Truth, Lies, and Second Dates - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,34

were equally dangerous.

She hopped out of her rental car, the same silver Mitsubishi Mirage that bore a strong resemblance to an electric shaver, waved to Tom (who was climbing out of a practical, navy blue minivan), then took his elbow as they crossed the parking lot to the Crisp and Gross Funeral Home.

“Relatively speaking, are you all right?” Tom murmured, and she realized she was dragging her feet and probably showing too much of the whites of her eyes, like a spooked donkey who just got a whiff of fire.

“Yeah,” she managed. “Just thinking how silly it is to see a Tudor-style building in a Saint Paul suburb.”

“Sure you were,” he said, and patted the hand clutching his elbow, and they headed in. He tripped on the curb, then steadied himself with the air of a man who did it every day. Probably because he was a man who did it every day.

Okay, this isn’t so bad. Same people and same setup, but it’s not so … nope, spoke too soon, here comes the déjà vu.

Yep. Same mourners, same subdued air, same setup, same everything.

A few people turned when they entered, and she found herself the recipient of unsettling stares. She looked down to make sure she hadn’t accidentally tucked her skirt into the back of her panties again. Whew! All clear.

“Okay, focus up … first I want to introduce you to Pat, the head geezer of the Monahan clan who might also be Satan because he can talk anyone into anything.”

“Don’t tease,” Tom replied in a low voice. “I would love to meet Satan. So many questions.”

Wow. Okay, focus. “My parents had three cars when there were only two drivers, and he talked them into a fourth.” So silly, as eleven-year-old Ava had pointed out. Yeah, he kinda wore us down, her father had replied with an abashed grin. When they died, she inherited all four cars and promptly sold three of them to pay for rehab. Hazelden was wonderful, but expensive, and with her parents’ death, she was off their insurance plan.

“Hello, Ava. You’re looking … prepared.”

Ava blinked. “Thank you?” The speaker was Mrs. Monahan, with Xenia right behind her, glaring at Ava with red-rimmed eyes. “I wish we didn’t have to keep meeting under the same circumstances.”

“Yes, yes.” She was doing that thing with her hands again, like she didn’t know what to do with them. They looked like bony sparrows looking for a place to land. “How convenient that you happened to have more funeral-appropriate clothing in your bag.”

Huh? She looked down at herself: black, A-line, knee-length, short-sleeved dress, black stockings, black flats, a pair of gold studs in her ears—about as much jewelry as she ever wore. “I didn’t, actually. I had the outfit I wore to the first memorial…” Like anyone who flew for a living, she always had her toiletries and at least two changes of clothes in a bag near her at all times, one a perfectly serviceable dark suit, but she didn’t make a habit of planning for memorials. Her life wasn’t that bad. Well. Until recently. “And last night, I online-ordered a few things from J.Jill.” She wasn’t the only pilot to love their clothes: they were comfortable and stylish, and you could wad one of their dresses or skirts in a ball, throw it into a suitcase, and when you got to the hotel, hang it up in the bathroom with a hot shower running. Took about two minutes to steam out the wrinkles. Done. Easy. A little cha-ching, but worth it.

“Oh, you just happened to be able to order a completely new wardrobe at a moment’s notice and have it here within hours?”

“Nooooo,” Ava replied, puzzlement deepening to unease. She knew Xenia and Mrs. Monahan were mourning and on the lookout for a scapegoat—she’d been the same way when her folks died—but why the hostility over her wardrobe and finances? “I ordered a black dress for overnight shipping to my hotel and got pantyhose at the drug store. I already had the flats. And the bra. And the underwear. And before you ask, I didn’t just happen to be walking around with wads of cash. I used a credit card. Which is not an unusual thing. At all.”

“Really.”

“Yep.” Why were they acting like this was a magic trick?

Tom abruptly stuck out a hand, which neatly distracted Dennis’s mom from her oral audit of Ava’s spending habits. “Hello. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Yes, thank you.” She looked from