by Sara Blaedel
“I know his mother.” He grabbed a few plates out of a cupboard. “She never got over it. I didn’t know him or the girl, either, but they were the talk of the town.”
Ilka shook her head when he asked if she had eaten. He handed her some silverware, and she asked if he was ready to talk to the Norton family.
“I already talked to them. I stopped by on the way; they were all at the mother’s house. The funeral service will be on Saturday. They’re keeping the coffin, as was agreed with the deceased, and they’re also going to buy four charms and a silver chain; I’ve billed them for that. But we kept the agreement on the flowers from the mother’s garden.”
Ilka nodded. She thought about a waiter she once knew. He’d taken pride in his ability to convince guests who ordered meatballs to drink an expensive burgundy. It was all in the way you sell, he’d said. And she’d had to agree. Though it said more about him than about the customers at his restaurant.
After Artie finished bragging about his sale, he said the Golden Slumbers Funeral Home had invited them over, so Ilka would have the chance to meet the new owners before starting in on the transfer of ownership. “We can grab a bite to eat before we go; I started the grill.” He nodded toward the back before walking into the garage for the white bucket of fish. “They need to be eaten today.”
Ilka nodded. Not because she was particularly wild about eating the fish he’d put in the back of the hearse, but she could see in Artie’s look that he was testing her again.
Why in hell is there a grill in a funeral home? she asked herself, though she kept her face blank.
“What would you like to drink?” Artie walked over to the refrigerator. “I’m having a beer.”
His words were innocent enough, but something in his tone and, again, the look in his eye annoyed her. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Not at all? Never a beer, never a glass of wine?” He eyed her. “You have a drinking problem?”
She tilted her head and gazed at him. Whenever she turned down an offer of alcohol, the obligatory question followed: Why? She weighed which version would be best to throw at him. “I don’t have a problem with alcohol. It’s just I don’t like it.”
She read his eyes; he seemed to accept her explanation and presumably categorized her as a bore. “So you don’t smoke, either?” he asked later, when he returned with the grilled fish.
Ilka shook her head and found a root beer in the back of the refrigerator.
She held her plate out, and he gave her two delicious-looking pieces of fish, which he offered to fillet. She squeezed lemon juice over them. “There’s bread in the kitchen too,” he said.
“Do you ever miss your gallery and your life in Florida?” she asked.
He slid some fish onto his own plate. “I do, yes.” He spooned up some coleslaw and dumped it over his fish; then he passed it over to her. “I miss the life, sitting in the sun and watching people on Duval Street while I work. It’s a little hard to do that here.”
Ilka asked if he ever painted or sculpted anymore.
“I do wood carving. You’ll see that if you ever stop by my place.”
“But don’t you miss people coming into your gallery and getting excited about what you’ve created?” She remembered how proud Erik had been when people praised his photographic portraits at the few exhibitions he’d held.
He chewed without looking at her. “It’s more that I miss talking to people, like when they stopped by to see Artie the Artist.”
She almost laughed but stopped herself when she saw he was serious.
“I miss all the variety, the diversity, the tolerance. You probably won’t be here long enough to see how people in this town all think the same way. How little anyone stands out, how much gets left unsaid, because no one thinks it’s worth making someone mad. I miss the crazy guy with the big hat who got drunk and sang on the way home from Sloppy Joe’s bar. I miss the tourists kissing on the beach at sundown. Keith telling crazy stories he made up about Hemingway. Bald-faced lies. All the pleasuremongers and street artists. And the women. You meet the best women in Key West. And then of course I miss the climate,” he added. “It’s cold as a well-digger’s ass up here, most of the time. And everybody talks about the weather, all the time.”
“We do that in Denmark, too. In many ways, we’re lucky to live where the weather is always changing. At least it gives people something to talk about.”
He smiled and took the last bite of his fish. Ilka looked him over for a moment. It was easy to imagine Artie the Artist on a porch, wearing his Hawaiian shirt, listening to the Beach Boys. In fact, it was harder to picture this gaudy undertaker behind a closed door with the big fan roaring.
