On Turpentine Lane(82)

“Thanks so much,” Terry hissed. “I didn’t kill anybody. I was exaggerating. I was joking!”

“Then you’ll plead innocent,” said Jeannette. “And you’ll have your day in court.”

“I was a kid!” Terry yelled.

“I’m sorry. I did what I thought was right—”

“Fuck you!”

Who was in charge here? Wasn’t anyone going to referee? My mother stood up. “I’ve heard enough. This is a memorial service no matter what skeletons are in your closets. There’s a time and a place for everything,” which prompted the funeral director to announce from the back of the half-empty room that burial would be at Holy Sepulcher on Route 27, exactly eight-tenths of a mile after the traffic light on Upper Hope.

“Who’s going to show up for that?” my mother whispered.

“Not us,” I said.



Why would I be surprised that a reporter would attend Anna Lavoie’s funeral? I’d noticed the scruffy young man in a corduroy jacket scribbling furiously, but why was he walking in my direction?

He wasn’t. He wanted the ID of the woman who’d called for an end to the sisters’ shouting match. Name and relation to the deceased?

“Nancy Frankel. No relation. Someone had to speak up. I thought their behavior was disgraceful, and you can quote me on that.”

“You must’ve known Anna Lavoie if you came to her funeral,” he said.

“I’m here simply because my daughter asked me to accompany her.”

“And that’s you?” he asked me. “Name?”

“Faith.”

“Faith what?”

“She bought the deceased’s house,” my mother supplied.

“Knowingly?” he asked me.

I said I didn’t understand the question.

“Did you know people died there under suspicious circumstances when you bought it?”

I said, “No comment. I don’t need my name in the paper. And I surely don’t need my address in there.”

“It’s been in,” my mother said. “As the scene of the crimes. Did you not read the front-page story when the Tindle daughter was arrested?”

“Above the fold,” said the reporter.

I said I’d missed the write-up; I’d learned of Terry Tindle’s arrest last weekend straight from Detective Dolan.

My mother waited until we were in the car. After clicking her seat belt into place and as she checked her lipstick in the visor mirror, she asked, “When did Detective Dolan fill you in? Maybe the other night when he came over to your house with Joel, amid the celebration?”

Uh-oh. “Celebration?” I repeated, despite knowing exactly what I was being accused of.

“The little party celebrating your upcoming wedding.”

“Is that what Joel told you? That we had a party?”

“He thought I knew—me being the woman who gave birth to and raised you. Leslie was shushing him in the background after he divulged the big secret.”

“Mom, it wasn’t because—”

“Is it true? Are you and Nick getting married?”

“Please let me explain. Telling Joel was a dry run. The real announcement is coming . . . I wanted to tell you and Dad over a proper lunch or dinner, which is where we’re headed”—something I didn’t know myself until this second—“to the hotel dining room. I wanted it to be ceremonial, with tablecloths and flowers, not just a drop-by visit or a phone call. I wanted to do it right. You know why? Because of this quite amazing thing that’s happened. Because of Nick. I didn’t want to just pick up the phone—”

“It’s not about Nick,” she said.

“It’s only about Nick, thank you.” I started the car. “So do we go to lunch or would you rather start your boycott now?”

“We go to lunch. There won’t be a boycott.” She reached over and gave my hand an apologetic squeeze. We were the last car left in the parking lot; the negligible procession of mourners had pulled away, so I did, too.

“Do you know where you’ll hold the ceremony?” she asked, after several minutes of silence. “Or the reception?”

“We haven’t discussed that. I think the when should come before the where.”

“I’m not asking church versus temple versus city hall. I’m thinking ‘mother of the bride.’ How can I get a dress until I know the where and the when?”

I said, “Well, I can’t get a dress until I know my mother’s on board.”



I made a quick call to Nick while my mother was inspecting the ladies’ room. “My mother knows. Joel told her. I’m at the Everton Arms, taking her for a fancy lunch, pretending it was my plan all along.”

“Good move. Take your time. Even better: tell her it was my idea.”

Ten minutes later, along with our salads, two beribboned glasses of champagne arrived. “Compliments of the future groom,” said our waiter.

“I heartily approve,” my mother told him. “It took some adjusting, but you know what’s important? He’s a real mensch. And he loves my daughter.”

“Hear, hear,” I said. We clinked glasses. “And to you and Daddy . . . to better days ahead.”