Dead Weight (2 page)

The pews were three-quarters full when we got there, and by the time the service started there was standing room only. I saw several people I knew, some sitting, some standing against the walls. The pastor did a bit of sermon and then the eulogies began. The first was a woman from my Weigh In group, whose tearful goodbye seemed to set a tone. After her was a man from ‘an anonymous group’ he said, leaving it at that, but his eulogy seemed to indicate that Berta had been a drinker at one point in her life. Next was a woman from Trisha’s MADD group, who tearfully told the story of Berta’s young son’s death and how they would be reunited at last. There was a speaker from a support group for those who had lost their spouses, one from a support group for abused women, one from a support group for family members of institutionalized patients, one from a victims’ rights organization, and another from a group of wives of prison inmates. There weren’t any family members or friends other than those from these groups. But by all accounts, and the eulogies, it appeared as if Berta Harris had outlived all her family and probably most of her friends.

Berta had been cremated so there was to be no graveside service; instead, we went directly to the rec room of the church where there was punch and cookies. I couldn’t help thinking about the services I’d gone to with my mother-in-law at her little Baptist Church in Codderville, where after the service there’d be refreshments – either at the deceased’s home or at the church, and everyone would bring their best dish. Fourteen different salads, five of them coleslaw, three green bean casseroles and four broccoli-rice casseroles, a ham, fried chicken, and occasionally a whole turkey. And, oh my God, the desserts . . . As a soon-to-be graduate of Weigh In, that was not something I should be contemplating. But punch and cookies? Come on, people. Is that anyway to send someone off to their maker?

Out of curiosity I made my way amongst the different groups represented and began to get a bio of Berta Harris. Her mother was an obese woman who died of complications of diabetes while addicted to meth; her father was an alcoholic who beat her mother and then shot and killed her when Berta was in her teens; her husband of fifteen years recently died in a car wreck, not unlike her ten-year-old son; her brother, a paranoid schizophrenic, had been hospitalized for several years; and she’d been married to a man who had held her at gunpoint for several hours one dark and stormy night – he was currently incarcerated.

There were so many holes in this bio it was beginning to resemble Swiss cheese. One thing no one knew was how Berta Harris died. Trisha had said she’d been told Berta had been hospitalized and died of ‘complications.’ Of what, she didn’t know. Why she was hospitalized she wasn’t told.

The anonymous guy, who was with a group of people swilling coffee like it was going out of style, and who all introduced themselves by first name only, said he’d heard she’d died of a heart attack while on the toilet, Elvis-style.

A woman from RIPS (Relatives of Institutionalized People’s Support group) had been told Berta died of anaphylactic shock from a bee sting while on a trip to Six Flags in Dallas.

A woman from WII (Wives of Imprisoned Inmates – not to be confused with the gaming system, or World War II for that matter) said she’d heard she’d died of a heart attack while on a conjugal visit with her husband.

So, that was two for heart attack, one anaphylactic shock, and one hospital complications. I asked my weight-loss sponsor what she thought, in hopes of a consensus of some sort.

‘Oh, it was awful!’ Consuelo Rivera said. ‘She got car-jacked! But her sleeve got caught in the door and she was dragged to death!’

No consensus.

‘Who told you this?’ I asked her.

Consuelo shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t remember her name. A woman called me at home, after eleven at night, woke me up! Then she tells me this, and I swear, I didn’t sleep another wink! And this happened right here in Black Cat Ridge! What is this world coming to, E.J.?’

I shook my head and patted her arm before I walked away, mumbling to myself. Something was up, and it wasn’t just my blood pressure.

‘Do you know where Berta lived?’ I asked Trisha as we left the church parking lot.

‘Yeah, I drove her home after the Austin trip. Um, over on Weed Willow, I think,’ she said.

‘Mind if we go by there?’ I asked, turning the opposite direction from where we both lived.

‘I guess not,’ Trisha said. ‘What’s up, E.J.?’

‘Were you paying attention to those eulogies?’ I asked her.

‘More or less,’ she said, looking away from me, which I thought might mean she’d been making a mental grocery list while people from the various self-help groups poured their collective hearts out.

I told her what I’d pieced together from the eulogies, and answers to questions.

Trisha shrugged. ‘So you think Berta just liked joining groups? Maybe she was lonely.’

That pissed me off. There was a very good chance Trisha was right. What other reasons would Berta have for joining twelve-step programs? And was she lying about her history to get in these groups? It just all seemed fishy to me.

