Page 41 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

Me:What do you say we get outta here and go to pound town?

Hands down I am the horniest person at this funeral. Obviously not sending that one.

At this point, I’m so focused on crafting the perfect message that the funeral crowd behind me fades into the background. I rest my elbows on the casket and lean over Cran’s body, thinking,What are some classy synonyms for pound town?when Louis suddenly leaps to his feet and barks, startling me into dropping my phone.

I go for the save and bobble it like I’m some kind of sports guy, but it falls anyway, and as I reach down to pick it up, I discover that they put Cran in anunnecessarilyslippery suit and all I can do is watch in horror as my phone slides away from me.

Disappearing deep into the coffin with the dead guy.

Chapter 13

Okay, no big deal.

I desecrated the body.

I’ll justundesecrate it real fast before anybody notices.

I’m about to stealthily retrieve my phone when Louis barks again, a man steps into my periphery, and I panic, doing the first thing I can think of, a thing that makes perfect sense in the moment: I throw myself over Cran, grieving mobster-widow style, and fake a sob.

It makes a lotlesssense in the moment afterward, but it’s too late. I’ve committed to this, now I have to see it through.

“Are you okay?” the man asks tentatively.

My face is pressed into a dead man.

I am definitely not okay.

“It was just so sudden,” I mumble into Cran’s chest, subtly trying to feel around for the phone without this guy catching on. “Er... could you find me a tissue?”

The guy hesitates and then says, “I’ll be right back.”

While he steps away, I quickly get more aggressive in my search—when my hand hits something hard, I instinctively pull it out, even though I almost immediately realize it’s the wrong size and shape (a matchbook—did it fall out of his coat pocket?), but I don’t stop to put it back, I thrust my hand farther in until I feel the familiar edge of my phone. I yank it up just in the nick of time.

I will be sterilizing this hunk of metal the second I get back home.

Also showering for an hour.

And no more playing in coffins.

“Here you go,” the guy says, returning.

“Thanks a ton,” I say, sniffling into the tissue. “I’m Mo.”

“Hi, Mo,” he says with a nod.

Unlike the rest of the room, this guy actually seems a little sad. He’s easily got a foot and a half on me, and his overgrown dark hair makes him look even sadder. In one hand, he’s holding half a turkey sandwich from the refreshments table, and I prepare to forcibly hold Jean back from eating it, but for once, he doesn’t seem interested.

Instead, the massive poodle is leaning against the back of my legs. I silently pray that Leslie’s purse dog didn’t make him sick—one thing this funeral clearly doesn’t need is dog barf everywhere to really drive home the futility of life.

The guy reaches out for a handshake. “I’m Tond.”

“Nice to meet you, Todd,” I say.

“Tond,” he corrects me, like everyone has heard of that very common name. “How did you know Cran?”

Since I deployed the crying-in-the-coffin strategy to cover my grope for the phone, I’m sort of stuck with that vibe. “How did I know him?” I echo, running my finger along the edge of the casket and thinking fast. “I was his girlfriend.”

He frowns. “You don’t look like a model.”