Black Cat Weekly #91

Chapter 7-1

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

personally selected by one of the most acclaimedshort stories authors and editors in the mystery

short stories authors and editors in the mysteryfield, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

field, Barb Goffman, for .

by

Burying my husband was bad enough. Catching a killer in the process was a bit much, even for me, but you can’t un-see stuff, and you can’t un-know it either.

I understood that long before I was a client of Grolier’s Funeral Home, the place that has been seeing off the good people of Unity, Connecticut, for the better part of a century and a half. I’d been there a few times for wakes with Frank, offering condolences to the families of his mentors at the New Haven Herald who’d succumbed to the usual occupational hazards of journalism: tobacco, whiskey, and sausage pizza.

I never thought I’d lose him to the other big occupational hazard, a car crash. And I certainly didn’t think it would happen when our son was in first grade. On his way to a fire scene on a frigid February night, Frank hit a patch of black ice and spun into a tree. Dead at the scene means no hope, but in this case it also meant no suffering, and that was all the comfort I was going to get.

Not much.

It’s fair to say I was in shock from the time the phone rang at three a.m. till the unearthly quiet hit after the funeral more than a week later. I knew something terrible had happened when I heard an unfamiliar but undoubtedly cop voice asking to speak with Mrs. Christian Glaser. I almost never used Frank’s last name since we’d both been well into our careers when we married.

Random observations like that helped cloud everything as I sleepwalked through all my usual responsibilities and the incredibly unusual obligations imposed by death. Until it happened to me, I didn’t realize it was possible to be functional and sentient with a whole chunk of you just walled off because that’s the only way you can stay upright. Not that I had some special compartmentalizing skill—it was Frank who had that knack, an old-school newspaper guy, even though he never lived to see fifty.

No, as a former history professor, current head of the Unity Historical Society, and duly recognized expert on old stuff (okay, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century household goods), I’m the living definition of inside. Reporters like Frank are outside, the tough guys who see the world as it is and don’t flinch. Inside people are the civilians, the normies who don’t have to know the truth.

Except on that day at Grolier’s, when I saw something I shouldn’t. The calling hours were the first half of a two-day marathon, a test of both my own endurance and the power of shock as insulation. Thanks to my former mentor, Garrett Kenney, and his husband, Ed, both of whom I loved like family, I had vital support during the viewing—Garrett at my side and Ed at home, caring for my son, Henry. Ed would bring Henry to the actual service, but a little boy didn’t need to attend the visitation.

On our way to Frank’s viewing room, Garrett and I were making lame small talk about a poorly written journal article we’d both read, when we heard a sharp voice. Funeral homes are like libraries, only not fun. Most people try to keep their voices low and smooth, and anything noisy or edgy stands out.

This sure did.

A white-blond woman in a severe black suit was buttonholing the funeral director, Gregg Grolier. “But you told me the cremation would happen within three days.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Farrier,” Gregg said in a practiced, soothing tone that harmonized perfectly with the cream brocade wallpaper. “I warned you that the Presidents’ Day weekend vacation schedule might create a backlog.”

“But it needs to happen.”

“And of course it will.”

“I’m the custodian of the body,” she snapped. “You said so.”

I stared. Couldn’t help it.

When I’d signed the form as custodian of Frank’s body, the phrase had stopped me for a full minute. Garrett had been with me—he and Ed had mobilized into family-crisis mode the second they heard about Frank’s death—and he’d finally had to nudge my hand to finish signing my name.

What a thing to find yourself. Custodian of the body of someone you love. Gregg Grolier nodded at Mrs. Farrier. “Of course.”

Mrs. Farrier was clearly ready to blow…but just then, she saw us. Her mouth snapped shut like one of the marionettes in the Lonely Goatherd scene in The Sound of Music.

“Oh, Dr. Shaw, Professor Kenney.” Gregg held out a hand for a shake. “Mrs. Farrier and I were just discussing a few things…”

“Please, don’t let us get in the way,” I said, turning to the woman. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She started for a moment. Then caught herself. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

A pause.

Then she actually looked at me and realized why I had to be here.

“Oh, sorry for yours too.”

“Thank you.” I took a breath, managed a nod.

Garrett patted my arm. “Come on, Christian, let’s go get settled in the viewing room.”

“Right.”

“Claire Farrier,” he whispered. “Poor Abigail’s granddaughter and a real piece of work.” Of course Garrett would know. Unity is a small town, and Garrett knew almost everyone.

“Well?”

