Chapter 12
The funeral of Gerald Covington was held on Friday, a day that was fittingly overcast as if put together by a Hollywood movie studio. Although rain wasn’t expected, Harper brought an umbrella, just in case. With her curls, any amount of moisture could turn her into Medusa.
If Willard caught sight of her and sent his bodyguards after her, the spike on the umbrella top could be used for eye gouging and testicle reorganization.
“Do you want to stand with the family?” Noah kidded as they wandered up a small hill toward where the other mourners were gathered. He had on a gray suit, without a tie, and had unbuttoned the top shirt button for comfort in the heavy humidity.
“Um, no. We’d better stay out of sight for safety.” She nudged the dark glasses she’d purchased at a dollar store up the bridge of her nose. She restrained her hair into a tight bun and wore a black dress that was a little short for the occasion. Still, she’d tried. “If Willard sees me, he’ll have me shot.”
The crowed was small, which surprised Harper. She expected a full delegation to see Gerald sent off. “They must have done the bell and whistle show for the viewing.”
He looked over the rolling hills and tombstones. “Balloons and confetti guns would be kind of tacky here.”
As expected, former colleagues and family—those who wanted to make sure he wouldn’t rise from the dead and cheat them out of their inheritance—were decked out in black. A few of the players and cheerleaders loitered near the fringes of the mourners.
“There’s Deke,” Harper said. The quarterback stood near the family. “How strange it is to see him here. He’d frequently called Gerald a parasite on the ass of humanity.”
“Maybe he wants to earn points with the boss.”
“Possibly. As the team moneymaker, he allowed Gerald to fawn and slobber over him with strained patience. Willard will look fondly on him for showing up.”
She skimmed her eyes over the group. Estelle stood near the foot of the coffin, slightly away from the family. Kimmie loitered near Willard, ready to jump if he said so. Without Gerald, who’d hired her, she had a tenuous hold on her job.
Like a secret service detail, a trio of armed burly bodyguards loitered on the perimeter, clad in black with sunglasses and ear pieces in place. Harper glanced about.
“Do they really need armed guards? I’m half expecting the U.S. president is in attendance.”
“Money and fame buys a lot of fawning and bowing,” Noah said, drolly. “I’m guessing the guard detail is for show.” He pointed to where a pair of news vans were parked down the street. Cameras and reporters stood ready to pounce when the service concluded.
“Willard is notoriously cheap, but he does like to look important.” She frowned. “That’s him in the dark blue suit and red tie.” A robust man like his nephew, he dabbed his forehead and upper lip with a handkerchief. She smiled evilly. “His nose was straighter until Taryn elbowed him in the face.”
Taryn was a hero to cheerleaders everywhere.
Careful not to step on any graves, she and Noah took up a position on the blacktop path behind a tree, and the large and worn tombstone/memorial statue of a Civil War vet named Pervis Cleve, who’d passed on in nineteen forty-seven at the ripe old age of one hundred and two.
“The woman on his left is the widow.” Betty Anne was a mousy woman with stick straight black hair parted in the middle and an even flatter personality. She wore a baggy dress in gulag gray, likely a cast off from an elderly relative, and sensible brown shoes. Out of respect for the deceased, she’d thrown a black shawl over her shoulders.
If she was grieving the loss of her husband, she hid it well. Though somber, there were no tears.
The few times Harper had tried to engage her, a few head nods and one or two word answers was all she got back. Finally Harper stopped trying. “I’ve always felt sorry for her. Gerald was an overbearing and miserable husband.”
Betty Anne leaned to speak to Little Gerry, the heir. Although younger than his sister, Gerald saw Gerry as the offspring poised to take over when he retired. Harper wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t the brightest kid and he was a spoiled and surly little smartass.
“Next to Betty Anne is her son, Gerry.” A stocky boy with curly blond hair, ten-year-old Little Gerry had his finger so far up his nose that he had to be tickling his medulla oblongata. Ick.
“I imagine he didn’t fall far from the paternal tree,” Noah said and made a face.
She snorted back a laugh, then hushed him with a glare. “Be respectful. His father just died.”
“Sorry.”
Little Gerry casually moved the finger toward his mouth as if a couple dozen people weren’t watching his nasal treasure hunt. Appalled, Harper turned away.
“Moving on. The thin pale girl with the sunken eyes standing next to Willard is Gerald’s daughter, Francie. The Muskrats affectionately call her Wednesday, because of her resemblance to Wednesday Addams from the Addams family. She sees dead people.”
Noah’s head snapped down. “You’re kidding?”
She met his stare. “That’s the rumor. Her parents had her tested at a psychic facility in Helsinki.” The girl was odd but sweet. “Gerald said she freaked out the doctors with her abilities and they had to take her home early.”
Francie had on a black skirt, matching blouse, and black combat boots. Black tights with a diamond pattern rounded out her outfit. She had a book under one arm.
For a long moment, Noah watched the girl. Then, “No wonder she looks like a deer in the headlights. She probably watched her daddy snatched up by the grim reaper and dragged down—”
Harper elbow jabbed him in the side. “Ouch.”
“Stop making jokes. It isn’t nice.”
* * * *
Noah always hated funerals. They made him anxious. Ever since drunken Uncle Brick dropped his open beer can into his grandma’s coffin when Noah was four, and made her body twitch when he fished it out, he’d been freaked out that his deceased relatives were, in fact, undead.
