by Dean Koontz
was not good, Tannerton did not want to expend any energy trying to make the corpse presentable. Gary Olmstead thought there was something cheap and disrespectful about consigning a body to the grave without benefit of makeup and powder. But Tannerton persuaded him that cosmetology offered little hope for Bruno Frye’s shrunken yellow-gray countenance.
“And anyway,” Tannerton had said, “you and I will be the last people in this world to lay eyes on him. When we shut this box tonight, it’ll never be opened again.”
At 9:45 Friday night, they had closed and latched the lid of the casket. That done, Olmstead went home to his wan little wife and his quiet and intense young son. Avril went upstairs; he lived above the rooms of the dead.
Early Saturday morning, Tannerton left for Santa Rosa in his silver-gray Lincoln. He took an overnight bag with him, for he didn’t intend to return until ten o’clock Sunday morning. Bruno Frye’s funeral was the only one that he was handling at the moment. Since there was to be no viewing, he hadn’t any reason to stay at Forever View; he wouldn’t be needed until the service on Sunday.
He had a woman in Santa Rosa. She was the latest of a long line of women; Avril thrived on variety. Her name was Helen Virtillion. She was a good-looking woman in her early thirties, very lean, taut, with big firm breasts which he found endlessly fascinating.
A lot of women were attracted to Avril Tannerton, not in spite of what he did for a living but because of it. Of course, some were turned off when they discovered he was a mortician. But a surprising number were intrigued and even excited by his unusual profession.
He understood what made him desirable to them. When a man worked with the dead, some of the mystery of death rubbed off on him. In spite of his freckles and his boyish good looks, in spite of his charming smile and his great sense of fun and his open-hearted manner, some women felt he was nonetheless mysterious, enigmatic. Unconsciously, they thought they could not die so long as they were in his arms, as if his services to the dead earned him (and those close to him) special dispensation. That atavistic fantasy was similar to the secret hope shared by many women who married doctors because they were subconsciously convinced that their spouses could protect them from all of the microbial dangers of this world.
Therefore, all day Saturday, while Avril Tannerton was in Santa Rosa making love to Helen Virtillion, the body of Bruno Frye lay alone in an empty house.
Sunday morning, two hours before sunrise, there was a sudden rush of movement in the funeral home, but Tannerton was not there to notice.
The overhead lights in the windowless workroom were switched on abruptly, but Tannerton was not there to see.
The lid of the sealed casket was unlatched and thrown back. The workroom was filled with screams of rage and pain, but Tannerton was not there to hear.
At ten o’clock Sunday morning, as Tony stood in his kitchen drinking a glass of grapefruit juice, the telephone rang. It was Janet Yamada, the woman who had been Frank Howard’s blind date last night.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“It was wonderful, a wonderful night.”
“Really?”
“Sure. He’s a doll.”
“Frank is a doll.”
“You said he might be kind of cold, difficult to get to know, but he wasn’t.”
“He wasn’t?”
“And he’s so romantic.”
“Frank?”
“Who else?”
“Frank Howard is romantic?”
“These days you don’t find many men who have a sense of romance,” Janet said. “Sometimes it seems like romance and chivalry were thrown out the window when the sexual revolution and the women’s rights movement came in. But Frank still helps you on with your coat and opens doors for you and pulls your chair out and everything. He even brought me a bouquet of roses. They’re beautiful.”
“I thought you might have trouble talking to him.”
“Oh, no. We have a lot of the same interests.”
“Like what?”
“Baseball, for one thing.”
“That’s right! I forgot you like baseball.”
“I’m an addict.”
“So you talked baseball all night.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “We talked about a lot of other things. Movies—”
“Movies? Are you trying to tell me Frank is a film buff?”
“He knows the old Bogart pictures almost line by line. We traded favorite bits of dialogue.”
“I’ve been talking about film for three months, and he hasn’t opened his mouth,” Tony said.
“He hasn’t seen a lot of recent pictures, but we’re going to a show tonight.”
“You’re seeing him again?”
“Yeah. I wanted to call and thank you for fixing me up with him,” she said.
