Bury Her Gently
by
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It was a late Sunday afternoon, and we were all sitting in the dining room--my sister Janet, Father and I, Will, Jack--watching Grandfather carve the enormous stuffed goose which resembled the dumpy, overly-dressed Mrs. Whittleson. Formerly, Madam Ginette du Fleur, of the House of Sin and now the rich widow who had moved into the big two-storied brick house across the street, with a butler, maid and chauffeur. Hedges neatly trimmed. Shutters partly closed (that smug look of money). But each morning appearing in the doorway a vision of utter loveliness that took my breath away--a young girl about twenty, flimsily clad and barefooted, with one red-enameled toe pointing outward as she stooped over for the morning newspaper. House number 47. Ours was 42. In those days, the hedges of the Plain Frame, as we called it, looked scraggily, unkempt, and there were no shutters (if there were, they wouldn't have been closed like Mrs. Whittleson's, because Grandfather liked to keep an eye on the neighborhood). We had no butler, maid or chauffeur, and the Family Car -- Grandfather's old Model T Ford barely ran. Even worse, we had no money and the mortgage payment on the old homestead was due at the end of September. Mr. Franklin, at the Building and Loan, had warned us that we would have to come up with the money by then or be foreclosed upon. But Grandfather wasn't a bit worried. He said something would show up, and it did. About the middle of August Mrs. Whittleson decided to buy the house across the street, and that same day Grandfather called up Mr. Plummer. Mr. Plummer was our funeral director, though he didn't look much like one. He was a thin, quiet man who always wore a dirty cotton plaid shirt and overalls. Actually he was a chicken farmer most of the time, when he wasn't burying people. He lived in an old shabby farmhouse about thirty miles away, and every Sunday after church let out, he would come over to our house and sell Grandfather two dozens of eggs and a couple of chickens. So people around there were accustomed to seeing him and his green paneled truck. When Grandfather told Mr. Plummer about Mrs. Whittleson moving in across the street and how rich she was, he gave us the goose for nothing, and that's how we got to have it stuffed that Sunday.
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About the Book
This is a story about a three-generation family that swindles wealthy people with counterfeit gold mine certificates, then murders and buries them with the help of their own private undertaker. The time is 1940, the Bronx, and they live in a rundown frame house and drive around in an old Model T Ford-the Grandfather (head of the family and charmer of the ladies), the Father, an artist (who fears going to the Poorhouse) and his three young sons, Freddy (the lovesick narrator), Will (the shy bookworm), and Jack (the handsome, heartless womanizer), and his daughter Janet who is pregnant by her gambler-boyfriend, whom she refuses to marry, and whom Freddy dislikes immensely. The present victim is a wealthy middle-aged widow (an ex-Madam of a Brothel) who moves into the big house across the street with her lovely stepdaughter, servants, and a chauffeur-driven limousine. While the Grandfather "woos" the widow for her money, the three grandsons compete for the stepdaughter's affection. SUSPENSEFUL, WITTY, HUMOROUS, AND SEXY! The "Grandfather" character was written as a dedication to the memory of the late actor, Cesar Romero, in the movie OCEAN'S ELEVEN, with Frank Sinatra, 1960.
About the Author
S.A. Sedlak resides in the Chicago area and is a former editor of children's books and a publicity and public relations writer. The author is listed in MARQUIS WHO'S WHO, U.S.A., and the IBC-INTERNATIONAL BIOGRAPHICAL CENTRE of Cambridge, England.