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Lula and Buggy were close behind me. Lancer and Slasher were parked behind the Firebird. Lula was wearing a black spandex miniskirt, a black silky spandex wrap shirt, and a fake leopard jacket that had been designed for a much smaller woman. She was in black four-inch spike-heeled shoes, and her hair was sunflower yellow for the occasion. Buggy looked like Shamu in a Russian-made secondhand suit.
“You want my sweetie to kick the door in now?” Lula asked.
“No!”
“How about we go around back and break a window?”
“No. I don’t want to see any property damage.”
“Well then, how we supposed to get in?” Lula asked.
“I’m going in,” Buggy said, pushing me aside. “I’m tired of waiting.”
And he opened the door. It hadn’t been locked.
I tiptoed in and looked around. “They have the buffet set out,” I said to Lula. “DO NOT let Buggy eat anything.”
“You hear that, Sweetums?” Lula said to Buggy. “We aren’t going to eat any of the funeral food. When we’re done here, I’ll take you out
for breakfast.”
“I like breakfast,” Buggy said.
I found the kitchen and set my casserole on the counter. There were several other casseroles there, plus bags of bakery rolls, and a couple coffee cakes. A professional coffee urn was ready to go and a full bar was set up next to the urn. I did a fast scan of the kitchen, moved through the dining room, and into the living room.
“What are we looking for?” Lula followed.
“A little chest. A pirate chest.”
“You mean like that chest on the fireplace mantel?” she asked.
Holy cow, it was the chest. It was exactly as Joyce had described it.
Lula took the chest off the mantel and examined it. “What’s so special about this chest? What’s in it?” She turned it upside down and looked at the bottom. “It says ‘Miss Kitty R.I.P.’ ”
The top to the chest dropped open, and ashes flew out at Lula and scattered across the living-room rug.
“What the heck?” Lula said.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, gag, or shriek. “I think Miss Kitty was cremated, and those are her ashes.”
Lula stared down at herself. “Are you shitting me? I’m allergic to cat. I feel my throat closing up. I can’t breathe. I’m makin’ snot. Somebody do something! Call 911!”
She ran into the kitchen, grabbed the DustBuster off the wall by the pantry, and sucked the ash off herself.
“Freakin’ cats,” she said.
So much for Miss Kitty’s final resting place.
Lula felt her face. “Do I got hives?”
“No, you haven’t got hives,” I said. “You can’t be allergic to cat ashes. They’re sterile. There’s no dander.”
“I feel like I have hives. I’m pretty sure I feel some popping out.”
“It’s all in your head,” I told her.
“I’m very impressionable,” Lula said. “My family’s prone to hysteria.”
