The Body in the Red Silk Dress
Gloria Alden
(March/April 2014)
I followed two women to the shabby house, one among others on a street that had once been, if not prosperous, at least comfortable. An ethnic neighborhood of Irish or Italian, I guessed, but now sadly in decline. The houses weren’t large enough to be gentrified.
The women were apparently calling to pay their respects, too. The short dark haired woman carried a casserole, probably Italian from the warm, tomato, garlic smell wafting back to me. The other woman, a thin red head, carried a two layer cake. I wished I’d thought to bring food instead of flowers from my garden, although I had sent a fruit basket when I’d heard Francis died.
Harriet opened the screen door with a welcoming smile and ushered us in. “Maria, how nice of you to come,” she greeted the woman bearing the delicious smelling casserole with a one armed hug careful not to dislodge the dish.
“Molly! How sweet of you to bring your special carrot cake.”
Molly kissed Harriet’s cheek. “We’ll put our food in the kitchen.”
Harriet turned to me. Her lips trembled in a smile. She looked close to tears. “Carolyn, I never expected you to come. And bringing flowers, too.”
“I’m so sorry, Harriet.” I gave her thin body a warm hug carefully holding the flowers out a little. “These will need to be put in water.”
“In a moment. Francis is laid out in the recliner.” She stepped aside and motioned to a massive body in a red silk dress stretched out in a super-sized recliner. Although Francis’s eyes were closed and could no longer see, images flickered across the screen of a large muted TV across the room. A remote control lay on the table beside the chair.
“That’s Francis’s favorite dress, you know.”
My eyes took in the dress. A light green crocheted afghan covered the legs except for one white mottled toe that poked out. I wanted to cover the toe. It seemed obscene sticking out like that. My eyes moved over that mound of flesh to the face. Dark hair tinged with gray was slicked back. It looked as if his dark beard had been trimmed, too.
“He loved red. It’s what he always wanted to wear. It’s hard getting dresses in such a big size, and finding red is even harder. That’s why I was excited when I found the red silk dress on sale. It’d been marked down six times. Imagine that! The material alone would cost more than I paid for it. He loved wearing it. Said it felt good. I never thought it would become his funeral dress.” She sniffed a little.
“It looks nice on him.” I said.
“It was his heart, you know,” Harriet said. I nodded.
“He had a lot of health problems. Heart. Diabetes.”
I nodded again remembering him sitting on a bench in Faneuil Square watching tourists and everyone else on the days his wife cleaned. I hadn’t seen him for months now. Harriet claimed he wore dresses because they were more comfortable than tight fitting pants – especially on hot days. Still, it always caused people to look twice, wondering.
“He couldn’t fit in a regular coffin, you know.”
I wondered how much he weighed, but didn’t want to ask. I guessed he must’ve been four hundred pounds or maybe more. He looked heavier than when I’d last seen him. Maybe it was the way he was laid out.
“I couldn’t afford a special coffin. I don’t have that kind of money, you know.”
“I imagine it would be expensive.”
“To save costs Mr. Osborne agreed to lay him out at home in his chair. He’ll be cremated after calling hours.”
“A lot of people do that now. Cremating I mean.” I didn’t know anyone who’d had a funeral at home, but supposed some people still did. I’d heard it was an Amish custom.
She patted my arm. “I’m glad you came, Carolyn. I appreciate the fruit basket you sent, and the flowers. I love flowers, you know.”
“We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Not everyone pays attention to cleaning crews, you know.”
I smiled at her. “I’ve always enjoyed our conversations when you’ve stopped by my booth. You seem to like looking at what I bring each day.”
“Stopping by is like a bit of country, you know. Like the garden I’d like to have with all the herbs and flowers you grow.” She sighed.
“No room to grow anything in this neighborhood. Not that I’d have had time to garden and care for Francis, too. He took a lot of care, you know.”
“I imagine he did, but you took excellent care of him and can feel good about that.” I didn’t know that, but believed she did. She seemed so sweet.
Harriet’s eyes rested on Francis. “I appreciate when you give me some cut flowers at the end of the day, you know.”
I felt a little guilty about her gratitude. I only gave her what didn’t sell and couldn’t be sold as fresh flowers the next day; and a couple of potted herbs that didn’t appeal to customers. But never flowers in pots for her front porch.
