Funerals Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 5)
Funerals
Can Be Murder
Every Wife Has a Story
A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery
Fifth in the Series
Susan Santangelo
Praise for the Baby Boomer Mysteries
“Santangelo has come up with an intriguing premise, drawing on the much-publicized fact that the baby boomer generation will soon be facing retirement, and she develops it cleverly….We’ll look forward to more Boomer mysteries in the years to come….Pure fun—and don’t be surprised if retired sleuths become the next big trend.”
—Booklist.com
“Retirement Can Be Murder is a fun chick lit investigative tale starring Carol Andrews super sleuth supported by an eccentric bunch of BBs (baby boomers), the cop and the daughter. Carol tells the tale in an amusing frantic way that adds to the enjoyment of a fine lighthearted whodunit that affirms that ‘every wife has a story.’”
—Harriet Klausner, national book critic
“Moving Can Be Murder is jam-packed with Carol’s cast of best buds and signature Santangelo fun! The author has penned a magnificent cozy that will leave you panting from the excitement, laughing at the characters, and—no surprise here—begging for more.”
—Terri Ann Armstrong, Author of How To Plant A Body
“With her Baby Boomer mystery series, Susan Santangelo documents her undeniable storytelling talents. Class Reunions Can Be Murder is an especially well crafted and entertaining mystery which plays fair with the reader every step of the way….An outstanding series.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Funerals Can Be Murder, Susan Santangelo’s latest Baby Boomer Mystery, will keep you chuckling, as well as wondering whodunit, until the very end.”
—Lois Winston, Award-winning author of the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series
“I love this series! With Funerals Can Be Murder, author Susan Santangelo has done it again—successfully mixed the challenges of aging boomers into a stew with hilarious events, winning characters and nimble storytelling. I’ve read every book in the series and can’t wait for more.”
—Barbara Ross, Author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries
“With the fifth in the Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery series, Funerals Can Be Murder, Santangelo doesn’t let up the pace or the humor on this one.”
—Kaye George, Author of Death in the Time of Ice
“Can it be possible that Carol Andrews somehow attracts murders—or at least their discovery and subsequent solution—into her life? As this fun romp opens, Carol is simply attending the untimely funeral of her very hunky handyman. Funerals Can Be Murder is the fifth installment in Santangelo’s Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery series, and it doesn’t disappoint. Another ‘must-read’!”
—Anne L. Holmes (“Boomer in Chief”), National Association of Baby Boomer Women
“Susan Santangelo continues her delightful Baby Boomer Mystery series with Funerals Can Be Murder, in which savvy sleuth Carol Andrews, despite her husband and detective son-in-law’s skepticism, digs up the dirt on a lustful landscaper and the ladies who loved him.”
—Carole Goldberg, National Book Critics Circle member
“In the mood for a light mystery? Susan Santangelo’s Funerals Can Be Murder is a fun, relaxing, read, with a great voice. Protagonist (and busybody) Carol Andrews could be your new best friend. She’s funny, bright, ironic, a great listener . . . her only problem is finding too many bodies. ”
—Lea Wait, Author of Shadows on a Maine Christmas
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 by Susan Santangelo
Previously published by Suspense Magazine
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781503930223
This title was previously published by Suspense Magazine; this version has been reproduced from Suspense Magazine archive files.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my wonderful family—Dave, Mark, Sandy, Rebecca, Jacob. And especially to Joe, who inspires me every day.
To Beverly Russell, who won character naming rights at a fundraiser to benefit the West Dennis MA library, and chose to honor Isaac Weichert. And to Helen Konisburg, who won character naming rights at a Cape Cod Hospital, Barnstable Branch, wine tasting. I hope you both like how your characters turned out!
To Pompea Sanderson, who keeps me looking my best when I’m down south.
A big thank you to Sandy P., Cathie, and Jersey Shirley. I think you know why.
Special thanks to Marie Sherman, who allowed me to “ride the mower” in Brewster MA, as research for Funerals Can Be Murder. And my apologies to Husqvarna, the manufacturer of the mower mentioned in this book. I’m sure Carol Andrews must have done something wrong to make it behave that way!
Thanks to Elizabeth Moisan for her imaginative plot ideas, and the terrific cover art.
A bouquet of shamrocks to my high school classmate and pal Pat Sinon Branciforte, my official Irish wake consultant.
Thank you so much to Paulette DiAngi for the creative and delicious Irish wake recipes, found in the back of this book.
