The Dearly Departed (7 page)

He stared at her hair. Finally, he pointed. “When did this happen?”

“Prematurely.”

“Like, overnight?”

“Not overnight. You haven't seen me since graduation.”

“It's nice,” said Joey. “Gray-blond, you could say.”

Sunny didn't respond.

“So where have you been?”

“College. Then various schools, teaching.”

“How many?”

“Three: one in New York and two in Connecticut. Private schools, so I had to teach and coach and sleep and eat in one place, all for a pittance. I couldn't find a good fit.” She backed up to the visitors' bench and sat down.

“You okay?” he asked.

Sunny shook her head.

“Want a glass of water? Or juice? I've got a refrigerator in the back. Or I can pop a potato into the microwave.”

She looked up at the large, plain-faced wall clock: nine o'clock, and she couldn't remember when or what lunch had been.

Joey asked, “Anything I can do for you?”

Sunny said, “I'm staying at the King's Nite, and I don't have a phone in my room.”

“Do you want to use mine?”

“I just thought you should know I was here if anything came up.”

“Did you want to go to the house tomorrow?”

Sunny closed her eyes, then opened them before she spoke. “Not unless I have to.”

“There's nothing there that would upset you. I mean, sure—everything would upset you—the house where you grew up and then your mother dies there. But I meant everything's in order. It's not creepy, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Who put everything in order?”

“I stopped by on my way back from the hospital to take down the police tape.” He shrugged. “Maybe I moved some dirty dishes to the sink.”

“Have I asked you if they had been there all night? I mean, I know they were, but did anyone figure out how long before they were discovered?”

“Mr. Finn picked up their sandwich orders at The Dot, so we know they were alive the night before. They must've been overcome between dinner and when the paperboy arrived. It wasn't really important to pinpoint the exact time of death.”

“I guess,” said Sunny wanly, “that you only have to do that if there's a murder.”

“So they tell me.” Joey checked his clipboard. “Mr. Finn's next of kin? Fletcher?” He looked up. “Has he been any help?”

Sunny said, “Not so far.”

“Is he here?”

“He's coming up for the funeral, but he's too busy to come any earlier.” She stood up and said, “I'm sure you're busy, too.”

“Busy putting ice on my hematomas,” he said. When she didn't respond, he added, “No one told me to do that, but it feels better when I do.”

“Did they catch the man who shot you?”

Joey said firmly, “They will, any second. Nothing to worry about.” He reached for his hat, grimaced in pain at the stretch. “C'mon. I'll walk you back.”

“No. I'm fine. You're working.”

“When's the funeral?”

“Friday morning. The wake is tomorrow night.”

“Dickie been okay? Helpful and all that?”

Sunny shrugged. “He wanted the wake at the funeral parlor, but I insisted. He said he'd need a permit for the theater, but I said, ‘Give me the name and number of the custodian and I'll make one phone call.' It turned out it was his sister's husband—”

“Roland LaPlante.”

“So that took all of thirty seconds.”

“Everyone wants to help. The whole town feels responsible.”

“Responsible?”

“Like someone should have noticed. Or if someone had invited them over for dinner that night, then when they didn't show, they could have called. . . . Or maybe we should have made carbon-monoxide detectors mandatory.”

Sunny's eyes filled.

“You gonna be able to sleep? The King's Nite's not famous for its Sealy Posturpedics.”

“Probably not.”

Joey walked over to a wooden coatrack, patted the pockets of a navy blue windbreaker, and came back with a bottle of pills. “How about if I give you one or two?”

“Don't you need them?”

He held the amber vial up to eye level. “There's four in here. I might use one or two. But then I'll forget about them and they'll expire.”

Sunny held her hand out. “It must be legal if they're being dispensed by the chief of police.”

Joey laughed. “You remember what a genius and scholar I was in high school, right? Well, I went to medical school nights. Or was it pharmacy school? I forget. I'd better go check my diploma.”

