Cremains of the Day

Book 1: Tallie Graver Mystery

by Misty Simon

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

There's no reverse on the hearse . . . For Tallulah Graver, marrying wealthy Waldo Phillips seemed like the best way out of the family business, the Graver Funeral Home. But when her marriage falls apart and Tallie is left with next to nothing, she turns to cleaning houses to make ends meet. As humbling as it is to tidy the mansions of the snobby socialites she used to call friends, at least she doesn't have to be around dead bodies. Until . . . She discovers one of her employers lying in a closet with a knife sticking out of her chest. This unpleasant shock seems to be part of a web of weird experiences: Tallie's friend Gina's shop is broken into, her ex is stun-gunned where it hurts the most, and now she's receiving flowers from the dead woman. Granted the deliveryman is handsome, but seriously, that's enough to cast a pall over anyone’s day. Now Tallie needs to dig deep to clean up this mess—before she finds herself in a grave situation. “You’ll be cheering as the clues pileup in this creative cozy mystery.” — New York Times bestselling author Lynn Cahoon

Release date: October 31, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Why in the hell was it that no one seemed to be able to aim properly when it came to peeing in a toilet? I blew my hair out of my eyes as I cursed at whoever had the accuracy of a blind elephant. Anyone else might only give this a passing thought, but it was a significant question to me, since I was the one on my knees trying to clean around the bowl at my last house of the day.

“Tallulah, dear, are you almost done in there? I have the party guests coming at six and I’d like to be able to give them a clean house.” Darla Hackersham hovered like a vulture waiting for me to keel over at the door of the downstairs powder room in her palatial house. I hated that she called me by my given name; I much preferred Tallie, but it was low on the fighting-over list.

“Almost done, Darla.” Looking at the Swatch watch on my wrist, one of the few things I’d kept after the divorce, I stifled a groan. “It’s not yet four. This is the last room I have to do. We should be good to go.”

“Oh, thank heavens. I don’t know what I’d do if anyone showed up with you here cleaning my toilets.” She tittered; there really wasn’t another word for it. To be honest, I wanted to gag her with my toilet brush, but figured the white handle sticking out of her mouth probably wouldn’t go well with the black pearls she always wore.

Still, it was an appealing thought, and one I would never have had a year ago when we were still air-kissing buddies.

“All done,” I said, rising from my knees by using my rubber-gloved hands to push on my thighs. Just shy of five-and-a-half feet in my sneakers, I was a far cry from the nearly five-nine I’d claimed back when my feet were never covered in anything but designer shoes with pointy toes and real leather.

“Oh, good! And just in time. Your check will be in the mail.”

As Darla turned to walk away, I cleared my throat. Why did we always have to do this? “Ah, no, Darla, it won’t, because you’ve had the bill for a month already. We agreed you’d pay me when I left today.” I absolutely hated this part, except that I knew all about Darla’s check in the mail. Somehow, it always got lost. It wasn’t to the point where I’d start charging up front, yet, but it was a close thing.

For one, the socialite was one of the first people to take me up on my cleaning services shortly after my swan dive from grace. And for two, Darla had connections I couldn’t afford to lose. Slowly but surely, I was putting money in my savings. When the dust had settled after my divorce, I was left with almost nothing. At the time I just wanted out, so I let his lawyer talk me into taking far less than half of our worth. But now I wanted security, and Darla’s fat check was one step closer to freedom.

“Oh, dear . . . , I don’t have my checkbook with me.” Darla fluttered her hands at her throat as if nervous, but there was a sly glint in her eyes. She must have forgotten I knew all her habits and all of her dirty corners.

“It’s right in the neat little drawer on the left-hand side of your desk.”

Darla’s eyes narrowed.

“The one in your private office,” I added, just in case Darla had “forgotten.”

She made a very inelegant snort while her fluttering hand briefly became a fist. I, however, wasn’t backing down and could very easily mess up the house in record time. In fact, I still had a bucket of dirty water with bleach at my feet and wasn’t afraid to use it. Nudging it with the toe of my old sneaker, I pointedly looked down at the brownish water, daring Darla to fight over the check. She stalked off toward the office without another word. Smart girl.

I used to be Darla. It was no coincidence I couldn’t stand her now.

Smiling to myself, I rinsed out my rag, then wiped a tiny smudge off the frame of the gilt-edged mirror in the powder room off the kitchen. Darla had come to me when she and her husband had inherited more money from another dead relative and wanted the perfect showpiece of a house. Of course, now Darla only wanted me to clean all those fabulous new rooms. I could kick myself for telling her to add on. I didn’t love cleaning, believe me. Then again, I didn’t need to, as long as it paid the bills.

