A Rose From the Dead (5 page)

“Del and I will stay here,” Max said to me. “You and Marco go.”

“I’m going only because you asked me to,” Marco grumbled.

Did he need another reason?

The
Make It Easy
set had a wooden stage, the familiar backdrop of the inside of a workshop, lights, cameras, electronic equipment, grips, a director wearing headphones, and a man in a suit (possibly a representative of the show’s sponsor, Habitation Station). The only thing missing was Chet.

The six long rows of folding chairs in front of the stage were already filled, so we had to stand in back with other latecomers as the director gave instructions to the audience, spoke with his cameramen, then signaled to his soundman. The theme music swelled, the director started the crowd clapping, and Chet Sunday strode onto the stage.

At six feet tall and in his midthirties, Chet had shiny, honey brown hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, a muscular body, a strong, aquiline nose, and the squarest jaw I’d ever seen. As usual, he had on his trademark blue plaid cotton shirt, dark blue jeans, and yellow work boots, with a fully-loaded leather tool belt around his waist.

The audience members instantly got to their feet, whistling, clapping, and
woo-woo-
ing, until the director finally got them to quiet down. The
Make It Easy
show had been on the air for two years and had garnered a huge following of men and women alike. Habitation Station loved Chet for his wholesome image and all-American good looks, even if he had immigrated to America from Eastern Europe ten years earlier. It hadn’t hurt his image, either, that he had recently been nominated for a Humanitarian of the Year award and often made appearances on behalf of his favorite charities.

Each of Chet’s shows had a theme, and the one they had selected for today was called “Build It Easy,” in which Chet demonstrated how to put together a simple pine box casket, line it with foam padding, and cover the padding with satin—all material available in a kit sold at Habitation Station. It wasn’t until halfway through the taping that the irony occurred to me.

I leaned over to whisper to Marco, “If Chet Sunday is allowed to promote do-it-yourself caskets, why shouldn’t Eli be allowed to do the same with his burial bags?”

“Forget about Eli,” Marco whispered back. “The man is off balance.”

“He’s a concerned environmentalist.”

“You’ve got the
mental
part right.”

“Shhh!” someone behind me whispered.

At the end of the show, Chet took off his tool belt and hung it on a peg, his standard routine. “Be sure to tune in for our next episode, ‘Transfer It Easy,’ when I’ll show you how to build a space-saving CD/DVD stand you’ll be proud to display anywhere. As a bonus I’ll even demonstrate how to transfer those old videotapes and reel-to-reel movies onto DVDs. Until then, remember, make it easy on yourself.”

The music swelled, his director said, “It’s a wrap,” and the cameras shut off. As the crew packed up, Chet had a brief conversation with the director, then walked down the two steps to sign autographs. Quickly, I fished in my purse for my notepad, something I never left home without.

Marco glanced askance at me. “Tell me you’re not going up for his autograph.”

“It’s not for me; it’s for Nikki. She’s a huge fan.” Nikki, my best friend since third grade and also my roommate, watched Chet’s show every Saturday with me, except for the weekends she had to work an extra shift at the hospital, when I taped it for her.

“Put away your notepad, Sunshine. Looks like Sybil has other plans for Chet.”

I looked up to see Sybil whisper something in Chet’s ear that didn’t seem to please him, judging by his slight frown. He frowned even harder after she plucked her rose from her hair and tickled him under the chin with it. But he put on his star smile to turn back to his fans and say with just a hint of Slavic accent, “Go get a cup of coffee and a bagel and I’ll be back to sign autographs at one o’clock.”

The murmurs of disappointment didn’t bother Sybil. She seemed almost effervescent as she and Chet headed out of the convention hall and up the main hallway past the phone booth–coffin toward a glass-ceilinged atrium at the far end. From the atrium one could either exit the building through the wide glass doors of the public entrance or head up a corridor that connected the convention center to the hotel. It was the latter route that the pair took.

“Why would Sybil drag Chet away from his fans now?” I asked. “Do you think she just wants to show how much power and influence she has, or do you think the two of them have something going on?”

“I don’t really care,” Marco said. “It’s noon. Let’s go grab some lunch.”

“It’s always about your stomach, isn’t it?”

He put an arm around my shoulders and drew me close. “Not always.”

We found a café in the food court at the back of the convention hall and were seated right away. I ordered my usual turkey and Swiss cheese, and Marco got a burger with the works. He ordered a side of fries, which we shared, and we each had a Bud Light.

