* * *
The two men who shared a booth in the main deck were both in a pensive mood.
“Parrish said Riley made Wendell’s funeral arrangements today,” Ed Godchaux told Scott Moriatakis. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but what a bastard he turned out to be.”
“I feel the same way,” Scott said. He hesitated. “Frankly, I never liked Wendell.”
“You know, we actually liked him the first couple of years they were married. He seemed like a good match for Riley. Had a decent golf game, fit right in with most of our friends, and he was a good dad to Maggy. And, of course, Evelyn and W.R. were crazy about him,” Ed said.
“Yeah, Wendell Griggs was the son W.R. always wished he’d gotten instead of Billy,” Scott pointed out. “Wendell was the whole package as far as W.R. and Evelyn were concerned—a big, good-looking former jock they could parade around the country club and count on for a grandchild. He was all the things their own son couldn’t be.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Ed admitted. “I think that, deep down, those two probably were proud of Billy’s talent and his music, but they were from that generation that just couldn’t accept having a son who didn’t want what they wanted from life.”
“I’ve always believed that’s why Billy started drinking. It was always clear to him that no matter what he did, he could never measure up to his old man’s expectations,” Scott theorized. “So why try?”
“God, the things we parents do to fuck up our kids,” Ed said with a sigh. “And, mostly, we do it out of love. I frankly don’t know how David turned out as well as he has. Parrish and I had no idea what we were doing. In fact, at the time, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to have a child, because she was so focused on her career.”
“Lucky you,” Scott said bitterly. “Billy and I would have loved to have a family. It’s not at all uncommon for couples like us to have kids now, but that whole thing came too late for us. I’m looking at turning sixty in a couple of years, and Billy’s nearly forty. We’re too old now to be changing diapers and joining the PTA.”
“I hear ya,” Ed said. He glanced at the families milling around the crowded lounge. “I see these gray-headed fellas like me, pushing strollers and trying to keep up with their new young trophy wives, and it makes me tired thinking about it.”
“Me, too,” Scott said.
The Carolina Queen’s horn gave a long loud blast, the signal that docking would start in five minutes. Around them, voices rose in happy anticipation and people began gathering their belongings in preparation for arrival on Belle Isle.
“Right on time,” Scott murmured. “Let the fun begin.”
28
On Saturday morning, Riley dropped by Parrish’s to update her on the plans for Wendell’s service.
“All you have to do,” Parrish said, “is show up and play the we-we card.”
“Which is what?”
“The widow card. That’s what my mama used to call it, after my dad died. Widows get a hall pass for at least the first year after their husbands are gone. You’re expected to be helpless, dazed, and confused. Nobody’s supposed to upset you, and you’re allowed to cry anytime you want. That’s called playing the we-we card. And nobody did it better than my mother.”
“I don’t have to play it. I’m already living the dazed and confused part,” Riley said. “And I’ve just about cried my tear ducts dry.”
“Hang in there,” Parrish said, giving her a hug. “We’re gonna get you through this, together. Evelyn’s not going to make things easy, though.”
“She tried to dictate the arrangements,” Riley said. “By the time I got to the funeral home, she’d already called Miles Kenton and picked out the casket.”
“Dear, thoughtful Evvy,” Parrish said. “What exactly did she have planned?”
“You know. Mahogany casket with bronze mounts, funeral sprays, two days of family visitation. Your standard overblown three-ring circus. If Mama had her way, we’d have Wendell lying in state under the gazebo on the village green.”
The two friends shuddered in unison.
“I put the kibosh on all that crap,” Riley said. “Wendell will be cremated, we’ll have a short, simple service in the chapel, and then private interment in the family plot. It sounds cold, I know, but I just want this ordeal over with.”
“You leave it to me,” Parrish said firmly. “If you want, I’ll take care of everything.”
“Really?” Riley felt herself tearing up. “That would be amazing. Mama will have a fit, but…”
“I can deal with Evelyn, and she’ll never know what hit her.”
Riley’s cell phone rang. “It’s Roo,” Riley said to Parrish. “Hello?”
“Thank God you’re home. I’ve been trying to call you all morning,” Roo said. “Your mama and Maggie went into town first thing this morning, and I’m the only one here. You’ve got a visitor waiting.”
“I’m at Parrish’s. Could you please tell whoever it is that I’m not up for company today? I’ll sneak around to the back door. Just tell them I’ve got a headache or something.”
“I can’t,” Roo said, her voice fraught with anxiety. “Come right away and bring Parrish with you. It’s a G-man!”
* * *
As soon as Parrish pulled the golf cart up to the front steps at Shutters, Aunt Roo came scuttling out of the dim recesses of the porch. She met Riley at the bottom step.
“I told him you were staying with a friend, and I didn’t know when you’d be home, but he said he’d just wait,” Roo said. “What do you think the FBI wants with you, Riley?”
“Probably just some questions about Wendell’s death,” Parrish said.
“Oh. Right.” Roo seemed disappointed. “He’s mighty young looking. I didn’t think they hired boys that young to work as G-men, so I made him show me his badge. It looks like the real thing, though.”
“Tell him I’ll be right in, would you please, Roo?” Riley said.
“So it’s true,” Riley said, as soon as her aunt had gone inside the house. “The feds really are looking into Wendell’s business dealings.”
“You don’t know that,” Parrish warned. “Maybe it really is about his murder.”
“You’re not talking to my elderly aunt, here,” Riley said. “The FBI doesn’t normally get involved in homicides. I remember that much from my reporting days. I can’t do this by myself. Will you come with me? You’re a lawyer. You know how to deal with this kind of stuff.”
“I haven’t practiced criminal law in years and years,” Parrish reminded her.
“You’re a lawyer, that’s all I care about.” She turned pleading eyes on her best friend.
“All right.” Parrish relented. “Have you got any money?”
“What? No! You know I’m broke.”
“Give me a dollar,” Parrish said. “That’s my retainer. Now you’re my client and everything you tell me is privileged. If you really want me to help, you need to just keep quiet and let me see what we can find out from him.”