THE FUNERAL OF HOMER SNAPE

By A.R. Grobbo

With thanks to John McLean

            Diggory Plassid had heard many an anguished cry in his long career, but he would never forget the sound made by the elderly Widow Snape that afternoon, just before she fainted, crumpling on the deep shag carpet in front of at least twenty close relatives and friends.

            He had never thought it necessary to warn mourners not to reach beneath the silk cushion on which their loved ones rested.  After all, who would want to?

            The scream would have wakened the dead, so it was a blessing that Homer Snape, who had expired at Whispering Birches Home for the Aged in his ninety-first year, had been the only viewing scheduled at Plassid Funeral Parlour that Monday afternoon. 

            The funeral director continued counting his blessings, particularly the extra insulation he’d installed when he took over the business from his father three years ago.  Here in the heart of the Midwestern Ontario cornbelt, noisy wakes were rare.  Most of the small town’s long-time residents favored a quiet, dignified celebration of “life”, a term he found ironic.  No one out on the snowy sidewalk of Plattsford’s main street had heard the noise, and to his relief, those in the room were more concerned with the elderly woman lying next to the coffin than they were with the display itself. 

            Diggory rubbed a clammy hand against his forehead, poured himself a bracing cup of tea in the small staff kitchen, wrapped icy fingers around its warmth and carried it to his office.

            Mrs. Snape, once revived, was hustled off to the hospital to be checked for a fracture in one of those fragile elderly limbs. Surely he couldn’t be held accountable for injuries to a person of that age, he mused, unless… Taking a large gulp of the hot brew, he shook off the tremor of fear. Whatever she said would, no doubt, be considered the raving fantasy of a distraught mind. Wouldn’t it?  To be absolutely certain, he would have to correct the situation, as soon as he had a chance to steady his nerves.  It wouldn’t do, at this time, to have someone checking on his work.

            The soft rustle of a coat startled him.  His hand convulsed in a sudden jerk, and his tea sloshed in a thin stream of amber fluid on the polished surface of the desktop.  Hurriedly he blotted it with the sports pages of the Plattsford Sun as he looked up… and shuddered.  Standing there, in long winter coat and oversized beret, was a tall young woman he recognized as the editor of Plattsford’s small newspaper, the very one he was crushing in his left hand.  He bolted to his feet, flushing guiltily.  The newspaper page landed in the waste bin.

            “Sorry to bother you.” Smiling disarmingly, the woman strode into the office, holding out her hand. At first he thought she was offering it to grasp, until he noticed the small, silver locket on a chain dangling from her fingers. “I’m Gloria Trevisi, editor of the Sun. I was certain I’d find some relatives of Mr. Snape still here, but the salon is empty.”  She deposited the locket on the desk in front of him and straightened up, towering slightly over him. “I was standing by the coffin when I noticed this on the floor.”

            “Oh.” Diggory’s head jerked in a nod, and he silently cursed the thick carpet that muted footsteps in the foyer. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He felt the familiar jump of a nerve just below his left eye as he prepared to move from behind his desk to escort the visitor to the door.

            She didn’t seem inclined to leave, however; instead she reached up to remove her hat and placed her large handbag on the floor. “I interviewed Mr. Snape just a few weeks ago when he turned ninety, part of the Sun’s ‘Tribute to Seniors’ series. They were a very nice couple, and I wanted to offer my condolences to the family.”

            To Diggory’s dismay, she removed her coat and seated herself in a comfortable, padded leather chair. Nervously he seated himself once again behind his desk. “I see.  Well, I am sorry. What can I do for you, Ms…uh…?” Momentarily forgetting her name, he drew a deep breath.

            “I just heard that Mrs. Snape is in hospital,” she said. “I checked with the hospital administrator on my way over.  It seems she passed out here in the funeral home, in front of her husband’s coffin.” She inched the chair closer to his desk across the soft carpet and crossed her knees. “Her daughter says she suffered some kind of shock.” 

            “Well, many people are… dismayed to see a close relative laid out in a coffin,” he offered.

            Gloria nodded slowly. “Yes, but that wasn’t the kind of shock she suffered.”  Her eyes drifted from his face to the silver locket. “I noticed the silk covering in the casket was pulled out of place. Is it possible she wanted to slip the locket into his jacket pocket, something of hers to be buried with him? That would be unfortunate for you, wouldn’t it?”

            “Would it?” He swallowed to ease the dryness in his throat. The nerve under his eye was keeping time with the second hand of his desk clock, and he felt perspiration gather in his spine and trickle slowly downward. The afternoon was cold, but the sun was beating fiercely through the long window beside his desk.