We had finished our sandwiches and were working on his fries when I heard a cell phone behind me begin to play “America the Beautiful.” I glanced over my shoulder and saw Colonel Billingsworth holding a cell phone to his ear. Then he snapped it shut and said to his companion, “That’s it. Something’s got to be done about those Urbans. Their behavior borders on the criminal. Did you hear about their latest stunt?”

The man sitting across from him said something I couldn’t catch, even after I’d shushed Marco. “Listen,” I whispered, discreetly hitching my thumb over my shoulder as their conversation continued.

“Did you know they’re the ones who pushed this vampire drinking party and casket race through?” the colonel asked. “A casket race! Do you know what will happen if the media gets wind of it? Do you have any idea what that will do to our image? The public has their expectations of us, you know, and the behavior of those young men makes a mockery of everything we stand for.”

Marco stole a fry from my plate. “Are you going to talk to me or listen to them?”

I pointed with my thumb again. “Them.”

“Then I’m taking back my fries.”

I pushed the plate toward him and tipped my head back to hear more.

“Have you tried speaking to their father?” the other man asked.

“Of course I have,” the colonel replied. “Not that it’s done any good. The truth is, Conrad Urban is too busy jetting around the country buying out funeral homes to discipline them. I’ll just have to find a way to ban the boys from future conventions. I’m considering taking away their association memberships.”

“Conrad would never stand for that,” his companion said. “He has enough money to put on his own convention, and you know we couldn’t compete with that. Have you discussed the problem with Sybil?”

“What’s the use? You know what a pushover she is with young men.”

“Pushover? Is that what they’re calling it these days? So the Urbans will continue until something happens, and then their father will pay money to make the problem go away.”

The colonel sighed. “Short of banning them, all we can do is hope they cause Conrad a great deal of disgrace. Maybe then he’ll take action.”

“Did you hear about the young woman they locked in that phony phone booth this morning? Perhaps, if we can locate her, we can persuade her to press charges.”

I leaned toward Marco to whisper excitedly, “They’re talking about
me
.”

He trapped my hands under his. “Don’t even think about turning around.”

D
on’t turn around, when the two men clearly needed to talk to me? That was like handing me a Ghirardelli bar and telling me not to eat it. “Why shouldn’t I let them know what happened to me?” I asked Marco.

“Do you really want to testify in court against the sons of a mortuary mogul, a man who could crush you like a bug? Do you think that will be good for your business?”

“But it’s not right that they get away with their stupid pranks because their father is rich. I could have suffocated in that booth.”

Marco traced a fingertip along the back of my right hand, sending shivers of delight up my arm. “But you didn’t suffocate, Sunshine, so no harm, no foul. Besides, the booth wasn’t airtight, and people are in that hallway all the time. If I hadn’t come along, someone else would have heard you calling to get out.”

I took in his sensual eyes, the dark hair waving onto his forehead, and that rough shadow of a beard, and said in a sexy purr, “Lucky for me, it
was
you.”

His mouth curved up at both corners. “How lucky?”

“Talk to me after the banquet.”

The afternoon passed slowly, as more of the convention’s guests attended the workshops than browsed the displays. Even Max and Delilah had gone to a seminar, and Marco had escaped back to his bar in New Chapel, so I stood behind the table waving mums at anyone who passed, hoping they’d stop to chat. This was not only to gain customers but also to discourage Angelique from drifting over to share tales of her bedside death watches. I couldn’t seem to get her to understand that her stories did not thrill me and that her eerie music made my skin crawl.

Thankfully, Lottie returned at two o’clock carrying a cup of coffee for her and a mocha latte for me. She opened a folding chair and sat down while I took careful sips from the cardboard cup in case it was still at tongue-blistering temperature.

“How’s it going, sweetie?”

“We’ve had slow but steady traffic.” I leaned closer to whisper, “And that traffic includes our neighbor across the way.”

“You should have been here when she tried to get Delilah to sign up for a recording. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sugarplum,’ Delilah told her, ‘but recordin’ me wouldn’t do any good. I’m tone deaf.’” Lottie slapped her knee and howled with laughter, which made Angelique stop strumming her harp strings and glance our way.

“Great. Here she comes again,” I muttered.

Lottie bent down to hunt for something in her mountain of a purse on the floor beside her, then straightened and nearly jumped out of the chair. Angelique had planted her elbows on the table and was leaning across, her face inches from Lottie’s, studying her with unblinking, emotionless eyes.

“Good golly, woman,” Lottie cried, a hand against her heart. “You scared five years off my life.”

