Page 96 of Bears Behaving Badly
“And don’t you dare go for any of that candy,” she added. “Put your sweet tooth in park.”
“Don’t worry. Mints. Yuck.”
There was no coffin, only an altar toward the front of the small nondenominational chapel on which there were several framed pictures of all sizes. The dark-clad mourners were all in mini-groups of two and three and four, murmuring to one another and shaking their heads. Annette caught several expected comments…
“Such a shame.”
“Was it quick? I hope it was quick.”
“His poor mother.”
“I really thought he’d turned it all around.”
…as well as some unexpected ones.
“Bound to happen.”
“Fucking loser.”
“I’ll bet his family has no idea how to feel about this.”
“You knew it was just a matter of time, butthis. Yikes.”
Annette grabbed David’s hand, ignored his stifled hiss. “You’ve got a grip like an anaconda.”
She hauled him to the front of the chapel for a closer look at the pictures. “Oh, now this is interesting,” she said under her breath. And when David sucked in a breath, she knew he’d seen it, too.
“Annette?”
Greg Brennan had come up behind them with an older woman in tow. Literally in tow; he had her by her frail wrist and was pulling her toward them like a tugboat in a $2,000 suit.
She was spindly, her graying hair pulled back into a low bun, and her black suit was understated and elegant. Black tights, black flats, and a little black hat with black fingertip veil (which Annette had only seen in films, never in real life—classy!) completed her chic mourning wear. She and Lund had the same eyes, brown with a narrow, yellowish cast. She looked tired and infinitely crafty.
“Hello again, Greg.” Annette held out her hand. It was listlessly shaken.Ugh, nothing makes my skin crawl more than a limp handshake. Well. Sea snakes, maybe. I am not a fan of legless reptiles that can kill a hundred men with a few milligrams of venom.“You remember David.”
“Yeah, Greg. You remember me.”
“We thought we’d come by to pay our respects!”Ugh. Tone it down. You are not going on a picnic. Ohhhhh, don’t think about picnics. Don’t think about cold fried chicken and potato salad and ice-cold lemonade and plates of brownies but not frosted brownies because the frosting ends up on the container and not on the brownies which is a goddamned tragedy every time.
The older woman shuffled forward to peer up at them. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Greg bent down to mutter, “Ma, I told you about these guys. They’re looking into Terry’s death.”
“You’re with the police?” she asked, thin voice trembling.
“No.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you both for coming.” Then, after a once-over: “You look lovely, dear. Very…festive.”
Fucking salmon.“Our condolences,” Annette said. “This must be so difficult. Especially for you, Greg. You lost a clientanda brother.”
“Half brother.” Greg flushed to the eyebrows. “Different dads.”
“Still.” Annette gestured to the photos. Brennan was featured prominently in nearly all of them: the Good Son. Lund was shunted off to the side with a frozen grin on his face: the Unfavorite. “It must be hard. Losing a sibling. And a son. Especially when your relationship was so clearly…complex.”See? See what I did there? That pause indicates that I know more than I’m telling! And that I’m only pretending to be polite! HOW DO YOU LIKE IT, MRS. LUND OR IS IT MRS. BRENNAN?
Greg let out a bark of laughter. “Complex. Sure. One way to put it. Fucking retarded, that’s another way.”
“Gregory.”
