All's Well That Ends (An Amanda Pepper Mystery)

One She was the best of mothers, she was the worst of mothers. She had wisdom, she had foolishness. . . ." Dennis's words made me want to snatch the silver martini pitcher from his hand and smash him with it, even though that would make my behavior as inappropriate as his was. We were paying our last respects, except for Dennis, who was paying his final disrespects. Inappropriate didn't begin to describe posthumously clobbering the Dickens out of your own mother. I don't care how literary Dennis thought he wasnot that familiarity with the opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities qualifies as anything special. "It is a far, far worse thing you do than ever you have done before," I muttered to Sasha. Unfortunately, that probably wasn't accurate. To put it as charitably as I could: Dennis Allenby was a jerk. He'd been a jerk in tenth grade when his mother was married to Sasha's father. Twenty years later, age had not withered nor custom staled his infinite jerkiness. He had a reputation as a specialist in the nearly-illegal scheme, the loophole-finding arrangement, the deal that shamelessly preyed on the gullible. His mother had been Sasha's favorite stepmother. Despite the divorce, Sasha managed to maintain the relationship through three more of Phoebe's marriages, and two of her own, until Phoebe's untimely death two weeks ago. Sad, or ironic that having pledged five separate times to be with a man till death did them part, Phoebe wound up alone, dead by her own hand, with only Dennis as a sorry by-product. I blocked out his drone, forced his voice to dissolve into the bright December morning, to be no more than the crunch of twigs underfoot, the occasional birdcall, or the murmur of the stream; although in truth, the water was silent. It was so chilly, it was probably icing up. So was I. My chattering teeth helped drown him out. I looked around and could see that my irritation was shared. Maybe we could rush Dennis, push him into the creek along with the urn's contents. Sasha, dressed intensely in black, from the oversized broad-brimmed hat that wobbled and shivered with each wintry gust to her high boots, looked flamboyantly in mourning. But her face was set with anger, not grief. She opened her eyes wide, the better to glare at Dennis. "You see?" she hissed. "You see?" She wanted me to see a murderer, but I saw only a middle-aged jerk. I once again let my eyes travel around the group. On this bright winter day, about twenty people had gathered by the river to remember and honor Phoebe Ennis. The group included her cousin Peter, who hadn't seen Phoebe in fifteen years but had memories so vivid that he'd made the trip from his home in West Virginia; four women who'd identified themselves in such a rush that I never got them straight; a woman who looked in her eighties and who'd identified herself only as "a former neighbor," though of which time period and/or house she didn't say; and near her, Phoebe's flame-haired business partner, Merilee Wilkins, standing so rigidly she looked planted in the spot. I'd met her a while back when I went to Top Cat and Tails, the shop she and Phoebe owned. I was amused by the idea of a pet boutique, which probably shows what a shallow, uncaring cat-owner I am. But the admittedly funny sight of sale items such as a Halloween costume for a dachshund that made the pup into a hot-dog on a bun did nothing to make me take the place more seriously. I went for entertainment value, not to buy, and apparently, so did too many others, because the business was about to fold. Merilee's husband was withdrawing his financial support and, not coincidentaRoberts, Gillian is the author of 'All's Well That Ends (An Amanda Pepper Mystery)', published 2008 under ISBN 9780345480224 and ISBN 0345480228.