Free Gone Crazy by Shannon Hill Page A

Marge uses that tone of voice, mountains move. I followed her into the house and drank my fruit juice.
    ***^***
    I went back to work a lot earlier than Dr. Hartley or my ribs wanted me to. Plainly put, there weren’t enough cops for traffic control on the day of my uncle’s funeral, and they needed warm bodies to make sure no high-end cars ended up on our low-end side streets. It wasn’t exactly strenuous duty. I parked my car with my bubble lights on and kicked back with a book to make sure nobody drove accidentally on purpose up to the Littlepage house to crash the festivities.
    I’d gotten to the part of the Wars of the Roses where Edward of York entered London when someone cleared his throat near my rear bumper. I peeked out the window to see my cousin Jack, in a very good black suit, with his tie loosened. “I didn’t want to send someone,” he said, and thrust a plastic-wrapped plate of nibbles at me. “The caviar is for Boris.”
    I thanked him and passed the fish eggs to Boris, who was stretched asleep in the back seat. He woke, sniffing, and devoured the caviar in four chomps, itty-bitty crackers and all. Jack smiled, but he had bags under his eyes you could use for carry-on luggage.
    “You’ll be missed,” I pointed out, and gestured up the way. “Thanks for the food.”
    “I doubt it.” Jack made a face like a kid being told to eat his vegetables. “Mother is holding court.”
    I winced on his behalf. “So is she staying long?”
    “Only long enough to contest the will, I guess,” he shrugged. “She will, too. You want to come to the reading?” His smile went all crooked. I’d seen mine do the same thing under similar stress. It was a little weird to realize it was a genetic trait. “Or you can skip it.”
    I considered. “Is your mother going to be there?”
    “Yes.”
    I shuddered purely for effect. “I’ll skip. Like you said, souvenir teacup.”
    Jack ruffled his hair. It spoke well of his barber that it lay right back down. “Not quite.” He laughed, but he sounded more worn out than amused. “He left you land.”
    Now I laughed, out of pure denial. “No way.”
    “Don’t get excited.” Jack gave that crooked smile again. “I’m sure he meant it well, but…” His hands flapped around a bit, catching Boris’s attention. “He left you a plot in the family cemetery.”
    If I hadn’t been leaning on the car, I’d probably have ended up on the ground. I couldn’t decide if I was flattered or offended, and by the way Jack watched me, he wasn’t sure what to think, either. I finally said, “You’re kidding.”
    “No joke.”
    I suddenly thought of something. “I’m betting it’s in the servant section.”
    Credit where it’s due, Jack could take a joke and give one back. “If we had one, it would be. As it is, it’s the plot over by Jefferson and Lydia Gilfoyle Littlepage.”
    I burst out laughing, until my ribs reminded me to stop. Even so, I was snorting and giggling. I couldn’t help it. Jefferson Littlepage had died before the Civil War, and he’d been the only Littlepage to wed without approval before my mother did it. That he’d been buried in the family plot with his wife was due solely to the fact his children weren’t about to boot Mama to the town cemetery over on Little Mountain. It was typical of my recently deceased uncle that he’d assume I’d be complimented enough that I wouldn’t see the backhanded insult.
    I stopped laughing entirely when I remembered that my mother hadn’t been permitted to rest eternally among the Littlepages. Or the Ellers, for that matter.
    “No thanks,” I said as kindly as I could, which wasn’t very. “I’ll pass.”
    “I figured you would.” He patted my arm twice. It was, for a Littlepage, downright demonstrative. “I better get back. I’ve got everyone watching Mother to make sure she doesn’t take off with the silver, but she can be sneaky.”
    “I’ll search her limo on the way out,” I promised.