Beach Strip by John Lawrence Reynolds

There’s the widow, I could imagine them saying. I didn’t want them seeing or saying anything about me.
    “Come in,” I said, walking back to the kitchen table.
    Mel closed the door and leaned against it, inside the house but not in the kitchen. “I called the station this morning,” he said. “The lab says that’s definitely semen from the floor of the garden shed. They’ll do a DNA analysis for identification purposes in case they come up with a suspect.”
    I didn’t want a suspect for perversion. I wanted a suspect for the murder of my husband. More than that, I wanted the murderer himself. I wanted Mel to help me find him and help me kill him. I honestly had that thought, staring across the garden at the boardwalk and the beach beyond, where Gabe had died.
    “Is it possible …” I began. I started over. “Is it possible that whoever killed Gabe—”
    “Josie—”
    “Let me finish. Is it possible that whoever killed Gabe mighthave hidden in the shed and followed him to the beach, into the bushes?”
    “The guy whose semen we found?”
    I shrugged.
    “First, we don’t know if anybody was in there at the time. And second, Josie, Gabe did it. It’s clear as hell—”
    “No, he didn’t.”
    Mel looked up at the ceiling, rolled his eyes, and spread his arms in a gesture of defeat. “There’s something else,” he said. “The body … Gabe is being released today.”
    I sat staring at the wall, my chin on my hand.
    “They need to know what you want to do, Josie,” Mel said. “Have you made arrangements for burial? Have you chosen a funeral parlour, an undertaker?”
    “No.”
    “You have to.”
    “I’ll wait for Tina. My sister,” I added when he stood scratching an eyebrow and looking puzzled. “One of us will call later. Who do we talk to?”
    Mel removed his notepad, scribbled a name and telephone number on the top sheet, tore it off, and walked to where I sat, placing the paper in front of me. “I’m worried about you,” he said.
    “Good.” I reached for his hand. “So am I.”
    Mel said nothing. Then, “I’ll call later,” and he walked to the back door.
    “Do we need that damn yellow tape around the garden shed?” I asked.
    “Not really,” he said. “You want me to take it off?”
    I nodded and followed him into the garden.
    Pulling the tape from the door, he called over his shoulder, “Walter Freeman’s arranging a ceremony for Gabe next week.”
    I told Mel I didn’t want one.
    “Doesn’t matter.” He carried the yellow tape to the trash pail.“A cop dies, there’s a ceremony for him. You can do what you want about a funeral, but cops like to have a ceremony.” He brushed his hands together and looked at me. “Even when it’s a suicide.”
    I told Mel it wasn’t a suicide.
    “I wish you’d see it that way. Anyway, he’ll want you there. For the services.”
    I told him to tell Walter if I wasn’t there he could start without me. Then I turned and went back into the house.
    I didn’t need a place to visit Gabe. I didn’t need a block of marble in a cemetery to tell me who and where and what he was. And I didn’t need an undertaker selling me a five-thousand-dollar coffin either. There would be no ceremony with me present. Walter Freeman could do whatever the hell he wanted. I would have Gabe cremated and scatter his ashes on the lake.
    TINA CAME DOWNSTAIRS AN HOUR LATER wearing a peach-coloured robe and L’Air du Temps. She walked to me without a word and placed her arms around me, more of an embrace than a hug.
    “You missed Blue Eyes,” I said when she straightened up and poured herself a coffee.
    “Who?”
    “Mel. He was here this morning. Gabe’s body is …” I swallowed the lump and started again. “They’re releasing Gabe’s body today. They want me to choose an undertaker. How the hell do you choose an undertaker?”
    Tina set her coffee cup down and asked where my telephone book was.
    I chose the funeral parlour nearest to the police