To everyone at the Breast Cancer Survival Center, and cancer survivors everywhere, God bless! And to those who are continuing to fight the fight, never give up!
A big thank you to everyone from the Cape Cod Hospital Auxiliary, Barnstable Branch, and the Cape Cod Hospital Thrift Shop, for allowing me to play with them. Which I do as often as I can.
For Carole Goldberg from The Hartford Courant, and Melanie Lauwers from the Cape Cod Times, I appreciate your help more than you will ever know.
To my own First Readers Club, I couldn’t do this without your input. A special shout-out to Marti Baker, who always keeps me on my toes no matter what.
To all my friends and cyber friends from Sisters in Crime, especially the New England chapter, thanks for sharing your expertise with me. I always learn something new, and the support is fantastic.
To Shannon and John Raab, and everyone at Suspense Publishing, who help me in so many ways.
And to everyone who’s enjoyed this series—the readers I’ve met at countless book events and those who have e-mailed me—thanks so much! Hope you enjoy this one, too. And keep those chapter headings coming!
Funerals
Can Be Murder
Every Wife Has a Story
Susan Santangelo
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
7
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
How to Plan a Funeral
Recipes for an Irish Wake
About the Author
Mallory and Mallory Funeral Home, Fairport, Connecticut
Another Finnegan’s Wake
“I hate wakes,” I said, turning my car into the parking lot of Mallory and Mallory Funeral Home on Fairport Turnpike and cruising for an empty spot.
This pronouncement was greeted by a heavy sigh from my passenger. “Mom,” said my usually patient daughter, Jenny, “first of all, nobody likes wakes. Or funerals. Especially the guest of honor. And Dad was right. We didn’t have to come at all. You weren’t that close to the deceased.”
I matched Jenny’s sigh with one of my own. “I know,” I said. “But when I saw his obituary in yesterday’s paper, I was so shocked. It was only last week that Will Finnegan was raking our leaves and getting our yard in shape. He seemed fine. And now, he’s gone. Just like that.”
I sighed again.
“Life is too short for so many people we know,” I continued, easing the car into the perfect parking spot for someone my age—the kind I can drive straight out of without having to back up. My neck isn’t as flexible as it was when I was younger. Nor are several other body parts, to tell the truth.
“It just seemed appropriate that I come to pay my respects to his family.” I reached over and squeezed Jenny’s hand. “I appreciate your coming with me, sweetie.”
“I didn’t want you to go alone,” Jenny said. “And Mark’s working. I hate it when he works nights. I always worry more about him than I do when he’s on the day shift. I guess I should be used to being married to a police detective by now, but I’m not. Maybe, after we pay a quick visit to the funeral parlor, we can go out and grab a quick dinner at Maria’s Trattoria. My treat.”
“I’m never one to turn down the chance of a dinner I didn’t have to cook myself,” I said. “And your father has plenty of leftovers to graze on, plus there’s a UConn game on television tonight. I bet he won’t even notice how long I’ve been gone.”
I frowned. “Maybe I should get a pair of pom poms and pretend to be a college cheerleader. What do you think?”
“Please, tell me you’re kidding, Mom,” Jenny said as we arrived at the front door of what some locals have dubbed M & M, the funeral parlor of choice for many Fairport, Connecticut residents.
I smoothed my hair down and tried to make myself look presentable. The late fall winds had been especially punishing on our brisk walk from the parking lot. I could hear organ music—probably pre-recorded—coming from Slumber Room A. There was a sign near the door marking it as the parlor for the William Finnegan wake, as well as a guest book to sign.
I couldn’t help but notice, as I wrote “Mrs. James Andrews,” that I was the first person on the page. I handed the pen to Jenny.
“I didn’t think we’d be the first ones here, Mom,” she whispered, adding her signature below mine. “Where’s the family? Didn’t he have one?”
“According to the obituary, he did,” I whispered back. “Maybe they didn’t feel they needed to sign the guest book.”
Jenny nodded and pushed me in front of her toward the sound of the organ music. “You first, Mom. At least you have a tenuous relationship to the deceased. I never even laid eyes on the man.”
Slumber Room A was dimly lit, but it took me only half a second to realize that Jenny and I were the only people here. Except for the recently deceased Will Finnegan, whom I presumed was residing in the open casket at the other end of the room.
The organ music reached a crescendo, then the room became eerily silent.
“What’ll we do, Mom?” Jenny asked. “There’s no one to pay our respects to.”