More visitors arrived with food, and Harriet directed them to the kitchen.
I took a seat on a wooden folding chair not far from the two women I’d followed in. We introduced ourselves. They were neighbors.
When I mentioned my name, Maria exclaimed, “You’re the one Harriet always talks about. She loves your booth with the flowers and herbs.”
“You don’t live in Boston, do you?” Molly asked.
“No. I live in Concord. It’s where I raise the herbs and flowers I sell.”
“It’s nice there. I’ve only been there once, but it seemed so peaceful,” she said.
“I’ve never been there,” Maria said. “I like Boston. There’s more to do here.”
“Yeah, like you ever do much,” Molly teased her.
“Well, the thing is, I could if I wanted to.”
I didn’t mention how often I came in to visit museums, see plays and other activities that interested me; at least in off seasons when I wasn’t gardening and running my booth.
A booming voice caught my attention. An elderly man standing by Francis said to Harriet. “I thought the doctor said last month his heart was getting better.” His voice drowned out the other conversations.
“Maybe those things come and go, you know.” Harriet dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“Wasn’t he walking more like the doctor recommended?”
“Maybe a little. I made him get out of his wheelchair and walk at least a short way during our evening strolls. It was hard pushing him, you know.”
The man shook his head. “So sad. I saw you two going around the block a few nights ago. He was some distance behind where you were pushing his chair. Seemed he was out of breath. Could he have been overdoing it a little?”
Harriet swallowed. “I don’t know. The doctor said he should get more exercise. They always say ‘No pain, no gain,’ you know.”
Since my conversation with the ladies couldn’t compete with the old man’s blaring, I looked around the room with its worn carpet, old furniture, not old enough to be antique, but too old and cheap to donate to charity. A picture of flowers painted on velvet with bright splashes of red poppies hung on the wall behind the recliner holding Francis. The painting matched his red silk dress. The only flowers in the room were flowers I’d given her the week before he died, bouquets of flowers slightly wilted and crammed into an imitation milk glass vase. I briefly thought about replacing them with what I’d brought.
A dozen or so people arrived and sat in the remaining chairs furnished by the funeral home. When the minister and funeral director arrived, Harriet brought in two folding lawn chairs from the porch. I wasn’t sure how she’d manage to cram them in, but she did when everyone moved their chairs closer together.
Maria quietly wondered about the minister. Molly whispered, “They didn’t go to church. The funeral director found a minister for Harriet.”
The minister relied more on scripture than Francis’s life. Apparently only what the funeral director gave him; where he was born, family, where he went to school, previous jobs. I was surprised he’d been a Boston policeman at one time. I couldn’t imagine him ever being trim enough.
Harriet’s daughter, Mandy from California, shook her head when the minister asked if she wanted to say a few words about her stepfather.
After the minister finished with a prayer for Francis, the funeral director said they’d be taking him, and if we wanted to pay our last respects, we could do so now and then go to the kitchen where luncheon would be served. “Please stay and eat with the widow in her time of grief. Tables and chairs are set up in the back yard to accommodate everyone.”
I joined the others in the kitchen where food was laid out on the table and counters. Food the neighbors had furnished, I guessed. There were bags of potato chips as well as platters of cold cuts and cheese, macaroni salad, baked beans, the Italian casserole, rolls and Molly’s carrot cake with lots of other desserts, including a scrumptious looking chocolate cake. There were bottles of soda, punch, and coffee brewing. I wanted to slip away, but didn’t want to leave by the front door where men seemed to be struggling to get Francis out the door. I could hear their mutterings. I assumed they weren’t taking the recliner.
I filled a Styrofoam plate and with a cup of punch followed two teenagers outside. The old van Harriet drove was parked in the drive near garbage cans beside the back porch. The back yard was only slightly larger than the living room, and the yellowed dry grass was sparse. A neighbor’s tree leaned over the back fence, but the only thing growing in Harriet’s yard were some shrubs not looking any healthier than the lawn.
I ate in silence as the others around me chatted and laughed. When I finished, I returned to the kitchen.
Harriet was refilling the punch bowl with fruit juice and ginger ale. Her daughter was washing a few dishes.
“Can I do anything to help?” I asked hoping they’d say no so I could leave now that Francis seemed to be gone.
