by Sara Blaedel
It wasn’t until he pushed aside the box of Kleenex on the small table between the sofas that Ilka realized what she smelled: a combination of macaroni and cheese and pecan pie, a dessert his grandmother had loved to make. Still warm, Ilka discovered, when she walked over to the boy and asked if she could help.
“I want Grandma to have this in her coffin. Mom helped me, but she says it can’t go in until the guests leave. But she’ll forget it for sure; she’s more worried about whether there’s enough food for everybody.”
“I’ll make sure we remember,” Ilka said. She was just beginning to enjoy how everything was going as it should, when she noticed the younger brother prowling around the back of the coffin, again with a critical eye. He stepped back and took a good look; then he walked around to the head of the coffin. Again he stepped back, as if the light wasn’t exactly right where he was standing. He kept to the front of the podium; it couldn’t be the scratches he was looking at, Ilka thought, as she listened distractedly to the grandson.
“The plates are ovenproof, but Mom says we don’t need to tell the guy who’s burning the coffin.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Ilka murmured. Joe was at the back of the coffin again, and he called over his older brother. They began scowling in Ilka’s direction. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she was certain they were discussing how big a refund they should demand if they could prove the coffin was damaged or the wrong color.
“You’re right; it’s not the right coffin.” The older brother spoke so loudly that Ilka couldn’t help hearing. Ilka was beginning to catch on; the older brother was less conflict shy, while the younger brother was the brains of the outfit. They walked toward her.
“There’s no glitter in the paint. It’s glossy, but it doesn’t glitter.”
They spoke almost in unison, and Ilka reacted by taking a step back and bumping into Artie, who had parked himself behind her without her noticing.
“It doesn’t, no,” he said. “It’s not exactly what your mother ordered, which isn’t available anymore. This coffin, though, is a jet-black limousine. It’s the replacement model, more exclusive, like the name suggests. That’s also the reason it’s much more expensive.”
The older brother butted in. “We’re not paying one penny more. You didn’t warn us about any extra expenses. And we’re not paying just because a model was discontinued. It’s not our fault!”
“No, though a lot of people insure themselves against things like this, so they don’t have to worry.”
The brother was about to protest, but Artie beat him to it. “But of course you don’t have to pay the difference.” He laid a hand on Steve’s shoulder, as if they were old friends. “It’s part of our service. With us you don’t have to worry about expensive insurance to guard against extra costs. And no one who preorders their burial in this funeral home will ever see us compromise on quality, even when prices go up. In fact, we try to give our customers more than what they pay for.”
Ilka realized she’d been holding her breath again during this whole conversation. Not so much because of what Artie had been rattling on about, but because he spoke in an entirely different manner: Everything sounded so convincing. She hadn’t known he had this in him. Impressed with how he had saved the day, she turned to him and nodded in acknowledgment before heading for the door. It felt like the room was closing in on her; she needed some air, but just as she reached the hallway, she was called back.
“Is there a hook for Mother’s dogs, to hang the leashes on?” Helen had just finished placing flowers on the floor around the coffin.
“Not a real hook, no,” Ilka said. “But I was thinking you would have the dogs with you in the first row, and you can fasten the leashes to the sofa’s leg. Or will your mother’s dogs be too close to the coffin that way?”
“Oh no!” Helen said. “We want the dogs up front. That’s what Mom would have wanted.”
“Fine, then we’ll do it that way.” Ilka was about to leave again when she ran into the choir, seven men and three women from the seniors’ club, who wanted to know where to stand.
Suddenly Ilka realized she hadn’t seen anything of Sister Eileen since she’d brought in the life board. And now, as guests were beginning to arrive, she was still nowhere in sight.
“Just a moment,” Ilka said, walking away without answering them. The nun wasn’t in the reception area or the front hall, where the food was set out.
On the way to the small kitchen Ilka glanced into the arrangement room and her father’s office—empty. Back in the hallway now, she was heading for the garage when the door opened and Sister Eileen entered.
“The guests are arriving,” Ilka said. She was annoyed; she hadn’t yet asked about the clothes in the Dumpster, either. Couldn’t bring herself to. She was afraid of being too pushy. Though it might just be a question of learning something about the way nuns like her live, Ilka thought. Maybe she’d been praying over in her apartment, or whatever the proper thing to do was. “I would appreciate it if you could go in and welcome them. The choir is here too. Could you show them where to go?” she added as she headed back to the chapel.
The people attending the services streamed in, and a low murmur slowly spread throughout the chapel. Ilka made her way into a corner behind the open folding doors. Artie was in the middle of the crowd; she sensed he was giving some final tips to the family, who had wanted to arrange the funeral service. He nodded when Steve signaled he was ready to start the music. The choir would sing after the two brothers each spoke about their mother.
Ilka noticed the grandson sitting on the plush sofa. One of his grandmother’s dachshunds was on his lap; the other sat at his feet. The chapel was almost full; people were speaking in hushed tones. Most of them were older, but there were also many close to Helen’s and her brothers’ ages.
