C Corwin - The Unraveling of Violeta Bell

The harpist stopped plinking and folded her hands in her lap. The service began. The minister read a slew of Bible verses, including that one I like from Ecclesiastes, about there being a time for everything. He didn’t say much about Violeta herself, except that, “I’m told she loved life” and “From the looks of things here today, she had many devoted friends.” Clearly this minister wouldn’t have known that woman in that purple jar from Adam.

The minister read a final verse of optimistic scripture then stood aside. Kay Hausenfelter swiveled her way to the pulpit. Good, I thought. The other Queens of Never Dull were going to regale us with their favorite memories of the dearly departed. There was a chance I was going to learn something interesting.

Said Kay Hausenfelter, “As you know, I was an exotic dancer during my youth. Only back then we ladies of the burleycue called ourselves striptease artists. Anyway, Violeta never once looked down her nose at me. Unlike so many others in this town. She loved people for who they were.” Kay raked the tears out of her eyes with her thumb and said this: “Violeta Bell never said much about her life before coming to Hannawa. But I always figured it must have been a little like mine. Memorable but worth forgetting. Anyway, we had so much fun together.” She blew a kiss at Violeta’s urn. “You were a hoot and a half, sweet woman. I will miss you to pieces.”

Kay went back to her chair. Ariel Wilburger-Gowdy went to the pulpit. Said Ariel, “My friend Violeta Bell loved antiques. And I’m not talking about Kay Hausenfelter or Gloria McPhee! And I’m sure not talking about me!” Everyone laughed. People love to laugh at funerals. It’s permission to spit death in the eye. I looked to see if Gabriella was writing it down. She was.

Unfortunately it proved to be the last interesting thing Ariel Wilburger-Gowdy said. For the next ten minutes she talked about homelessness, global warming, eradicating adult illiteracy, and the need to spay and neuter our pets. I could see why she drove her daughter up the wall. Finally, she got around to Violeta Bell. “Each of us is born with a gift, which God expects us to pay forward during the time She has allotted us here on Mother Earth.” I reached over and stopped Gabriella from writing that down. No way in hell was I going to let anything icky get into The Herald-Union.

“My gift was spending my father’s money,” Ariel continued. “Violeta’s gift was spreading joy. The minute you met her, you just knew she loved who she was. Inside and out. And she expected you to love yourself inside and out, too. As Three Dog Night once sang, ‘Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea. Joy to you and me.’” Again I stopped Gabriella’s pen.

Ariel now turned and spoke to Violeta’s ashes, just as Kay Hausenfelter had. “In some ways I never really lived until I met you, my beloved friend. And I promise you, I am going to keep on living just as long as I can.”

That I let Gabriella write down.

Now Gloria McPhee came to the pulpit. She didn’t speak from the heart like Kay, or from an over-active social conscience like Ariel Wilburger-Goudy. She read off a sheet of pink stationary. And for my money, she’d labored over it far too long. “Perhaps we will never know why Violeta had to die the way she did,” she began. “Perhaps we will never know the secrets she kept inside her while she lived and lived and lived. But we do know of her generosity. Day by day she gave us everything she had. And since her passing, we’ve learned that she left all she had to the Hannawa Art Museum.”

Well, that sure made my antennae spin. I knew from my talk with Detective Grant that Gloria was the executrix of Violeta’s will. Which meant she knew Violeta died pretty much penniless.

Gloria, for better or worse, had more to read. “Violeta Bell claimed to be the queen of Romania. That’s right, the queen of Romania. She told us a million times. In that whimsical way of hers that said, ‘I don’t care if you believe me or not.’”

Detective Grant took that opportunity to look over his shoulder and wink at me.

Gloria finished reading. “If Violeta was not the queen of Romania, she should have been.” Before sitting down, Gloria curtsied to the urn. I didn’t know whether to cry or throw a shoe.

The minister led a final prayer. The harpist starting plinking. Row by row, people shuffled past the urn. Some brushed their fingers across it. Some bent and kissed it. Many said a silent prayer. I went straight to Gloria McPhee. I introduced myself. I told her that I’d worked with Gabriella Nash on her story about the Queens of Never Dull. “Putting that Romanian flag by her remains was a very nice touch,” I said.

Gloria smiled weakly. “She just loved that flag.”

“That particular flag?”

“She said she’d had it since she was a girl.”

“And her leaving everything to the art museum,” I said. “Isn’t that something.”

Her eyes got as cold as those little round ice cubes they put in highballs. She knew I was laying it on thick, or, as Ike likes to say, giving her the old schmaltzaroo. “Kay told us you came to see her,” she said. “That you were feeling guilty about the story your paper did on us.”

I bobbled my head contritely.

“And do you know what I told Kay, Mrs. Sprowls?”

“I can’t imagine.”

Gloria moved in close, to make sure I could hear her whisper over the harpist. “I told her you were that librarian who sticks her nose into murders.”

I’d been outed again. And I was glad. It made my nose-sticking easier. “I went to see Ariel, too. But all I got was her daughter’s two cents on the matter.”

Gloria pulled back. Her eyebrows shot up. She gave one of the best Lauren Bacalls I’ve ever seen. “I’d bite down hard on those two pennies if I were you,” she said. “To see if they’re made of real copper.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list.”

She mellowed. “I suppose you’d like to talk to me, too.”

“I’d like that.”

“Expect a call,” she said.

I looked for Detective Grant. He was at the front of the chapel, reading all the little cards on the flower baskets. I snuck up beside him. “Any surprises?”

He flinched. As if a scorpion had just crawled up his pantleg. He took a couple of deep breaths. “No.”

And there weren’t any surprises. No flowers from dukes or duchesses. No flowers from anybody named Bell. No flowers from outside Hannawa.

We followed the other people outside. A black limousine was waiting under the portico. Weedy was circling the crowd like a wolf, clicking away. After a few minutes the four Queens of Never Dull came out. Kay and Ariel had their arms around each other. Gloria had her arms around Violeta’s urn. Weedy got the picture.

“Any objections if I ride out to the cemetery with you?” Grant asked.

“Not a one.” A few minutes later we were in the funeral procession, buzzing up West Apple in Gabriella’s little bumblebee car, me up front, Weedy and Grant scowling from the back like a pair of adjoined hippopotami.

It took the procession a good half hour to reach the cemetery. It was out in Bloomfield Township. It was one of those new corporately owned jobbies that don’t allow gravestones-just those flat, bronzed plaques to make the mowing easier. It was called Riverbend Moor. As if there actually was a river nearby, bent or otherwise. As if anybody in America knew what a moor was. And according to the big, flagstone-encased sign in front, it was not a cemetery at all. It was a “family memory garden.” There was an 800 number on the sign, so you could call and make your reservations on their nickel.

The procession snaked through the gates and parked along the drive. People got out of their cars, stretching and twisting until their undergarments were back in place. It was a big cemetery. Big and sterile. The grass was short and brown. There was a sprinkling of small trees still tethered to their stakes. There was a chalky-white angel statue surrounded by a ring of red geraniums. At the top of the hill sat the columbarium, the modern glass and brown-brick monstrosity where Violeta’s ashes would spend eternity.