Part 12 (1/2)
I slathered peanut b.u.t.ter on a piece of bread for my lunch and poured a gla.s.s of milk.
”Can I help?”
”Not unless you can make that a.s.shole pay his child support on time.”
I sat down and munched, watching her. ”It's never going to happen, Meghan.”
She sighed. ”I know. Getting mad doesn't change anything. I could just kill him for dumping Erin off like that yesterday, though. How could I have been so stupid?”
It took me a moment to figure out what she was talking about. ”You mean marrying him?”
She groaned. ”Of course that's what I mean.”
I c.o.c.ked my head. ”Why did you marry him?”
”Oh, I don't know. I mean, I thought I loved him, of course. Maybe I really did. At least I'd have the love-is-blind excuse.” She leaned back in the chair. ”But he had that thing, you know. That boy thing. It's horribly appealing.”
”Tell me you're not talking about what I think you're talking about.”
”What? No! He had a kind of little boy... vulnerability, I guess. You know what I mean.”
Actually, I had no idea what she meant. Richard seemed any” thing but vulnerable. ”Well, at least you got Erin.”
I know. I guess she's yang and he's yin. I can't have one without the other.”
”Well, it does work. He's an a.s.shole and she's an angel.”
She laughed. ”Yeah. At least I get the angel most of the time. I'd really hate it if it was the other way around.”
I grinned and nodded, unable to speak. I'd eaten my peanut b.u.t.ter too fast and had to drink most of the milk to unglue my mouth.
”How much do I owe you?” I asked once I could talk again.
She told me, and I got out my checkbook and started writing. I tore out the check and handed it to her. ”When do you want to go over to the funeral home?” I asked.
Meghan stuck a stamp on an envelope and gathered the rest of the paperwork into a pile in the middle of the table.
”How about now? I'd like to get it over with.”
I agreed.
SIXTEEN.
DOWN THE HALL FROM the funeral director's office, organ music echoed in the chapel. Mr. Crane, dressed in a tasteful dark suit, leaned over his desk and informed us in quiet tones that Walter's body definitely wouldn't be released from the morgue in time for the memorial service. However, they would let us know when they had access to the body in case anyone wanted to be present for the cremation. Crane himself offered to perform the honors at the service; he was an ordained minister and officiated over many of the nondenominational funerals. Sounded good to us. We chose a couple hymns and tidied up a few other details.
When we rose to leave, the director asked us whom he should bill. Meghan and I looked at each other.
”Send it to me,” I said.
He nodded and made a notation, and we left.
On the short drive home, Meghan asked, ”Do you really want to pay for Walter's funeral? There must be some other way.”
”Maybe I'll get reimbursed. I imagine Walter had enough left to pay for a simple service and cremation. And what was I going to do, tell Mr. Crane to send the bill to Tootie? Or Debby?”
She was silent. Then, ”If he left everything to Debby you might find yourself out of luck on the money.”
”It'll be fine. I can juggle some things around and cover it if I have to.” And maybe I'd find a will, a safe deposit receipt, a reference to a lawyer, something in the two remaining file boxes to tell us Walter's financial wishes.
”I'll help. If you get stuck with the bill.”
”You don't have to,” I said.
”I know.”
We were almost back home when I thought of dropping by Caladia Acres for a few moments to check in on Tootie. She could meet Meghan, and we could fill her in about the fire. Meghan turned her Volvo around, and we headed toward the north edge of town.
”Didn't the police tell her about the fire?” she asked.
”Detective Ambrose didn't mention it. After all, the house didn't belong to her-or to Walter.”
”Are you sure you want to be the one to tell her?”
”You want her to read about it in the paper?”
”No. You're right. I have to say, after all you've told me I'm looking forward to meeting this lady.”
We parked and went in. The dahlias on the reception counter were the same ones from Friday and beginning to look a little tired. No one was behind the desk, so I led Meghan down the hallway to Tootie's room.
The door was open a crack. I knocked. A quiet response from inside bid us to enter, so I pushed the door open. Tootie Hanover sat in a wheelchair in the center of the room. Daylight streamed through the windows, illuminating the colorful carpet, the rumpled bedclothes, and Tootie's vibrant-green silk dressing gown. Her white braid hung down over one shoulder and curled in her lap. The disarray of the room and dishabille of the woman surprised me, but her drooping posture and tired eyes shocked me. She waved us toward the two wingback chairs. Meghan sent me a questioning look as we settled into them.
”Tootie, this is my friend and housemate, Meghan Bly. She's been helping with the funeral arrangements and with packing up Walter's things. In fact, she knew Walter longer than I did.”
Walter's mother nodded to Meghan. ”It's so nice to meet you, dear. I want to thank you for all your help.” Her voice, so resonant the day I'd met her, emerged today as a dry murmur.