Valerie Malmont - Death, Guns and Sticky Buns

I'd never seen a box of cremated human remains before, and I was surprised that it was so small. How could a person be reduced to so little?

The service went quickly. The chaplain said a few words about the congressman's military service in World War II and his long tenure as a congressman, then offered a prayer. The band played taps, and the honor guard raised their rifles and gave the departed man a twenty-one-gun salute. Ironic, I thought, considering the last thing he'd seen was fifteen rifles aiming directly at him.

The flag from the coffin was folded into a neat triangle by several soldiers, one of whom passed it to the chaplain, who then handed it to the widow. That was the signal for everyone to stand and rush forward to offer condolences to Mrs. Macmillan. I stood in line and waited my turn, wondering what I was going to say to her.

From behind I admired her trim, athletic figure. She had to be a lot younger than her husband, I figured. Nobody could look that good in their seventies, even from the back.

It was almost my turn. She extracted herself from a bear hug given her by one of the Lickin Creek contingent and turned to me. I reached out to shake her hand, then stopped with it hanging awkwardly in midair.

She had raised her veil in order to hug and kiss the well-wishers. Other than her lips and eyes, Mrs. Mac-millan's face was totally covered with a tan elastic mask. A black hole marked the place where her nose should be.

The lips smiled and said, “Thank you so much for coming today.”

I completely forgot what I thought I should say. “I'm so sorry,” I stammered, not sure whether I meant sorry about her husband or sorry about her face.

“Thank you so much…” she murmured automatically, and reached past me to take Aunt Gladys's outstretched hand. I walked slowly back to the bus. What dreadful thing had happened to her face, I wondered?

Gladys joined me on the bus and fanned her pink face with a memorial leaflet. “Can't believe this kind of weather so late in October. Throws the animals off their feed. Not to mention what it does to the fruit crops. I recall back when I was a kid, we didn't have none of them cloud seeders keeping it from raining then, and the weather was always…”

“Aunt Gladys,” I interrupted. “Do you know why Mrs. Macmillan has to wear the elastic mask?”

“Of course,” she said, wiping her forehead with a lace handkerchief.

Since she'd apparently answered my question to her satisfaction, I tried another tack. “Why does she wear it?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I keep forgetting you aren't local, Tori. It was an accident last summer. The Macmillans had a big barbecue at their farm for the horsey set. The charcoal didn't seem to be burning, so Charlotte sprayed it with lighter fluid. Naturally, it flared up in her face.” Gladys shuddered. “Horrible burns, I understand. She was a patient at Hershey Medical Center for a long time. Then when she came home, she had to wear that mask. Something to do with keeping the skin from scarring more badly. Such a shame. She was a beautiful woman.”

I repressed a shudder. I could imagine nothing more painful than a severe burn. “A few weeks ago, at the college, I heard someone say Mrs. Macmillan was settling a crisis at the stable. Is she a horsewoman?”

“Oh my, yes indeed. And a famous one. The college is lucky to have someone like Charlotte running its equestrian program. She was a famous horse trainer before marrying Mack. He bought a horse farm in Gettysburg for her, right next to the battlefield. Besides teaching riding at the college, she gives lessons at her farm. Also does volunteer work. Brings handicapped kids to the farm to ride for free.”

“She sounds like a remarkable woman.” “She is, Tori. It was a blessed day when she came to our community.” She peered at me through the mid-section of her trifocals, and I felt she was comparing me to the saintly Mrs. Macmillan. And I didn't even come in a close second.

“MORE COFFEE, DEAR?” ETHELIND SMILED AT ME across the table, revealing large, stained teeth. Fred sprawled on her lap as if he didn't even notice the poisonous nicotine fumes rising from her fuzzy green bathrobe.

At least Noel showed better taste. She lay across my knees, with her little white paws tucked neatly beneath her, and allowed me to scratch the space between her ears.

“No thank you.” I didn't really care for her private blend of Kona and tobacco.

Ethelind had happily had me all to herself last evening. I'd had enough Shakespeare, Parcheesi, sweet sherry, and chamber music to last a lifetime.

I went upstairs to get ready for my doctor's appointment by shaving my legs and showering. Somewhere, I read that women are more apt to shave their legs for a visit to the doctor than before a date; that was definitely true for me.

Before I got dressed, I called Cassie to make sure I was wearing the appropriate apparel for whatever she had arranged for me to do today. No more showing up at funerals looking like a clown or a gypsy queen in orange and gold.

“Everything's under control here, Tori,” she said. “I'm going to contact all our advertisers this morning to try to convince them not to cancel their contracts with us. There's really no need for you to come in; I can easily cover the YMCA swim meet this afternoon. Dr. Godlove called this morning to thank you for going to the funeral. He wants to know how you're coming along with the investigation.”

“What does he think I am-a PI?”

“It wouldn't hurt for you to find out what went wrong,” Cassie said. “It might even help your reputation-and the Chronicle’s. I've got Luscious's police report here on my desk, Tori. He and the coroner are calling it an accident.”

“Accident my foot! That ammunition was deliberately switched.”

“Why don't you find out how?”

“I will!” After I hung up, I realized I'd been manipulated again.

Dr. Washabaugh's office was located outside of Lickin Creek on the Gettysburg Road. The middle-aged receptionist put aside her harried frown to greet me as if we were old friends with a cheerful “Hi, Tori.”

“Hi, yourself. Sorry, I don't remember your name.”

“It's Vesta. Vesta Pennsinger. I'm from Lickin Creek too.”

I liked the way she said “too,” as if she regarded me as a native. Then she ruined it by saying, “Guess the Chronicle's in a lot of trouble. Do you think you're gonna be sued?”

“What on earth for?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Seems like every time someone gets killed, someone else gets sued.”

I hadn't even considered the possibility of legal action being taken against the paper. No wonder Cassie was worried.

The door to the inner sanctum opened and Dr. Washabaugh stuck her head out. “Tori? You're late.”

“No I'm not. It's only… nine-thirty.”

“My office hours start at eight. Come in, please.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Just as if I'd been summoned to the principal's office, I hung my head and shuffled through the door. Behind me, I heard a snicker from Vesta. Dr. Washabaugh looked sharply in her direction and squelched any more hilarity.

She took forever to open my file folder and read through it. I swung my foot nervously and chewed the cuticle off my little finger until it bled.

“All your lab tests were fine, Tori. Your cholesterol was a little high, 210.” She regarded me over the top of the folder. “Nothing that you have to worry about. Maybe you could watch your fat intake and lose a few pounds.”

Hatred and loathing of Dr. Washabaugh nearly overwhelmed me. Lose a few pounds indeed! “According to all the charts,” I said, “my weight is perfect. I'm just four inches too short.”