“And I miss the food,” he added.
“Why didn’t you go back?” She drank the rest of her root beer, which tasted like bubblegum in a bottle.
Artie checked his watch before standing and picking up their plates. He nodded toward the preparation room. “If I weren’t here, who would make sure they look decent?”
“There must be others who could. Surely you don’t need an art education to learn how to embalm.”
“Anyone can do the embalming, but not many people can re-create a face and bring it back to life.”
Ilka didn’t ask, but then she didn’t need to. It wasn’t hard to see that the appreciation of a deceased’s relatives was much deeper and more meaningful than remarks from happy tourists strolling by Artie the Artist on the main street of Key West.
He carried the plates into the small kitchen and returned. “Ready to go?”
She nodded; then she asked if Sister Eileen ever ate with him.
“Once in a while. Mostly she eats lunch by herself at her place.”
His black pickup was parked just outside the door. Artie pointed to the end of the addition that held the coffin storage room. “She has a little apartment; she likes to go over there on breaks. I don’t know how it is in Denmark, but here, she’s not on salary. She’s a volunteer, and she receives donations for the work she does. She gives most of the money to the church. Occasionally your dad put on small charity auctions; the profit was donated to her parish. She liked your dad a lot, and he understood how important it was to her to be useful. But nuns aren’t allowed to take salaried jobs. I haven’t said anything to her yet, but if I take over, she can stay with me.”
Ilka got into the passenger side of the pickup.
“Even though there probably won’t be much to do at first. All this business with laminating and bookmarks and folders, I won’t need that. But she’ll still talk to people and greet them, and a lot of them like how the church is represented here, sort of.”
They drove past several small bars and restaurants she hadn’t noticed before. On the sidewalk in front of a big Harley-Davidson dealership, enormous bikes were lined up in an impressive row. But it still seemed like no one was home in Racine. Artie hung a right on the coast road, and after a few hundred yards he turned in. They drove past an impressive building and farther on to a large parking lot that spread out on both sides of the road; Ilka thought it was the city hall until she noticed the sign with cursive script—GOLDEN SLUMBERS FUNERAL HOME. Behind the parking lot, Lake Michigan was completely calm, and the American flag on the enormous flagpole barely moved. The flagpole was fenced in on a small plot of grass in the middle of the parking lot.
Artie led her to a back door with EMPLOYEES ONLY written on it. A tall body-builder type in his early thirties stood outside nearby, smoking a cigarette. His face had delicate features, and he nodded when they approached and told them to go on in. Ilka couldn’t help looking closely. His dark eyes were so deep set that his forehead cast a shadow over his irises. Otherwise he was handsome enough.
“What are we actually going to talk about in here?” she whispered. She looked around. “I haven’t heard from my lawyer yet. I don’t dare sign anything that has to do with the deal, not before she contacts me.”
They walked down a long, high-ceilinged passa
geway with big windows on both sides that reminded Ilka of the party tents rented out in Denmark, except the passageway was wood. A red deep-pile runner lay on the floor, and small decorative gold rosettes lined the walls. Three short steps at the end led up to the building itself. Red rugs also covered the floors inside, and behind a massive mahogany desk sat a nun who looked like Sister Eileen’s twin. She stood and smiled when they approached; then she asked them to follow her. She wore the same type of shoes as Sister Eileen, beige and soft, almost indistinguishable from her tightly woven skin-toned nylons.
“We’re just here to say hello; they want to meet you,” Artie said. She felt his hand on her back, as if he were leading her on a dance floor.
“They’re waiting for you. Please go on in!”
Ilka hadn’t thought much about what to expect, but she froze when she walked into the enormous high-paneled room with heavy draperies and an oval conference table, high-gloss finish, made from the same massive mahogany as the desk outside.
