Chapter 12
Thanks to the so-called clue I accidentally pointed out, Claudia is more convinced than ever that Cran was, in fact, murdered.
So she takes the next logical step and tells me I have to go to his funeral.
*deep sigh*
According to her, the murderer will almost certainly be there, and it’ll be a perfect place for the dogs to have their John
Grisham moment. She instructs me to attend as a mourner and wait for the dogs to tell me who the bad guy is.
When I suggest that the two of them do it, Claudia just snorts and reminds me that since they both have bad blood with Cran, it would look suspicious. It has
to be me. A nobody.
She actually says that part out loud.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Benny argues. “There will be family at the funeral. People who are actually grieving.”
“For Cran?” Claudia snorts. “That’ll be the day.”
“And it’ll be too chaotic for the dogs,” Benny adds.
“Ooh yeah, I agree with Benny,” I say, and he gives me a long look. Yes! It’s already happening! He and I are moving past enemy territory! I consider seductively touching his arm to cement the transition, but then he jerks a thumb at me.
“Plus, she’s not exactly a smooth operator, she might actually make things worse.”
Okay, rain check the seduction.
Claudia shakes her head. “She’s what we’ve got to work with.” And at that, the meeting is officially adjourned.
Two days later, I am putting on a black dress and killer heels so I can take three huge dogs to a stranger’s funeral.
I know what Benny said. He’s probably right about the funeral being a little chaotic for the dogs. And about me being too
chaotic for this funeral.
But I have an ulterior motive, and it’s not uncovering a murder.
It’s about returning the three small horses I’m currently hiding in my studio apartment to their loving family of origin.
And doing that very quickly, before any more cops can accuse me of stealing them. Plus, there’s the financial aspect of this
situation: These dogs are colonizing my life. The snacks alone are going to bankrupt me.
So here I am, getting ready to go to a funeral.
Claudia mentioned that Cran’s business partner is his brother. And honestly, who should be taking care of these dogs? Their dog uncle, obviously. So I’m going to bring the dogs, like Claudia wants me to, and then
when the brother takes custody, it won’t be my fault. It’ll just be the way it is.
Sorry, Claud.
My phone buzzes.
I’m downstairs, says the text.
Right, so actually, I have two ulterior motives.
“I don’t get it,” Chris says as he makes a left turn. “You knew this guy?”
“Yeah,” I say with a deep, sad sigh. “Through my new job. I mean, I haven’t known him for long, obviously. But he made a real . . .
impact.”
It wasn’t easy to convince Chris to spend the afternoon at a funeral with me, but when I told him that tragedy had struck
and I needed his support, he finally gave in. And it’s working out exactly the way I’d hoped. First of all, the dogs fit perfectly
in the back of Chris’s coupe. But even more than that, what brings people together? Grief!
It’ll play out like this: When Chris sees me in mourning, he’ll think about death, and how short our time on earth is, and
how he wants to spend that time with me, and then he’ll realize he’s still in love with me. He’ll beg me to come back, and
after some stoic resistance, I’ll throw myself into his arms and we’ll never be apart again.
Yeah, I have a grand, romantic plan. I also very much want to get in his pants. That breakup sex flipped a switch inside me, and I can’t stop thinking about it, or Chris. Or sex
in general. Heck, the Hancock Building set me off the other day. There’s also something about the fact that I don’t have any
realistic options at the moment that makes me want it even more.
So right now, just being in the car with Chris is making my whole body buzz. Like one of those old electric mosquito catchers
that accidentally also fries moths.
It can’t be just me feeling like this. Right?
“So you have a new job?” he asks, and I search for any inkling of flirtation in his tone. Nothing. That’s fine, we have all
afternoon.
I gaze out of my window wistfully. “Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“I’m a . . . traffic management consultant for a government agency.” Nailed it. “They were desperate to have me.”
He sort of grunts.
I wipe away a fake tear.
“Don’t tell me you’re allergic to dogs now,” he says.
“I’m not,” I say.
“Then what’s wrong with your eyes?”
I’m clearly moving too fast in the grief-brings-people-together department.
I play it cool for the rest of the ride to the funeral home, and once we get there, everything starts off just the way I imagined:
We walk up together, me leaning on Chris because the stairs are steep and my heels are high, all three dogs following behind
us like a fluffy, white Cerberus. We look amazing.
