by Sara Blaedel
The easygoing California summer surfer music contrasted sharply with the strange sight before Ilka, but in a way, Artie’s movements were so gentle that it didn’t seem grotesque.
Ilka cleared her throat loudly so as not to scare him to death; then she asked if she could come in.
He glanced up and nodded a bit absentmindedly before focusing again on the face. Mike’s body was still covered by the sheet; only the face was visible. He lifted a small putty knife out of a bottle of something that reminded Ilka of modeling wax. Then he pressed a small clump of the material into the part of the sunken cheek he’d been brushing and carefully smoothed it out. He leaned closer in and compared the damaged and undamaged cheekbones; then he added more wax and rounded it off to make them look identical.
Ilka was fascinated by his work. He concentrated on applying layer upon layer, and Mike’s cheek and eye socket soon were as prominent as they had been before someone had destroyed them.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I can pick up something if you want to finish here.”
He glanced up at her as if he’d forgotten she’d come in; then he shook his head. “I’m okay, but thanks.”
He concentrated as if he were creating a work of art, and in a way, he was. Ilka noticed the cans of Red Bull lined up on the table by the wall. One of them was open; three others sat there waiting.
“Text me if you change your mind, or if you want a beer when you finish. I’m going out and see if anyone in this town has discovered it’s Friday, the day before the weekend.” She left him to his work.
The food wasn’t exactly a gourmet delight, though there was lots of it. The spareribs that had filled Ilka’s plate were gnawed to the bone, though, by the time the waitress returned to her table and asked if she wanted coffee and cheesecake. Ilka answered with a question of her own: Where do you go on a Friday evening if you’re looking for some company?
Ilka nodded as the young woman told her to drive down the main street and cross the small canal; a little bit farther down, on the right side, was a bar with live music. If she liked that sort of thing.
“But there are other bars,” the girl said. She pointed up the street, away from the square. “I think they have music there, too; I’m not sure.”
Ilka paid her bill and decided to try the bar across the canal. If it wasn’t her type of place, she could check out another bar on the way home.
21
At least there was live music. A group of men about her age was standing around when Ilka walked inside. So far, so good. She squeezed her way through.
It was only a little past nine, but most of the tables were already taken, and the dim bar with the low-hanging lamps was lively. The only other light was a grainy yellow glare from above the bottles behind the bar and a colored string of lights nailed up along the edge, like an elaborate drapery.
Some people were rolling dice, and at a table up next to the stage, a group of women sang loudly. Western hats and boots; the guy standing there with his guitar was going for it, Ilka thought, as she pulled out an empty bar stool and sat down. He sang well, and the vibes in the bar were good. She glanced around while waiting for the bartender in the plaid flannel shirt to notice her.
“Root beer,” she said, when he came over.
The men behind her burst out laughing at something she didn’t hear. They ordered more beer. More people came in; greetings were being yelled all around her. Everybody seemed to know one another, from the conversations going on. “How’s Greg doing?” “Is your mother okay now?” “Did Jenny have her kid?” Where in the world were all these people in the daytime? Not on the street; that was for sure.
Applause, more music. Several people also said hi to Ilka as they walked by or came up to the bar to order.
“Are you new in town?” someone behind her suddenly asked. She turned and stared straight into the face of a guy at least ten years younger than her. Dark hair, blue eyes. Handsome.
She nodded when he asked if he could sit down, but she said no thanks when he offered to buy her a beer. Though every seat around her was taken, he pulled up another bar stool from somewhere. His name was Larry; he’d moved to town to work at Johnson Wax, whose headquarters were located here. He was born and raised in Chicago, had gone to college there also.
Ilka listened with half an ear, nodding occasionally while trying to place the scent he had on. Masculine and yet light. Nice. She didn’t hear his question, which he repeated when she didn’t answer.
“No, I’m just visiting,” she said. She told him she was from Denmark and would be going back. Soon.
“So have you seen anything while you’ve been here? Sailing is good on Lake Michigan, and there are some beautiful lakes in the area. I’ll show you around this weekend if you like.”
Either he was terribly lonesome or he was trying to score. The latter was preferable. Ilka turned to get a better look at him. His hair hung just over his eyes, but not enough that it seemed deliberate. He just needed a haircut. A point in his favor. Dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, no problems there.
“That sounds nice,” she said, and she ordered a beer for him while looking at her root beer, which she hadn’t touched.
The cowboy singer was on break; they were playing Taylor Swift over the house speakers. The women up front sang along. The bar was full now, every table was taken, and crowds of people were standing behind them. Ilka pulled her chair closer to Larry, their legs slipped in between each other’s.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked. Someone walked by and nudged her leg against his; she kept it there. She leaned forward slightly to hear him better.
“Two years.” His cheek happened to brush against hers.
The singer was back onstage, and the music seemed louder than before.
“Let’s go outside,” she suggested. “I can’t hear a thing in here.”
He hesitated for a moment when they stood up, as if he’d lost his nerve when he saw she was taller than him. Quite a bit taller. But he grabbed his beer and followed her anyway.