At one end of the table sat a plump but elegant elderly woman wearing a dark blue suit, her hair piled on top of her head. A man sat at the other end. Ilka guessed he was in his early sixties. His hair was neatly cut and almost white, and he wore a vest under a dark blue suit with a muted tie. A small, neatly folded handkerchief stuck up out of his suit pocket. A thin woman a few years younger than Ilka sat between the two. Carlotta was arrogant and snobbish; Artie had told her before they walked in. That sounded accurate to Ilka, the way the woman watched her as she walked around the table shaking hands. Beside her sat her older brother, David, a stocky man with acne scars. He stared down at a stack of papers. The third brother, Jesse, was still outside smoking. All three of Phyllis’s children had deep-set eyes that gave their faces an oddly anonymous look.
Artie had explained that Phyllis Oldham inherited the funeral home from her husband, Douglas. He had run the business with his brother, Howard, the English-gentleman type at the end of the table.
Mrs. Oldham stood up and warmly welcomed Paul Jensen’s Danish daughter to Racine. Her large ice-blue eyes sparkled. The children must have gotten their eyes from their father, Ilka thought, which a glance at their uncle confirmed.
“Have you been to the museum? There’s a great deal about the Danish immigrants who came to Racine in the late 1800s. Two-thirds of the townspeople at the time were once from Denmark, did you know that? You’ll meet many of their descendants out in West Racine.” She added that some of them still spoke Danish.
“Coffee will be served in a moment,” Howard said, “and we also have kringles. After all, you Danes did bring the kringle to our town.” You Danes—it was almost as if Ilka personally had introduced the pastry to Racine.
“We have three Danish bakers famous for their kringles. Thanks to them, Racine is known as Kringle Town.” He laughed. “President Obama even visited one of our bakers in 2010 to try out a kringle before a meeting.”
The sister knocked on the door and came in with a large white cardboard box containing an oval kringle with icing. “A black currant kringle.” She set it on the table and then handed out cups to everyone.
Ilka bit into what they proudly called the “famous Danish kringle.” Unlike the kringles in Copenhagen bakeries, it was as heavy as a rum ball. There was nothing light, airy, and sugary about the clump of dough with thick icing, so sweet that her teeth screamed. Everyone else seemed happy with it, though; Artie had already gobbled his up before coffee was poured.
“We were very fond of Paul,” Mrs. Oldham said after everyone had been served. “He was a good and loyal colleague, though we of course were competitors. But we always chose to think of ourselves as colleagues; that’s a much better way to do business in a small town like Racine. We were all very sad when we heard he passed away.”
The door behind them opened, and Jesse, the son who had been standing outside smoking, walked in. He sat down beside his mother and helped himself to a piece of the kringle.
None of the children had spoken; it was easy to decode the hierarchy at Golden Slumbers.
“We were also very sorry to hear about the difficulties your father fell into before his death,” Mrs. Oldham continued. “And as we told Artie, we would like to help you out of this unfortunate situation.”
Ilka said nothing, though it annoyed her that the family matriarch made it sound as if they only wanted to bail an old friend out of trouble. To top it off, an old dead friend. As if they were forking over sixty thousand dollars only as a personal favor.
“Fortunately we’re also able to act quickly. Tomorrow is the IRS deadline, isn’t that right?”
Artie nodded.
“What exactly happens with this type of business deal?” Ilka asked. “As I understand, it’s not the physical assets of my father’s business you’re buying, only…the business part.”
Phyllis and Howard Oldham both nodded. “Business activities, yes.”
“And now you’ll be dealing with the tax authorities?” she added.
They nodded again. The three siblings sitting in silence like stone statues were getting on Ilka’s nerves. Apparently, they were following the conversation; each sat with a pen and sheet of paper, onto which they occasionally scribbled something.
“We are completely okay with that,” Howard said. “The first thing to take care of is the sixty thousand dollars to be paid tomorrow. After that, the final amount will be settled, presumably within the next…maybe six months.”
“But you can take over all the business activities immediately?” Ilka asked. She was thinking of the man they had just picked up at the morgue. It would certainly be nice to avoid the expenses connected with him, especially now that it looked like his family wouldn’t be able to pay for his burial.