“Am I one hell of a matchmaker, or am I one hell of a matchmaker?”
“I also wanted to let you know that even if it doesn’t work out, I’ll be gentle with him. He told me about Wilma. What a rotten thing! I wanted you to know that I’m aware she put a couple of cracks in him, and I won’t ever hit him too hard.”
Tony was amazed. “He told you about Wilma the first night he met you?”
“He said he used to be unable to talk about it, but then you showed him how to handle his hostility.”
“Me?”
“He said after you helped him accept what had happened, he could talk about it without pain.”
“All I did was sit and listen when he wanted to get it off his chest.”
“He thinks you’re a hell of a great guy.”
“Frank’s a damned good judge of people, isn’t he?”
Later, feeling good about the excellent impression that Frank had made on Janet Yamada, optimistic about his own chances for a little romance, Tony drove to Westwood to keep his date with Hilary. She was waiting for him; she came out of the house as he pulled into the driveway. She looked crisp and lovely in black slacks, a cool ice-blue blouse, and a lightweight blue corduroy blazer. As he opened the door for her, she gave him a quick, almost shy kiss on the cheek, and he got a whiff of fresh lemony perfume.
It was going to be a good day.
Exhausted from a nearly sleepless night in Helen Virtillion’s bedroom, Avril Tannerton got back from Santa Rosa shortly before ten o’clock Sunday morning.
He did not look inside the coffin.
With Gary Olmstead, Tannerton went to the cemetery and prepared the gravesite for the two o’clock ceremony. They erected the equipment that would lower the casket into the ground. Using flowers and a lot of cut greenery, they made the site as attractive as possible.
At 12:30 back at the funeral home, Tannerton used a chamois cloth to wipe the dust and smudged fingerprints from Bruno Frye’s brass-plated casket. As he ran his hand over the rounded edges of the box, he thought of the magnificent contours of Helen Virtillion’s breasts.
He did not look inside the coffin.
At one o’clock, Tannerton and Olmstead loaded the deceased into the hearse.
Neither of them looked inside the coffin.
At one-thirty they drove to the Napa County Memorial Park. Joshua Rhinehart and a few local people followed in their own cars. Considering that it was for a wealthy and influential man, the funeral procession was embarrassingly small.
The day was clear and cool. Tall trees cast stark shadows across the road, and the hearse passed through alternating bands of sunlight and shade.
At the cemetery, the casket was placed on a sling above the grave, and fifteen people gathered around for the brief service. Gary Olmstead took up a position beside the flower-concealed control box that operated the sling and would cause it to lower the deceased into the ground. Avril stood at the front of the grave and read from a thin book of nondenominational inspirational verses. Joshua Rhinehart was at the mortician’s side. The other twelve people flanked the open grave. Some of them were grape growers and their wives. They had come because they had sold thei
r harvests to Bruno Frye’s winery, and they considered their attendance at his funeral to be a business obligation. The others were Shade Tree Vineyards executives and their wives, and their reasons for being present were no more personal than those of the growers. Nobody wept.
And nobody had the opportunity or the desire to look into the coffin.
Tannerton finished reading from his small black book. He glanced at Gary Olmstead and nodded.
Olmstead pushed a button on the control box. The powerful little electric motor hummed. The casket was lowered slowly and smoothly into the gaping earth.
Hilary could not remember another day that was as much fun as that first full day with Tony Clemenza.
For lunch, they went to the Yamashiro Skyroom, high in the Hollywood Hills. The food at Yamashiro was uninspiring, even ordinary, but the ambience and the stunning view made it a fine place for an occasional light lunch or dinner. The restaurant, an authentic Japanese palace, had once been a private estate. It was surrounded by ten acres of lovely ornamental gardens. From its mountaintop perch, Yamashiro offered a breath-taking view of the entire Los Angeles basin. The day was so clear that Hilary could see all the way to Long Beach and Palos Verdes.
After lunch, they went to Griffith Park. For an hour, they walked through part of the Los Angeles Zoo, where they fed the bears, and where Tony did hilarious imitations of the animals. From the zoo they went to a special afternoon performance of the dazzling Laserium hologram show in the Griffith Park Observatory.
