Mourning Express Page 12

  I glanced in my rearview mirror and noticed a blue car following pretty closely behind mine. Positive I’d seen the same blue car in the Misty Haven subdivision, I held off on using my signal until right before I made the turn into the funeral home. The blue car zoomed past and the driver honked in displeasure.

  The spot that’d been designated for me at Harold’s funeral was now occupied by a four-door black hearse. I parked in the spot beside it and used the visor mirror to apply a coat of lip gloss. Looking casually respectful might go a long way with Mrs. D. She seemed like she’d notice the effort of making up and looking nice when no one else was around except her. Before I could finish, a silver car pulled up and parked beside me.

  Pastor Tom lifted his hand in a hesitant wave. Knowing that my professional mourning job might mean our paths crossed more often than not, I didn’t want to leave things between us awkward.

  I exited and met him at the back of his car where he removed a black shoulder bag from his trunk. “Hi there.”

  “Good morning, Rosie. Do you have another assignment from Ruthie already?”

  “Um, no.” I didn’t want to tell him I still hadn’t let go of the first assignment. “I actually wanted to talk for a couple of minutes.”

  When he put down the trunk lid, a white sticker caught my eye.

  A fish. The Christian symbol I’d seen a hundred times before in Asheville. I backed away. Silver car. Fishing type sticker. A man with a silver car and white fish sticker who knew Harold.

  Pastor Tom gave me his full focus after putting the bag on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “I, um…” I didn’t know what to do. Could Pastor Tom be a suspect? He knew Harold well and all his routines. Not to mention, he also knew a lot more about me personally than half the tabloids paparazzi who’d stalked me in the early days. He’d know where to leave a note to scare me. I didn’t have enough information to do anything with it. Only suppositions. I tapped my pepper spray and considered it my liquid courage. “Did you see Harold the night he died?”

  His face shuttered and his eyes narrowed. “Are you back on this?”

  I pointed to his car. “A neighbor saw a car just like yours parked on the street the night he died. And another heard him arguing later with a man.”

  “First Bowman and now me, huh?”

  He started to walk around me, but I blocked his path. “You told Pearl not to go to the police too.”

  He set the bag down. “Fine. You want to do this.” I expected anger, but his eyes filled with sadness instead. He leaned against the rear of his car blocking the fish sticker from view. “Pearl came to see me in grief and I counseled her. You’re not a member of my congregation, but I’m going to do the same for you. This obsession you have with Harold’s death isn’t about Harold. You’re using this fake murder as a way to compensate for allowing your twin brother to steal from your grandmother. You’re paranoid and unable to trust anyone after your brother hurt you.”

  I stood my ground even though his words cut me. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. You didn’t answer my question about arguing with Harold the night of his death. Were you there?”

  A black car pulled into the parking spot beside Pastor Tom’s. He picked his bag up and put it over his shoulder again. “You should stop randomly accusing people. The last thing you need is a slander lawsuit. But if you really want to know, I had church Sunday night and then choir practice after. A church full of witnesses can tell you I didn’t leave the pulpit for hours.”

  He greeted an elderly woman who exited the car and guided her by the elbow into the funeral home.

  Pastor Tom might not be the man who argued with Harold around nine p.m., but I knew for a fact he’d written inside the sign in book. I snapped a picture of the back of his car. I’d show it to Sadie to try to jog her memory. If I could match Pastor Tom’s handwriting to the note left in my car, and have a witness place his car there the night of Harold’s death, I would have something tangible to take to Detective Jones.

  The door to the funeral home shut briskly behind the good pastor. I let a couple of minutes pass before I entered behind him. Neither he nor Mrs. Downer was in the front lobby. I couldn’t ask Mrs. Downer for the book with Pastor Tom there. He’d know I was after something that could make him a real suspect. As the words rolled through my mind, my stomach mimicked the same churning. Of course, it bothered me that he didn’t have a motive that I could tell. Emailed sermon notes from a parishioner hardly constituted some type of feud between them.