I open the door and all five of us step/trot inside, but before we can go any farther, a gangly, anxious, and very pale man with a mustache and a practiced look of regret cuts us off.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you can’t bring those dogs in here,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask indignantly.
“It’s a funeral home, ma’am.”
“And these dogs are the deceased’s next of kin,” I say in a rich-person voice. “They have suffered a great loss.”
“Ma’am, please.” The man leans in. “We can’t run the risk that they might cause a commotion or chew on . . . something.”
The bull penis flashes through my head, but I can’t retreat now. Not when my salvation is in the next room with that corpse.
Instead, I gasp. “Are you suggesting,” I press my hand to my chest for full effect, “that these impeccably trained angels—”
As I look to Chris for backup, his face goes puke green and he freezes in terror, leaving me hanging.
And here’s where the plan starts to unravel.
Mostly because I underestimate, again, how much Chris hates conflict.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” the man says quickly. “We have a strict no animal policy.”
I feel bad for him, but this really doesn’t work for me.
Right behind the man, there are several rooms, one of which has a large picture of Cran on a tripod by the entrance. And beyond
that, in Cran’s designated room, I can see people in suits milling around. It’s so close I can taste it. I have to get in there. And it has to be with the dogs.
Time to try another tactic. I cover my face with one hand and clutch the leashes to my chest with the other, as though I’m
just barely holding myself together. “Dear, sweet, deceased Cran begged me—begged me—to promise that if anything happened to him, his beloved babies would have one final moment to say goodbye. And now you’re
taking that away from him?”
A few heads are poking out of the funeral room to see what’s going on, and the man looks like he’d rather be in the coffin
than deal with me.
Chris suddenly caves under the pressure.
“I’ll wait in the car,” he blurts, panicked. He spins around and in two steps he’s back out the door, leaving me all alone.
I’m about to be furious, but actually, if I play this moment just right, it could be the break I need.
Because I am now a grieving woman abandoned.
I try the tear-wiping/wistful-look-into-the-distance thing again. And this time it works.
Mr. Eternal Rest watches Chris go with a frown and then looks at me with some tenderness.
“All three of them need to say goodbye?” the man whispers.
I nod, sniffling delicately.
The man looks from me to the dogs to the room and back. I open my mouth to wail again, and he pats my shoulder to stop me. “All right, all right,” he says. “Just keep them on a short leash and make it quick.”
I grab his hand with my free one and hold it tightly. “Bless you,” I say. “You are an angel.”
Mr. Eternal Rest straightens up, sucks in his cheeks, and then nods. “But if they misbehave, you’re all leaving.”
I nod in return. Back to business.
We’re in.
We make our way across the muted rose carpet into Cran’s room. Nobody’s sitting down, but there are about eight rows of somber,
dark-green chairs set up, all of them facing the open casket, which is at the front, surrounded by flowers. The room swims
for a second as I think about Cran lying up there, peaceful, versus the last time I saw him, gruesomely slumped over my sinkhole.
Jean Valjean must sense how unsettling this is, because he steps closer to me, suddenly acting like an actual support dog,
and it’s sort of sweet. I reach down to pet him, except then I realize that he’s not leaning into me, he’s sticking his nose into the huge red purse of the tiny older woman standing in front of me, chowing down on something
inside. For chrissakes. Fool me once, right?
“Jean!” I snap and tug him back toward me.
Except that pulls on the woman’s big red bag, which is almost as big as she is, and the bag pulls on her, and she stumbles into us, catching
us in the act. I freeze with a guilty grin, as she cranes her neck to squint up at me.
But instead of being mad, she takes one look at me and the dogs and bursts into giggles.
Not what I was expecting.
She claps a hand over her mouth, trying to stop herself, and then whispers through the laughter. “I am so sorry, I always have the most inappropriate reactions at funerals. Always gets me in trouble. Something about all the emotions
flying around?”
“Oh yeah, this place is lousy with emotions,” I say, distracted by pushing Jean’s butt down so that he’s sitting politely
like his two brothers.
She leans in conspiratorially. “I think that one found my purse dog.”
“Your . . .”
She glances around quickly and then pulls a half-eaten brat out of her purse.
Oh my god, I think, both horrified at what Jean has done and also making a note for later. Purse dog. Genius. This woman is my hero.