Later, they passed an hour on Melrose Avenue, between Doheny Drive and La Cienega Boulevard, prowling through one fascinating antique shop after another, not buying, just browsing, chatting with the proprietors.
When the cocktail hour arrived, they drove to Malibu for Mai Tais at Tonga Lei. They watched the sun set into the ocean and relaxed to the rhythmic roar of breaking waves.
Although Hilary had been an Angeleno for quite some time, her world had been composed only of her work, her house, her rose garden, her work, the film studios, her work, and the few fancy restaurants in which the motion picture and television crowd gathered to do business. She had never been to the Yamashiro Skyroom, the zoo, the laser show, the Melrose antique shops, or Tonga Lei. It was all new to her. She felt like a wide-eyed tourist—or, more accurately, like a prisoner who had just finished serving a long, long sentence, most of it in solitary confinement.
But it was not just where they went that made the day special. None of it would have been half as interesting or as much fun if she’d been with someone other than Tony. He was so charming, so quick-witted, so full of fun and energy, that he made the bright day brighter.
After slowly sipping two Mai Tais each, they were starving. They drove back to Sepulveda and went north into the San Fernando Valley to have dinner at Mel’s landing, another place with which she was not familiar. Mel’s was unpretentious and moderately priced, and it offered some of the freshest and tastiest seafood she had ever eaten.
As she and Tony ate Mel’s steamed clams and discussed other favorite places to eat, Hilary found that he knew ten times as many as she did. Her knowledge did not extend much beyond that handful of expensive dining spots that served the movers and shakers of the entertainment industry. The out-of-the-way eateries, the hole-in-the-wall cafés with surprising house specialties, the small mom-and-pop restaurants with plainly served but delicious food—all of that was one more aspect of the city about which she had never taken time to learn. She saw that she had become rich without ever discovering how to use and fully enjoy the freedom that her money could provide.
They ate too many of Mel’s clams and then too much red snapper with too many Malaysian shrimp. They also drank too much white wine.
Considering how much they consumed, it was amazing, Hilary thought, that they had so much time between mouthfuls for conversation. But they never stopped talking. She was usually reticent on the first few dates with a new man, but not with Tony. She wanted to hear what he thought about everything, from Mork and Mindy to Shakespearean drama, from politics to art. People, dogs, religion, architecture, sports, Bach, fashions, food, women’s liberation, Saturday morning cartoons—it seemed urgent and vital that she know what he thought about those and a million other subjects. She also wanted to tell him what she thought about all those things, and she wanted to know what he thought of what she thought, and pretty soon she was telling him what she thought of what he thought of what she thought. They chattered as if they had just learned that God was going to strike everyone in the world deaf and dumb at sunrise. Hilary was drunk, not on wine, but on the fluidity and intimacy of their conversation; she was intoxicated by communication, a potent brew for which she had built up little tolerance over the years.
By the time he took her home and agreed to come in for a nightcap, she was certain they would go to bed together. She wanted him very much; the thought of it made her warm and tingly. She knew he wanted her. She could see the desire in his eyes. They needed to let dinner settle a bit, and with that in mind, she poured white crème de menthe on the rocks for both of them.
They were just sitting down when the telephone rang.
“Oh, no,” she said.
“Did he bother you after I left last night?”
“No.”
“This morning?”
“No.”
“Maybe that’s not him.”
They both went to the phone.
She hesitated, then picked it up. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Damn you!” she said, and she slammed the receiver down so hard that she wondered if she’d cracked it.
“Don’t let him rattle you.”
“I can’t help it,” she said.
“He’s just a slimy little creep who doesn’t know how to deal with women. I’ve seen others like him. If he ever got a chance to make it with a woman, if a woman offered herself to him on a silver platter, he’d run away screaming in terror.”
“He still scares me.”
“He’s no threat. Come back to the couch. Sit down. Try to forget about him.”
They returned to the sofa and sipped their crème de menthe in silence for a minute or two.
At last, she softly said, “Damn.”
“You’ll have an unlisted number by tomorrow afternoon. Then he won’t be able to bother you any more.”