  Grab the book first, and then take the next step. Start broad and then narrow down like Mateo suggested. I hesitated, unsure of which direction to head. All I knew of the funeral home was the Red Room and where Mrs. Downer had served refreshments. What if the book had been given to Bowman already?

  I squashed that theory since Bowman clearly didn’t want any memorabilia related to his uncle. The Red Room stood to my left, so I quietly opened the door to my right. This room mirrored the Red Room except all the furniture and décor were a navy blue. Bet she calls this the Blue Room. I shut the door and continued down the hall bypassing the refreshment room. Clanking that resembled loading a dishwasher came from another hallway and I assumed the kitchen to be in that direction.

  Voices mingled from another area not too far down and I guessed that Pastor Tom and Mrs. Downer were in her office with the woman I’d seen in the parking lot.

  I inched down the hallway toward the office and noticed a door. It opened to a supply closet. I flipped on the light. My phone chirped and I jumped into the closet, pulling the door closed behind me. I didn’t recognize the number so I clicked it to vibrate and held my breath. The phone vibrated again alerting me to a voicemail. I flipped off the light.

  The voices I’d heard earlier grew in volume as the trio neared the closet. I backed up against the wall and waited as their shadows passed beneath the crack of light under the door. I pressed my ear to the door and waited until I couldn’t hear them speaking anymore.

  With the coast clear, I ducked into Mrs. Downer’s office. Three filing cabinets lined one side of the wall, each drawer with an alphabetical label. Behind her large oak desk was a bookshelf lined with black guestbooks. Only about thirty black bound sign-in books in total. I dashed past her desk to start with the last book in line. Empty. The first book belonged to a deceased client but not Harold.

  I’d have to pull each one.

  The books were a mix of used and unused and with each pull my frustration grew exponentially. Mrs. Downer’s stern voice called out to someone down the hall. With my time almost up, I glanced around frantically for another idea. I needed a sample of Pastor Tom’s handwriting, but in case I was wrong, I still needed some type of a list of everyone at the funeral.

  Footsteps sounded down the hall and I heard Pastor Tom’s voice along with Mrs. Downer’s. I didn’t want him to catch me snooping, so I pulled open the closet door in the office and stepped inside. With my ear against the door, I eavesdropped.

  “I think I need to call Ruthie about her,” Pastor Tom said, his voice getting louder as he walked into the office. “If she’s going to cause a ruckus at every funeral she attends, then I can’t see how that’ll be good for Ruthie’s mourning business.”

  “You don’t believe her concerns are valid?” Mrs. Downer asked. “A lot of people were happy to see Harold Baumgartner put in the ground.”

  Did I have an ally in the starchy and proper Mrs. Downer? The thought hadn’t occurred to me.

  “I like to think the best of people, but I’m having a hard time with her approach.” He chuckled. “She actually accused me of harming Harold in the parking lot just now.”

  “Oh, is she here?”

  “I hope she left.” The usual joviality of his voice had flattened. I’d hurt him with my accusation.

  I heard the blinds crinkle. “Hmm.”

  “I’d best be on my way.” The guest chair creaked. “I need to work on my sermon for Sunday.”

&nb
sp; “I’ll walk you out, pastor.”

  Hiding cost me my nerve to continue snooping. I dashed out of the office closet and waited near the kitchen until I was sure that Tom had left the building. I could stay and ask Mrs. Downer about the sign-in book, but I didn’t want to give her a reason to call Ruthie. I needed the professional mourning assignments until I found steady employment.

  The kitchen had a back door, so I snuck around the side of the building and peeked into the parking lot. The elderly woman’s car along with Pastor Tom’s was gone. However, now a blue car sat blocking mine. The same blue car from Misty Haven.

  This guy was following me.

  I pulled out my pepper spray and held it at arm’s length. Back blast into my own eyes would make for a slow getaway, so I aimed carefully as the thin man exited his car.