Sunny didn't smile. She said politely, “I think we were in study hall together but not any classes.”

“Because the only time kids like us got thrown together was in study hall. Or maybe driver's ed.”

“But here you are,” said Sunny. “Chief of police. You probably visit elementary schools and tell all the students how to be good citizens.”

“I do. I'm good at it. I can make quarters come out of their ears, and I can turn balloons into dachshunds.”

“When I teach at that level,” Sunny began. “Actually, when I
taught
—”

“That's it? Past tense? You're done with it?”

Sunny said, “I had a one-year contract.”

The phone rang. Joey put his hand on the receiver but didn't pick up. “Does that mean
fired
?”

Sunny said, “Maybe it's an emergency.”

Joey rolled his eyes. “King George Police Station, Chief Loach speaking.” He closed his eyes and kept them shut as he recited, “Only in winter. After April thirtieth you can park on either side.” He hung up. “That's what I do: I give directions and I answer the questions people would ask the D.P.W. If we had one.”

“Then let me ask this,” said Sunny. “Off the record, is there a place I could hit a bucket of balls where I wouldn't run into anyone who knew I was doing it the morning of my mother's wake?”

“Why not at the club?”

“I'm not a member, and I just want to hit a bucket of balls. Preferably within walking distance.”

Joey pointed. “Route 12A North—maybe a mile past the Creamery. There's a little hut on your left shaped like a hamburger and a bun. Opens at nine
A.M.
”

“Thanks,” said Sunny.

“Seriously: I can call a half a dozen guys who are members and would be happy to take you out as their guest. Believe me, they'd understand.”

Sunny said, “I know those guys. No thanks.”

“I can drive you. It's not exactly next door.”

“A mile's nothing,” said Sunny. “A mile will feel good.”

“Watch the oncoming traffic,” said Chief Loach.

 

N
o-nonsense Mrs. Angelo, famous for adding figures in her head, who rarely climbed down from her stool at the cash register, did so to enfold Sunny in a bosomy hug. “It's a miracle that you walked in here! We were just saying that we wanted to send some platters over; some sandwiches, some pasta salad, the tricolor rotini, and an assortment of cookies—we do anise and pignoli beautiful.”

“I wasn't planning any kind of reception,” said Sunny.

“You have to invite people back to the house after the funeral. They want to be with each other.” She led Sunny to the booth next to the cash register, despite the fact that it was already occupied by a woman in a white tennis sweater and maroon velvet headband. The woman removed her reading glasses, folded them into hinged quarters, and offered her hand.

“Sunny? I'm Fran Pope. You don't know me, but I directed your mother in
Watch on the Rhine,
and we are all just shattered.”

Sunny said, “Did you say Pope?”

“Like the pontiff. As in Pope Sand and Gravel. Your mother and I—”

“Are you Randall Pope's mother?”

Mrs. Pope's face brightened. “I certainly am! You know Randy?”

Sunny inhaled and exhaled before saying, “I was on the golf team with him. He was captain the year I joined.”

“Of course I knew that. Very small world. I think your mother knew the connection.”

“She certainly did,” said Sunny.

“I hope he was a good captain,” said Mrs. Pope.

Sunny said after a pause, “He was a good golfer.”

Beaming, Mrs. Pope said, “It was his spring sport, which you probably know. Football was his first love, and basketball was second. Mr. Pope was a football fanatic, but I liked the basketball games, because I got to watch them in a nice warm gym.”

Sunny opened a menu and said without looking up from it, “Your son found a dead carp floating in the brook—or what was euphemistically called the brook—and put it in my golf bag.” She plucked several napkins, one by one, from a dispenser and spread them on her lap. “At least I was ninety-nine percent sure it was Randy.”

Mrs. Pope blinked, took a sip from her cup, blotted her lips, and asked, “Did Bill Sandvik get in touch with you? Or Bill Kaufman? Someone was going to call you and ask if we—meaning the Players—could say a few words at the funeral. We thought either of the Bills would give a stunning eulogy.”