Angelique continued to stare into her eyes.
“Pesante,”
she said at last, dismissing Lottie with a wave of a pale hand. She drifted back to her booth, put on a CD, and began a slow pirouette to the strange, unharmonious sounds.

“Pesante?”
Lottie repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, but I’m
staccato,
which Marco says means short and disconnected.”

“Then
pesante
must mean built like a plow horse. Uh-oh. Trouble is on the way.”

Coming up the aisle was Sybil, clipboard in hand, stopping at each booth to impart information. At the Music of the Soul booth, she paused to listen to a selection from a CD that Angelique had obviously persuaded her to hear; then she put an arm around the harpist’s shoulders and gave her a hug before heading our way. The intimate gesture made me think they were friends, but the next words out of her mouth disabused me of that notion.

“Angelique wants to record my
soul
music,” Sybil said, rolling her eyes. “What a freak show. And if her face isn’t screaming for a makeover, I don’t know whose is.”

Lottie stared at Sybil in disbelief, while I tugged at a hangnail to keep from suggesting that Sybil might want to grab a hand mirror and have a gander at her own plasticine complexion.

“Now then,” Sybil said to Lottie, having dispensed with her snarky comments, “have you signed up for the casket contest?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lottie said.

I couldn’t help but give Lottie a look of surprise as Sybil put a check mark beside the first item on her list. Then she asked, “Have you registered your group for the banquet tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I gave Lottie another surprised glance while Sybil checked off the next box.

“Be in your seats promptly at six fifty,” Sybil ordered. “At seven o’clock I’ll open with a welcome; a chaplain will deliver a short prayer; then dinner will be served.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lottie said again.

As soon as Sybil moved to the next booth, I said, “We don’t have an entry in the contest, and you’re not coming to the banquet tonight.”

“Sweetie, life’s a whole lot simpler when you plow around the stump.”

I wasn’t exactly sure how the stump applied to our situation, but at that moment Angelique caught my eye. She was standing in the middle of the aisle with her hands clasped to her bosom, staring longingly after Sybil.

“Bellicoso,”
she cried in her ethereal voice.
“Tremendo.”
She pirouetted over to our table and leaned toward us, arms over her head. “If Sybil doesn’t let me record her
omaggio
, I’ll wither like a vine in winter.
Feroce al fine.
” To emphasize her statement, she crumpled gracefully to the floor.

“You want to translate for us simple folk?” Lottie asked, looking very grumpy. She had a low tolerance for people with attitude.

The harpist rose, gave us a haughty glance, and toe-danced back to her harp to strum her strings.

“That woman is getting on my nerves,” Lottie said, then saw me jotting in my notebook. “What are you doing?”

“Writing down what Angelique said. The next time she tries to impress us with her knowledge, I’m going to be prepared.” I opened my cell phone and called Bloomers. “Hey, Grace, can you translate some musical terminology for me?”

“Did you mean to say, ‘
Will
I’?” was Grace’s reply. Because of course she
could
.

Grace Bingham was my other assistant at Bloomers, an intelligent, energetic, stylish, often picky sixtysomething Brit whom I’d met when I clerked for Attorney Dave Hammond. Grace had been Dave’s legal secretary at the time. Besides running the coffee and tea parlor at Bloomers, she also served as my resource person. If she didn’t know the answer, she knew how to find it.

A minute later I hung up and said to Lottie, “Grace is on it.”

At five o’clock all the booths were to close in preparation for the evening gala, so Delilah and Max returned to help Lottie and me pack up the fresh flowers for storage in an empty cooler in the industrial-size kitchen located just off the back hallway. On our way back from the kitchen, Delilah had us detour to the storage room to see the Happy Dreams entry for the casket contest.

The Happy Dreams casket was covered in a tapestry material and embellished with a trimming of small beads and lace. Delilah opened the lid for us to see a pair of giant, wire-rimmed eyeglasses inside.

“An eyeglass case!” I announced. “Very cool, Delilah.”

“You don’t think this contest is a little far-out?” Lottie asked, keeping her distance.

“Morticians like to have fun, too,” Delilah said, then let out a little gasp of dismay. “The lace is coming off this side, Max. I’ll have to come back with the glue gun.”

He glanced at his watch. “We promised Mark and Jane we’d have a drink with them before dinner, so why don’t I take care of it while you get ready?”

“Sugar pie, I love you to pieces, but you’re downright dangerous with a glue gun. Besides, this is my creation. It won’t take me any time at all to fix this. If it makes you feel better, I’ll get all gussied up before I come down here. I’ll just have to remember to put on my smock so I don’t drip glue on my dress. I’m sorry you’ll miss all the fun, Lottie.”