“We sit down and wait a few minutes,” I whispered back. “The family is probably in another room, composing themselves for a long and emotional night.” I looked at my watch. “I don’t think I got the time wrong. I’m sure the obituary said the viewing started at seven o’clock. It’s ten past seven now.”
The organ music started up again. Not exactly a toe-tapper, but at least it made me feel like we were in the right place.
Or were we?
“Jenny,” I whispered, “I think I’ll just go up and say a prayer at the casket. And be sure I haven’t made a mistake.” I smiled weakly. “If I have, dinner’s on me.”
I threaded my way through the rows of empty chairs and found myself gazing at the waxen face of our late landscaper, sleeping in his casket.
Yup, Will was dead all right.
But just to be extra sure, one mourner, who’d gotten to the casket ahead of me, had plunged a scissors into Will’s chest.
Chapter 1
If at last you find a sale, buy, buy again!
Jim and I were having a “domestic.” A disagreement. A squabble. An argument.
Oh, all right. We were having a fight.
Not the WWE kind of fight. And for once, it wasn’t about the credit card bill. I do consider it patriotic to shop as much as possible—anything to boost the economy of the USA.
No, this fight was a stupid one about—of all things—how we divide the household tasks. Not that it started out that way.
To tell the truth, this argument was a typical One-Thing-Leads-To-Another, Then-To-Another squabble that’s so common between long-time spousal units. The kind that goes on until neither of the participants can remember what the fight was supposed to be about in the first place.
Except for me. I always remember.
Of course, this argument, like so many others we’ve had, began as a direct result of Jim’s retirement.
To be completely fair and objective (to myself), when My Beloved Husband of thirty-five-plus years decided to leave his stress-packed, demanding job at Gibson Gillespie Public Relations in New York City—an easy commute via Metro North from Fairport, the bucolic Connecticut suburb we’ve called home for most of our married life—I was incredibly supportive.
Forget about visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. I had visions of luxurious cruises to exotic ports, annual trips to Europe, and, well, you get the idea.
Unfortunately, Jim didn’t. Get the idea, I mean.
Instead, he was perfectly content to stay home (admittedly, it’s a beautiful antique home and I love it dearly) and, with a few (minor) hiccups that disturbed the tranquility of his retirement, reorganize my kitchen, take over the laundry, make the morning coffee, and in every other way become a household diva.
Oy vey. What a career path.
And I resented what I interpreted as an unwanted, unnecessary, inexcusable intrusion onto what had Always Been My Turf. Some of you may say I overreacted. But I dare any of you to invite Jim to your home so he can put his newly discovered domestic talents to work on your turf and see how you like it.
Any takers? I didn’t think so.
Oh, and by the way, My Beloved’s foray into micromanaging and controlling household tasks doesn’t extend to chores which I absolutely hate, like cleaning the b
athrooms, vacuuming, and cleaning up after meals. And he never tells me when we’re running low on groceries—like our favorite cereal, for instance. Instead, he leaves that for me to discover, usually on a morning when there are no other breakfast choices but Lucy and Ethel’s kibble.
Our two English cocker spaniels don’t like to share.
If I’m being completely honest, I have to admit that Jim is a whiz with the outdoor home maintenance—trimming bushes, touching up exterior paint here and there, mowing the grass, raking leaves, and shoveling snow. The weather in our bucolic corner of New England is rife with its share of ongoing challenges.
Of course, one of the reasons why Jim is so fixated on outdoor maintenance is that he gets to play with some of his toys. The riding mower our daughter Jenny and her husband, Mark, gave him for his birthday, for instance. Or the fancy snow blower he bought at Fairport Hardware during last year’s end-of-season clearance sale.
Since Jim had a mild heart issue a while back, and he refuses to hire anyone else to take over any of these chores on a regular basis, I encouraged these purchases. Anything I can do to extend My Beloved’s life span is okay with me.
Truth to tell, I was dying to try out one of Jim’s toys myself. Tooling around our large, fenced-in back yard atop the riding mower held a lot more appeal than swishing the bathroom toilets with bleach.
Which brings me back to the subject of our “domestic.”
Finally.
“It’s only a sniffle, Jim,” I said, taking the thermometer out of his mouth and squinting to read it without my glasses. “You’re not running a fever. Just take it easy today and drink lots of fluids. I bet you’ll feel much better by tomorrow morning.”
I gave him the stare I’d perfected after years of motherhood—the one that used to strike fear into Jenny and Mike when they were kids. “And by fluids, I mean juice, water, and maybe some weak tea, so don’t get any crazy ideas. And I’m not going to spend the day waiting on you.”