“Thanks, Dad.”
He smiled, held it for a moment, then leaned down to whisper in my ear. “But if you ever come into my bar with a bruised and swollen face again, we’re going to have a serious talk about your official business and everything it entails.”
Damn. I thought I’d gotten away with it. I thought I’d convinced him that my ass-kicking was more of an educational experience than a scarred-for-life one.
My shoulders deflated. “Fine,” I said, adding a slight whine to my normally nonalcoholic voice.
He kissed my cheek and took off to cover the bar. Apparently, Donnie hadn’t come in yet. Donnie was a quiet Native American with long black hair and killer pecs. He didn’t care enough about me to give me the time of day, but I pretty much had the time-of-day thing covered anyway. And Donnie was nice to look at.
Uncle Bob closed his cell phone and placed his full attention on me. It was unsettling. “So,” he said, “you want to tell me what was happening when I walked into your office this morning?”
Oh, that. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. Making out with air must look ridiculous to the ordinary passerby.
“How bad was it?” I asked him.
“Not bad, I guess. I thought you were having a panic attack or something. But then I realized Cookie and Swopes were just staring at you, so I figured whatever it was couldn’t have been life-threatening.”
“Right, because Swopes would have been right there, giving me mouth-to-mouth or something else heroic.”
Uncle Bob tilted his head as he thought back. “Actually, it was more the look of utter longing on Cookie’s face.”
A bubble of laughter rose from my throat. I could totally see the euphoria in Cookie’s expression. Uncle Bob sat patiently, his furry brows raised in question as he waited for an explanation.
Well, he wasn’t getting one. “You know, Uncle Bob, we might want to steer clear of this particular subject, you being my uncle and all.”
“Okay,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, pretending to drop the subject. He sipped from his iced tea, then added, “Swopes seemed pretty upset, though. Figured you might know why.”
“I do. He’s an ass**le.”
“He’s a little moody sometimes, I’ll give you that.”
“So was Josef Mengele.”
“But in his defense,” he continued, doing his best to placate me, “this whole rift between you two is my fault. If I’d just kept my mouth shut. Darn those lagers.”
“Well, lagers didn’t turn Swopes into an ass**le. I’m pretty sure he was born that way.”
Uncle Bob sucked in a long, deep breath, then dropped the subject for real. “I can see where this is not going. But dammit, Charley, I have a job to do.” I blinked in surprise, and he grinned. “I have to go harass your dad.” He rose from the table and patted my shoulder, which was his way of saying we were good.
I slipped my hand onto his. “Harass him some for me, will you?”
After a soft squeeze, Uncle Bob strolled over to the bar, claiming—loudly—to be an investigator from the CDC. I cringed. Dad found few things less humorous than the thought of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention paying him a visit. It lay somewhere between an IRS audit and a class action lawsuit.
I glanced back at the lawyers. They were sitting around the table—Uncle Bob had pulled out chairs for them—and talking amongst themselves.
“Do you know when your funeral is?” Elizabeth asked Sussman, her voice tainted with sadness.
He lowered his head. “They’re meeting with the funeral director this afternoon.”
She put her hand on his. “How is Michelle doing?”
“Not well. I need to get back to her.”
Uh-oh. He was going to be one of those departed who stays behind to take care of his family. Similar to the idea that Barber could pale in shock, a ghost taking care of his family was physiologically impossible. I’d have to try to dissuade him from that path when all was said and done.
“What about you?” Barber asked Elizabeth. “Do you know when your funeral is?”
“I haven’t heard either.” She hedged closer to him. “So, are you going to yours?”
Barber shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you going to yours?”
“I figured I might.”
“Oh yeah?”
Elizabeth smiled and scooted closer. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“Uh-oh.”
“If you’ll go with me to my funeral, I’ll go with you to yours.”
Barber thought about that for a moment, then gave a reluctant shrug. I tried not to crack up. They were like junior high kids trying to convince themselves they didn’t really want to go to the school dance.
“I guess we could do that,” Barber said. “You in, Patrick?”
“What?” Sussman seemed a thousand solar systems away. He forced his attention back to his colleagues. “I don’t know. Seems kind of morbid.”
“Come on,” Elizabeth said. “We can listen to all the wonderful comments about us from the relatives who hated us most.”
Sussman sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course we are.” Elizabeth patted his hand, then glanced at me. “Don’t you think he should go to his funeral, Charlotte?”
“His funeral?” I asked, caught off guard. “Oh, well, sure. Who wouldn’t kill to go to their own funeral?”