wake and funeral. She apparently subscribed to the actor’s motto that the show must go on. And the sooner the better. Rory suspected that most of the troupe would be attending the wake not only to pay their respects to their colleague, but also in the hope that they could learn more about his secretive past. After all, you never knew what a distraught relative might slip and say at such a time.
When Helene called to see if Rory wanted to go with her to the wake the next day, Rory took a few moments to decide. She’d already mapped out a full day of buying groceries, doing laundry, playing with Hobo and catching up on her current cases. In the end, curiosity trumped nearly all of that. She reasoned that if Brian hadn’t died, they would all still be in Arizona anyway. Her “to do” list could wait another day to be done, with the exception of Hobo. He wouldn’t be cheated out of a single belly rub, throw of the tennis ball or general hugging and cuddling.
Although it was late when their flight landed at JFK, she’d gone directly to her parents’ house to pick him up, unwilling to spend her first night home without him. He’d been deliriously happy to see her, dancing around in circles and barking with joy, his whole shaggy body wagging in counterpoint to his tail. Her father had feigned heartbreak, claiming Hobo had led him on.
“There was a lot of bonding going on between the two of them,” her mother had explained with a wink. “They played ball together. They sat together on the couch every night watching TV. They shared snacks. Aside from a few unsavory habits, Hobo is the son your father never had.”
Rory had promised to bring him back soon for a play date.
That first night back home Hobo had sniffed his way into every corner of the house and every inch of the backyard before he was satisfied that nothing was amiss. Rory had done her own walk through each room checking for Zeke, not that she’d expected to find him there. He was probably still recovering from his trip to Flagstaff.
When she brought her suitcase upstairs, the bed looked so inviting that she wanted nothing more than to snuggle under the covers and drift off to sleep. Unpacking could wait for the morning. Hobo had already jumped onto the bed and was busy arranging the quilt to his liking. Then he turned around three times in a primitive doggie ritual before collapsing into a heap. Rory changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed too. When she tugged part of the quilt out from under him, he didn’t even stir.
She closed her eyes, savoring the special contentment of being in her own bed again. The stress of the past few days was slowly draining away. She was on the threshold of sleep, the place where thoughts unravel into dreams, when she thought she heard someone whisper, “Welcome home.”
T rading the lively sounds and brightness of a sunny spring day for the dim quiet of the funeral home had an immediate effect upon the psyche. The step automatically softened, the voice lowered, as if not to disturb the eternal rest of the departed. Rory had long suspected it was a subconscious effort to keep the angel of death from knowing you were in the neighborhood.
When she and Helene walked into the room designated for Brian Carpenter, they were surprised to see how few people were there. Clarissa had made it clear the wake would only last one day. Maybe some people had stopped in earlier, and others were planning to come by after work, but that wasn’t enough of an explanation to suit Rory. When a person in his forties died under such tragic circumstances, there was usually a great outpouring of sympathy from even the most casual of acquaintances. Of course, that depended largely upon whom Clarissa had informed about the passing of her son. If he’d been in the Witness Security Program or was a serial killer on the lam, it was understandable that she might have chosen to keep it as low-key as possible.
Given how empty the room was,
When Helene called to see if Rory wanted to go with her to the wake the next day, Rory took a few moments to decide. She’d already mapped out a full day of buying groceries, doing laundry, playing with Hobo and catching up on her current cases. In the end, curiosity trumped nearly all of that. She reasoned that if Brian hadn’t died, they would all still be in Arizona anyway. Her “to do” list could wait another day to be done, with the exception of Hobo. He wouldn’t be cheated out of a single belly rub, throw of the tennis ball or general hugging and cuddling.
Although it was late when their flight landed at JFK, she’d gone directly to her parents’ house to pick him up, unwilling to spend her first night home without him. He’d been deliriously happy to see her, dancing around in circles and barking with joy, his whole shaggy body wagging in counterpoint to his tail. Her father had feigned heartbreak, claiming Hobo had led him on.
“There was a lot of bonding going on between the two of them,” her mother had explained with a wink. “They played ball together. They sat together on the couch every night watching TV. They shared snacks. Aside from a few unsavory habits, Hobo is the son your father never had.”
Rory had promised to bring him back soon for a play date.
That first night back home Hobo had sniffed his way into every corner of the house and every inch of the backyard before he was satisfied that nothing was amiss. Rory had done her own walk through each room checking for Zeke, not that she’d expected to find him there. He was probably still recovering from his trip to Flagstaff.
When she brought her suitcase upstairs, the bed looked so inviting that she wanted nothing more than to snuggle under the covers and drift off to sleep. Unpacking could wait for the morning. Hobo had already jumped onto the bed and was busy arranging the quilt to his liking. Then he turned around three times in a primitive doggie ritual before collapsing into a heap. Rory changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed too. When she tugged part of the quilt out from under him, he didn’t even stir.
She closed her eyes, savoring the special contentment of being in her own bed again. The stress of the past few days was slowly draining away. She was on the threshold of sleep, the place where thoughts unravel into dreams, when she thought she heard someone whisper, “Welcome home.”
T rading the lively sounds and brightness of a sunny spring day for the dim quiet of the funeral home had an immediate effect upon the psyche. The step automatically softened, the voice lowered, as if not to disturb the eternal rest of the departed. Rory had long suspected it was a subconscious effort to keep the angel of death from knowing you were in the neighborhood.
When she and Helene walked into the room designated for Brian Carpenter, they were surprised to see how few people were there. Clarissa had made it clear the wake would only last one day. Maybe some people had stopped in earlier, and others were planning to come by after work, but that wasn’t enough of an explanation to suit Rory. When a person in his forties died under such tragic circumstances, there was usually a great outpouring of sympathy from even the most casual of acquaintances. Of course, that depended largely upon whom Clarissa had informed about the passing of her son. If he’d been in the Witness Security Program or was a serial killer on the lam, it was understandable that she might have chosen to keep it as low-key as possible.
Given how empty the room was,
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