The rational mind that came with adulthood didn’t keep him from refusing to get close to open caskets. The casket was closed and he was a grown man. Childhood trauma aside, Harper needed support and this wasn’t the time for jokes.
“Sorry.” This time he meant it. “I’m not a fan of funerals.”
“Is anyone?” she asked.
He told her the grandma-beer can story.
“Wow.” She put a hand on his arm. “I guess I’d be traumatized, too. Hold my hand if you need to.”
At first he thought she was teasing him. He quickly realized she sympathized with him.
For a moment, he wanted to take her up on the offer, not for comfort, but because he’d have an excuse to touch her.
“Did I miss anything good?” The voice came from behind and they both startled. An attractive redhead in her thirties, decked out in black, complete with matching hat and veil, stood uneasily on pointed heels that dug into the grass beneath her feet.
She yanked the heel out, stepped onto the pavement, then squinted and peered down at the mourners. “Did Betty Anne throw herself onto the casket yet? I don’t want to miss that part.”
What do you say to that?
“Sharla?” Harper leaned to look through the thick lace. “What are you doing here?”
Sharla flipped back the lace, revealing bright blue eyes rimmed with false lashes and framed by unnaturally red hair. Noah thought her attractive, though overdone, for a funeral.
“I came to pay my respects.” She had a heavy southern accent that spoke of verandas and magnolia bushes.
He knew this because Gone with the Wind was his mother’s favorite movie. Had he or his brother, Adam, been female, Scarlet would’ve been her name of choice.
“I couldn’t exactly stand down there and comfort the widow,” Sharla continued and pointed at the mourners with a perfectly manicured, blood-red fingernail. “Can you imagine? That would go over like a fire at the firehouse.”
“Betty Anne will kill you if she sees you,” Harper snapped. “Or get one of the bodyguards to do the deed.”
A smile broke through bold red lipstick. “That’s why I’m up here with you two.” She reached out a hand to Noah and turned flirty. “I’m Sharla, Gerald’s mistress.”
He shook her hand. “Noah Slade, Harper’s investigator.”
Sharla batted her lashes. Noah heard Harper expel a frustrated sigh. He looked over and she wasn’t happy. Her frown did not go unnoticed by the new arrival.
Amused, the hairdresser released his hand and pulled down the veil. “Enough chit-chat,” Sharla said with a wink and took up a position near the tree. “The party is about to get started. Want to take bets on who will break down first?”
Despite the distance, the reverend possessed a booming voice that carried all the way to heaven. Somehow he managed to paint the deceased in a rosy light, no doubt due to a nice donation to his church. By the time the service ended, Gerald was all but canonized in the eyes of those gathered around. All they needed now was a signoff from the pope.
“Wow,” Harper whispered. “I want him doing my service.”
The mourners each grabbed a handful of dirt as the casket was lowered into the open grave and took turns tossing it in. When it was Betty Anne’s turn, she lifted the largest clump in the pile of freshly turned earth and chucked it into the hole. It hit the casket with a loud thump.
Noah chuckled.
“I have it on good authority,” Sharla said with a conspiratorial whisper, “that she had the coffin nailed shut to keep him from rising back up to haunt her.”
“Is that true?” Harper asked. Although she’d had a similar thought, hers was in jest.
“Nelson from The Devine Heaven Funeral Home said so.” Sharla shrugged. “I cut his hair on Tuesdays.” The trio turned back as the mourners dispersed like a flock of crows taking flight. They wandered toward a long line of black limos, the cheerleaders and players chatting among themselves. Betty Anne put a hand on the shoulder of each child, though little Gerry shrugged her off and scowled.
Yep. Apple. Tree.
The reporters tried to get to the relatives and failed. The bodyguards kept them at bay.
According to Kimmie, Willard had planned an expensive send-off lunch at his country mansion. Harper said she’d never been to the house but told Noah the place was supposed to be nice.
“If you didn’t make at least seven figures,” she added, “don’t wait by the mailbox for an invite.”
“Oh, poo. We should crash the party,” Sharla said with a wicked gleam in her blue eyes. “We can hit the bar together.”
“We should not,” Harper said. She carefully picked her way around the tree and down the path between the graves. Sharla took Noah’s arm with her gloved hand for support and they followed. Up close, she smelled like flowers.
However, his eyes were on Harper. The flirty skirt of her dress played around her sexy thighs as she walked with an athletic grace down the hill. Even the tight bun-thing that she’d twisted all her hair in couldn’t distract him from admiring her understated attractiveness.
She was something.
For a woman who was mistreated by her boss, and accused by nearly everyone of murder, Harper still managed to show respect for Gerald despite it all. And she’d taken him to task for his funeral-nerves inspired jokes. Noah admired her for that.
“Are you two an item?” Sharla said as she tottered along beside him. She clung to his arm with a tight grip.
“We’re just old friends.” Saying anything more would lead to a long and complicated conversation. He wasn’t about to discuss their history with a stranger.
“But you like her,” the woman pressed.
He did like Harper. Very much. “Subject change.” They hit the paved path. Since Sharla had come to them, he might as well take advantage of the situation for questions.
He unlocked her fingers from his arm. Harper stopped frowning. “Why don’t you tell me why an attractive woman like yourself ended up with a toad like Gerald Covington?”