“My philosophy is, if you’ve been to one banquet, you’ve been to them all,” Lottie said.

“I’ll see you and Max at the banquet hall at six thirty,” I said to Delilah. With the convention center located only half an hour’s drive from New Chapel, I was able to go home each night, saving the expense of a hotel room.

“Don’t be late,” Max called. “You don’t want to incur the wrath of Sybil.”

At six o’clock Marco arrived at my apartment, looking—according to Nikki, who’d answered the door—super-hunky in a soft gray jacket, white shirt, hand-painted silk tie with a swirl of colors, and slim-fitting black pants.

“That man is a
treasure
,” she whispered.

As best friends went, so was Nikki. She was a tall, slender blonde with a peaches-and-cream complexion and an easygoing nature. We’d met the summer between third and fourth grade, and our friendship had been rock solid ever since. Back then, we were the same height and weight and even wore matching ponytails, but by seventh grade she had left me in the dust as far as height was concerned. I was still hoping to catch up, but at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I knew the odds weren’t in my favor.

Nikki had offered to share her apartment with me after my wedding and law school plans fell through, and I had quickly leapt at the offer. Since she usually worked afternoons as an X-ray technician at the county hospital and didn’t get home until almost midnight, we saw each other only briefly during the week, which was why our arrangement worked so well.

Now, standing in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door, I held a pair of silver hoop earrings against my ears. “How do these look with my dress?”

“Ugh. Not with that color green. Try your crystal dangling ones.” She dug through the little blue jewelry box on my dresser. “Oh, wait. I borrowed those last week. I’ll be right back.”

While Nikki dashed to her room across the hallway, I took two steps backward and squinted at my reflection (a trick that made me appear slimmer.) Just as I’d feared, the earrings weren’t the problem. It was my sleeveless wrap dress, a designer knockoff I’d found at Marshalls. With my extra-curvy body and my upswept red hair, I looked like two scoops of key lime ice cream with a cherry on top. Oh, well. It was too late to change now.

“Here you go,” Nikki said.

I shoved the posts through my earlobes, grabbed my leather clutch purse, slipped into my black sling-back heels, and hurried up the hallway, around the corner, through our tiny living room, and up another short hallway past the kitchen, where I found Marco leaning against the door, arms folded, looking like he’d just stepped away from a
GQ
photo session. As always, I had to stop to catch my breath. How could anyone be that scrumpti-hunkalicious?

He looked me over and one corner of his mouth curved up in approval. “Nice.”

“You’re not looking at me and thinking, ‘Hmm, I could really go for an ice cream sundae’?”

“Not the direction of my thoughts at all.” He lifted an eyebrow suggestively.

Good enough for me.

As we wove through clusters of men in dark suits and women in cocktail dresses, hunting for table seventeen in the banquet hall, I found Max seated at our table with the Doves’ friends Mark and Jane Vale, and another couple, Alicia and Walt Tyler. Max explained that Delilah would be arriving momentarily. She’d had problems with her glue gun.

At another front-row table I saw an older, more sophisticated version of Ross Urban, right down to his highlights. The only difference was that his hair was curly, where Ross’s was wavy. He had to be Conrad Urban. With him was a contingent of assistants watching his every twitch, eager to do his bidding. Surprisingly, the twins hadn’t yet arrived, and Conrad seemed edgy because of it, glancing from his watch to the wide, double doors in the back. There was also no sign of Chet Sunday.

At seven o’clock everyone began to drift to their seats. Delilah, however, had yet to make an appearance, and by the frown on Max’s face I knew he was starting to fret. Delilah prided herself on punctuality. It would be unthinkable for her to arrive late.

“Where’s the happy harpist?” Marco leaned close to whisper, his husky voice sending scintillating tingles to locations I could only describe as strategic.

“She’s in the back at a table all by herself, draped over her chair like a black fog. I think her vampire costume is scaring people off.” My stomach rumbled, so I reached for the poppy-seed roll on my bread plate. “I hope Sybil starts this soon so we can eat. I’m hungry.”

At that moment Ross and Jess came scooting through the crowd and plopped down across from their father, drinks in hand. At first I couldn’t tell them apart, as one had on a navy suit and the other wore a black suit, and both had neatly combed hair. However, one of the twins was sporting a tie that appeared to have been hastily knotted, with an unbuttoned collar to boot. I was guessing he was Jess the Mess. He got a fierce glare from Conrad, which prompted him to quickly adjust his tie.