“Thanks,” Ilka said, when Artie came over and stood beside her. Soft music poured out of the speakers, and the voices fell silent. For a moment, everyone listened to the music; then the two brothers stood and walked up to the podium to welcome everyone.
When one of the brothers began his speech, Ilka looked over at the table with the long tablecloth. One of the broad satin ribbons from the stolen flowers stuck out, a scarlet ribbon, and part of a woman’s name—not the name of the deceased lying in the coffin—stood out in gold.
“Come on,” Artie said, pulling her away. “They’ll handle the rest themselves. And Sister Eileen will take care of the food; it’s all been put out.”
She followed him out back under the carport. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.
“I think Sister Eileen threw my father’s clothes away instead of giving them to her parish, like we talked about,” Ilka said. She sat down on the steps.
He looked surprised. “Why would she do that?”
Ilka shrugged. “I don’t understand it either. She even offered to take them herself, when I said I would deliver them.”
He crushed out his cigarette, then walked over and threw the butt in the Dumpster. It was as if what she’d said didn’t really interest him.
“And what got into you back there at the coffin?” she asked. “Have you been smoking weed or something?”
When he didn’t answer, Ilka realized she’d put her finger on the real reason for his bravado in front of the Norton family. “Damn, Artie, what if they’d noticed it?” She was serious now.
“The only thing they noticed was the coffin model wasn’t what they’d ordered.”
Ilka nodded. After a few moments, she shrugged. “You handled that great. But what if someone had found out about the flowers? It would have ruined our image!”
He gazed at her a second longer than necessary before saying, “Sweetheart, we don’t have an image. Not anymore!”
The choir began singing.
23
The coffee had just finished dripping through the filter, and Ilka had brought two cups out to the steps where Artie was smoking another c
igarette, just as Shelby came marching across the parking lot. Her face was ashen, her lips pursed in anger. She carried a pair of pants and a shirt over her shoulder.
Ilka had hoped that Shelby wouldn’t show up until the people attending the funeral service had left. It would have been best given the present situation—Artie wouldn’t have been stoned any longer, hopefully—and Ilka needed a breather. The past days had simply been too much pressure.
“I’ll kill him,” Shelby said, when she reached them. She threw the clothes at Artie, who was on his feet now. “I’ll wring his neck; I’ll cut him up into pieces.”
Ilka handed one cup of coffee to her, the other to Artie.
“Shelby, what happened?” Artie said, trying to placate her. He pushed his hair back so it wouldn’t fall into the steaming cup of coffee.
“I’ll tell you what happened!” she yelled as she looked for a place to sit.
Ilka took her elbow. “Come in; let’s go sit down.”
She gestured at Artie in no uncertain terms for him to follow.
“I just came from the police station,” she said, after she and her coffee had been settled in the plush chair in the arrangement room. Ilka and Artie sat across from her.
“It’s Howard Oldham! You already know he was on the tape of the school’s surveillance camera that night; the police said so. And he admitted doing it, but you’ll never guess what made him break in and do the horrible thing he did to my son.”
She made it sound as if an undertaker from the town’s leading funeral home breaking into a competitor’s business, pulling a corpse out of the refrigerator, and urinating on it was a minor detail compared to what she was about to say.
Artie set his coffee down and hunched over a bit. He looked frozen. Through the thin walls they could hear singing from the funeral service.
Shelby looked back and forth between the two of them.
“No, you’re right,” Ilka said. “We’ll never guess.”
She didn’t seem to have heard Ilka; she was too outraged to deal with what was about to burst from inside her. Her anger stood in total contrast to her small, delicate body. “He was wild about her. Howard Oldham claims that Ashley was his great love. The police told me he broke down; they had to postpone the questioning because he wasn’t able to speak.”
Tears appeared in her eyes. “He says my son stole her from him. That Mike ruined his life. Howard claims that if it hadn’t been for Mike, he would have been engaged to her.”
Artie was confused. “Are you saying he and Ashley had a relationship before she met your son? He must’ve been twice her age.”
“It’s not like that’s never happened before,” Ilka said. She was thinking of the center of Copenhagen on Friday nights, where men in their forties and fifties puffed themselves up like roosters, drinking cocktails, with teenage girls all over them.
“I don’t know if they actually had a relationship,” Shelby said. “But he was courting her, per the police report. They let me see it down at the station. He must have thought their age difference wouldn’t be important if he could just show her he was serious. Something must’ve gone on between them, anyway.”
Artie began nodding, as if something was dawning on him. “Ashley Simpson’s dad was a chauffeur for the Oldhams. Not for the funeral home, but the private chauffeur for Douglas Oldham, the old undertaker.” He explained that Ashley had lived in the chauffeur’s quarters with her brother and parents. “It’s behind the Oldhams’ house, farther out on the coast road. I remember hearing the old man couldn’t keep his hands off the daughter. But I thought they meant Douglas Oldham. I only met him a few times. He killed himself a year after all this happened. Or maybe he just got sick? There were a lot of rumors flying around back then.”
