CHAPTER ONETHE BODY AT BAGGAGE CLAIM
The woman sitting next to me on the plane has been sending hopeful little smiles in my direction since we reached cruising altitude. I can tell she wants to chat, but this is a three-hour flight and I’m in the window seat. What if she tries to recruit me for her cult—or show me pictures of her grandkids?
When the drink cart arrives, she seizes the opening. “Traveling alone?”
I nod an affirmative. “Visiting family. They’re meeting me at the airport.” I tack on the last bit in case she’s about to invite me on a one-way trip to her compound in the woods. That would be a smart play: getting a harmless-looking older woman in peach capris to do your dirty work. Fortunately I know better than to underestimate the over-sixty-five set.
“Disney?” she guesses.
“Funeral.” If I thought that answer would take the wind out of her sails, the joke’s on me.
“Oh, honey.” She squeezes my forearm. “I’m so sorry. Who was it?”
The last bit slides out in a whisper, with a slight lean across the armrest so I don’t have to broadcast my business to a plane full of strangers. Some people might argue the appropriateness of the question, but I get it. You hear about a death, and the first thing you want to know is who, followed quickly by how and why—at least in my experience.
“A family friend.” I’m not sure that does justice to Claude. He was an honorary grandparent, a style icon, and one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. Without him, my grandmother and her friends wouldn’t live in the coolest condo in Florida.
It must feel different without Claude on the top floor. I wonder who will live in the penthouse suite now? Maybe they’ll hold auditions for a new tenant while I’m there. I picture the application:Do you have stage training? Please list any special talents (dance experience a bonus!).
“He used to work with my grandmother. At a theater,” I add, since my nosy neighbor is clearly waiting for me to elaborate.
“Oooh,” she says, suitably impressed. “How exciting!”
“Yes,” I agree. She has no idea. Murder Most Fowl was a combo mystery dinner theater and fried-chicken buffet. (Slogan: It’s a Clucking Good Time.) Every night another murder to solve, with a side of chicken strips. What more could you want?
“Was he an actor?”
I can tell she’s hoping for a celebrity cameo. It’s a stretch, but I give her what I can. “He did a commercial once. You might have seen it. ‘What’s the secret to great hair?’” I pause in case she wants to fill in the rest.
“Claude knows!” she supplies, right on cue, even doing the signature wink.
“That’s him.”Was him, I silently correct myself. Apparently in the world of TV commercials there’s a rule where they have to pay extra to use your name, and Claude’s ad for a discreet line of men’s styling products aired enough times to fund his purchase of a derelict hotel, which became the communal living situation of his dreams, aka Castle Claude.
“It’s nice of you to go to the funeral,” my companion says, rattling her plastic cup of ginger ale. “I’m sure your grandmother appreciates it.”
My shrug is at least half squirm, like I’m just that modest. The truth is that I missed the actual funeral because of finals, but I’ll be there in time for the celebration of life. And I’m not making this trip out of the goodness of my heart. Putting some miles between me and my home life isn’t exactly a sacrifice. Plus, apparently Claude left me something in his will.
My brain ping-pongs between sadness and something harder to identify. Anticipation, maybe? It has less to do with whateverthingI inherited than the intrigue of it all. I’ve never been in someone’s will before. I think Claude probably planned it this way, because he was big on not letting his passing turn into a “downer.”
Which is on brand, considering death has always been a source of entertainment at Castle Claude.
The first thing I do when the plane lands is turn on my phone. Abon voyage!!from my best friend, Sam, pops up, with a string of celebratory emojis. It feels tepid, like what she’s really saying isHave fun on your cute little trip to a place you’ve seen a hundred times while I explore the wider world of EUROPE with myaward-winning youth choir, but it’s possible that’s my insecurity talking.
I send my mother a quick text letting her know I arrived in one piece, then Like her reply (Make good choices!) before detouring to the nearest bathroom. The baggage claim at this airport is so slow I always picture a team of sloths unloading the suitcases one by one, so I probably won’t have time to change once I get to Castle Claude. Any sprucing up that’s going to happen will need to be done in this public restroom—hence my multifaceted wardrobe strategy.
The hoodie is easy to peel off and stuff in my backpack. The sweatpants require a certain amount of hopping to get over my shoes, but I manage to shimmy out of those without crashing into the wall of the stall. Just like that, I’m wearing a purple baby doll dress with a rounded white collar and dangling black bow. It used to belong to Grandma Lainey, and while I don’t usually go for clothes this conspicuous, I feel like Claude would appreciate the retro stylings. Plus he specifically requested lots of color, which would have ruled out the gray dress my mom thinks I’m going to wear (even if I wanted to look like a depressed church secretary).
After smoothing my hair, I dig out the red lipstick my grandmother gave me last time I was here. We spent an entire afternoon at the mall, comparing shades until we found the perfect color.
“Every woman needs a power red in her arsenal,” Grandma Lainey informed me, though I’ve never seen my mother wear any shade darker than strawberry gum.
My red is appropriate for the occasion, I decide, leaning closer to the mirror to make sure I stay inside the lines. The goal is sophisticated, not scary clown.
When I make it to baggage claim, the carousel is silent and unmoving. I almost expect to see cobwebs stretched across it. There’s an empty seat near the rental car counter. I sink down only to spring up again when my underwear touches the cracked vinyl. The second attempt goes better because I remember to hold on to my hemline.
“Pine cone?”
It takes a second to register that the question is directed at me. Slowly I turn my head, taking in the dark-haired stranger two seats over. He’s violating at least seven social rules by not pretending he didn’t notice my jack-in-the-box routine. I’m debating whether to act like I didn’t hear him when an announcement crackles over the loudspeaker, informing us that the baggage carousel is experiencing mechanical issues.
