Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (10 page)

Edward, the director of W. J. Sloane, was an expensively dressed fortyish guy with freckles and ginger hair on his hands and a practiced soft-spoken voice. He was skilled with euphemisms, never once said the word “death,” let alone murder. He was sorry for my “loss,” especially for the “circumstances.” And he hoped he could make the “process” go as smoothly as possible. He wanted me to know that my husband was in good hands, that the “home” would treat him with care and respect.

Edward ushered me into the office, a cheerful, brightly lit modern place with cushioned furniture and a conference table. He offered coffee or tea. I declined, and sat, hands folded on the table, not knowing what to expect. Never having planned a funeral before. Glad to be with Edward, who dealt with funerals and dead people on a daily basis. Oddly, he didn’t seem grotesque or the slightest bit Igorlike. He might have been a banker, or an insurance executive. A pharmaceutical rep. His suit was a subtle pinstripe. His haircut expensive. Nails manicured. A successful businessman. Whose business just happened to be death.

Edward guided me, much as a car salesman would, to a showroom where I could see the latest “models.” Which meant coffins. Coffins were everywhere. A dozen or more of them. Open and closed. Wooden or metallic. Shiny or matte. Dark or light. With bars or grips for pallbearers. Some understated, sleek as a boat’s hull, others ornate, intricately carved. I’d never
shopped for a coffin before. Never even thought about them. Didn’t know the desirable—or undesirable—traits. Price would probably be a good indication. Expense would reflect quality. I touched rich, glowing wood. Was it mahogany? Edward whispered that the cost of that model was ten thousand dollars. I withdrew my hand. Why would someone spend that much on a thing that would be stuck in the ground and never seen again? I had no intentions of spending that kind of money on Charlie. Still, I couldn’t very well bury him in a plain pine box. People already suspected me of killing him. Putting him in a pauper’s coffin would only reinforce that idea.

I looked around, from coffin to coffin, couldn’t tell which one suited Charlie. And I doubted Charlie would give a damn what I did with his body now that he was done with it. Edward stood patiently, hands clasped in front of him, butlerlike. Not intruding. I had to make a decision. I looked from price tag to price tag. Coffin to coffin. Couldn’t help but imagine lying in one. Being closed in. Wasn’t there a short story—by Poe—about being buried alive? The air thickened, made it difficult to breathe. Death, being buried—it was all too intimate, too close. I didn’t want to think about in which box Charlie would be closed up, or on which cushion he would rest his decaying skull. But, surrounded by coffins, I could hear his voice, as if he were there beside me.

“I never skimped on anything for you, Elle.”

It was true. Charlie had indulged me. Had always provided us both with generous material comforts. Like my refrigerator—a small, if chilly, family could set up house in that thing. But I wasn’t as materialistic as Charlie. Or as rich. And, besides we hadn’t been together when he died. There was no reason to splurge.

“Whatever happened between us, Elle,” Charlie whispered, “for the moment can’t we get past who did what to whom?” I could all but feel his breath on my neck. “You hold the cards. I
know you won’t deprive me of a first-rate send-off. One last luxury ride. I’m in that box forever, Elle. All I’m asking is for a cushy place to rest.”

I drew a breath, pressed my hands against my eyes. Was Charlie’s voice just my imagination, like Becky’s grandmother seeing her dead grandfather? Or was I actually losing my mind? Edward glanced at his watch. I needed to get out of the funeral parlor, to see the sky. So, with Edward’s excellent advice, I selected an elegant smooth walnut coffin with a plush satin cushioned lining, priced at a cool $5,000. Then, back in the office, urged by Charlie, I bought Edward’s ultradeluxe product line. The highest-priced, tightest, most moisture-proof encasement for the coffin, to prevent leakage. Or was it seepage? Whichever, I didn’t want to think about it. I just proceeded, following Edward’s recommendations as if he were selling not death compartments, but vacation time-shares or luxury condos. I signed forms approving postautopsy embalming procedures, but balked at the escalating costs. The funeral—without the burial plot—was already into the five figures. I hesitated at the optional cosmetician and a hair stylist.

“Elle. Come on. This is my last public appearance. Give me a break.” His voice was so loud, so clear, that I thought Edward had heard it. But he gave no indication as I caved, approving every optional service the funeral parlor provided, hoping Charlie would leave me alone if I let him go out clean shaven and well trimmed.

Edward compiled the names of guys who might serve as pall-bearers: Charlie’s partner, Derek; his brother-in-law, Frank; brother Ted if he came in; some tennis buddies, Mort and Andy. A couple of clients, Jonas Walters and Philip Wendell, who’d belonged to the Union League with Charlie.

Edward recommended and arranged for a pastor. He helped me pick out an organist, music, and poetry readings Charlie would have liked. He brought in a florist to create opulent
arrangements for the viewing and service. He sold me the premier high-gloss program and guest book. Charlie was in my head, insisting. And finally, with almost twenty thousand dollars spent and with neither Edward nor me having uttered “death” once, all that was left was to write the obituary.

That part should have been easy; I was an obituary expert, after all. I knew the standard structure and vocabulary. But after filling in Charlie’s name, I stared at the form, unable to go on.

“Beloved husband?” Edward suggested.

Charlie’s voice was silent. Probably waiting to see what I’d come up with. Probably smirking.

I shook my head, no, and searched for appropriate words. How could I encapsulate our relationship, let alone Charlie’s life in a simple paragraph? Charles Harrison, 43, heartbreaker, manipulator, wheeler-dealer, and expert backstabber, finally stabbed in his own back on October 5 by person or persons unknown.

