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I had to admit, it wasn’t the most attractive house I’d ever seen, but turd seemed harsh. Truth is, the bottom half of my parents’ house was brown, and okay, if I was being honest, it wasn’t such a great-looking house, either.
I knocked at the door and a sturdy woman answered. She was early seventies, short black hair shot with silver, wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a green pants
suit, large pearl earrings, lots of perfume.
“Tomasina McCurdle?” I asked.
“That’s me,” she said. “And I know who you are, too. You’re Edna’s granddaughter. The one who burned down the funeral home.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I told her. “People were shooting at me.”
“I suppose you’re looking for my foolish husband, the bigamist.”
“We sure are,” Lula said. “And if you don’t mind me asking, what was it like being married to a bigamist?”
“It was like being married to anyone else.”
“That’s disappointing,” Lula said.
Tomasina pressed her lips together. “Tell me about it. I was married to that idiot for fifty-one years, and ten years ago, he decided to just up and marry someone else. And then he goes and marries every floozy that comes along. What the heck was he thinking?”
“Do you know where I might find him?” I asked her.
“I imagine he’s with one of his home wreckers.”
“Other than homewreckers, is there any place else he might be staying? A relative’s house? A close friend?”
“I can’t see him with any relatives. His brother died last year. His parents are dead. Our son lives in Delaware, and he’d tell me if Dirk was with him. Ernie Wilkes is his best friend, but Ernie’s wife wouldn’t put up with having Dirk in the house.”
“You look all dressed up,” Lula said. “Are you going out someplace?”
“No. I just got home. I was at Karen Shishler’s afternoon viewing at Stiva’s.” Tomasina turned to me. “Your grandmother is there causing a scene because there’s a closed casket. The viewing was over, and she refused to leave until they opened the casket.”
“Thanks,” I said. “If you see Dirk, please call me.”
FOUR
THREE MINUTES LATER, we were in front of Stiva’s funeral home. It was on its third owner since Stiva, but it was still called Stiva’s.
“I guess you’re gonna go get your granny,” Lula said.
“Yeah. I’ll just check to see if she’s still here.”
“I’m gonna wait in the car if it’s okay with you,” Lula said. “Not that I’m afraid of dead people or anything, but it gives me the willies.”
Stiva’s is housed in a big white colonial on Hamilton. The front steps are covered in green outdoor carpet, and they lead to a wide front porch that spans the width of the house. I walked into the large lobby and heard Grandma arguing with the funeral director in slumber room number three.
“How do I know she’s in there if you won’t open the lid?” Grandma said.
“You have my word of honor,” he told her.
Mitchell Shepherd owns the funeral home. He bought it a year ago and probably regrets his decision. People in the Burg take their funeral homes seriously, and since the Burg lacks a movie theater or mall, the funeral home is most often the entertainment of choice. Shepherd is a mostly bald man in his fifties. He has a round face, round body, and his funereal uniform is navy suit, white shirt, navy striped tie.
“Just a peek,” Grandma said. “I won’t tell no one.”
“Can’t do it. The family wants the casket closed.”
Grandma Mazur came to live with my parents when Grandpa Mazur passed on to wherever it is that bacon-eating, whiskey-drinking, gravy-loving people pass on to. She’s five foot five on a good day, has tightly permed gray hair, a body that’s mostly slack skin on spindle bones, and an attitude only old ladies can pull off.