“How sweet of you,” Harriet said. “Could you get more ice cubes out of the freezer for the punch?”
I opened the freezer over the refrigerator, and my mouth dropped open. It was crammed full of pizzas and sweet stuff; cakes, pies, everything Francis shouldn’t have been eating. I found two ice cube trays buried, and managed to dislodge them from under a frozen chocolate cream pie in a box, which then threatened to bring a plastic bag full of doughnuts down on top of me. Finally. I got the freezer door closed without anything on the floor. I couldn’t imagine Harriet eating what was in there.
As I added ice cubes to the punch bowl I said, “I heard someone say your van wasn’t working.”
Harriet nodded. “It’s been broke down almost a month now. It’s too old and would cost more to fix than it’s worth. I won’t need it now, anyway. It’s cheaper taking the T, you know.”
“Mom’s coming out to live with me. I’ve been after her for years to do that but she wouldn’t leave Francis.”
I glanced at Mandy, who was smiling while she washed the dishes. My eyes went to the few potted herbs on the window sill, and a wilted bouquet of flowers. Foxgloves. Digitalis. All the leaves had been removed. I looked from the flowers to Harriet.
She smiled. “I’ve learned so much about flowers from you.” She gave me a slow wink.
Mincemeat is for Murder
Gloria Alden
(March, 2012)
Mincemeat pie is my specialty. It’s what I always bring for the Thanksgiving dinner at Ma Edna’s. Now mincemeat is a pie some love, some hate and most can take it or leave it. To tell the truth, after making it for so many years, I’m rather sick of it myself though I always cut a small piece for me to make sure it’s okay. Ya gotta do that.
Every year my mother-in-law says “I can always count on Alice to bring my favorite pie,” followed by that whinnying horse laugh of hers. Once I tried to rebel tellin’ her I was bringin’ cherry pies instead. Her small dark eyes buried in pouches like a hound dog’s, actually bulged out as her mouth dropped open. You’d have thought I’d committed blasphemy, and was goin’ straight to that H place. She actually gasped tryin’ to get her breath, if you could believe that, and she wailed “But ya have to bring it, Alice. Thanksgivin’ won’t be Thanksgivin’ without your mincemeat pie.” Then she paused. Ma Edna is sneaky that way. “Of course, if you was willin’ to share your secret ingredient or ingredients that make it taste better than any other mincemeat pie I’ve ever eaten; I might be willin’ to make it myself.” As if I’d give away how I make my mincemeat pie, ‘specially to her. So this year I’m makin’ my mincemeat pie as usual.
Ma Edna is born again. She don’t believe in playin’ cards, dancin’ or drinkin’. I like all those things. It’s why I always add a liberal amount of brandy to my mincemeat pie. Of course, I don’t never tell that, or how me and Tom met in a bar all those years ago where we not only drank, but also danced. We dance well together. We still like to go out Saturday nights to the Dew Drop Inn when there’s a good band playin’. We been married most twenty-five years now. Ma Edna blames me for her son’s drinkin’ and what she calls his wayward ways. She claims he never drank ‘til he met me, but truth is I think she’s the one that set him on that path. You know, a rebellion against all that preachin’. Of course, I do think he carries it too far, but I’m not goin’ to turn into a nag like his ma, especially since I like a little drink now and then, too.
She blames me for us not havin’ kids, too. The truth is, it’s ‘cause Tom can’t. He was checked, but I never told anyone ‘bout it. He felt some bad when he found out. Took to drinkin’ more than ever.
Tom’s not a fussy eater. He’ll eat just about anythin’ I put before him, but he don’t like my mincemeat pie. He says he’d rather have his brandy straight and not mixed up with that raisin junk stuff.
Every Thanksgivin’ at Ma Edna and Pa’s house, seems like there’s some brouhaha goin’ on. Ma Edna’s sure to pick on one of the daughter-in-laws. Seems like none of us was good enough for her three sons. It’s not like they’re any prizes. Tom’s probably the best of the lot, and that’s not sayin’ much, believe me.
