suppliers, no customers. Daddy and Applejack have been plowing for hours. I shoveled in front of his office. Mama didn’t like that. She thinks if she pretends Daddy’s business doesn’t exist, it will disappear. If it does, so will the farm.’”
Evan raised an eyebrow. “What’s the business?”
“I haven’t read enough to know for sure, but I have a guess.”
“1924. Bet there was a still in that barn.”
“Or her father just sold it. She talks about ‘suppliers.’” She turned several pages. “‘January 19. Last night Mr. Nielson came to Daddy’s office. He talked about the War. The French and American soldiers sometimes talked all night to the Germans who were in their own trenches ten meters away. They became friends, but as soon as their orders were given, they shot each other! I hate guns. If men have guns they will find reason to use them.’”
“You’re right, it sets the tone for today. ‘If men have guns, they will find reason to use them.’”
Dani closed the book and took out her phone and legal pad. “Back to work.”
She scrolled through the Hansen-Lendman Funeral Home site and scribbled notes. “The founder went to the Oriental School of Embalming.”
“Creepy bit of trivia. It would make a great segue into the grieving girlfriend with the oriental name.”
Dani wrinkled her nose. “You can be very crass when you want to be.” She turned her phone to vibrate. “I don’t know if I’ll use any of this, but I want details just in case.” She stared out at luxurious lawns surrounding massive Victorian homes. “I love this part of town. I want a time machine.”
“I can see you living on this street. Twirling your parasol and batting your eyes as you spy on your rich neighbors and record all their sordid little secrets for the
Times
gossip column.” He flipped the turn signal as the gabled mansion came into view.
Ivory trim surrounded porches, porticos, garrets, and a round turret. She imagined the view from the top window—the green lawns and branching sidewalks of Library Park, a clear look at the library’s cupola-topped red roof. Agatha followed a silver van into the driveway and beneath a carport.
Ten minutes before the service began, and only a dozen cars were in the parking lot. Evan pointed at a shiny black car with bowed fenders and a white roof. “Javelin. Homegrown sweetness.”
Dani recognized the distinctive style of an American Motors car. “Nineteen…sixty-eight?”
“Close. Seventy. Seventy-one, maybe. And not a speck of rust. Somebody’s put some work into that baby.”
They parked at an angle next to the van and watched three kids, late teens, get out. Short skirts, tight pants, stringy hair. Dani craned her neck in search of tattoos but didn’t find any. She pushed her hair away from her face and took a shaky breath.
Evan pulled the keys out and dangled them over her purse. “Not too late to back out.”
“I know.”
“We don’t belong here.”
Her fingers grazed a white envelope as she put the keys away. “I know that, too.”
The opening bars of “Angel” slid through ceiling-mounted speakers and wound around the half-empty chapel. Nicky folded his arms across his sport jacket. The haunting melody always transfixed him. Sarah McLachlan’s smooth voice caressed lyrics that fit like a second skin, as if she’d written them for him as he waited for a second chance, always feeling not good enough.
Beside him, his father shifted in his chair and shielded his mouth with his hand. “Who plays junk like this at a funeral?”
Who goes to a funeral of someone they’ve never met?
“Good PR,” would be the answer. His dad hadn’t seemed to notice the blocks surrounding Bracciano had changed. Like the human body replacing cells every seven years, the people were new, but the place looked older. And neighbors hadn’t been neighborly in over a decade.
In the front row, a forty-ish woman, Hispanic-looking, clung to a tall,
Evan raised an eyebrow. “What’s the business?”
“I haven’t read enough to know for sure, but I have a guess.”
“1924. Bet there was a still in that barn.”
“Or her father just sold it. She talks about ‘suppliers.’” She turned several pages. “‘January 19. Last night Mr. Nielson came to Daddy’s office. He talked about the War. The French and American soldiers sometimes talked all night to the Germans who were in their own trenches ten meters away. They became friends, but as soon as their orders were given, they shot each other! I hate guns. If men have guns they will find reason to use them.’”
“You’re right, it sets the tone for today. ‘If men have guns, they will find reason to use them.’”
Dani closed the book and took out her phone and legal pad. “Back to work.”
She scrolled through the Hansen-Lendman Funeral Home site and scribbled notes. “The founder went to the Oriental School of Embalming.”
“Creepy bit of trivia. It would make a great segue into the grieving girlfriend with the oriental name.”
Dani wrinkled her nose. “You can be very crass when you want to be.” She turned her phone to vibrate. “I don’t know if I’ll use any of this, but I want details just in case.” She stared out at luxurious lawns surrounding massive Victorian homes. “I love this part of town. I want a time machine.”
“I can see you living on this street. Twirling your parasol and batting your eyes as you spy on your rich neighbors and record all their sordid little secrets for the
Times
gossip column.” He flipped the turn signal as the gabled mansion came into view.
Ivory trim surrounded porches, porticos, garrets, and a round turret. She imagined the view from the top window—the green lawns and branching sidewalks of Library Park, a clear look at the library’s cupola-topped red roof. Agatha followed a silver van into the driveway and beneath a carport.
Ten minutes before the service began, and only a dozen cars were in the parking lot. Evan pointed at a shiny black car with bowed fenders and a white roof. “Javelin. Homegrown sweetness.”
Dani recognized the distinctive style of an American Motors car. “Nineteen…sixty-eight?”
“Close. Seventy. Seventy-one, maybe. And not a speck of rust. Somebody’s put some work into that baby.”
They parked at an angle next to the van and watched three kids, late teens, get out. Short skirts, tight pants, stringy hair. Dani craned her neck in search of tattoos but didn’t find any. She pushed her hair away from her face and took a shaky breath.
Evan pulled the keys out and dangled them over her purse. “Not too late to back out.”
“I know.”
“We don’t belong here.”
Her fingers grazed a white envelope as she put the keys away. “I know that, too.”
The opening bars of “Angel” slid through ceiling-mounted speakers and wound around the half-empty chapel. Nicky folded his arms across his sport jacket. The haunting melody always transfixed him. Sarah McLachlan’s smooth voice caressed lyrics that fit like a second skin, as if she’d written them for him as he waited for a second chance, always feeling not good enough.
Beside him, his father shifted in his chair and shielded his mouth with his hand. “Who plays junk like this at a funeral?”
Who goes to a funeral of someone they’ve never met?
“Good PR,” would be the answer. His dad hadn’t seemed to notice the blocks surrounding Bracciano had changed. Like the human body replacing cells every seven years, the people were new, but the place looked older. And neighbors hadn’t been neighborly in over a decade.
In the front row, a forty-ish woman, Hispanic-looking, clung to a tall,
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