I looked at my watch again, timing Darling Darla. If she went more than five minutes without coming back, the dirty water was going to take a trip down the hall. If it happened to slosh a bit on the trip—well, that wasn’t a crying shame.

At exactly five minutes, I lifted the bucket in a loose hand and set it to swinging in time with my steps. Not a drop came out, since I really didn’t want to have to clean it all up again. Not to mention it would only prolong my time here and give Darla an excuse to not pay at all.

Raised voices, and something shattering halfway down the hall, sped up my steps. Setting down the bucket, I hustled along the antique runner done in reds and golds to match the wainscoting. When I reached the door to Darla’s private office, it was closed and locked. Tugging on the door did nothing, but I still tried. The yelling escalated and I was able to distinguish only that there were two voices, nothing more. The words from the male voice were harsh, but in an accent or dialect I couldn’t understand. For all I knew it might have been a different language. It was so garbled, it was hard to tell. What I did know was that Darren, Darla’s husband, only spoke perfect Yankee English. I put my shoulder to the door and my mind to the task of breaking the sucker down if I had to.

Unfortunately, just as I was about to give it my all, the door opened in my hand, sending me face-first into the Aubusson rug that covered the gleaming wood floors. Rug burns were the least of my worries when a highly polished black and white shoe came straight at my face. Scrambling out of the way as quickly as I could, I narrowly missed being trampled as the shoe and its match went strolling out the door. Where was Darla?

Of course, I shouldn’t have worried. The socialite was sitting as prim and proper as could be, writing out a check, which she then ripped out of the book. I, on the other hand, was fighting hard to not shake on the soft carpet. “Thank you for taking care of the house today, Tallulah. This is payment in full. Now, if you’ll make sure to move your car, I really should go up and get dressed. I want to be ready when my guests arrive. Janet and Bob will probably be here first, and you know how they like to catch you off guard if they can. It’s like a game to her, one I’m going to make sure I beat her at this time.”

Placing the check on the floor next to my burning cheek, Darla strolled out of the room as if nothing had happened. How could she be so calm after that storm of yelling? I wasn’t and the yelling hadn’t even been directed at me. She left the door open behind her, a blatant invitation to leave.

I’m not ashamed to admit I took the invitation. Whatever Darla had going on was absolutely none of my business, even if I was burning with curiosity right along with my rug burn. Who was the person with the shiny shoes? What had he been yelling? Did Darla really think I hadn’t heard anything and could just treat me as if I was invisible?

The answer to the first was unclear, but the answer to the second was never more apparent: I was the hired help, and the hired help did not get involved in the master or mistress of the house’s business.

Well, at least the check was for the full amount, I thought as I glanced at it out of the corner of my eye. Now it was just a matter of getting my body up off the floor and cashing this baby before Darla had a chance to put a hold on it.

Scrambling to my feet, I scooped up the check. The bank was my next stop. Then I was going to get a coffee and a shower before heading to my second job, the one that paid the majority of the bills—and the one that created the majority of my problems.

After depositing the check at the bank ATM—I didn’t trust Darla as far as I could throw her, which wasn’t far at all, but I couldn’t take the time to drive an hour to their bank to actually cash it—I stopped by the Bean There, Done That for a tall cup of something hot and severely caffeinated. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going on within the walls of Darla’s house. But it wasn’t any of my business. Caffeine would definitely help me shake it off.

On a contact high from the delicious aroma of roasting beans and chocolate you could smell from the street, I floated through the door of the small redbrick building on the corner of Locust and Main. I could shut out everything wrong in my world when I stood in this place and inhaled as if I were back in second grade with the rubber cement.

Milk was steamed, orders were called out, money changed hands, and so did enormous amounts of pie and sticky buns. This was the ultimate small business run by a woman who knew what she was doing and how to do it all with a smile, a bounce of her short crop of dark curls, and olive skin. Of course, I might have been a little biased since the owner also happened to be my best friend, Gina Laudermilch. Gina had taken an old apothecary shop and turned it into the place to be for breakfast, lunch or dinner. She had live music on the weekends and book or poetry readings throughout the week. Because there were only seven booths and four two-seater tables, the place was always packed. Someday, I wanted to own the storefront next door and open a teahouse and herbal shop, but that was forever from now with the way my finances were going.