  “Why are you following me?” I yelled.

  He ducked an arm over his head. “Please don’t! I’m just doing my job.”

  “If your job is to scare the pants off of me, it’s working.”

  “What?” He lowered his arm an inch. “I’m a process server.”

  I lowered the spray. Another one? “What did I do now?” I asked the air around me.

  “Can I give you the papers and leave?”

  “Yes, but I do have a home. Why didn’t you serve me there?”

  “I was going to, but I saw you leave the apartment when I pulled in. Then you were never alone enough that I felt it appropriate to approach you.”

  Great. A process server with a conscience.

  He handed me a thick brown envelope full of court summons, no doubt. I signed his clipboard and apologized. He gave me a cheerful wave as he drove away.

  “Ms. Collins.”

  I jumped at the voice calling my name. Mrs. Downer stood by the entrance, the warm wind blowing her long silver hair and the hem of her black dress, making her look like a wraith.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Downer.”

  “Did you need something?”

  I’d already suggested a pastor killed Harold and then I held another man hostage with pepper spray. What did I have to lose from taking it one step further? “I was hoping you’d let me look through Harold’s sign-in book.”

  Her mouth shifted from frown to deeper frown. “I’m afraid I mailed that to Mr. Baumgartner at his request.”

  “To his house or Harold’s?” One dip into a mailbox would be considered a felony act; the other I could get away with an excuse of checking the mail for a friend. Pearl would back me up.

  “Ms. Collins.” The fact that she said nothing other than my name but revealed her disapproving thoughts in those two scolding words killed my plan to rifle through mailboxes.

  “See ya.” I waved to her and got in my car. Not sure where to go next, I checked the voice message.

  “Hey howdy, Rosalind, this is Lou Kadlec returning your call. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. If you want to set up a time to meet, maybe I can help you with some of your inquiries. My, uh, calendar is clear for the next week or so.”

  Hey howdy, if I only had the funds to pay him I would. But honestly, if I had the funds for a private investigator, they would be better used to find my thieving brother. I deleted Lou’s message. I needed to regroup.

  ∞∞∞

  I’d chosen Green Hills Cemetery as Mom’s final resting place because it housed over twenty thousand deceased. If I had to leave her somewhere, I wanted her to be in a beautifully well-kept place surrounded by history and a multitude of Asheville’s loved ones.

  I passed through the black iron gate and parked near the pond. It’d been over a year since Victor and I buried Mom after the car accident, and I hadn’t visited because of the shame I felt. Right after the funeral, I’d allowed Victor to take Power of Attorney for Grammy and I’d let him handle all of Mom’s affairs.

  Even though we are twins, that connection that most siblings have toward one another had never taken hold with us. Grammy had taken a special interest in me when I’d taken an interest in acting. Victor preferred numbers and debate club and keeping to himself. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t seen his betrayal coming.

  I walked the garden path up a short hill to Mom’s grave, passing a few other people who set large bouquets near their loved ones’ graves. I’d stopped by the gas station and bought a single red rose to place on top of Mom’s headstone. Her epitaph carved below her name read A woman of grace, Forever in our hearts. There hadn’t been enough room on the rectangle marble for me to say all the things I’d wanted.

  Someone had left her a vase with fresh daisies. I often wondered if Mom’s soap star mega-fans ever stopped by to honor her memory. She’d received fan mail right up until the day she’d died. Regret squeezed my heart. I’d let Victor handle that too.

  I swiped the tears that rolled down my cheeks and sat down in the grass. “Hi, Mom. Sorry for the dramatics, but you wouldn’t expect anything less, right?”

  I closed my eyes and imagined her response. Most days I had a hard time remembering the exact sound of her voice.

  “Anyway. I’m sorry I haven’t been by to see you. I’ve been embarrassed but you probably already know that. I let Victor take everything from you and Grammy. I made a fool of myself over a guy and wound up in so much financial trouble that I’m pretending to fake mourn for fast cash when I don’t think I even properly mourned you.”