While elbowing their way to the door, Ilka couldn’t help wondering if anyone here had something to do with the writing on Shelby’s house. This was a small town; somebody here must at least know something, she thought, though everyone seemed friendly and nice enough.
“Denmark, you said?” Larry asked, as they walked down toward the canal. There were a few small sheds on the wharf; motorboats filled one side. “Have you checked out any of the Danish bakeries here? My boss speaks a little Danish. Helmersen’s his name; his wife runs one of the bakeries with her brothers. I think she works behind the counter; the brothers do the baking.”
His arm was around her as they walked, and when they reached the first shed, Ilka turned and kissed him. She maneuvered him over to the other side of the shed, out of sight, and he put his arms around her.
He mumbled something about the Danish Vikings and how nice she was, but she shushed him. No more talk. He kissed her harder and got rougher with his hands, and before she managed to unbutton his pants, he took over. No more thoughts about the coffin suppliers, debt, the funeral service that still could turn into a nightmare if the family discovered she’d cheated them on the expensive prepaid coffin. No more funeral home business and old murder cases. No more photo shoots and responsibilities. She nipped at his earlobe and held on to him as all thoughts disappeared.
“Thanks,” she said after it was over, as if they’d just wound up some business.
“My pleasure.” He held her face and kissed her on the forehead. “You want to go back and have a beer?”
Ilka smiled and shook her head. “I’ve got to get home.” She said she had to get up early the next morning.
He studied her for a moment. “Would you give me your phone number?” He smiled a bit awkwardly.
She shook her head as she straightened her clothes.
“So will I see you again before you leave?”
“Sorry, I don’t think so
,” she said, then added that it had been nice.
She kissed him and laid her cheek against his, breathed in his scent. When they reached the street, she walked away, but she noticed him turning to look back a few times before going into the bar.
Ilka smiled as she drove back home. He couldn’t be a day over thirty, and he had made her evening. For a moment, she wondered if it was dumb of her not to get his number, but no. Once was enough.
As she moved through the deserted town, she realized that for the first time since she’d arrived in Racine, her head wasn’t buzzing in confusion and wrestling with decisions to be made.
22
Ilka woke up to someone knocking on her door. At first she was afraid she’d slept late, but then she saw it was only eight thirty. She’d set her alarm for nine.
“Okay,” she yelled. “Just a second.”
“We have a decision to make,” Sister Eileen said from outside. “We have a problem.”
Why doesn’t that fucking surprise me? Ilka thought. She was pulling her pants on when the sister knocked again.
“Jeg gider ikke flere problemer,” she yelled. She didn’t want any more problems. Several messages had come in from her mother, she saw. She tossed her phone onto the bed and opened the door. Sister Eileen was holding a sheet of paper, which she handed to her. “Joanne had agreed to bring the flowers at eight thirty, so I could decorate before the Nortons and the caterers arrive. But she brought this instead.”
She nodded at the sheet of paper. “It’s a final bill. She refuses to work for us anymore. She says she doesn’t think we will pay her what we owe, so now it’s over.”
Ilka glanced at the statement. They owed more than twenty-eight hundred dollars.
“I’ve informed Artie about this, and he has promised to take care of the flowers for today. He’ll bring them with him when he arrives. But we still have a problem.”
“Why is she stopping right now?” Ilka asked after checking the dates. Deliveries had been made up to last weekend; they had begun all the way back in June. They’d been receiving flowers on credit for more than three months, almost four. And it wasn’t even close to the first of the month, so why deliver the bill now? Something must have happened.
The sister shrugged. “We’ve always had a fine working relationship with Joanne, even back when her sister ran the shop. They’ve delivered flowers for us for all the years I’ve been working here. Your father wouldn’t dream of ordering from anywhere else.”
Ilka was angry now, and she decided to go down later to confront them and hash out some sort of installment agreement. “And Artie knows what flowers we need? They’re going to take care of the coffin decorations from her own garden; it’s just the room that needs decorating.”
The nun confirmed that Artie was aware of all this.
“Is there anything else to be delivered for the funeral service today?” Ilka asked. She was counting on the family arriving at eleven, and if there were any more unpleasant surprises in store, she wanted to be prepared.
“The food. But it’s coming. I ordered hors d’oeuvres, and I called yesterday to make sure everything was going according to plan. And it was.”
“And we can count on that?”
“I hope so.” She turned and walked back down the stairs so quietly that Ilka wasn’t sure her feet touched the steps.
Ilka took a quick shower, and when she returned to her room, she opened her father’s closet to look over what was left inside. She hadn’t had time to wash her clothes, and besides, nothing she’d brought was appropriate for the funeral service of an elderly lady.
She slipped a white shirt off a hanger and glanced over at the two dark jackets. One of them looked new. It fit her across the back, but the sleeves were too short. The same was true for the other jacket. Along with the shirt, she tossed one of them over on the bed and tried on the black gabardine pants, complete with pleats and tucked pockets—the uniform of a funeral director. Unlike the jacket, the pants were long enough; her father had been tall. With a belt, they were okay, though she wasn’t going to get a lot of compliments on her great ass when she wore them. Considering the occasion, that was probably the last thing anyone would notice anyway.
