“She’s with the deceased, having a last moment alone with him. I have Tank babysitting her.”
“You’re going to have to give him a bonus for this one.”
“He’s getting the weekend off,” Ranger said.
We went inside and inserted earbuds with battery packs so we could communicate. The plan was for me to sit with Monica and for Ranger to stand at the back of the chapel. When the service was over Ranger and I would ride in the funeral home limo with Monica. Tank and Hal would follow in an SUV. The entire rest of Trenton would follow Tank and Hal.
Monica was wearing a skin-tight black sheath dress, her usual spike heels, and very dark oversized sunglasses.
“How do I look?” she asked me. “Do you think the television SAT truck will cover this?”
“I didn’t see the truck out there,” I said, “but it’s early.”
The service was short. No one tried to shoot anybody. No SAT truck showed up. Afterward we whisked Monica out the side door and into the limo. She took a flask out of her purse and chugged something that smelled like turpentine.
“When this is over I’m checking myself into Betty Ford,” Monica said. “Then after my liver enzymes go down I might allow myself a small drinkypoo once in a while.”
Good luck to Betty Ford.
It started raining halfway to the cemetery.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Monica said. “Rain? Could this day get any worse?”
A small canopy had been set over enough folding chairs for the immediate family. The rest of Trenton huddled under big black mortuary umbrellas. A chair next to Monica had been reserved for me, and I saw Grandma knock a couple people aside to secure a chair. I looked out over the rest of the mourners and recognized a few people from the Burg. Professor Pooka was there and also Dean Mintner.
“Do you know Professor Pooka from the Kiltman biology department?” I asked Monica.
“He’s a fruitcake. He came to Doug with a research project that needed funding. He came knocking on our door one night. Totally uninvited. Looked like a maniac. Practically foaming at the mouth about some crazy discovery.”
“Why did he come to Doug?”
“Doug was on a bunch of committees at Kiltman. He liked being a big-shot alum doing fundraising and shit.”
“Did Doug help him get the funding?”
“No. No one would fund Pooka and he was turned down for tenure. That’s all I know. Doug didn’t go into detail with me. He saved the chatter for the sluts.”
Spending time with Monica wasn’t doing a lot to enhance my opinion of marriage. Actually, it wasn’t doing much to enhance my opinion of human beings in general.
The priest was saying something about Doug Linken, but it was hard to hear him over the rain falling on the tarp. He made the sign of the cross and looked to Monica. The funeral director gave Monica a red rose, and Monica threw it at the casket.
“Done,” Monica said, standing. “Let’s eat. I ordered vodka rigatoni from Marsilio’s for the wake.”
•••
The wake was held at the firehouse in the room usually reserved for Tuesday bingo. There was a full serve-yourself bar, two tables of donated food in disposable containers, and enough vodka rig to feed two hundred people. I stayed close to Monica, Ranger watched from twenty paces, and Morelli hung in a corner and never took his eyes off me. He was in jeans, a blue buttoned-down shirt, a red and blue striped tie, and a navy blazer. It was the middle of the day, but he had a five o’clock shadow that looked good on him. The hem on his jeans had wicked up water. Aside from the jeans he seemed untouched by the rain.
I wasn’t doing as well as Morelli. My hair had frizzed up into a giant afro-type ponytail. My suit was damp and my shoes squished water.
“This is a real bust,” Grandma said, sidling up to me. “I like when the wake is in a house and you get to see people’s furniture and the kind of toilet paper they buy. This was hardly worth crashing.”
“Did you get anything to eat?”
“I had some vodka rig and Mabel Worchek’s meatball casserole. I’m thinking about going back for a piece of cake. There are some good-looking cakes there.”
“I’ve been thinking I might bake a cake.”
“Get out.”