“Tallie Graver! Sit, sit, hon, and I’ll bring you coffee.” I’d taken my maiden name back and still wasn’t used to hearing it. Graver, not a bad last name, but coming from a family of funeral directors made me a sure target in elementary school. And that was Gina’s mom, Shirley, with her slight accent left over from the old country. Or so she said. As far as I could tell, the woman had lived in the United States her whole life, and the accent reminded me of the South more than some European country. But I could have been wrong. Which wouldn’t have been anything new.

“Can I have a cruller too?” I yelled to Gina. Her mom would never be able to hear over the steaming milk machine. The woman was notoriously semi-deaf, especially when you were saying something she didn’t particularly want to hear.

Gina nodded and put a cruller on one of her bright purple plates in front of me. The scent of still-warm glaze rose up to greet my nose. Doughnuts, the nectar of the gods.

I dug right in, mindful of the time, but not what this sugary sweet was going to do to my hips. As long as I fit into my standard black skirt and one of my pastel blouses, I would be just fine. Shirley put a chocolate whoopie-pie latte down in front of me just as I swallowed my first bite of the cruller. The service was almost as good as the doughnut.

Shirley planted herself in the chair across from me with her elbows anchored on the table. She didn’t resemble Gina in the least. With frosted blond hair and skin as white as a piece of chalk, the matriarch of the Laudermilch family wore enough makeup to keep any makeup-counter attendant in commissions for a lifetime. “So, I heard through the grapevine that you’re doing the Fletcher funeral tonight. Gina’s doing the catering, you understand. You’re gonna come and help her, right?”

She wasn’t going to leave until I answered her, and I couldn’t answer her before I finished my sip of coffee. “Mmm-hmm.” I scalded my tongue, but it didn’t stop me from taking another sip. “I’ll be over following the viewing to help her set up for after the funeral. Did you need something or were you just checking?”

“Oh, I don’t need nothing, honey. My stories are on tonight, and I don’t want to miss them. You know how I like to watch my stories.”

“Sure do.” Everything in life was scheduled around her stories. The local gossip and television were the two loves of Shirley’s life, right after her daughter. Gina had tried to teach her again and again how to use a DVR, but she never seemed to learn. As for the local gossip, there was no help for that. Gina was well on her way to following in her mom’s steps, but I loved her like the sister I’d never had anyway.

“Fine, then. I guess I’ll take Gina up on her offer to miss tonight’s job after all. You take care of you, Tallie. I don’t want to hear about no trouble tonight. Got it? Gina has to be able to count on her friends. We don’t want a repeat of your last snafu. You understand?”

“I do.”

“And get some cream for that patch on your face. You want to look pretty when you’re serving food, not like you just went a round or two with a cheese grater.”

I put a hand to my cheek and groaned. The rug burn I thought wouldn’t show was showing. I’d have to see how bad it was.

It was like having a second mother. But I just smiled and nodded as Shirley creaked to her feet and left the table to go behind the counter again. I caught Gina’s eyes and rolled my own. Gina returned the gesture, making a motion like she was brushing lint off her shoulder. Yeah, I’d brush it off, since the only time I hadn’t come through for Gina was about twelve years ago when we were fifteen, but Mama Shirley couldn’t seem to let it go.

Severely caffeinated from the sweetness and caffeine of the whoopie-pie latte and stuffed with homemade cruller, I dropped off my plate at the counter and waved on my way out. With that, I trotted across the road to the brick monstrosity standing next to the local fire station where I had essentially grown up.

It wasn’t a house, but a business with a discreet plaque letting everyone know it was first opened in 1910. My family had been running the business since then. It was a point of pride for my father, but a bone of contention between us. My one brother had chosen yard maintenance along with general handyman work and the other was a funeral director like my dad, destined someday to take over the family business. Which had left me free to marry Waldo and make babies, according to my mother. Except now the marriage was over, my mother had no grandbabies, and my father was hinting very heavily that I should come work full-time for him and my brother. Which was not going to happen if I could in any way avoid it.

He kept promising me a raise if I’d step up to full-time, but I was having none of it. With my wages here, my wallet was tight, but I had wanted to keep out from under my parents’ rule. So, I’d made the tough decision to take on cleaning my former friends’ houses to supplement my income.

As I walked into the brick tunnel covering the driveway, I counted the days until I could be done with the cleaning jobs and concentrate solely on filling out reams of paperwork to run my own business. Too many at this point to be happy, but it was better than nothing.

And, despite the fact I’d once gotten trapped in a coffin in the basement, I didn’t mind living with the other, better memories to be had at the family business.

