Mike looked proudly at both of them. “Those snooty Piney Brook types may have the big houses, but I’ll be walking in with a pair of women looking like a million dollars—apiece!”
Helena smiled. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mike.”
He wore the summer-weight version of his blue funeral suit, an off-white shirt, and his latest Father’s Day tie.
Sunny grinned. “You look like you’re running for office, Dad.”
Mike put a hand to his chest. “Heaven forbid!”
“Well, I think we’re ready to go. I take it that Will intends to join us there?”
Sunny nodded.
“Then there’s just one thing.” Mrs. Martinson reached into her handbag and came out with a set of car keys, which she gave to Sunny. “Would you mind driving the Buick tonight? It will be dark by the time we’re coming home, and I’d feel more comfortable.”
You might feel downright cozy, sitting in the backseat with Dad, that irrepressible voice in the back of Sunny’s head suggested.
“We should have thought of that.” Mike looked annoyed with himself. “Your car is the obvious choice.”
Sunny nodded. Not only did Helena’s sedan have more comfortable seating than Dad’s truck or Sunny’s SUV, the sedan would fit in better for a Piney Brook funeral.
*
The Brookside district was the most exclusive section of an already exclusive area. As Sunny drove along, she passed estates which kept to themselves behind iron gates or heavy shrubbery, and houses whose architecture screamed, “We’ve arrived!”
Some of the houses had probably started as summer places. Sunny was particularly taken by one with a cupola. What would it be like to have a round bedroom up there? She didn’t much like the place that had turned itself into a McMansion by adding a cream-colored concrete tower to the middle of a classic white-painted spruce building. And the rambling stone buildings, especially the ones that used two-tone fieldstone, seemed a little much to her. Some reminded her of Bridgewater Hall.
When they got to the Scatterwell place, she found a three-story brick structure built along vaguely Georgian lines, although some Scatterwell ancestor had added a shaded wooden porch to the side of one wing. The brick had mellowed into its surroundings, but Maine winters had not been kind to the porch. Although it gleamed with a coat of white paint, it seemed to be sagging with age.
Mike peered out the window as Sunny parked the car along a curving drive. “Y’know, I never thought about it before,” he said, “but this place looks like a funeral parlor.”
“A rather large, successful one,” Helena Martinson added drily.
They got out of the car and walked to the front door, passing a collection of Cadillacs, Lincolns, BMWs, and Mercedes. The door stood open, and a funeral flunkey in a black polyester suit stood in front of a grand staircase padded with Oriental carpeting. “Please go on through to the Grand Parlor,” he murmured, gesturing to his right.
The Grand Parlor was indeed pretty grand, an enormous cream-colored room with windows along three sides.
This must be the section that leads out to the porch, Sunny thought, glancing around. The room had been cleared of furniture, and rows of folding chairs laid out. Up at the front of the room was a lectern and a table with a ceramic urn—something more in keeping with the surroundings than the waxy cardboard box Sunny had seen in Alfred’s place. She also noticed the discreet bar at the rear of the room.
Mike had a wry smile when he spotted that. “I think Gardner would approve,” he said. “He always called booze a social lubricant.”
The other thing Sunny noticed about the room was how warm it was. Although all the windows were open, the more people who joined the growing crowd, the higher the indoor temperature went. And there was something else in the air. Helena gave a discreet sniff. “Fresh paint, which I suppose we should have expected.” She pitched her voice quietly. “From what you’ve said about him, Alfred would value appearances. But there’s something else . . .”
Sunny nodded, detecting a faint, acrid smell that seemed to linger in the back of her throat.
“Rot.” Mike pronounced the word very quietly. “Let’s hope it’s only the porch outside. If it’s in the house, Alfred will end up sinking his inheritance into repairs.”
Sunny in the meantime had been busily scanning faces. “There’s Will,” she said, “and Luke.” They made their way through the crowd. Will looked pretty snappy in a navy suit that made the most of his lean form. Luke didn’t clean up quite so well—he seemed about as far out of water as a fish could be, wearing a rather ratty brown corduroy jacket over a pair of black dress pants. He greeted them the way a drowning sailor might welcome a lifeline.
After introducing Mrs. Martinson, Sunny said, “You must be roasting in that jacket, Luke.”
He only shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s the only one I’ve got. When you move around a lot, you travel light.”
And I bet he wishes he’d traveled with a lighter jacket, Sunny couldn’t help thinking.
In spite of his misgivings, Mike quickly spotted a familiar face, too. “Chappie!” He ushered over a tall man with silver hair and a squarish face, handsome in a stodgy sort of way. “Helena, this is Chapman Manning—”
“Leave off the roman numerals at the end,” the man boomed, “for heaven’s sake.”
“Chappie may look respectable, but he’s been known to pull some political skullduggery when it has to be done.” Mike grinned.
As introductions flew around her, Sunny lost the last names of the two women who accompanied Chappie. They seemed to be called Tavvie and Phoebe. Frankly, Sunny had trouble telling one from the other. Both had graying blond hair cut short, and both wore dark dresses with pearls.
Tavvie nodded toward the urn in the place of honor. “It was rather a surprise, Alfred doing that to his uncle.”
“Just a taste of where the old boy was going to,” Chappie joked.
“Perhaps it’s better than an open casket,” Phoebe said. “I’d spent the night half afraid that Gardner would suddenly jump up and shout, ‘Surprise!’”
Tavvie’s pale eyebrows rose on a face from where wrinkles had apparently been banished. “He could still come leaping in through the window. Gardner always had such a lamentable sense of humor.”
“He must have,” Phoebe murmured. “I understand he went out with you for a while.”
Tavvie’s pale blue eyes glinted with malice. “Before he ran around with you—and well before your divorce.”
Sunny noticed Helena following the byplay with interest. Luke just looked uncomfortable. Will had a faraway look, as if he appeared to be ignoring it all, but Sunny suspected he was paying more attention than it seemed.
Chappie continued to chat with Mike. “How did you come to know Gardner? He doesn’t seem like one of your sort—I mean, I don’t think Gardner ever voted in his life.”
“Would you believe music?” Mike told the story of the Cosmic Blade, omitting how the band broke up. “Gardner still had an interest in music, though. That’s how he met Luke here. He’s a music therapist at Bridgewater Hall.”
“Music therapist?” Chappie echoed.
“But he’s a real musician,” Mike went on enthusiastically. “I saw him play last night. You should have seen how he faced down the crowd at O’Dowd’s.”
“O’Dowd’s? Really?” Sunny could see that Chappie was trying to be polite, but it was also obvious that there was no point where his life and Luke’s even intersected.
Tavvie touched Chappie on the arm. “They’re about to start. I think we should find some seats.”
She was right on the mark. No sooner had the crowd started sitting down than the funereal flunkey led an elderly man in clerical clothing up to the lectern and introduced him.