No. Too wordy.

How about: Charles Harrison, aged 43, went to final judgment by his Maker, poor bastard.

I kept at it. In the end, I chose: Charles Harrison, venture capitalist, aged 43. Suddenly on October 5. I listed information for the viewing, funeral, and interment, and thought about a charity to receive donations in lieu of flowers. Obviously, there was no American Knifed in the Back Association, so I chose the SPCA and World Wildlife Fund.

After that, all that was left was the “survived by” part. It was supposed to list the bereaved, the people devastated by his loss. Charlie’s mother couldn’t remember that he was dead long enough to be devastated. His brother wasn’t even curious about what had happened. His sister was annoyed with him, and his murder had only annoyed her more.

For all his contacts, Charlie didn’t have many who would mourn him. Most of his relationships had been functional,
formed around particular activities: making money, having sex, playing tennis, betting on football. They weren’t about kinship or love. Well, I’d once believed we’d been about love. But never mind. Charlie’s relationships or lack thereof weren’t my problem. I listed the names of his family and left it at that.

Or I almost did. One name wasn’t on the list.

Should it be? If so, what should I call myself? His wife? Former wife? Estranged wife? Almost ex-wife? Lord, what difference did it make? The man was dead.

And his voice—even if I’d been imagining it—was mute, offering nothing.

Edward was patient, but the obituary was taking a long time, and the newspaper had a deadline. And he had another appointment. The dead kept coming. He advised me to keep it simple. So I called myself Charlie’s wife, which didn’t feel right, but was technically and legally accurate.

The obituary, finally, was one of the simplest, lacking details. No “beloved” or “dear.” No American flag, no career summary. No cause of death. But it was done. And I thought I was, too.

But Edward reminded me that I had one more task. Before the funeral, I had to select the clothes Charlie would wear for the viewing and the funeral. And for eternity.

Soft breezes rustled through green, red and golden leaves above Rittenhouse Square. Speckled by tree-filtered sunlight, people sat on benches lining the paths, reading, talking on phones. Enjoying the scene. I didn’t stop to admire foliage or fountains, though. I was on a mission and wanted to get it over with. Go in, grab the suit, and leave.

I’d never been in Charlie’s apartment. Hadn’t been invited. Wouldn’t have gone if I had been. Didn’t want even to glimpse his life after me, let alone to find out if the bathroom held extra toothbrushes. Or tampons. No, I didn’t want to know. But the police had already been there, searching. Would have found
whatever there was to find and removed it. Hopefully, they’d found stuff to take suspicion away from me. I made a silent prayer, asked God to help them find the real killer and leave me alone. Made my mind up to sprint in, grab a suit—any suit—it didn’t have to be the perfect suit, and leave.

Charlie’s was one of those high-rises right off the square. Ritzy and glitzy. The doorman knew I didn’t live there, asked if he could help. Eyed me when I said no, that I was Charlie Harrison’s wife. I held Charlie’s key up, told him the apartment number: 21C. And he backed down, told me how upset everyone was about the murder, offered his sympathies. Stifled his questions. Probably suspected me.

The elevator lights glowed softly. My feet sank deep into plush hallway carpets. And then, there I was, putting Charlie’s key into the door of 21C.

I recognized the art. He’d stripped it off the walls of our house. But I was surprised to see my art deco stainless floor lamp. It had been my grandmother’s, had stood in the corner of the living room. Odd, I hadn’t missed it. What else had Charlie pilfered? I glanced around, saw the aquarium, the philodendra. The sparse furnishings, all new. A modular leather sofa. An enormous flat-screen TV.

Keep moving, I told myself. Do not get sidetracked. But, passing the kitchen, I couldn’t help looking in. Noticing the wine rack. Charlie had stocked up on Williamson’s, his favorite Australian Shiraz.

“Go ahead. Help yourself.”

The voice was so clear that I actually looked around. Saw no one, of course.

“Go ahead. I bought it with you in mind.”

Even dead, Charlie was lying to me. And no way was I going to have a glass of Shiraz or anything else in his apartment.

“Remember the first time you tried it?”

Of course, I did. Two feet of snow had fallen, a record in Philadelphia. Everything had shut down. We’d done what newly married couples do: made love, ate, drank wine, repeated the process. I remembered it vividly. But I also remembered the last time I’d had that wine. About eight months ago. The onset of our implosion, before I’d found out about the missing money. The night I’d found a piece of paper in the bag with the bottle.

A receipt for that day, from The Four Seasons Hotel, Philadelphia. “What’s this?” I’d held it up, frowning.

“Huh?”

I’d brought it to him. Shoved it at him.

“Oh. Nothing. It’s Derek’s.”

“Derek’s? Derek can’t charge his own hotel rooms?”

“It was for a client. It’s complicated.”

My jaw had tightened. I’d said nothing.

“What? You think I’m cheating on you?” A puppy-dog face. Big innocent eyes.

“How can you think that?”

I’d held the wine bottle in one hand, the receipt in the other. Charlie had reached out, tried for a hug. I’d resisted, pulled away.

“Elf. Seriously. It was just business.”

Just business? As in a professional? “A hooker?”

He’d chuckled. Shook his head, crossed his arms, sighed. “I swear. The room wasn’t for me.”

My hand had tightened around the neck of the bottle. “It’s your credit card.”

“I paid for the room. But it’s complicated.” Charlie had leaned against the kitchen counter, watching me. Breathing heavily. “I can’t talk about this, Elf. It involves important clients. Just trust me.”

Trust him? Seriously? He’d been acting oddly. Brooding. Secretive. Distracted.