‘How come all the inconsistencies with the cause of death?’ I asked Trisha.

‘Huh?’ was Trisha’s response, so I told her what I’d found out.

She looked at me and her eyes got huge; ‘Oh, jeez, E.J., is this going to be one of your cases? Do you think Berta was murdered? Are we going to go to her house and see if the killer’s there rifling through her stuff? Looking for, what? Diamonds? Microfilm! You think Berta was a spy? Can we stop by my house real quick? Tom has a handgun—’

I patted Trisha’s knee. ‘Calm down,’ I said, not wanting to contemplate Trisha with a gun. ‘I’m not sure what I think at this point, just that something’s not right. I just want to go by her house and see what’s up.’

I found Weed Willow Lane and drove down it. Trisha pointed out Berta’s house. There was a For Sale sign in the front yard. Luckily the sign was for a real estate agency owned by a woman I’d known since my girls were in grammar school. We’d both been on different teacher’s committees over the years, and even into high school where Kerry was currently president of the PTA. She was a serious go-getter and it usually just made me tired to watch her, but I liked her all the same. Kerry Killian had her own agency in one of the two shopping centers in Black Cat Ridge. There was the white rock shopping center, and there was the faux redwood shopping center. Kerry was in the faux redwood center. Both centers had grocery store anchors, with smaller stores surrounding. Kerry was stuck between Bijoux’s Frozen Yogurt and Cat’s Eye Sports Equipment. Trisha and I dropped in and found Kerry on the phone talking to a client. This was the first time I’d been in Kerry’s office. There was an ornate French-looking desk in the center of the room, totally cleared except for a few tasteful nick-nacks. A computer was stationed behind her desk on a matching credenza. Four ornate chairs with damask-looking upholstery surrounded a golden metal and glass claw-foot table, and a settee with matching upholstery sat in front of her desk. Everything was in shades of gold and cream.

My girls were going into their junior year of high school, which meant I’d first met Kerry Killian, mother of twin boys in the same class as my girls, at least ten years ago. She looked exactly the same, down to the clothes. Medium height, dark brown hair in a ponytail with short bangs up front, Betty Page style, big blue eyes, and wearing a white tennis skirt showing off terrifically shaped and tanned legs, a white Polo shirt with a yellow sweater tied around her neck, and white tennis shoes with big yellow pom-poms hanging out the back from those little short socks.

‘Yes, I want to get them in this house, too, Astrid, but they’ve got to come up with a down— Oh, honey, listen, someone just came in. Let me run the numbers again and I’ll call you back, ’k? Great, bye.’

‘E.J.! Hi! It’s great to see you!’ She moved into my space and gave me a hug, which I’d known she would do. Kerry was a big hugger and, having read a book on the benefits of hugging, gave great bear hugs. At least, she always had until today. Today’s hug was actually painful.

The word ‘spunk’ has gone into disuse mainly due to Kerry Killian’s overuse of the symptom.

‘Hi, Kerry. This is my neighbor, Trisha McClure—’

She simultaneously grabbed Trisha’s hand to pump while saying, ‘Now Luna didn’t go and sell her house and not contact me, did she? I’ll spank her, I swear!’ she said and laughed heartily.

‘No, no. Trisha lives across the street,’ I said.

She eyed Trisha. ‘In the Stanleys’ house or the Masons’?’

‘The Masons’,’ Trisha said quietly.

‘Rita Mansaur, right? She was your agent!’ Kerry declared.

‘Well, yes, she was,’ Trisha admitted, seemingly a little frightened regarding the consequences of her admittance.

Kerry looked very serious for a moment. ‘She’s good,’ she finally said. ‘She’s doing mostly commercial now. This was, like, almost two years ago, right?’

‘Yes,’ Trisha said.

Kerry nodded and kept nodding. ‘She’s into commercial now. Not homes. You probably bought her last house.’ Kerry burst into laughter. ‘Isn’t that hysterical!’

I decided to jump in before things got even more bizarre. ‘Kerry, we’re here about Berta Harris’s house on Weed Willow. I saw your sign.’

‘Of course you did! How could you miss it? Yes, Berta decided to sell and move back to Jacksonville, Florida.’

‘Ah, when did she decide this?’ I asked, exchanging glances with Trisha.

‘A week ago,’ Kerry said.

I looked at Trisha. ‘What was the day she, you know . . .’

‘Tuesday,’ Trisha answered.