            The woman’s sharp gaze pinned him to his chair. “My father immigrated here from a small village in Italy,” she continued softly.  “He told me a story once about the undertaker in that village.” A small smile softened the corner of her mouth.  “Years ago, this undertaker had contracts with a hospital in Padua for, um, the delicate disposal of amputated limbs.  I’m sure you know what I mean.  It’s a common thing in your trade.”

            In spite of an effort to keep still, his head moved in silent acquiescence.

            Her lashes flickered briefly over gold-flecked eyes before she continued. “He was well compensated, but there were expenses…embalming, encasing…a proper burial on consecrated ground. It seems the undertaker was taking some cost-cutting measures.  He’d slip the odd piece inside the coffins of clients to save himself the price of a burial plot.” She clasped her hands against one knee. “ He was caught, of course. You can imagine it was quite a scandal.” 

            “Yes, it would be quite… improper.” Diggory squeezed the last word between compressed lips.

            “Improper?”  Gloria leaned forward suddenly, pulling a notebook and pen from the bag at her feet. “The people of the village were devastated.  Imagine the feeling of betrayal. They all wondered what—or who—was buried with their mothers and fathers, their grandparents, their children!  The undertaker lost his business, naturally.”  She narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath.  “Mr. Plassid, what you are doing is illegal and immoral, but much worse, it is a serious breach of trust.”

            “Really?” He tried his best to sound brave, but he was having a struggle regaining his breath.  “Ms Trevisi, if you write that wild accusation in your paper, I will sue you.”

            “If the police were to find what I just discovered in your front salon, there would be no grounds for a lawsuit, would there?”  She re-crossed her knees and rested the notebook on her lap.  “You could try, Mr. Plassid, but, if I may be so bold, you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

            Diggory fumbled for an answer, raising a hand to quell the twitch under his eye.  The perspiration under his crisp white shirt turned icy. “All right.  So what if I did what you say I did?”  Gulping the dregs of his cold tea, he rubbed the left side of his face.  “My family has been in business in this town for many years. As you pointed out yourself, consider the effects this investigation would have on a community like this one.”

            She stood up and leaned forward, bracing herself against the desk. “Not to mention your professional reputation? You’d lose your license and your livelihood, possibly even serve jail time. You’d certainly be run out of this town. The community would suffer, but so would you.” She raised an eyebrow. “It would make a marvelous front page, don’t you think? I could probably sell the story to a major daily newspaper.  I’d be interviewed on national radio and television. Think of what it would do for my reputation.”

            Diggory pursed his lips. One person, just one woman, stood between him and the rest of his life. He wished, for a split second, that he were more ruthless, that he could reach into his desk drawer and pull out…

            “But that isn’t why I’m here. I have no wish for fame, Mr. Plassid,” she added almost regretfully, and seated herself once more, retrieving the notebook.

            He let out a long, slow breath, and sank farther down in his soft chair, fingers drumming nervously on his desk. “Ms Trevisi, what do you want?”

            “Mrs. Snape could have suffered a fatal stroke. Whether police investigate you or not -- and you can’t get away with this forever -- you certainly owe something to her.”

            “Oh, God.” Diggory had nearly forgotten where his real peril lay. One annoying woman with a big mouth could be dismissed; after all, his local reputation certainly trumped hers. But two? He clenched his teeth. “Mrs. Snape may not accept an apology.”

            Gloria smiled slowly. “She is elderly and alone, bereft of her life partner, and quite short of money. Why not make her a gesture of goodwill?”

*  *  *

            Later that week, following the widow’s sudden collapse and miraculous recovery, Homer Snape was buried in Plattsford Cemetery with full honors. Mourners who had visited the funeral home earlier in the week noticed with some amazement that the casket had been upgraded from elm to solid mahogany. Three limousines, not one, were provided for family. The single, small plot that the modest pre-paid arrangements had covered had been expanded to a double, and rumor had it that a stained glass window would be added to the sanctuary of the Presbyterian Church in his memory.

            As she watched the long line of cars pass under her window at the Plattsford Sun office, Gloria Trevisi sighed. She’d given up a sensational news story; but this, after all, was rural southwestern Ontario, not Toronto. People in Plattsford, she’d learned, rarely wanted to hear the bad news, and never thanked her for it. If they were willing to put up with Diggory Plassid, so be it. She had no regrets about the outcome of her conversation with the rogue undertaker. Nor had she any regrets about giving up the silver locket that had been the gift of a former boyfriend; she did what she had to do. One thing she and Mrs. Snape had in common: she rarely wore jewelry.

*  *  *
Read about The Gloria Trevisi Mysteries by A.R. Grobbo  www.angrobo.com