Tom’s pa never says much when Ma Edna starts in on whichever daughter-in-law is in her sights be it Margie, Ruth or me. Tom says he’s pussy whipped, but I think he’s just a coward, a weaklin’. She’s one mean woman! None of the boys stand up to her, either. Last year it was me she aimed her mean words and comments at. I put up with it long as I could tryin’ to ignore things like “Can’t see why Tom picked a woman who can’t have kids. Thank the Good Lord I’ve got Margie and Ruth to give me and Pa grandkids.”
I bit my tongue and didn’t say nothin’ about how she don’t have much to do with her grandkids anyway. Not that they’re much to brag on. They were wild ones when they were young, always actin’ up. The kind you don’t want to see comin’ for a visit. And now that they’re in their teens? Well, I sure hear enough about what’s going on with them. Small towns are like that. Can’t keep many secrets here. I don’t blame Margie and Ruth none. Takin’ after their fathers, I’d say. They’re lazy and drink way more than Tom does. They just manage to keep it more of a secret, at least one that don’t seem to get back to Ma Edna.
But it was when she criticized by mincemeat pie, after she'd eaten a huge piece, sayin' it wasn't quite as good this year, and I must've forgotten somethin' like my secret ingredient, that I blew up. The old witch! I'd call her somethin' else, but in spite of drinkin', dancin', and playin' a little poker, I don't hold with cussin' much. I feel it sort of cheapens a woman. Still I told her how I felt before I stormed out with Tom followin'. He tried to tell me she don't mean no harm; it's just her way. Yeah, right! She does mean harm. She'd like to ger rid of all her sons' wives and get her little boys back.
We spent Christmas with my family. We ain’t the perfect family, but there’s no meanness there. Even Tom has to admit he’d rather spend holidays with my family, but Thanksgivin’ has to be spent with his family. It’s always been that way, and I guess it always will be that way as long as Ma Edna’s around. At least this year it’ll be one of the other girls she’ll turn her spite on, I’m guessin’. Not that I like to see them suffer. They’re nice enough if a little wishy washy. No spine in either of them two gals. They take all the venom that woman spews out without ever sayin’ anythin’ back. They’re born again, too.
So like I was sayin’, I’m makin’ the mincemeat pie again only this year I’m makin’ two instead of just one. I’m makin’ a special one for Ma Edna for her to eat the next day; one with a little somethin’ added; somethin’ to take the meanness out of her.
***
It’s a nice funeral if I do say so myself. Lots of pretty flowers. I 'specially like the spray of roses on the casket. Red roses for love. Lots more people showed up than I would’ve expected. Tom’s pretty broken up. I feel bad about that. I certainly didn’t want him hurt. Reverend Martin had nice words to say at the end of the calling hours last night. I’ve always liked him. He’s a good man for a preacher. He’ll probably have some more good words to say during the service later, too.
When the results of the autopsy come back, they’ll find out it was arsenic. I made sure only one tiny area, enough for one slice, had the arsenic. Knowin’ Ma Edna, I knew she’d eat the whole special pie I’d made just for her. When the rest of the pie is checked, if there’s any left, they won’t find arsenic in it. I didn’t have to worry about Pa since he don’t like mincemeat pie any more than Tom does. I made sure I ate a small piece of the pie so as no one would suspect me, and no one would know how she got the arsenic.
I can’t believe somehow her special pie got switched with the one I made for the Thanksgivin’ dinner. I sure never thought about that happenin’. I just heard Ma Edna say somethin’ almost nice about me. She said, “Alice made a mean mincemeat pie, and now she’s takin’ her secret ingredient to the grave with her so we won’t have nothin’ like it again.”
Gloria Alden writes the Catherine Jewell Mystery series; The Blue Rose, Daylilies for Emily’s Garden, Ladies of the Garden Club. and a middle-grade book, The Sherlock Holmes Detective Club. Her published short stories include “Cheating on Your Wife Can Get You Killed” winner of the Love is Murder contest, “Mincemeat is for Murder” in Bethlehem Writers Roundtable, “The Professor’s Books” in FISH TALES, “The Lure of the Rainbow’ in FISH NETS, “Once Upon a Gnome” in STRANGELY FUNNY and “Norman’s Skeleton’s” in ALL HALLOWS EVIL. She lives on a small farm in NE Ohio with assorted critters. She blogs with Writers Who Kill on Thursdays. http://writerswhokill.blogspot.com/ Website:www.gloriaalden.com