Bettie’s
Akron clan gather once more for a big family event – only this time it’s all
over to the Isle of Man for the funeral of her dearly departed third husband.
The day of Big Frank’s funeral was a mess. Monsoon weather.
Caterer’s ferry sunk without trace. Less hotel space than Bethlehem on
Christmas Eve. Unable to cope with any more family-related stress this side of
the next millennium, I dodged the entire fiasco and went shopping with Mother.
Luckily, she’d flown in that morning and was the only other person on the
entire planet who understood that I needed to pick up a few essentials.
Because, according to ma mère: “Anyone who tells you a new pair of shoes won’t
change your life, say, ‘Go tell that to Cinderella’.”
Definitely the worst part of that afternoon’s interminable
internment was when Mona and I shuffled up to the open casket. When we peered
into the silk-lined interior, I found that Baz and Lionel’s promise to tart up
the ol’ sonofabitch was certainly not idle.
“Who’s that?” asked my confused ex-maid, as she gazed at the
pancake-faced corpse.
“It’s Big Frank!”
“Well… I hope when he gets to the Pearly Gates, St. Peter
still recognizes him.”
Curtain down and cremation fires burning, I fled the crowd
of invited Manx dignitaries, Hubby #3’s mafioso kith and kin, casino bigwigs
and herds of paparazzi C-listers, sidestepped all three members of the Isle Of
Man’s ‘Save the Whalebone Corset’ Action Group, and found myself alone in the
candle-lit emptiness of the organist’s anteroom. Or so I first thought. Because
when my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw three shadows over by the altar. And
it sounded as if they were all having a heated hushed debate.
Mother: “How could you tell Bettie I was dead?”
USS Invincible:
“Well, would you have preferred I’d told her the truth?”
Mother: “What, that you were a militant transvestite German
bisexual assassin trapped in the USA – and
in the wrong body – without hope of rescue, who was forced to declare oneself
insane to avoid capture?”
USS Invincible:
“Well, I guess when you put it like that…”
Dinkelïcker: “The international case is closed. That’s why
I’m here to extract you both back to the Vaterland.”
USS Invincible:
“Yes, we’re going on a World Tour!”
Mother: “Now, I know
you’re crazy. No, I’m gonna stay with my daughters.”
USS Invincible:
“Bettie and Muffy? Suit yourself.”
Mother: “Just one more thing before you go: how did you
escape that high-security hospital?”
USS Invincible:
“Well, who d’ya think smuggled those
flesh-eating bugs into that Lake Erie nuthouse?”
Well hey, diary, fait
accompli, anyone? You see, unfortunately for him, clever ol’ ma mère had her
finger on the public address button. And Interpol on speed dial.
Admittedly, the attendance of the CIA, UN Police and New
Scotland Yard at the wake buffet got a few odd looks, but ultimately the
tequila slammers proved far, far thicker than water. Still, I don’t know what
was worse: finding out my father was an international terrorist or that Muffy
was my actual sister. So, with father and Dinkelïcker’s arrests over, that left
just one thing on my last Jerinda-inspired to-do list. After losing my husband
to the Irish Sea, next was my liver to the vicar’s single malt whiskey.
“In my humble opinion, Bettie,” said Father ‘The Octopus’
O’Leary at the end of the evening, while attempting to comfort me with both hands. “I just don’t think you’re gonna
find another man like your late husband.”
Buster, who the hell’s gonna look?
