There was a terrific noise of something heavy hitting the floor. I think it was me. From above, I heard someone cry out, “Oh, my God! Someone get help! She’s fainted!” In a wry tone, I heard another voice add, “She hasn’t fainted. She’s passed out. She’s drunk.” I think it was Peter.
Strong arms reached underneath me and pulled me up. “No, I’ve got her,” said Peter. He lifted me and carried me up the stairs to my room, where he unceremoniously deposited me onto my bed. He said something about my being a damned idiot, but inasmuch as I already knew that, I ignored him and rolled over, burying my head in the pillow.
CHAPTER 22
The less I behave like Whistler’s mother the night before,
the more I look like her the morning after.
—TALLULAH BANKHEAD
IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that hangovers and funerals do not mix. Unfortunately, on the morning of Gerald’s funeral, I awoke—contrary to any wish of my own—feeling as if a small mariachi band had used my head for practice. Even my teeth hurt. I felt like Gregor Samsa on the morning of his transformation, but without all the underlying symbolism.
Concentrating on keeping my head from rolling off my neck, I eased out of bed and observed myself in the mirror. The reflection staring back was reminiscent of a carnival fun-house mirror—puffy face, slits for eyes, and a slumped and twisted body. But that was nothing compared to my hair, which was at once depressing and mildly hysterical.
A hot shower and shampoo helped. Some. If nothing else, I’m sure I smelled better. As I gingerly made my way down the stairs, Lady Catherine pounced at my ankles, her claws drawn. I stumbled but managed to grab the banister before I fell headlong down the stairs. My temper flared and I pulled my leg back to deliver a well-deserved kick to Lady Catherine’s hindquarters when a movement in the foyer caught my attention. Sitting in the green brocade chair usually favored by Lady Catherine was an armed police officer. He appeared more like a kid selling high school raffle tickets than a civil servant bent on protecting the peace. His boyish face looked as if it had only recently needed shaving, and his arms and legs had that gangly, not-quite-grown look. His eyes and Adam’s apple bulged alarmingly. But apparently he had been able to evict Lady Catherine from her favorite chair with no visible scars, so he clearly had some professional training in hand-to-hand combat.
Seeing me, he gravely nodded his head and said, “Good morning, Ms. Parker.” Unthinkingly, I nodded back at him. New waves of pain shot into the base of my skull, rendering me speechless. I was surprised that my face was known by the local police department—not exactly the fifteen minutes of fame I was shooting for in life.
“Were you about to kick that cat?” he asked.
Great. In addition to whatever else my reputation was at the station, low-life cat abuser would now be added. Shit. “I, um … well,” I stuttered. My mind was a blank. I was way too hungover to produce a convincing lie. I gave up. “Yes. Yes, I was. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize on my account,” he said, distastefully eyeing Lady Catherine. “Damn thing has already bitten me twice.” He glanced almost longingly at the gun in his holster. “Too bad someone didn’t put reflective tape on her.”
While I could sympathize with the sentiment, it didn’t seem in my best interest to outwardly agree. For all I knew, this could be one of those psychological tests used to evaluate suspects. I could almost hear the horrified gasp from the jury as the court testimony was read: “Suspect was observed trying to kick a defenseless cat and later heard expressing a wish to shoot said animal.”
“Yeah, well, I think I’m going to see where my aunt is,” I said, moving back down the hall. I left him glaring at Lady Catherine, his hand on his gun. Lady Catherine sat poised on the rug, unconcerned, her tail twitching rhythmically.
Pausing at the kitchen door, I could hear Aunt Winnie and Peter on the other side. My cheeks burned hot at the memory of my behavior last night, but I couldn’t put off the inevitable. I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The smell of fresh banana muffins was almost my undoing, but I pressed on. Peter clasped his hands together as if in prayer and sang out, “It’s a miracle! Lazarus! Back from the dead!”
“Shut up, Peter,” I mumbled, although, truth be told, it was nothing less than I would have done had the situation been reversed. I might not have yelled it quite so loudly, though. Hoping to change the subject, I said, “Why is there an armed guard in the foyer?”
“Detective Stewart has decided that from now on we are to have twenty-four-hour police protection. Although surveillance might be a more accurate term,” said Aunt Winnie. Holding out a mug of coffee for me, she asked, “Can I get you anything else?” My stomach lurched, but I took the mug. It was black. In simple white letters it read, THERE’S GOT TO BE A MORNING AFTER.
“Yes,” said Peter. “Want some breakfast? I could make you up a big plate of runny eggs if you’d like.”
For a brief moment, the contents of my stomach hung in the balance. I swallowed hard and carefully shook my head. Peter chuckled. Aunt Winnie elbowed him and said, “Enough, Peter. How are you feeling, honey?”
“About how I deserve. I’m really sorry about last night, Aunt Winnie. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth. Given the day you had, it’s no wonder that you—”
“Got blind stinking drunk and fell out of a chair,” Peter finished helpfully.
“That’s enough, Peter,” said Aunt Winnie.
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “Besides, he’s right. If nothing else, I’ve learned my lesson. Is there anything I can help with this morning?”
“No,” said Aunt Winnie. “Peter and I have it under control. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for the funeral? We should leave here soon. Randy is going with us.”
An image of Randy, his kindly bespectacled face, swam before me. I cringed inwardly. Had I really let myself suspect him of killing Gerald and Jackie last night? I felt a fool. I nodded in slow motion to Aunt Winnie and left. I felt awful for not helping, but I knew that if I didn’t get away from the smell of those muffins, very bad things involving my stomach were bound to occur.
I got ready as quickly as my pounding head would allow—which is to say, not very fast. Well, I thought with a sigh, maybe this was one time when pasty skin and bloodshot eyes were suitable; I certainly looked funereal. As I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time, I realized I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn the night Gerald had been murdered. My last thought as I left the room was that I hoped it wasn’t an omen. How ironic that thought turned out to be.
The church was a large, graceful structure located in the heart of downtown. We silently walked up the wide marble steps. I was surprised to see that the long wooden pews were filled to capacity. Randy went in first, to little notice. It was when Aunt Winnie stepped into the vestibule that several heads turned our way. Seconds later the church vibrated with the soft buzz of voices passing along the news of our arrival. More heads turned. Aunt Winnie smiled and nodded politely to those who turned to gawk at us, but her jaw was clenched. Finally, Peter spotted space for the four of us in one of the pews near the back and herded us in. Once we were settled, I leaned over to Aunt Winnie and said, “I’m surprised to see so many people here. I didn’t think that Gerald was this popular.”
“He wasn’t,” said Aunt Winnie, as she read the service program. “I suspect most are here just to make sure he’s really dead.”