‘Of last week?’ I asked.

Trisha nodded.

‘What day last week did you sign her up?’ I asked Kerry.

She tilted her head like a curious bird and then smiled brightly. ‘I’ll have to check my calendar!’

I was getting a little worried about Kerry. She had always been perky, but this was more manic than perky.

She leaned on her desk, one calf raised with tennied toes pointed, like a girl in the movies getting her first screen kiss, and poised one finger against her check. Then she looked up and smiled. ‘Wednesday!’ she declared.

Trisha and I looked at each other again. Neat trick, I thought, for a woman to sell her house the day after she died. And why didn’t Kerry know Berta was dead? My hackles were on red alert. Something was more than fishy here.

‘Are you thinking of buying?’ Kerry asked, coming back around the desk. ‘Berta’s asking a song for the place, I swear to God! A song! You could buy it for the kids, E.J.! Just think, they’d be right down the street!’

I only contemplated the idea for a moment, then said, ‘No, neither of us is interested, Kerry. We’re just wondering about Berta.’

Kerry’s smile was so huge it hurt the muscles of my face just to look at it. ‘Berta’s just fine,’ she said.

‘Kerry,’ I said, laying a hand on her arm. ‘Berta’s memorial service was today. She’s been cremated.’

‘Oh,’ Kerry said, the painful smile not budging. ‘Well, that’s interesting.’

Trisha and I exchanged looks again, and I patted Kerry’s arm. ‘Thanks, Kerry,’ I said. ‘If you need to talk, about anything, just call.’

‘Okie dokie,’ Kerry said, following us to the door. As Trisha headed for my minivan, Kerry grabbed my arm. When I turned, her smile was gone. ‘Be careful, E.J. Stay out of it.’ Before I could even take in what she’d said she was back in her office, the door closed, and her back to me.

MEGAN

It’s not easy being Megan Pugh. First of all, from kindergarten on, you get ‘Pee-ewe Pugh’ as a nickname. And I was burdened with Graham – my older brother. He should be committed. Then, just when I think things might be going OK, my parents adopt Bess. Don’t get me wrong, I love Bess like a sister. Which is the problem. Who wants a sister? I have dreams of being an only child. I’d make a good one. I could totally handle a life that’s all about me. My parents and grandparents doting on me. It wouldn’t matter what grades I got, or if I stayed out too late, or if I ditched school. They’d just be damn happy to have me. Our precious child. No such luck.

So finally, ten years go by with a brother
and
a sister, and I’m beginning to adjust, when, whammo, I get another sister – Alicia. This one is just as needy as Bess, but newer. Well, I don’t mean she’s newer; well, she is newer, but I mean her neediness is fresher. She was a foster kid and had this mean foster mother who, like, made her take care of the little kids and she had only one outfit that she had to wear
every
day! I kid you not! And it was fun at first, buying her new clothes and fixing her hair and make-up and stuff, but you can only do that for so long, and besides, she’s like a size three and I’m like a nine so I can’t borrow anything, so what’s the point? Bess can wear a size one or a size three so they can trade off clothes, and I’m stuck with just my own wardrobe, which truly sucks because my
mother
buys my clothes. If she’d just give me her credit card and drop me off at the mall it wouldn’t be so bad, but she wants to make a
girls
day out of it, which means Bess and Alicia and me, with Mom leading the way. Gag me.

So I came up with a plan. With Mom and Mrs McClure across the street spending so much time together, I figured Mrs McClure would need, like, a part-time nanny. Who better than me? Not a living soul, that’s who! And with the money she gives me, I can buy my own clothes! Get Graham to drop me off at the mall, and then it’ll be a
fait accompli
, as they say in French class! Not a darn thing Mom can say about it. As long as I don’t get anything too cool, like body piercings or tattoos. Seriously, I’d love a tatt of a dolphin on my ankle, but Mom would totally see that. I’ll have to settle for my butt. She wouldn’t see that – she gave up bathing me like a year ago.
Kidding!

So that’s what I do. I, like, walk across the street after Mom dropped Mrs McClure at home and then took off – gawd knows where – probably the grocery store, she goes there every day! I walk up to the door and hear all this yelling. I almost turn around, but it’s Mrs McClure yelling at the kids, and I think, cool! She
really
needs a part-time nanny! So I ring the bell and after way too long a wait, Mrs McClure opens it real fast and starts to say, ‘What?’ in a mean voice then sees who it is – namely me.