At least my dad had let me rent the small apartment above the parlor. Long ago, my grandfather had lived up there with his whole family. When my parents had married, my mother had nixed that idea before it even entered my father’s mind. Living above dead people wasn’t my dream come true, either. However, I couldn’t ask for better or quieter neighbors.

I strolled by one of the two hearses my father had on hand as I got myself into funeral mode. The behemoth cars were all black with silver scrollwork, very tasteful and beautiful in their own way, but they weren’t for everyone. As lovely as they were, it had been traumatizing to have to take my driver’s test in one of the big boats. Most likely, the Department of Motor Vehicles employee at Penn DOT had been scarred for life too, since shortly after the momentous event he became a clown in the circus that had come through the next town over.

I barely made it through the door before I was hit by the whirlwind that was my mother.

“Hi, baby! How was your day? The bathroom’s all ready for you, sweetheart. I know how hard it is to clean all those floors. I don’t understand why you do that when you could just as easily have taken a loan from me. You shouldn’t have dishwater hands when you used to direct the help.”

Karen Graver was in fine form today as she rambled on, trailing along behind as I went through the side door and straight to the office and bath in the back of the building. She must have been waiting at the door, which wasn’t unusual even if it was unnecessary.

It was the same litany every time: Why didn’t I let her help financially? Why did I have to make things so much harder for myself? Why was I a working stiff instead of sitting in the lap of luxury? Why hadn’t I provided her with at least one grandbaby to dote on since my brothers were probably never going to settle down?

The first two were easy enough. My dad would not look kindly on me taking money from my mom. Especially since my mom wouldn’t tell him until some argument came up and she threw it in his face. It was bad enough I lived above the parlor. Even though I insisted on paying rent, my mom never actually cashed the checks. I did not want to be tied to her apron strings, not even with a piece of thread. Living on their dime and taking their money would have made it a rope of steel wire.

The third? That was a question I could and couldn’t answer. I wasn’t in the lap of luxury because my ex-husband had fought me at every turn for every dime until I just wanted out and took almost nothing with me. He’d gotten the house, most of its contents, and the mortgage. We hadn’t had savings, even though he was an investor, because he had done his best to prove that the rest of the cash had gone to living the life he was accustomed to. I hadn’t realized how outside our means we had been living until the divorce was finalized. But now it was over. I could concentrate on going back to the basics, and he could hang himself with all his debt if he wanted.

And the last? Waldo had been a terrible husband. No one could convince me he would have rocked the whole dad thing.

My mother continued to talk while I showered. I could have run upstairs and used my own bathroom; however, I was on a tight schedule. I pushed her out of the room, but the woman carried on the conversation through the door as if we were standing right next to each other. I only hoped no one was in the building except the two of us. What had happened was common knowledge, but the talk about me had died down about a week ago. Thanks went to Muriel Galdon, who was seen streaking down Main Street in nothing but her eighty-year-old birthday suit. I didn’t want to be in the spotlight again.

Finally, when I stepped out of the shower into a fluffy towel, I realized she would happily flap her jaws for the entire time I was going to be here. Whipping open the door, I looked her in the eye and said, “Don’t you think we ought to get to work so that the funeral will be one Dad can be proud of? You know how he is about his three I’s of a funeral.”

Karen flitted around for a second, a butterfly with nowhere to land. Her hair was the same honey blond it had been since I could remember: Clairol number 102. The clothes and the scent of gardenias were all the same too. I loved her more than anything in the world, but she needed to find somewhere to land before I dove right off my rocker.

“Yes, Daddy has a list of things. It’s a mile long and has everything but the kitchen sink on it.”

I hated when she called my dad that. Even I didn’t anymore, not since I was eight. He was just Dad to me. His name was Bud to the rest of the world. I would be okay with Bud or even “your dad,” but “Daddy” made me cringe. She patted her pants for a second until she got an aha look on her face and reached into the front of her blouse to pull a folded piece of paper from her bra. I mentally rolled my eyes, since actually rolling them would only set her off on the lecture circuit. Ah, family dynamics. I understood them better than most.

“Why don’t you take the list then and get to work on your stuff?” I asked. “I’ll get to mine, and we’ll both be done in plenty of time.”

“All righty, Miss Mighty. See you on the flipside.”

Was it any wonder I constantly wanted to roll my eyes?

“The flipside it is.” I saluted my mom and, after getting dressed, went to my own tasks, which never changed. I didn’t need a list to tell me the flowers needed spritzing with an atomizer to make them look fresher; the ones that had died or were bro. . .