Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler (reading eggs books .TXT) 📕

closed for the day, so I intended on catching up on some of the sleep I’d lost in the last few days. However, something niggled at the back of my semiconscious mind and kept me from drifting back to sleep.

Then it dawned on me. Today was Marla’s funeral. I groaned out loud and hit my pillow. My dramatic response was wasted on an empty room. The clock-radio on my oak nightstand read nine o‘clock in cheery red numbers. The funeral was at eleven and I still had to get to the florist, so I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the coffee maker.

An hour later, I was dressed in what was my most respectful funeral garb—a narrow navy blue wool skirt, white linen blouse and navy cardigan. An idea slowly took shape as I dressed. Maybe I would be able to talk to Marla’s mother alone and find out something. Wade’s relationship with Marla pricked at me, though I knew better than anyone that he certainly didn’t have the resources to pay her blackmail.

After a quick trip to the florist, I pulled up in front of the mortuary wondering why they always looked like miniature versions of Tara. Though it couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees outside, the temperature dropped ten degrees in the spacious pink foyer, pink being the operative word. It was like being trapped inside a bottle of Pepto-bismol.

The lobby’s fuzzy brocade wallpaper mirrored the upholstery on the slightly darker pink French provincial love seats. The freshly vacuumed rose carpet was marred only by the tracks of Marla’s friends and family.

A black-suited man with surprisingly robust skin seemed to appear out of nowhere and took my raincoat and the wet, bulky spray of yellow roses. Handing me a cream-colored program, he directed me toward the double doors of the small chapel.

A dozen or so people were scattered throughout the chapel. No one looked familiar to me. I chose a seat two pews behind a tall woman with skin as weathered as an old piece of harness, whose resemblance to Marla was unnerving. Two women flanked her, protective arms encircling her narrow shoulders. They were of such similar size, age and puckered complexion, they had to be her sisters.

The service was brief and, thankfully, the coffin closed. The minister ended with an announcement that a luncheon was being served at Mrs. Chenier’s house and all in attendance were invited. He ended the service with a tape of what he claimed was Marla’s favorite song— “The Impossible Dream.” Marla’s mother broke into sobs during the song and was patted and cooed at by her sisters while the rest of us picked at our hands or studied our printed programs. I wondered if anyone was thinking what I was: that Marla, in a manner of speaking, wouldn’t have been caught dead with that song being sung at her funeral. “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About” by Bonnie Raitt would have been more her style.

There was no opportunity to question Mrs. Chenier at the funeral, so I decided to go to the house. Maybe it would happen more naturally there. I walked up to Mrs. Chenier, extended my sympathies on behalf of the co-op and picked up a photocopied map with directions to her house. When I walked out into the cotton-candy foyer, I ran into Detective Cleary.

“I thought the police only attended the victim’s funerals in the movies,” I said.

“No, ma‘am.” His coffee-colored face was impassive as he tucked a brown notebook inside his jacket.

“So, does anyone look like a killer here?” I flashed him an encouraging smile.

“I don’t know, ma‘am. I’m just following orders.”

“And doing a fine job of it.” I knew full well I wouldn’t get an opinion or a single piece of information out of him. Ortiz had probably threatened to demote him to parking patrol if he as much as breathed in my direction.

“Yes, ma‘am.” He folded his hands in front of him like a preacher.

“Well, it was nice talking with you again, Detective Cleary. You can tell your boss you successfully squeezed past me without letting slip so much as a smidgen of information.”

“Have a good day, ma‘am.” He smiled and gave me a wink before he walked out into the rain.

After a short, damp service at the cemetery, I drove to Mrs. Chenier’s lemon-colored stucco house. It was located in a small middle-class neighborhood north of the university. The forgotten tricycles and Big Wheels scattered across wet sidewalks and the neatly trimmed front yards gave testimony that the thirty-year-old houses were going through their second, or third, generation of enthusiastic young homeowners.

More people were at the luncheon than at the funeral, probably because of the neighbors stopping by with a casserole or pie, then staying to sample the buffet and whisper about the way Marla died. The clove-spiked ham, green bean casseroles and Jell-O molds so reminded me of Jack’s funeral, I almost gave up my plan to question Mrs. Chenier. But the thought of Wade being involved with Marla’s death made me stay.

I hung around longer than was socially acceptable, trying to manuever time alone with Mrs. Chenier. Finally, her sisters retired to the kitchen to clean up, everyone else had left, and Mrs. Chenier and I were alone in the musty, Early American living room, looking through calico-print photo albums showing Marla from birth to as late as three weeks ago.

“She was such a talented girl, my Marla,” she said. “She only worked at that bar until her ship came in. That’s what she always told me. Ma, she’d say, I’m going to buy you a mink coat when my ship comes in. That’s what she always said.” Mrs. Chenier’s tanned, shriveled face twisted inward and a single tear ran down a deep crease in her cheek.

“She was very talented,” I said. “I’ll bring the rest of her pots by later this week. Unless you want us to sell them. Her pottery was starting to develop