Killer Smile

Thirty-Three

By Monday morning, the sun was struggling to burn off the Philadelphia humidity, a task even a fiery planet couldn’t accomplish. The weather hardly mattered to Mary, who was back at work. Not at the office, but outside the Saracone mansion in bucolic Birchrunville. The newspaper had said that his funeral was this morning, so Mary knew that the Saracones and even Chico The SUV would be out of the house. Burglars read funeral notices to see when a house would be empty, so why couldn’t lawyers?

Mary scoped out the scene. The street was even more splendid in the daytime, with a dappled sun peeking through lushly overgrown oaks, their leaves dripping residual rainwater onto the grayed asphalt. The country-road quiet was disrupted only by a series of trucks making their way through the Saracones’ front gate. In the short time Mary had been sitting here, two white gourmet-catering trucks had passed, three florists’ trucks in elegant pastel shades, and a big blue Taylor Rental truck, its open back revealing stacks of extra chairs, of fancy white wood. Mary could have guessed as much. Even bad Italian-Catholics had guests to the house after a funeral.

She opened the car door, climbed out, and walked toward the house with purpose. If the Saracones were hiding something, even after the old man’s death, then she wanted to know what it was, and she couldn’t think of a better place to start than at his house. The electric gates were held wide open, which made sense. There were so many deliveries that they couldn’t be bothered to keep buzzing everyone in, and they weren’t worried about security with so many people in the house. She walked down the street, her pumps clacking on the asphalt, which reminded her that her navy blue suit limited whatever role she’d play this morning. She was dressed for work, not the white- shirt-and-black-pants that caterers wore or the jeans-and-T-shirt of a florist. She looked like a lawyer. Uh-oh.

Mary shrugged it off as she strode with authority through the open gates, down the Belgian-block driveway, and toward the front door. A young gardener hurriedly mulching a bed of hosta near the doorway looked up as she passed, but her manner telegraphed I-belong-here, minion and he looked away. This could work. She hit the front step and rang the doorbell, her thoughts racing.

An older woman wearing an old-fashioned black-and-white maid outfit, a flat, steely bun, and a polite if puzzled expression answered the door. “Hello, who are?” she asked, with a Hispanic accent. Behind her rushed a young girl with a huge spray of calla lilies, and going the opposite direction hurried a caterer with a crystal bowl of egg-glazed rolls. Florists. Catered food. Fancy white chairs. It was like those weddings on the Discovery Channel.

Eureka! “Pleased to meet you.” Mary shook the maid’s hand. “I’m the funeral planner.”

“Funeral planner?” The maid frowned. “What is funeral planner? I never heard.”

“You know, just like a wedding planner, I’m a funeral planner! I coordinate the flowers, the food, the linens!” Mary stepped inside the entrance hall, edging the door aside and gesturing grandly at the activity. “This is all happening because of me. One doesn’t leave funeral planning to amateurs! I planned it with Melania.”

“Melania? She no say.”

“Yes, don’t you recall? I’m here to see that everything is in order, for the memorial luncheon! Giovanni would be so proud!” Mary snapped her fingers at another florist, passing with a huge bouquet of pink gladiola. “Stop right there! Those go in the living room, behind you!” She referred to the layout of the house to bolster her feeble credibility in a job no one had heard of, because it didn’t exist. “And put them right by the fireplace, with the stone mantel. On that mahogany end table, like Melania wants!”

“Oh, sorry!” the young florist said, then turned around, but the maid was following Mary like a hound dog. It wasn’t going to be that easy.

“What you say your name is?”

“Rikki Broughley.” Well, it had worked before. “Didn’t Melania mention me? No?” Mary didn’t wait for the answer. “We’ve been working together, I guess she wanted to keep it to herself. Some people feel that it’s unseemly, planning for the death of a loved one, but we must be realistic, mustn’t we? Poor Giovanni, she loved him so. She must have cried her pretty blue eyes out. I was with her the night before he died, you know. She was a wreck, even in that great white blouse! And she still found time to work out!”