“That would be fine,” said Sunny. “I'm sure my mother would love it.
Would
have loved it . . .”

“Bill S. was her leading man a number of times and has a gorgeous speaking voice, but Bill K. is a freelance toastmaster. They may still be sorting it out.”

“Either,” said Sunny. “Or both.”

“Everyone was
rocked
by this tragedy. It touched everyone in town, directly or indirectly.”

“I'm beginning to see that,” said Sunny.

“Did you order?” Mrs. Pope asked her, accompanied by the snap of Mrs. Angelo's fingers behind her. From the counter, The Dot's one waitress barked, “What?”

“Winnie! Bring Sunny a menu.”

“Just coffee,” said Sunny.

“What if Gus scrambles you an egg or two?” asked Mrs. Angelo from her stool. “Or we have omelets now—Eastern, Western, or Hawaiian.”

Mrs. Pope confided, “When I went through this with my mother, I lost one dress size without even trying. And she died at eighty-eight. Not unexpected.”

“
Still
too young,” said Mrs. Angelo.

“Not in my mother's case,” Mrs. Pope continued. “She was completely demented. But I know what you're saying: You think you're prepared, but you never are. And in your case, there's an extra layer of tragedy—losing your only parent before you're even . . .”

Sunny wasn't sure where the unfinished sentence was supposed to lead. Her age? Her marital or professional status?

Mrs. Pope tried, “Thirty-three?”

“No, I was two years behind Randy. It's the hair. People always think—”

“Well, of course! People are so unobservant. Your face is still the face in your yearbook picture.” She patted Sunny's hand. “Mr. Pope and I take out a full-page ad in every King George Regional yearbook—Pope Sand and Gravel—so we get a courtesy copy.”

Sunny could see that Mrs. Pope, whose own hair was dyed a uniform chestnut, was counting the days until she could take the younger woman under her wing and advise her that gray is for aging hippies or the occasional over-fifty model whose silver hair is the very point.

“Tell me what I can do,” said Mrs. Pope. “There must be something I can help you with. Do you need a place to stay? Will the relatives need a place to freshen up?”

“I'm set,” said Sunny. “But thanks.”

“Randy lives on East Pleasant. You might know his wife.”

“I do.”

“It's one of those cute stories: They didn't like each other in high school—she thought he was conceited—three-letter athlete, tall, good-looking—and Regina was a few years younger and, from what I understand, a late bloomer. But then they ran into each other after he graduated from B.U., and she was back here from Rivier College, student-teaching—”

“I know the whole story.”

“I don't know how well you knew him, but I can assure you that he's matured into a fine husband and father. He'll most certainly be paying his respects.”

“I'm sure Regina will,” said Sunny.

Winnie rounded the counter carrying a platter of English muffins, sunny-side-up eggs, home fries, and sausage flattened into a patty. “Couldn't help it,” she said. “Gus heard you were here. He practically wept.” She checked to make sure Mrs. Angelo was out of range. “He thinks you're taking a stand by coming here,” she whispered. “He's really touched.”

“I'm taking a stand?” asked Sunny.

“The food,” Mrs. Pope explained. “Their last meal. It was take-out from here.”

“It was the last time anyone saw Miles alive,” said Winnie. “Until they ruled out food poisoning, we were sweating bullets around here, if you know what I mean. Even with all the hoopla about the furnace, business has dropped off—at least that's my opinion. Guilt by association.”

“Then please tell Mr. Angelo that he'll be seeing plenty of me, but I'm going to insist on paying for my meals,” said Sunny.

The waitress said, “Let him if he wants to. He had a lung removed and we like to give him his way.”

“Cancer,” Mrs. Pope translated.

“In remission,” said Winnie.

“Is he okay?” asked Sunny.

“We think so. It didn't spread. Next Thanksgiving it'll be five years.” Winnie knocked on the wood-look Formica, and Sunny seconded the motion.