That one sharp word from Claire was all I heard, because we were at the door of our viewing room. Once I walked in there I’d officially be a widow. Frank would really be gone. I took a long breath and crossed the threshold.

The casket was closed. Frank would never have wanted anything else. On top, the Herald with his last front-page story. It was his flag.

“We come in one color, gender, and faith, honey,” he used to say. “Journalist.” They don’t build them like him anymore.

But I wasn’t burying a journalist. I was burying my husband and the father of my son. The man whose smile I’d never see again.

Another breath. He wouldn’t break in difficult times. And neither would I. Still, Frank’s death had been real before, but not like this. At first, everything burned into my brain. The first time I stood by the casket. The first time I accepted condolences, from the Herald receptionist, who was crying too hard to speak.

The first stupid question, from one of Frank’s colleagues: “How the hell did this even happen?”

Ask God and get back to me.

After a while, all the shaking hands, accepting condolences, and making small talk started to run together. Not to mention the weird sensation that everyone was being careful with me, even though they had to know I’m not fragile.

Not even a little.

I would end up with flashes of memory. Of the bubbly intern patting my arm and opening her mouth to say something and breaking off in a squeaky sob. Of Frank’s editor, a crusty old news guy, pulling me into an entirely unexpected bear hug and telling me to make sure Henry knew his dad was the best. And of a tall blond man with concerned brown eyes walking up and clasping my hand.

“Just wanted to pay respects, Dr. Shaw. Frank was a real stand-up guy.” He looked familiar, but I had no idea who he was.

“Um, thank you,” I said as he let go.

“I’m sorry.” He suddenly looked shy and embarrassed. “I’m Joe Poli, assistant state’s attorney. Aly’s dad too.”

“Right. Your daughter was my son’s welcome buddy at Wheatley Elementary.” I remembered a tall, feisty sixth grader with the same brown eyes. Henry didn’t even know what a crush was, but he’d had one.

“Yes. And your husband covered a couple of my cases and treated me like a human instead of a slumming shyster.”

“Oh?”

A Jimmy Stewart shrug. “I used to be a partner at Magen and Renzulli. Moved over to the State’s Attorney’s Office when a drunk driver almost killed my brother and got off on bad lawyering.”

There was quite a story there, I was sure. Too bad Frank would never tell it. “I see.”

“Anyhow, Dr. Shaw—Mrs. Glaser?—I just wanted to pay respects and tell you that if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“Thank you.”

He held my gaze and handed me a card. “I mean like police reports, if you need them for insurance. I can make a phone call and spare you the trouble.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Just let me know.” He nodded, patted my arm, and turned to go.

After that, the line went on apace. (I can use words like that once in a while because I’ve piled it high and deep. Frank always laughed when I trotted out the old saw about PhDs.) Maybe ten minutes later, I slipped off for a restroom and breathing break.

As I walked down the hall, I stuck my nose in the Farriers’ repose room, just to see what the annoying Claire and her family were like. Most people were gathered around poor Abigail’s mercifully closed casket, with Claire and her husband holding court nearby.

It certainly looked like a party.

Glad she was having fun.

I was sternly reminding myself not to judge when I turned and saw it. A museum-style display case, carefully placed on a draped table, holding something I’d never seen in person. Most people probably hadn’t. It had been priceless a hundred years ago. Now? Who knew?

I only knew what it was because I’d seen pictures of the mismatched pieces they have at the Met in an academic journal. To the best of my knowledge, there were only a couple complete sets in existence. If you didn’t know how precious it was, you’d think it was just an ordinary blue-willow porcelain tea set.

Thanks to those photos from the Met, though, I was able to recognize the faint imperfections in the blue brush strokes, the small variations in the design, and the translucent edges of the cups.

I caught my breath.

“Gorgeous thing, isn’t it?” a voice asked behind me. I turned to see a friendly middle-aged fellow.

“It was Grandma’s mother’s set and her pride and joy,” he said. “Even in the last year, when she was winding down, with nurses in and out, she had it on display in the living room. Claire didn’t want it here, but it really was Grandma’s most prized possession…and what’s the harm?”

I had a pretty good idea of what the harm was now. I took a breath. “Absolutely.”

“And of course Claire will have it to herself after today, so…”

“Exactly.” I patted his arm. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“I—uh—need to get back to my—my husband’s…” I broke off because I felt myself wobbling a little.

“Oh, you’re the reporter’s widow,” the guy said, his face shifting into the careful mask that was becoming familiar. Be nice to the poor widow. She’s fragile. But was I crazy?