She giggles again. “He’s already eaten half of it, can he just have the rest?”
“You know what, go for it,” I say, and she laughs even harder as Jean scarfs up the rest of the hot dog.
“I’m Leslie,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Mo,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“So you’ve taken the dogs? You seem like a wonderful girl.”
Finally someone who really sees me. “Thank you,” I say modestly.
“I thought they might go to Benny.” She wrinkles her nose like his name smells bad. This lady is the best.
“Ugh, right?” I say. “You know Benny too?” I wrinkle my nose to show I agree.
“I have known him,” she says carefully.
I don’t think she means in the biblical sense—she’s easily three decades older than me—but that would explain his complete disinterest
in me.
In any case, this conversation got really awkward really fast. Time to redirect. “Have you seen Mr. Johnston’s brother?” I
ask quickly.
“Leslie!” someone bellows across the room.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she says with a slight eye roll. “My husband calls.”
“It was nice to meet you,” I say as she disappears back into the crowd.
That’s fine. We have our own appointment with destiny.
It’s time for The Great Poodle Handoff.
Now, the question of the hour: Who at this funeral looks like the brother of Cran Johnston? Would he be another blond, snarling
gym rat? Or the opposite?
I wind my way through the small clusters of mourners, which would be a lot simpler if I didn’t have an entourage of dogs with
me. They keep getting their leashes wrapped around the chairs, sniffing the carpet and feet and chair legs and going in all
different directions. Each time they get tangled on something, I have to bend over to free a leash and manage to catch a snippet
of conversation.
Thing is, none of the chatting is about Cran. A couple people in suits are exchanging business cards; someone in a silk shirt is asking
about commercial rentals in the neighborhood; another trio is arguing over something to do with insurance. I’ve almost made
a full circuit around the room when I realize everyone here is networking.
Benny was wrong—it doesn’t seem like anyone is here to grieve. Yeesh, that’s depressing. Cran was a dick, but maybe even dicks
deserve a little respect at their own funerals?
We’re nearly to the front when the dogs suddenly stop weaving around the chairs and instead drag me straight ahead, toward
the casket. Sweat explodes from my armpits as I think about Mr. Eternal Rest and his warning. These guys are really pulling
hard, and I have a vision of knocking the entire casket over, which would just be the cherry on top of this terrific week.
I glance around for a quick exit, fantasizing about leaving the dogs here. Funeral home dogs! That’s cool, right? Part of
the package?
On the other hand, if Cran’s brother is here, he’ll probably come talk to a stranger with his brother’s dogs standing over the casket. Right?
Against my better judgment, I take a quick peek at Cran, just lying there on a smooth bed of satin. He’s obviously all cleaned
up, and he doesn’t look like a person who had a car accident, but then again, fixing that is somebody’s whole job. And they
did a good one too. He looks not quite serene, but quietly satisfied, like he just yelled at a cashier for not making his
smoothie fast enough.
The dogs settle in around the casket like it’s just a cozy Saturday for them, so okay, sure, I’ll just hang out here with
the corpse until the brother sees me. This is fine. I’m fine with corpses.
I stretch my calves a bit and wiggle my toes in these cramped heels. Nobody is looking my way. No one bears even a passing
resemblance to Cran. This could just as easily be a casual business function that happens to be taking place in a room with
a dead body.
Maybe I should check in on Chris. I turn back to poor dead Cran with my back to the room for privacy, pull out my phone, and
start typing.
Me: Hey bb it’s really sad in here, we’re sharing memories, prob good you didn’t come in
Nope. I delete the last bit.
Me: Hey bb it’s really sad in here, we’re sharing memories, thinking about you
That’s not it either.
Me: What do you say we get outta here and go to pound town?
Hands down I am the horniest person at this funeral. Obviously not sending that one.
At this point, I’m so focused on crafting the perfect message that the funeral crowd behind me fades into the background.
I rest my elbows on the casket and lean over Cran’s body, thinking, What are some classy synonyms for pound town? when Louis suddenly leaps to his feet and barks, startling me into dropping my phone.
I go for the save and bobble it like I’m some kind of sports guy, but it falls anyway, and as I reach down to pick it up,
I discover that they put Cran in an unnecessarily slippery suit and all I can do is watch in horror as my phone slides away from me.
Disappearing deep into the coffin with the dead guy.