Shelby looked fragile and pale as she sat slumped over, staring down at the table seemingly without seeing the coffee or her folded hands in front of her. She shook her head weakly. “It never would have happened. What would she do with an old man? She was just a big kid. Even if Mike hadn’t fallen in love with her, she wouldn’t have hooked up with a man old enough to be her father. Would she?”
She looked up, confused and in despair.
“But was it Howard Oldham who paid your son to leave town?” Ilka asked. So it was jealousy, just as she had guessed.
“Paid?” Artie said, still looking at Shelby. “What’s that about? Paid for what?”
She straightened up a bit. “My son was paid to leave town. He was given a lot of money to start a new life. A lot. Someone bought him.”
Artie stared straight ahead in thought. “Which made it look like he ran away.” He nodded.
“Like he was guilty.” Shelby spit the words out. She drew herself up, tried to get a grip. “But the money didn’t come from Howard. The Oldham family was questioned, because they knew Ashley and her father, and maybe they knew something, but Howard wasn’t even in town back then. He was in Minneapolis, taking extra courses to add to his undertaker degree.”
She paused a moment before explaining that it was his alibi, not being in Racine during the three weeks between Ashley’s death and Mike’s disappearance. “He didn’t kill her, and he wasn’t around when Mike was paid either.”
“No one can be sure he wasn’t home some of those days, can they?” Ilka said. “It was a long period. It almost sounds too good to be true, gone the entire three weeks. Very convenient.”
“He was gone for four weeks, in fact,” Shelby said.
Artie nodded at Ilka. “He fabricated the alibi, you’re thinking.”
“That’s what I said too, down at the police station,” Shelby said. “But they reopened the old case, and the alibi is good. He enrolled in the continuing education half a year before all this happened, and he had no absences from class. And besides, it’s written in the witness statements that his reaction clearly showed he had no knowledge of what had happened. Back then, though, he didn’t mention his relationship with Ashley. The police just found out about that.”
They sat in silence as the magnitude of his confession sank in. A grown man, Ilka thought. How could he let himself break in and pull a body out of the refrigerator and piss in hate—over twelve years of hate—on it?
“And he wasn’t the man who killed my son,” she finally continued. “He also has an alibi for the evening that Mike came back.”
“That’s even more convenient.” Artie sounded suspicious. He seemed to be completely sober now; his eyes were clear and focused, as was his anger.
“The police have arrested the two Oldham sons,” she said. “They’re suspected of doing the dirty work for their uncle. The officer couldn’t tell me more, but obviously they deny having had any contact with Mike after he came back. But why would they admit it if they did?”
“Hold da kæft!” Ilka said. Unbelievable! She sat back in her chair. Everything began swirling in her head: names, dates, people she didn’t know. None of it made sense to her. She needed to take a walk, be by herself for a while.
She turned and glanced across the parking lot. People who had attended the funeral service were beginning to drift outside in small, scattered groups, and she thought about Mrs. Norton’s favorite dishes, which were to be placed inside the coffin before it was taken to the crematorium.
“Please excuse me,” she said. She bumped into the table when she rose, spilling coffee. “There’s something I have to take care of.”
The grandson was standing alone by the coffin when Ilka walked in. She heard voices out in the front hall; a few people must still have been eating canapés.
Pete stood with his back to her. The two small, ovenproof dishes were still on the small table, and the two dachshunds were curled up, each at one end of the sofa. There was something comforting about the silence. Peaceful, Ilka thought.
He turned and watched her approach. “My uncle thinks it’s stupid, about the food.” He glanced over at the table. “Grandma doesn’t know we’re doing this.”
Ilka smil
ed. “Don’t you think she does?”
He wasn’t sure if she was serious. “Isn’t it a little bit yucky?”
“Well, yeah. It’s a little bit yucky. But so what? No one will know, and if it feels right to you, I think she should take it along with her.”
“Maybe we’re not supposed to do it?”
“Maybe not, but we can just not ask anyone about it.”
“But aren’t you the one who decides?” He looked at her suspiciously.
Ilka nodded. “Yes, but you didn’t ask me, either. You just said this is what you want to do. And rule number one is that the nearest relatives should decide how they want to send someone off. I think this is very thoughtful of you, to give your grandmother a few of her favorite dishes on her last journey. That’s how they did it a very long time ago. They gave the dead something to eat for their journey.”
Ilka should have stuck a bottle of red wine in Erik’s coffin; she just hadn’t thought of it.
She opened the bottom half of the lid and told him he could put the food down there, that no one would discover it.
As soon as the boy grabbed the two plates, the dachshunds jumped up and began barking, shrilly and very loudly. They wagged their tails and danced around Pete’s legs. “I could just…” He nodded down at the dogs.
Ilka laughed. Not because she thought dachshunds were particularly lovable, but the glint in the grandson’s eyes told her this wasn’t the first time the two small, dark-brown wiener dogs had begged their way into his heart. He had already surrendered, and there was something proper, something touching, about him shifting his attention from death to what was still a part of life.
