Page 23 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘It’s a Save the Date,’ said Lily, tracing the precise embossing on the card. (This was definitely Tink’s work.) ‘But …’
‘But it’s for a funeral,’ finished Mort, turning his own card over. ‘In October.’
Lily held her card up to the sun, as though this might entice it to reveal its secrets. ‘How does that even work? Is this … an assisted dying situation?’
Mort was baffled. ‘I have no idea. Funerals are usually held on fairly short notice. They’re also not typically a singing telegram type affair.’
‘Don’t shoot me – I’m just the messenger,’ said the singer. At least he’d taken his foot off the poodle. ‘And it’s not my name on that card.’
‘Well, whose nameison it?’ muttered Mort. He fiddled with the card, which had a complicated opening mechanism (swansarenotoriously beastly).
‘Candice Shelby,’ read Lily over his shoulder. ‘Is she the one with the bathtub kombucha brand in all the gift shops? That’s really good stuff.’
‘Excess kombucha consumption may cause hepatic necrosis.’ Mort pointed in the direction of her kidneys.
Lily brandished her paintbrush, fending him off. ‘I like to take a walk on the wild side. Aka the tasty side.’
‘I love kombucha,’ bellowed the singer. ‘It’s good for the vocal cords. Can I get it at the bodega?’
Sure, if you didn’t mind being served by a guy who had been dead half an hour ago.
‘And the second-from-the-left stand at the farmer’s market,’ said Lily. ‘Although there might be supply issues after October.’
‘Great, great!’ The singer mopped his forehead – voice projection was hard work. He nudged the small, open suitcase by his foot. ‘Is it all right if I move on? I have the rest of the town to cover.’
‘Sure.’ Lily popped a lollipop and some change in his suitcase. ‘Good luck breaking the news. Especially with Candice’s pickleball team. They’re really close-knit.’
Mort folded his arms. ‘How do you know Candice? You’ve been in town barely twenty-four hours.’
‘I talk to people. It’s called being affable.’ She winked. ‘You should try it sometimes.’
Mort had absolutely no intention of trying it. That was how you ended up with visitors. Or on the board of the library. Or buying half a dozen blocks of chocolate you’d never eat for a school fundraiser.
‘Did I hear someone say Candice?’ asked a cheerful middle-aged woman in striped athleisure and with a pickleball racquet under her arm. A streak of white in her otherwise dark hair poked out from beneath her sun visor, and she swiped at it with a sweatband-covered wrist. She seemed the very picture of health – and happiness.
‘Candice Shelby?’ confirmed Mort, although he knew her vaguely from theRocky Horror Picture Showshowings at the cinema. She always had a few too many G&Ts and tried to get up on the piano.
‘I’m she!’ bubbled Candice, with the confident, wealthy cadence of someone who had a foundation set up in her name.
‘Um.’ Lily glanced down at the swan card in her hand. ‘We think there’s been some sort of … mix-up.’
She handed Candice the Save the Date.
Candice donned a pair of reading glasses and held the card very far from, and then very close to her nose as she tried to make sense of it.
Meanwhile, the resonant strains of ‘Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ rang out from a charming set of townhouses across the promenade. The telegram guy really was singing for his supper. And a hot breakfast.
‘But that’s me!’ shrieked Candice, clutching the card tightlyenough to fold the swan’s neck in half. ‘That’smeon the Save the Date.’
‘It does seem that way,’ agreed Mort, whose ears were ringing from the double assault of first the singing telegram guy and now Candice. What did one do in this particular situation? Offer a hug? A meeting with an estate planner? A cease and desist targeting the telegram guy?
Mort resorted to an approach that required neither empathy nor self-reflection: sales.
‘Do you need some help selecting a coffin?’ he asked. ‘We have some beauties at the moment. You’d look lovely in cherry. It suits your complexion.’
‘No, no, I wouldn’t! Not one bit! Because I’m not dead! I’m not even close to it!’ shrilled Candice. ‘I’m right here! I’m fine! The doctor says my vitals were excellent! I take a shot of wheatgrass juice every morning!AndI just finished a morning of pickleball doubles. A very productive morning. You should’ve seen us! Not an awkward grunt or twisted ankle among us.’
Mort nodded calmly. This all seemed like a reasonable argument against an imminent death.