  A warm breeze caressed my cheek and the scent of fresh flowers mingled with freshly overturned dirt.

  “Speaking of guys…” I wrinkled my nose at the upcoming confession. “A guy accused me of meddling because I haven’t properly dealt with the shame Victor’s brought to our family. Another guy—who I think you’d like very much—encouraged me to get involved anyway. I can’t help but wonder what you’d say.”

  I glanced around at a couple of green tarps and wondered if this was Harold’s final resting place. Bowman hadn’t wanted anything done graveside. No limos or long processions of cars.

  In the distance, a pair of cardinals landed on a sturdy tree. I followed the brightly colored male as he jumped from branch to branch around the duller colored female. “Red bird means good luck.” I repeated what Mom said every time she saw one. I glanced at her tombstone. “Is this a sign from you? Because I could use some serious luck right now.”

  The absurdness made me chuckle and I picked a few blades of grass, tossing them to the side. Even though Mom hadn’t wanted me to skip college and move out to L.A. to pursue an acting career, she’d never once tried to talk me into coming home. On days when I’d felt like giving up or had a particularly bad audition, she’d encouraged me to persevere.

  I knew in my heart there was more to Harold’s story, and the scribbled threat left in my car meant someone didn’t want that story to come to light.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Mateo about his coroner’s office contact.

  “Thanks for the talk, Mom. I promise it won’t take me so long to visit next time.” I stood and brushed off the back of my jeans.

  I refused to fluff this up.

  ∞∞∞

  I met Mateo in a church parking lot adjacent to the Buncombe County Health Center which housed the coroner’s office. He approached me as I exited the car and his dark sunglasses hid his expression.

  “How badly do you want this piece of information?” he asked, positioning a hip against the front fender as I grabbed my purse from the back seat.

  “It’d really help me verify the alibis I’ve been given by Bowman and Pastor Tom. Why?” I paused. “I don’t have to do anything illegal do I?”

  I’d admit I pushed serious boundaries in the funeral home but breaking and entering into a government building would have to be where I stopped myself.

  “My contact is meeting us around the corner at the YMCA in ten minutes.” He pulled his lips together as if trying to force down a smile. “When you see her, be sure to compliment her on her clothes.”

  A coroner employee with a fashion sense. I could un
derstand that. Although, I thought most wore a simplified uniform with a collared shirt and khaki pants like the ones in L.A.

  We crossed Woodfin Street and stood under one of the many shade trees in the YMCA’s parking area.

  Mateo pointed in the direction of the main road. “I heard there’s a ghost tour business down the road who might be hiring.”

  I opened up my cell phone and made a note. “After the past couple of days’ I’ve had, no job is too good for me.”’

  He lifted his sunglasses and cocked his head to the side. “You’re a very interesting woman.”

  The warmth from a blush creeped up my neck. Or it could’ve been the sun finding its way through the trees, but I smiled all the same. When was the last time someone had called me interesting? Lately it seemed everyone wanted to be near me because of my fame and subsequent notoriety. I could fall for a guy who called me interesting.

  He nodded to the far edge of the parking lot. “Here they come.”

  “They?”

  Two women with matching jet black hair bounced across the sidewalk toward us, one carried a black blanket and the other carried a box. The girl carrying the blanket had her hair in pigtails and the girl carrying the box had her hair twisted into two long braids that rested over her shoulders. The closer they got, the better I understood about Mateo’s request to comment on their outfits that were actually less designer apparel and more cosplay costumes. The white lab coats, short red and black plaid skirts, and knee length socks with images of skulls resembled a certain character from a very popular crime show.

  They descended upon us and I put their ages around mid-twenties. Neither said a word and stared at me, their excitement obvious in their wide grins.

  “You both look exactly like Abby Sciuto from NCIS.” The faux dog collars around their necks sealed the deal.