Free Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky by Sharon Love Cook Page A

flowers.
    A prayer bench positioned before the coffin was occupied by two women I recognized as members of the Women’s Professional League. Betty Ann and I slowly approached. The runner’s thick pile and the soft music issuing from hidden speakers muffled our steps. We stopped a few feet away to wait our turn.
    One of the women spoke up. “The suit is Armani. I saw it in a window on Newbury Street.”
    “My dear, you’re mistaken. It’s Prada, their fall collection. Shall I check the label?”
    “Forget it. What do you think of the blouse, that big bow?”
    “It’s not as ghastly as the white casket. Don’t these people know the rules? Coffins and limos should always be one color, black.”
    “The father probably picked it out. It just goes to show, money can’t buy class. By the way, do you know what Klinger Pharmaceuticals manufactures?”
    “No, what?”
    “Condoms.”
    “Get out! Vivian claimed they made synthetic home care products.”
    “Well, she wasn’t lying.”
    When Betty Ann coughed, they turned, surprised to see us standing behind them. After making hasty signs of the cross, the pair rose. Heads lowered, they walked past us and out the door.
    “Nice Catholic girls,” Betty Ann muttered. We took their place at the prayer bench. Before us, the body of Dr. Klinger reclined in tufted satin splendor. She was dressed in a charcoal suit with velvet trim. The dark hair, as glossy as the inside of a mussel shell, fanned the pillow. Her complexion was as pale as the silk bow tied under her chin. A beam of recessed light softly illuminated her features. Lifelike and serene, she seemed to be merely napping.
    The effect, coupled with the heavy perfume of the flowers, was unsettling. I felt the room spin and ducked my head. “You okay?” Betty Ann whispered. When I didn’t respond, she got me to my feet, asking, “What’s wrong? You’re paler than death.”
    “I feel dizzy… nauseous.”
    Now it was Betty Ann’s turn to lead me. Gripping my arm, she assisted me down the aisle and out the doors. Outside, she scanned the room, leading me to a chair near the window. “Sit for a minute,” she said.
    I glanced out the window to the porch where a woman in a short knit dress was smoking a cigarette. A mass of champagne-colored hair tumbled down her back. Every time she brought the cigarette to her lips her hem rose six inches. The woman was definitely not a local.
    “Who’s that?” I asked.
    Betty Ann fumbled in her bag for her glasses. Peering outside, she said, “Aha!” like a birder spotting a rare Baltic gull. “That’s Pamela Bingham, Dr. Bingham’s third wife.”
    Once again I was impressed with my friend’s celebrity savvy. “You should write a gossip column, you know.”
    “I enjoy following celebs. I’ll never make the team, but I like to know the players.”
    We stared at the glamorous stranger whose high-heeled boots were incongruous at a funeral parlor. “
Back Bay Living
did a feature on the Binghams,” B.A. said. “They have a priceless collection of ancient Mayan death masks at their Louisburg Square brownstone.”
    “Really?” I said. “Maybe
Back Bay Living
would be interested in my collection of ancient hotel ash trays.”
    She laughed. “Kiddo, don’t be jealous. You’re worth a dozen Pamela Binghams. Besides, she’s definitely not society. He met her while skiing in Aspen. She was a cocktail waitress at his hotel.” She took in the long tanned legs of our subject. “But you’ve gotta admit, Pamela Bingham is a perfect example of a trophy wife.”
    I studied the retro go-go hair and sniffed. “The trophy’s a little tarnished. She needs a root job.”
    “I don’t think Dr. Bingham pays much attention to her roots,” she said.
    Fascinated, we watched her toss the cigarette into the bushes and withdraw a compact from a tiny purse. Turning her back to the light, she peered into the mirror. This action caused her hem to rise so high, her leopard print panties