Before going downstairs, she shook her head and ran her hands through her straight hair to make it look fuller. She’d forgotten her hair dryer, or rather, she hadn’t even considered taking it along. A quick application of mascara, and that was that.
She turned on the standing lamps in the two rooms that made up the chapel; a folding door had been opened and now the room was twice as big as it had been the day before, when Shelby had been there. There was room for 175 people, but they were expecting between 100 and 150 to show up. The Nortons had ordered food for 160, just to be safe. Ilka was a bit nervous that the caterer might pull the same stunt as Joanne had. She was on her way to the office to call them and double-check when Artie showed up, struggling to get inside.
“Could you give me a hand here?” he asked.
“What the hell is this?” He was carrying a jumble of flowers and wide satin ribbons.
“Time to decorate,” he said, nodding at the closed door to the chapel, where Sister Eileen had brought in more chairs for the service.
Ilka stared for a moment; then slowly she understood where the flowers had come from. This was the moment to decide whether it was better not to ask so later on she could deny any knowledge of it.
She opened the door for him, and Artie managed to get to the table and dump the flowers. He pulled a pair of scissors out of his back pocket and started clipping the silk ribbons tied around the bouquets, tossing the ribbons on the floor one after the other; then he cut the strings holding the flowers together until they were strewn all over the table.
“Nobody’s going to miss them,” he said, even though Ilka hadn’t said a word. “They come from the common grave; there are so many that no one’s going to notice.”
Ilka shook her head and turned around. Sister Eileen walked in with a jug of water and started filling the vases. She didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow, though she glanced at the flower table and announced tersely that she would begin decorating.
“Hello,” a voice called from out in the hallway.
Ilka immediately kicked all the ribbons under the floor-length tablecloth; then she walked to the door, where she was met by a young man in a light blue shirt and black pants. The insignia embroidered onto his shirt pocket looked like a delivery boy holding a dish.
“Hello,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Where do I put the food?”
You actually showed up! she almost cried out. But instead she simply smiled and showed him out to the kitchen. When he saw the table she pointed at, he shook his head. “Usually we put food on long tables; are they ready?”
Ilka tried to think where the long tables might be, when Sister Eileen came out and took over.
“They’re out in the front hall.” She followed him out toward the stairway. “When we receive funeral guests, we take them directly in to the service, so it won’t be open out here until the service is finished. That should give you enough time to set up.”
Once again Ilka sensed the nun was deliberately not letting her in on procedures in the funeral home. As if she didn’t think it was worth the effort. Or maybe she wanted Ilka to remain an outsider. She watched the sister show the boy exactly where she wanted the various dishes placed. But that wasn’t what was gnawing at her.
Ilka had the feeling Sister Eileen was keeping something to herself. It was hard to put a finger on what it was. It just seemed that she kept Ilka at a distance most of the time. And then suddenly she could be pleasant and helpful.
For a moment, she thought about insisting on participating in the planning, to show she wouldn’t be brushed aside, but then she looked at the clock. The funeral service would begin in less than half an hour, and the relatives were already getting things ready in the chapel.
Ilka stayed
in the background while the family made the final preparations. She watched Helen arrange the pillows, shift the Kleenex boxes at the end of every row by a few inches, and light all the candles, even though sunlight streamed through the windows. She also took care of the flowers, while the two brothers stood with arms crossed, speaking softly to each other. Ilka tensed up when they started walking over to where their mother lay. She wished she were invisible.
She held her breath while the brothers approached the coffin. The upper half was open, and the elderly woman was visible from the waist up, her hands folded and her eyes closed. As usual with corpses, the skin on her face was smooth, almost like that of a little girl.
Ilka stared at the floor while they circled the coffin. After a few minutes, she looked up and breathed out through nearly closed lips. They hadn’t noticed any scratches; the shoe polish had worked. The only thing bothering them was the missing easel for the life board they’d ordered.
She pretended not to have eavesdropped. First and foremost because she didn’t know what a life board was, and therefore couldn’t tell them where it and the easel could be. It dawned on her that it was something Mrs. Norton had told Ilka’s father she wanted, back when she had preordered her funeral. When they had gone through all the details after the first meeting, the sister had been assigned to take care of it.
Knowing she would have to confront the nun about something that should have been taken care of felt great—but only for a few seconds. The sister appeared with the life board and easel. It was a long sheet of cardboard, the size of the mirror on the back of the closet door in her father’s room, with photos of the deceased illustrating her life story. A black-and-white photo of a young Mrs. Norton with big curls and a sugary smile, then a grinning young college graduate wearing the coveted square graduate cap. Then a happy wedding photo. Then a large leap in years to an older lady smiling pleasantly at the camera. An entire life in four photos. It almost looked to Ilka like a poster for someone running for office, promising voters a long and prosperous life. Then a sharp odor of food interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to the door, where Mrs. Norton’s grandchild walked in holding a full plate in each hand.