“But he sure spoiled this evening. I was so mellow.”
“I’m still enjoying myself.”
“It’s just that . . . I’d figured on more than just drinks in front of the fireplace.”
He stared at her. “Had you?”
“Hadn’t you?”
His smile was special because it was not merely a configuration of the mouth; it involved his whole face and his expressive dark eyes; it was the most genuine and by far the most appealing smile that she had ever seen. He said, “I’ve got to admit I had hopes of tasting more than the crème de menthe.”
“Damn the phone.”
He leaned over and kissed her. She opened her mouth to him, and for a brief sweet moment their tongues met. He pulled back and looked at her, put his hand against her face as if he was touching delicate porcelain. “I think we’re still in the mood.”
“If the phone rings again—”
“It won’t.”
He kissed her on the eyes, then on the lips, and he put one hand gently on her breast.
She leaned back, and he leaned into her. She put her hand on his arm and felt the muscles bunched beneath his shirt.
Still kissing her, he stroked her soft throat with his fingertips, then began to unbutton her blouse.
Hilary put her hand on his thigh, where the muscles were also tense beneath his slacks. Such a lean hard man. She slid her hand up to his groin and felt the huge steeliness and fierce heat of his erection. She thought of him entering her and moving hotly within her, and a thrill of anticipation made her shiver.
He sensed her excitement and paused in the unbuttoning of her blou
se to lightly trace the swell of her breasts where they rose above the cups of her bra. His fingers seemed to leave cool trails on her warm skin; she could feel the lingering ghost of his touch as clearly as she could feel the touch itself.
The telephone rang.
“Ignore it,” he said.
She tried to do as he said. She put her arms around him and slid down on the couch and pulled him on top of her. She kissed him hard, crushing her lips against his, licking, sucking.
The phone rang and rang.
“Damn!”
They sat up.
It rang, rang, rang.
Hilary stood.
“Don’t,” Tony said. “Talking to him hasn’t helped. Let me handle it another way and see what happens.”
He got up from the couch and went to the corner desk. He lifted the receiver, but he didn’t say anything. He just listened.
Hilary could tell from his expression that the caller had not spoken.
Tony was determined to wait him out. He looked at his watch.
Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes.
The battle of nerves between the two men was strangely like a childish staring contest, yet there was nothing childish about it. It was eerie. Goosebumps popped up on her arms.
Two and a half minutes.
It seemed like an hour.
Finally, Tony put down the phone. “He hung up.”
“Without saying anything?”
“Not a word. But he hung up first, and I think that’s important. I figured if I gave him a dose of his own medicine he wouldn’t like it. He thinks he’s going to frighten you. But you’re expecting the call, and you just listen like he does. At first, he thinks you’re only being cute, and he’s sure he can outwait you. But the longer you’re silent, the more he starts to wonder if you aren’t up to some trick. Is there a tap on your phone? Are you stalling so the police can trace the call? Is it even you who picked up the phone? He thinks about that, starts to get scared, and hangs up.”
“He’s scared? Well, that’s a nice thought,” she said.
“I doubt that he’ll get up the nerve to call back. At least not until you’ve changed numbers tomorrow. And then he’ll be too late.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll be on edge until the man from the phone company’s done his job.”
Tony held out his arms, and she moved into his embrace. They kissed again. It was still extraordinarily sweet and good and right, but the sharp edge of unrestrained passion could no longer be felt. Both of them were unhappily aware of the difference.
They returned to the couch, but only to drink their crème de menthe and talk. By twelve-thirty in the morning, when he had to go home, they had decided to spend the following weekend on a museum binge. Saturday, they’d go to the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena to look at the German expressionist paintings and the Renaissance tapestry. Then they would spend most of Sunday at the J. Paul Getty Museum, which boasted a collection of art richer than any other in the world. Of course, in between the museums, they would eat a lot of good food, share a lot of good talk, and (they ardently hoped) pick up where they had left off on the couch.
At the front door, as he was leaving, Hilary suddenly couldn’t bear to wait five days to see him again. She said, “What about Wednesday?”
“What about it?”