Howard nodded. “Of course that’s contingent on you signing the sales agreement; that has to be done by noon tomorrow at the latest to avoid having the IRS freeze all the assets. But if everything goes smoothly, we’ll be ready to take over by this weekend. We’ll be able to handle the current clients you have and all those who might come in.”
He pointed at the sons. “Jesse handles the pickups in our business; his older brother and I do the embalming; while Phyllis and Carlotta handle all contact with the relatives, all sales and marketing and printed material.”
“But we’d like to show you around,” Mrs. Oldham said. “You haven’t even seen what we have to offer.” She pointed at her eldest son and asked him to take Miss Nichols around. “Have a look across the street, too.”
He looked terrified; his mother might as well have grabbed a belt and whipped him. He uttered a weak excuse about having to go downstairs, something about a coffin that needed to be sent to the crematorium before three.
Mrs. Oldham’s eyes lingered on him for a moment. Then she straightened up, smiled at Ilka, and told her she would be very pleased to take over. She immediately stood and strode toward the door. “Follow me; I’ll show you our business.”
Ilka was already impressed when they reached the second floor, where a large display room was practically decorated with coffins. As if it were a safari hunter’s trophy room, they had hung the ends of coffins in perfectly spaced rows on all the walls. Coffins of all colors, coffins with carvings and without any decoration. Varnished and unvarnished. It was like stepping into a luxury catalog; nothing was ordinary. Urns of gold and glazed clay, large centerpieces to be decorated with photos and placed on coffins. There was even an example of how it would look if an enlarged photo of the deceased covered the entire coffin lid. Overwhelming, and way too much. Nothing could be further from the more Spartan Danish mentality concerning funeral and burial ceremonies.
After Erik died, Ilka didn’t get out of her pajamas for three days. The funeral director had come to their house and showed her a folder. Photos of various coffins that looked absolutely nothing like what hung from the walls here. Ilka had also chosen the chapel from pictures he brought out. Also, the decoration for the coffin, though she chang
ed her mind later. Erik’s coffin had been covered with yellow tulips, a flower he had loved.
They walked back downstairs. Phyllis Oldham was agile and a fast talker. Ilka noticed the same stink of formaldehyde as in their funeral home, not only in the hallway but all over the first floor. Heavy paintings in gaudy frames hung from the walls. It was all overwhelming, yet it also projected authority, proof that the Oldham family was successful and had been for many years. One wall was devoted to pictures of the family over four generations; it probably goes even further back, Ilka thought. She followed Mrs. Oldham across the street to an even larger building.
“These rooms are for larger funeral arrangements we can’t handle across the street.” She nodded at the building they’d just left. “We also have live music here. We’ve had gospel choirs as well as string orchestras.”
They walked into a large, high-ceilinged hall with seats and a stage at the end, like a theater. It was beautiful. And it could hold almost one thousand people, Mrs. Oldham said. “We rent this out for weddings when there are no funeral arrangements. The acoustics in here are so good that we’ve also put on a few concerts open to the public.”
Ilka smiled. She wondered how her father had made any sort of a living, having to compete with Golden Slumbers.
Mrs. Oldham smiled back at Ilka. “There will always be a need for funeral homes.” She turned off the lights in the large crystal chandelier, and they headed back to the office across the street. “It’s a bit like hairdressers and lawyers.”
She walked faster now, though it seemed wrong somehow, moving so fast through a funeral home. Ilka could barely keep up.
“As I said, David takes care of preparation. We have an elevator, so the deceased comes directly up to Reception from the parking lot. We have two large cold rooms in there, and out back the florist has her own room. When they come to decorate, they can just walk in. They can also decorate out here when necessary. And we have our own crematorium; it’s on the outskirts of town.”
Earlier, Ilka had thought that the crematorium might be at the rear of the building, that they burned the deceased in the middle of town, which made her uneasy. But Artie had explained there were small apartments in back that they rented to relatives arriving from out of town.
