Chapter Three. The Body in The Dining Room
CHAPTER THREE
THE BODY IN THE DINING ROOM
Once upon a time, there was a mid-budget hotel that had fallen into disrepair.
After Claude convinced his nearest and dearest—including Grandma Lainey and, apparently, Felix’s grandpa—to join him in converting it to a condo, they knocked down a bunch of interior walls to make separate apartments and painted the outside to match Claude’s favorite bird, the roseate spoonbill (picture a smaller flamingo).
In Florida, the faux chateaux aesthetic is almost as iconic as flip-flops, and since none of the residents had what my grandmother calls “vanilla tastes,” they kept the turrets and murals and ornate stone doodads designed to trick tourists into thinking they were at the Magic Kingdom.
As a kid I thought it was the fanciest building in the world, a place that made me glamorous by extension.
No one else I knew had a grandparent with an indoor fountain in their foyer, complete with larger-than-life peacock statue.
It wasn’t until a few years ago that I learned the difference between real antiques and what Grandma Lainey describes as “bordello-meets-JCPenney” knockoffs.
I still love it, even if the aesthetic is the opposite of subtle. It fits with my grandmother’s commitment to what she calls “a life less bored inary,” one of the many areas in which she and my mom don’t see eye to eye.
Once you get past the revolving door, the general layout of the ground floor is: lobby (with fountain); a front desk and small office, mostly used as a mail station; library; billiards room (more for style points than actually playing pool); music room; a communal dining room that doubles as an event space; and a kitchen with a full butler’s pantry.
Out back there’s a pool, but we’ll talk more about that later.
There’s no sign of Sports Car Guy inside the building.
I quickly forget his existence when I see my grandmother.
She’s wearing one of her Pucci scarves, a kaleidoscopic swirl of pink and purple, and her short spiky hair looks like it’s been freshly dyed to match.
It clashes beautifully with her bright red pantsuit.
“My darling girl,” she says, folding me into a hug. “That dress was made for you.”
This is the kind of thing my grandmother knows.
Which features to play up, what clothes to wear, when a sequined evening bag is appropriate for the occasion.
I suck in a lungful of her perfume (Shalimar, because of course she has a signature scent), holding on a little longer than usual.
I’m comforting her about losing one of her best friends but also reassuring myself.
Claude was older than Grandma Lainey, but his death is a reminder that people don’t live forever.
Sensing someone hovering behind us, I pull away. Felix is watching our reunion like it’s on his favorite YouTube channel.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I should have guessed.” He’s totally casual, like I didn’t bust him staring.
“Guessed what?”
“That Mrs. Tillis is your grandmother.” He waves hello at Grandma Lainey.
Whether he means it as a compliment or not, I’ve always wanted to be like my grandmother, so the joke’s on him.
“How astute of you to notice,” she says, adjusting the enamel brooch on her lapel. “I’ve always felt that Virginia takes after me in the je ne sais quoi department.”
“Claro que si,” Felix replies with a head dip that reads like a bow. “I better go find my grandpa.”
“Alejandro is in the dining room.” There’s something different about the way she says Mr. Gutierrez’s first name.
It’s not one of those exaggerated I know a foreign language pronunciations, but I get the feeling she enjoys the play of syllables.
Even if I were the type of person who called adults by their first name, I would never be able to do it like that.
Grandma Lainey watches Alejandro’s grandson depart, humming under his breath. “He’s grown up a lot. Especially since that unfortunate school picture.”
I make a noncommittal hmph, like I haven’t given Felix’s appearance any thought whatsoever.
When we reach the dining room, Grandma Lainey veers right, saying she needs to have a quick word with someone.
Her across-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Applebaum, better known as Mrs. A, waves at me, pointing to the seats she’s saved in the front row.
The space is configured differently today, the round dining tables pushed to the sides and the upholstered chairs arranged in two columns.
At the front, an easel draped in a sheet stands in front of a long buffet table stacked with gift-wrapped packages.
I suspect that last detail is a Claude-ism, because they don’t do it like this in movies and TV shows.
The reading of a will is always ultra serious, with everyone listening solemnly until the shocking twist is revealed.
A secret love child, or a millionaire leaving her entire estate to her purse dog. Definitely no ribbons and bows.
“Nice dress,” says a voice to my left. It’s the guy from the red sports car, staring at my legs so intently I wish I’d clanked in here wearing the suit of armor from the lobby.
