The Dearly Departed
An unexpectedly joyful comedy of manners that encompasses amateur dramatics, drive-by shootings, political campaigns and golf.When Sunny Batten hears from a brusque, ill-mannered stranger that her beloved mother Margaret has just died in a freak household accident, understandably she thinks that things can't get any worse. But when she discovers that her cranky informant is the son of the man who died alongside Margaret, and that the pair, unbeknownst to their offspring, were engaged to be married, matters take a distinct downward turn.As even-tempered, reasonable Sunny and arrogant, wise-cracking Fletcher take their positions at the funeral, the eyes and ears of the sleepy New Hampshire town of King George are fixed upon them. What excites the graveside gossips more than anything is the mourners' identical, prematurely grey hair. Mere coincidence, or the inescapable workings of shared DNA?With its vivid evocation of small-town life and a cast of unwittingly hilarious characters, ‘The Dearly Departed’ will prompt as many belly laughs as it will tears – and leave you hoping for more despatches from King George long after you’ve turned its final page.
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ELINOR LIPMAN
The Dearly Departed
A NOVEL
This book is dedicated to my son,
BENJAMIN LIPMAN AUSTIN
CONTENTS
Chapter 1: Come Back to King George
Chapter 2: Meet You at the Lake
Chapter 8: Meanwhile, at Boot Lake
Chapter 11: After the Service, No Mourners are Invited Back
Chapter 12: How Long has this Been Going on?
Chapter 14: Fletcher and Billy
Chapter 16: Nobody Slips anything by Winnie
Chapter 18: Fletcher Inherits the Bug
Chapter 21: Life is Simpler than You Think
Chapter 27: Things are Looking up
Sunny met Fletcher for the first time at their parents’ funeral, a huge graveside affair where bagpipes wailed and strangers wept. It was a humid, mosquito-plagued June day, and the grass was spongy from a midnight thunderstorm. They had stayed on the fringes of the crowd until both were rounded up and bossed into the prime mourners’ seats by the funeral director. Sunny wore white—picture hat, dress, wet shoes—and an expression that layered anger over grief: Who is he? How dare he? Are any of these gawkers friends?
Unspoken but universally noticed was the physical attribute she and Fletcher shared—a halo of prematurely gray hair of a beautiful shade and an identical satiny, flyaway texture. No DNA test result, no hints in wills, could be more eloquent than this: the silver corona of signature hair above their thirty-one-year-old, identically furrowed brows.
The King George Bulletin had reported every possible angle, almost gleefully. MARGARET BATTEN, LOCAL ACTRESS, AND FRIEND FOUND UNCONSCIOUS, said the first banner headline, BULLETIN PAPER CARRIER CALLS 911, boasted the kicker. An arty photo—sunrise in King George—of scrawny, helmeted Tyler Lopez on his bike, a folded newspaper frozen in flight, appeared on page 1. “I knew something was wrong when I saw them laying on the floor—the woman and a man,” he told the reporter. “The door was open. I thought they might still be alive, so I used the phone.” Inescapable in the coverage was the suggestion of a double suicide or foul play. Yellow police tape surrounded the small house. Even after tests revealed carbon monoxide in their blood and a crack in the furnace’s heat exchanger, Bulletin reporters carried on, invigorated by a double, coed death on their beat.
A reader named Vickileigh Vaughn wrote a letter to the editor. She wanted to clarify something on the record so all of King George would know: Friend in the headline was inaccurate and possibly libelous. Miles Finn and Margaret Batten were engaged to be married. Friends, yes, but so much more than that. An outdoor wedding had been discussed. If the odorless and invisible killer hadn’t overcome them, Miles would have left, as was his custom, before midnight, after the Channel 9 news.
Sunny was notified by a message on her answering machine. “Sunny? It’s Fletcher Finn, Miles’s son. Could you pick up if you’re there?” Labored breathing filled the pause. “I guess not. Okay. Listen, I don’t know when I can get to a phone again, so I’ll have to give you the news, which is somewhat disturbing.” Another pause, too long for the machine, which clicked off. He called back. “Hi, it’s Fletcher Finn again. Here’s what I was going to say. I’ll make it quick: I got a call from the police in Saint George, New Hampshire—no, sorry, King George. They found our parents unconscious. Nobody knows anything. I’ve got the name of the hospital and the other stuff the cop said. What’s your fax number? Call me. I’ll be up late.”
Sunny phoned the King George police. The crime scene, she was told by a solicitous male voice, was roped off until the lab work came back. Sunny pictured the peeling gray bungalow secured with yellow tape, its sagging porch and overgrown lilacs cinched in the package.
“Are they going to die?” she asked.
“Sunny?” said the officer. “It’s Joe Loach. From Mattatuck Avenue? We were in study hall together junior and senior—”
“I got a message from a Fletcher Finn, who said his father and my mother were found unconscious, but that’s all I know. He didn’t even say what hospital.”
Loach coughed. “Sunny? They weren’t taken to a hospital. It was too late for that.”
He heard a cry and the sound of her palm slipping over the mouthpiece.
“It was the damn carbon monoxide. It builds up over time, and then it’s too late. I’m so sorry. I hate to do this over the phone …”
When she couldn’t answer, he said, “I saw your mother in Driving Miss Daisy
