Marcia Talley - Dead Man Dancing

‘C U @ kramer’s,’ Melanie had texted. ‘Something 2 tell U.’

When Paul and I arrived at Kramer’s, it was just as I had remembered it. Rich oriental carpets, a mahogany highboy, a massive circular table supporting a flower arrangement – fresh and very real – the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. To our right, a carpeted staircase led upstairs, but I had never seen it anything but roped off. To our left was the receiving line, and beyond that, an easel and a table decorated with flowers where Giannotti family photographs were on display.

As my husband and I were passed down the receiving line, offering condolences to tanned, rugged Texans who, with the exception of Kay and Lorraine, I did not know, I wondered which photographs Lorraine had chosen. When I got to Lorraine – who wore a suit of in-charge navy blue with bold brass buttons – she greeted me like a long, lost sorority sister, then handed me over to Kay.

Kay looked serene and fragile in a St John’s knit jacket and matching flared skirt that couldn’t have cost a penny less than twelve-hundred dollars at Neiman Marcus. The black color complimented her hair, and emphasized her paleness. ‘I’m so sorry about Jay,’ I told her sincerely as I squeezed her hand. Silently, I admired her notched collar, flap pockets and the elegant gold buttons that marched down her front and thought, Is this what a murderer looks like?

Who was it who said that poison was the weapon of choice for a woman? Dame Agatha Christie again, I suppose. Roman matrons certainly had a field day with it, possibly inspiring those modern-day women who rid themselves of burdensome husbands with loving doses of ‘inheritance powder’. If I crossed her, Kay might not come after me with a gun, but I’d better watch what I ate.

Moving away from the line, I looked around for Melanie, but didn’t see her. We said hello to Chance, and to Tom and Laurie – who had jettisoned her scarf in favor of a violet, scrunch-neck turtle. Under her overcoat she wore a short A-line skirt in a deep, dark purple that matched her heels. Tom, on the other hand, appeared in neat jeans and a collarless shirt. As the four of us dawdled at the photo display I couldn’t resist teasing Laurie, ‘You couldn’t dress down if they paid you to do it!’

She rattled her bracelets at me and said, ‘Girl, if you’ve got it, flaunt it!’

When the pair moved on to the Blue Room to find seats, I examined the photographs more closely. Lorraine had chosen a retrospective picturing Jay alone, acknowledging, I suppose, who was actually the star of the show.

Silently, with his hand on my elbow, Paul nudged me forward.

No open casket, I was relieved to see, and the service, once it started, was short and sweet. In preparation for saying the rosary, I’d rummaged through my jewelry box at home and located the rosary I’d bought from a street vendor in the shadow of St Peter’s in Rome. I brought it to the funeral home with me, hoping as I prayed my lap around the beads that its origin would give them extra oomph.

While an electronic organ played softly, two cousins from Odessa and an uncle from San Antonio stood up to deliver remembrances of Jay. The old guy stuttered and stumbled, and got so involved in a chronological catalog of Jay-isms, punctuated by snuffling and dabbing at his nose with a napkin-sized handkerchief, that he’d only reached age ten before Lorraine took him gently aside, copiously weeping, or we might have been there all night.

Hutch attended, but not Ruth. Shirley and not Tessa. If Tessa was Jay and Shirley’s child, it must have galled the woman when the immediate family traipsed around the corner after the service for a quiet dinner at Maria’s Sicilian Ristorante. Shirley could hardly expect them to include her, of course, especially if they didn’t know how she was ‘related’ to Jay. In the lull between the eulogies I studied Shirley’s grief-ravaged face and wondered, now that Jay was gone, what she was going to do.

Daddy slipped in at the last minute, taking a seat in the back that Neelie had been saving for him. Alicia breezed in late, missing the service altogether. Surprisingly, Melanie never showed at all.

But, I was sure I’d see her in the morning.

Jay’s funeral was smack dab in the middle of a class day, so Paul begged off on the Mass. Eva called and said she wanted to go, so we agreed to meet on the steps of St Mary’s at 9:45.

Occupying acres of prime real estate on the banks of Spa Creek, St Mary’s Catholic Church, red-brick and imposing, boasted a tall white spire, one of four with St Anne’s, the Maryland State House, and St John’s College that dominated the Annapolis skyline.

I walked to the church from home, cutting down private alleys, around the controversial Market House, across Main and down Green, arriving there a bit early. Eva arrived early, too. I caught sight of her chugging down Duke of Gloucester, not coming from the direction of St Anne’s as I expected, but around the corner from the St Mary’s parking lot.

I waved, and she hustled over to give me a hug. ‘Your family here yet?’

‘Not yet. Whoever got here first is supposed to save a pew.’

Eva checked her watch. ‘Good. We’ve still got time. Come with me.’

She grabbed my upper arm and practically dragged me down the driveway and behind the church to the parking lot. ‘I have to show you something.’

The back window on the driver’s side of her little gray Corolla was open a couple of inches, and I was about to say, ‘Hadn’t you better lock your car?’ when she wrenched the back door open. ‘Look at that.’

Resting on the back seat was a brand new, two-toned, high-class pet carrier. Inside the cage, head on paws, staring morosely out the door with bright, golden eyes was a plump, gray cat.

‘Let me guess,’ I said, noticing the elaborate red bow tied to the carrier handle. ‘Jeremy.’

Eva folded her arms across her chest and nodded.

‘I thought you had a restraining order!’

‘I do, but apparently that only applies to Jeremy Dunstan and not this beautiful animal. Whose name, by the way, is Bella de Baltimore.’

Eva reached into the pocket of her overcoat, pulled out a legal-size envelope with a piece of masking tape still attached to a corner, and handed it to me.

‘I can hardly wait,’ I said, opening the flap and pulling out the paper inside.

Dear Eva (I read).

Even though you won’t go out with me, you can hold this sweet kitty and feel GOD’s love (and mine!) that way. But you can’t fight LOVE forever!

Yours always,

Jeremy

P.S. Her name is Bella de Baltimore and she is a PURE-BRED Chartreux

My eyes darted from the cat, to Jeremy’s letter, to the face of my friend, and back to the cat again, and for some reason, I started giggling. ‘It’s unbelievable! If you wrote this in a book, nobody’d believe it!’

I was glad to see Eva giggling, too, but after half a minute of silliness her face grew serious. ‘What am I going to do, Hannah?’

‘With the cat?’

‘That, too.’

‘I’m at a loss at what to do about Jeremy. The man’s clearly deluded. As for the cat, it’s pedigreed, you can take it back to the breeder.’

‘And just who might the breeder be?’

I admired the gorgeous animal, marveling at its woolly gray-blue fur and unique golden eyes. ‘We have the cat’s name, so there’ll be records. You can check with the Cat Fanciers’ Association.’

‘And in the meantime?’ Eva’s eyes were as pleading as the cat’s.

‘Oh, oh. I have a feeling there’s a litter box in my future.’

‘As a guest, I can’t possibly bring a cat into a house with two dogs! I can’t keep the cat, Hannah. Particularly not now. Maybe when I move back into the parsonage.’