher was squinting up into the trees. “I don't see any phone or power lines. I was hoping for that much.”

“Underground,” said Dickie. “Everything went in at once when they laid the fiberoptic cable. The whole lake. There were hearings, and people testifying to how the big bad outside world was ruining their pristine surroundings and their chosen lifestyle. It went on for months. Front-page coverage in the
Bulletin.
” Through the open car window, he extended his hand to Fletcher. “I've gotta get back. Roberta's beeping me.”

“What a business, huh?” said Fletcher. “You guys on call twenty-four/seven? No fly-fishing vacations for your team.”

“The relatives always want a human being at the point of contact. Imagine losing a loved one and getting our voice mail?” He paused and said pointedly, “Your bags are in the trunk.”

“Sorry,” said Fletcher. “I'm a little stunned by all of this. I didn't even expect electricity, let alone a deck and a bug-zapper.” He turned back toward the lake. It was not a body or a view that would inspire anyone to forsake the Poconos. He thought about the Grandjeans' summer home—three acres on Nantucket Sound—an aerial view of which was enlarged and framed behind the boss's desk.

“I assume you have a key,” said Dickie.

“Do I need one? It never even had a lock.”

Dickie put the Town Car in reverse and backed out without answering. Just before turning onto the paved road, he waved into his rearview mirror.

Fletcher waved agreeably. “Fuck you, too,” he said through his smile.

Billy watched the drop-off and the retreat of the fancy black car. Shit. He'd have to run out the door, past the guy, into the truck and take off. Keys? Where had he left the keys? Just like at home, just like a million searches a day he had to make for whatever crap he'd misplaced in the five minutes between coming home and going out again.

The guy in the driveway, meanwhile, didn't seem to notice that there was a truck parked behind the house or music coming from inside. He couldn't be a cop; no cop arrives alone to apprehend a dangerous criminal at his hideout, and certainly not with luggage and golf clubs. He must be a relative. He looked like the dead guy, who had pictures of himself in every room.

The doorknob turned left and right like a horror movie where the girl is home alone and the mass murderer is trying the door before slashing his way inside. In one second, Billy decided to fake it—to be as charming and clueless as he knew how to be. He'd make something up. He went to the door and opened it with a perplexed but welcoming smile.

Fletcher jumped and put his hand over his heart. “Jesus! You scared the shit out of me.”

“I didn't mean to,” said Billy. “I saw you coming up the stairs, so I opened the door.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Billy grinned sheepishly. “I'm so friggin' embarrassed,” he offered.

Fletcher handed this stranger his golf clubs. “Here. Make yourself useful. I take it you're not the caretaker?”

“I was just . . . the door was open. I thought my friend lived here.”

“Bullshit.” What an annoying complication. Fletcher looked around. Where there once had been cobwebs were air and skylights, and where there had been cracked linoleum was pale, polished wood and an Oriental rug.

Billy said, “Okay. I'm not gonna lie to you. I told my parents I was sleeping over a friend's house, and my girlfriend told
her
parents she was sleeping over a friend's house. . . .”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Just this once,” said Billy. “I swear.”

“Where's your girlfriend?”

“She left early. She had to go to work. She's a nurse.”

Fletcher brushed past the teenager and went down a new hall, where the one bedroom used to be. “Hey, not bad at all. You should've seen what it was like last time I came.” He returned back and said, “It was my father's house, but he died.”

“I heard that,” said the teenager. “That's how come I knew to stay here.”

Fletcher waved him off. “Look. Don't do this anymore. If you want to fuck your girlfriend, go find a minivan. This is off limits. I'm not going to report you to your parents—” He stopped. “What's your name?”

“Billy.”

“Look, Billy—strip the bed and throw the sheets in the washing machine. If there is one.”

Billy said, “We did it on top of the bedspread, on a towel. We didn't even touch the sheets.”

Fletcher sighed. “Look, just get lost, okay? I'm not that interested.”