“Your manners are as bad as your driving,” Sofia snaps, appearing at my side. “What a creep.”
“Hey, don’t I know you?” the creep calls out as we walk away. “Were you a Chi Omega girl?”
“How long do you think it’ll take him to realize we’re not having a conversation?” Sofia asks me as we take our seats.
Felix leans forward from the row behind us. “A frat bro. Who would have guessed?”
I glance back, keeping my face impassive. Admitting he’s funny is too big a risk until I know where we stand in the hierarchy of favorite grandkids.
Sports Car Guy winks at me, and my face must be a mask of YUCK because the woman next to him narrows her eyes.
She’s dressed all in black, like she’s the most important mourner—though if that were the case, she would have gotten Claude’s memo about wearing color.
Shaking her head, she turns her attention to the painted ceiling, which—judging by her expression—also fails to meet with her approval.
Maybe she thinks the cherubs should be showing less skin.
If she didn’t know Claude well enough to respect his stage directions and has apparently never seen the inside of the building, what is she doing here?
Mrs. A distracts me by taking my hand in both of hers and giving it a squeeze. “So glad you’re here,” she whispers, offering her powder-soft cheek for a kiss.
At first glance, she and my grandmother are an unlikely duo.
Grandma Lainey favors bold prints and telling people exactly what she thinks, while Mrs. A is fond of monochrome separates she occasionally jazzes up with needlepoint and takes a gentler view of humanity.
Claude used to call them the iron fist and the velvet glove, respectively, which I think they both liked.
Today Mrs. A is decked out in head-to-toe raspberry, a shade that pops against Mr. Namura’s emerald-green jumpsuit and the floor-length orange gown worn by Malia, the musician of the group. Felix’s grandpa has on a shirt the approximate color of a rising sun. They are doing Claude proud.
Even the man standing at the front of the room has livened up his seersucker suit with a vivid scarlet bow tie. He looks younger than the Castle Claude crew, but still old enough to have mostly gray hair and a neat matching beard.
“Who’s that?” I ask Grandma Lainey as she slips into the chair between me and Mrs. A.
“Mervyn. Our lawyer.” She smiles encouragingly at him and he blushes, shuffling the index cards he’s clutching with both hands.
“Good afternoon.” He waits for the scattered chorus of “Good afternoon, Mervyn” to die down.
“It appears we’re all here.” Glancing up from his notes, he double-checks the audience, blinking rapidly behind the round gold frames of his glasses.
“Dearly beloved— Sorry. I should clarify that these are Claude’s words. He left a script.”
That sparks a few laughs. “Of course he did,” Grandma Lainey says, shaking her head.
“That’s our Claude.” Mrs. A smiles, unaware of the dark look the woman in black is shooting at her.
“Welcome to my grand finale,” Mervyn reads.
“The Mystery of Claude’s Last Will and Testament.
” There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for something to happen, before he digs out his phone.
We all politely look away as he frowns at the screen, swiping one direction and then the other.
Finally, a faint noise emanates from the speakers.
Mervyn frantically presses the volume button until we can make out the sound of thunder.
“Even Claude can’t direct the weather,” Felix’s grandfather says.
“Unless he’s picked up some new tricks,” Grandma Lainey quips.
There is an audible huff from the woman in black.
“If you received an invitation to today’s festivities,” Mervyn continues, sliding a quick look at the table full of presents, “it means I’ve left you a bequest, as a token of my affection. And now, without further ado.” He stops cold.
“Was that a cue?” Malia asks.
“It says ‘dramatic pause,’” Mervyn explains, pointing at his notecard.
My grandmother twirls a hand at him. “In that case, carry on.”
Mervyn’s lips move like he’s counting in his head. We pass dramatic and are closing in on excruciating before he speaks again. “Only kidding! You know I love a good ado.”
A polite round of applause follows, driven at least partly by relief.
“If I could have chosen how to go out,” the lawyer continues with more confidence, “I would have opted for a theatrical ending. Shipwreck. Tightrope accident. Gored by a bull in Pamplona.”
“For heaven’s sake,” the woman in black hisses. I can tell Mervyn’s feelings are hurt.
“Alas,” he continues, putting some real emotion into it. “We all know who the culprit was in my untimely end. Dun dun dun.”
Mr. Namura raises his hand. “Needs to be bigger.”