The maid listened, her head cocked.

“And Justin, he will be so upset, too. All those investments to look out for, all on his own now. Buy, sell! Sell, buy!” Mary was running out of inside information. “How’s Justin holding up?”

“He fine.”

“And Chico? He’ll be strong for everyone. He’s a rock, isn’t he?”

“Fine, too.” Finally, the maid seemed to relax a little. “I no like Chico,” she whispered, leaning over. “He mean.”

You’re telling me. “Now, dear, everyone has their good points!” Mary said lightly. The key to good funeral planning was saying everything lightly. She was getting the hang of it.

“Not Chico. No good point.” The maid shook her head. “He plain mean.”

“Okay, well, gotta go! Gotta get everything in place before they return!” Mary grabbed the sleeve of a caterer’s helper bearing a mounded tray of crudites with dill dressing, then plucked a bright carrot from the bowl and bit it with a loud crunch. “Perfect!” she announced and shooed the caterer into the dining room before she turned back to the maid. “Will you make sure they don’t start the coffee yet, in the kitchen? I don’t want it to burn! And come to me if they give you an ounce of trouble!”

“Okay, sure,” the maid said, turning back toward the kitchen.

Mary hustled into the living room, where florists were setting tasteful flower arrangements on the various side tables that had seemed so vacant before. She made only the corrections that would be obvious to anyone with a law degree. She moved a vase of calla lilies to the right, and her gaze fell on a closed door, off to the right. If the bedrooms were upstairs, what could that be? Maybe a den or a home office? That could be helpful. She edged toward the paneled door, and after a florist had plunked down the last gladiola and left the living room, she opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

Mary found herself in a large den, lined with light-pine magazine racks, displaying rack after rack of fashion magazines. Cosmo, People, W, Vogue, Vanity Fair, even an array of British magazines like Hello! and Tattler. A flowery print sofa and two soft chairs in one corner clustered around a decidedly non-funereal display of white daisies. An array of silver-framed photographs adorned a large, whitewashed desk of ersatz antique pine. It was clearly a girl home office and of someone who didn’t work. Melania. Not helpful. But it suggested there was a boy office, too. Giovanni’s.

Mary cracked the door, peeked out to make sure the coast was clear, and slipped back into the living room. Just then another deliveryman entered the room with a huge vase of red roses, and she put up a hand. “Stop! Take that arrangement right back to the dining room!” she began to say, then caught herself. “No, wait! Come with me!” She stalled a moment, eyeing the living room for another paneled door. On the other side. There!

“This way!” Mary strode to the paneled door and opened it, ushering the florist inside, as she looked quickly around. Dark blue walls, navy leather couches and chairs, and the faint odor of cigars clinging to navy-striped curtains. It was a home office, apparently Saracone’s. Mahogany bookshelves held a few books, various photos, and a black custom entertainment center and television, directly across from a matching mahogany desk. She itched to get at that desk. Why would Saracone have paid so much to Frank in legal fees? There had to be legal files somewhere, or an explanation.

Mary pointed at the desk. “Please set those roses by the phone, to soften the effect, no?”

“Whatever,” said the man, obviously unentranced by her horticultural wizardry. He tramped in untied Timberlands to the desk, plunked down the vase, and walked out of the room, leaving Mary inside. She closed the door and locked it with the thumbscrew, just to be sure. She hurried across the thick carpet, almost tripping over an AstroTurf putting green, then went around the desk, and opened the top drawer.

It was full of pens, almost all of them black Montblancs, and next to the Montblanc logjam was dirty loose change and paper clips. Not probative. Mary opened the top right drawer and found it full of papers, which she rifled through. StrayAmex bills, from two years ago, Mobil gas receipts, an anniversary card from Melania, and cash machine tapes. Saracone obviously hadn’t used the desk in a long time, which Mary guessed was to be expected, but why keep this crap? She had the feeling of a businessman carrying an empty briefcase, for show.

She opened the Amex bill and scanned the charges. Morton’s Steakhouse, Ruth Chris, the Palm; an array of