“I didn't take anything,” said Billy. “You can check. I'll stand here and wait while you see if anything's missing.”

“How would I even know? It was a hole when I was last here. You could've fenced an entire home entertainment center and I wouldn't have a clue.”

“But I didn't,” said Billy. “I swear. I only spent one night here and I was real careful. I cleaned up after myself, and I even picked up a little.”

“Am I supposed to thank you?” asked Fletcher. “You break into my house—”

“I thought you said it was your father's house.”

“It's mine now,” said Fletcher.

Billy lay the golf clubs carefully on the floor. “Any chance I could sleep on the couch? In the loft upstairs?”

Fletcher shook his head. “You've got balls, I'll give you that much. I catch you squatting in my house and you ask if we can be roommates?”

“I don't have anywhere to go,” said Billy.

“What about home?”

“I can't. They threw me out. They don't like my girlfriend.” He thought for a few seconds. “She's a Gypsy, and my parents are prejudiced.”

“You're wasting your breath, kid. I have a heart of plutonium, okay? I don't care who threw you out or why.”

Billy said, “It's actually my mother and stepfather who don't want me around. My real father died, just like yours did. If he was still alive, I wouldn't be homeless.”

“Too bad! I'm not a social worker. Go sign up for a Big Brother. Go cry on the doorstep of some sympathetic aunt or uncle. Everyone has one of those.”

“They're prejudiced, too,” said Billy. “Everyone in my family is, except me.”

Fletcher frowned. “Can't you turn yourself over to Children's Protective Services or whatever it's called around here?”

“I'm eighteen. I'm too old for that.”

With the leather couches, the stainless-steel appliances, and the Italian tiles beckoning, Fletcher was losing interest in the subject. “Hold on. I want to look around. Don't bolt.”

“Check out the lights,” Billy advised. He walked to the wall switches and demonstrated. “The bulbs move inside their sockets. See: left, right. Separate controls for each fixture. They're halogen.”

“Cool,” said Fletcher.

“You're just checking it out, right?” asked Billy. “You're not moving in or anything?”

“I didn't know it was an option,” said Fletcher. “Now I'm thinking, Why the hell shouldn't I stay here? It beats the King's Nite Motel.” He pointed toward the kitchen window. “Is that your truck out back?”

“It's my uncle's,” said Billy. “He's in a nursing home, so he lets me use it when I go out on dates.”

“That's a break, huh? He has wheels
and
he isn't prejudiced against Gypsies?”

Billy hesitated. “That's because he's an Indian.”

“Really? What tribe?”

“It's one of the big ones—Apache, I think.”

“Not one of the tribes indigenous to New England?”

“Like what?”

“If he's lucky, one that owns a big casino.”

“I forget. He doesn't like to talk about it.”

Fletcher said, “Bill, I'm not an idiot. What's the real story here? You stole this truck and you're on the lam?”

“No fucking way.”

Fletcher said, peering through the blinds, “Why does it have Massachusetts plates?”

“That's where my uncle's from. I told you it was his.”

“What town?”

“Boston,” said Billy. “Sort of near Boston.”

“What's his name?”

“Mike. Uncle Mike.”

“Uncle Mike what?”

“Why?”

“So I can check his name against the registration.”

“I'll stay out of your way,” said Billy. “I could do odd jobs around here to pay for room and board. Whatever you needed.”

“Look, I'll tell you what I'll do out of sheer boredom: a huge favor, generosity personified. I'll stay here, and I'll give you my motel room back in town. I had to pay for two nights, but I'm not going back. I'll call the dragon lady in charge and tell her I'm lending my room to a guy who came up for the funeral.”

“Could you say brother, or nephew so she wouldn't be suspicious?”

“Suspicious of what?”

“That you didn't mention it before. Or maybe she was at the funeral and didn't see me.”

“It's paid for. I'll give you the key and you won't even have to check in. Just go to unit two, sleep there, and leave before eleven in the morning.”