Performed at Vancouver Story Slam February 2024
I got the call on a Tuesday.
‘It doesn’t look good for Joan, it’s cancer,’ said the voice on the other end.
Five days, two airports, and three cities later, I’m holding her hand as she passes.
In the room, we were discussing Yellowjackets, and our joke to the hospice nurses that she must have really wanted to avoid spoilers, demonstrated our family’s dark humor and how we Reddekopps use humor to mask our feelings.
Joan was my great aunt and godmother, my Grandmother’s baby sister, who had been our family’s matriarch for the past 30 years.
Brilliant, and slightly crazy, like all great matriarchs, Joan was known for her love of her family, cats, AND her inability to keep a secret.
That final belief was about to be challenged in a manner that would rock us to our very core.
48 hours later and we are going through her apartment when I hear my mom’s shaky voice call out, ‘Erin, can you come in here? I found something.’
I walk to the bedroom, silently praying that she hadn’t found sex toys or naked photos. After all, this is the woman who, when asked what she was giving up for Lent, announced ‘sex and cigarettes’ to my father and his cousins and siblings when they were young.
Mom tosses me an innocent-looking travel bag from the 70s, which at the moment’s only crime is being slightly tacky, and says…’I found human remains.’
Grief and shock do weird things to you because, Yes, My normally thoughtful and proper mother has essentially just said, ‘Here catch, and possibly thrown me a literal bone.’
I drop the bag immediately, and very delicately pry it open the bag with a pen. Much to my relief, it’s not a disembodied head, but a bag of what appears to be unlabeled cremated remains.
I’m going to blame shock for my next actions because I really leaned into my inner chaos demon, taking out my phone and sending a picture of the ashes to my dad with the message, ‘Found something weird in Joan’s closet, do you know who this is?’
As I wait for Dad’s response, I jump into detective mode. I’m an expert detective; I have read and watched a lot of mysteries.
My first thought is one of her old cats, but a quick shake of their little urns confirms that they are indeed still in there.
Next, I weigh the bag, and since I’m an expert, I consult Google, WebMD, and reddit, and confirm these are, in fact, cremated remains and are likely someone who was around 135 pounds.
Now Joan was unmarried and childless, could this be a secret lover? An illegitimate love child? A mortal enemy? Endless possibilities.
I assure my mother that I don’t think Joan was a secret murderer. She was friends with nuns and priests for Christ’s sake. But my mother no longer believes this, especially since we keep finding piles of cash hidden around the apartment.
To be honest, I’m starting to wonder if 90-year-old great aunt had been a secret assassin? I’m still doubtful, but things have gotten rather strange.
For the next hour or so, I continue to search for some clue to who this might be when my Uncle arrives and immediately says, ‘You put that in a text message? What were you thinking?’
I start to wonder if we’re no longer in investigation mode and have fully moved into cover-up mode and am I now an accessory? Should I have reported it? My fingerprints are now everywhere. I’m too privileged to survive jail. TV and Books had taught me how to solve mysteries, not how to get away with actual crimes.
Master criminal mode doesn’t last long and my curiosity wins out, and I suggest we place the bag on the memorial table with a sign that says, ‘Do you know who I am?’ Unsurprisingly my family rejects this idea, as is my suggestion to ask people as they arrive if they might be missing a loved one that was around 135 pounds?
I’m told, a funeral is no place for an investigation, but my inner detective is wondering when else will I get a chance to have all of my aunt’s friends and acquaintances in one place at one time.
I’m starting to feel like my great aunt, the family gossip, and woman I would vote most likely to spill your secret, had taken a big one to her grave.
When my dad’s cousin Frankie arrives and Frankie is morbidly curious like me.
‘Show me the ashes,’ she whispers, and we sneak into the other room so I can show her.
She opens the bag, takes out a bit of the ashes, rubs it through her fingers, sniffs it, and bursts out laughing. I know who it is.
‘Who?’ I exclaim.
‘It’s Callie’s,’ I don’t listen to the next word. Callie is my aunt’s rescue cat and still alive, so the next word must be the former owner. Yup, my aunt killed someone to get a cat, and that fits.
But I realize Frankie hadn’t said owner, Frankie had said litter. It was a bag of Callie’s litter. A weird sandy litter.
And so my detective days were over before they started. The case of ‘Why my great aunt had a bag of cat litter in a travel bag from the 70s in the back of her closet?’ does not have the same draw as what literal skeletons she was hiding in there.
I guess you’re not a detective just because you watched someone play one on TV.
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events or individuals. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. While certain elements of this story may be based on real-life experiences or anecdotes, significant creative license has been taken to adapt and fictionalize these elements for narrative purposes. The views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any person or entity mentioned in the narrative. All rights reserved. © Erin Reddekopp 2024
Erin Reddekopp 