“You need to step up your game,” I told her. But maybe I was talking to myself.
Fred answered the door in a brown and beige striped robe, his wispy hair sticking out in tufts. There was a softness about his face that suggested he’d been in bed, but not sleeping.
“I hate to bother you,” I said.
“I know. It’s okay. We’re going to take the chickens over to the feed store today and have them sexed.”
“You might start with Belle there. Did you know you were down to four?”
His chin trembled. Apparently not.
“Listen, I’m no expert on chicken houses,” I said. “But why don’t you staple some wire netting across the bottom? Maybe that would discourage the critters looking for an easy dinner.”
“Yeah, good idea. We’ll do that.” He closed the door.
I drove to the office on autopilot. Lack of sleep should have dulled my wits, but instead I was entertaining some crazy ideas. Maybe I was losing it. Or maybe that was my customary state.
I parked in Everett’s spot behind the building, figuring that unless he’d posted bail during the night I was pretty safe from his ire. In the kitchenette, I marked a piece of clear tape with the words “For Biddie” and attached it to the container of chili. Then I stuck it in the mini-fridge. A nice little token of my esteem.
It was only after I’d started coffee that I realized I wasn’t alone. The lights were off, but Gail was seated at the desk, just as I’d left her yesterday. Only her outfit had changed.
My hand flew to my heart. “Jeez, you startled me. Did you spend the night here?”
She gave me a bleak look. “I have an interview with Gordon Dettweiler at two o’clock this afternoon.”
I took a seat. “Why?”
“Because no one else is hiring. Or, to be more specific, no one else is hiring me. I’ve been licensed eight months now and only made one sale.”
“You have a listing.”
“I had a listing. Now it’s in limbo. Maybe I can talk the sellers into canceling our agreement and signing a new one with Coastal. How does that work anyway? I’ve never been suspended before.”
I hadn’t, either, so I couldn’t advise her. “Look, you like it here, right?”
“For the most part. Everett’s split’s on the stingy side—I was getting sixty-forty over at RealtyKing. But he sends a lot of leads my way. And most of the time he’s pretty decent to work for. And—well, I get to work with you.” She smiled a little sadly.
I was touched. I’d never been anyone’s reason for staying anywhere. “So don’t make a decision right off. Give this situation a chance to resolve itself. Better yet, help me look into it. I think there’s a lot more going on than meets the eye.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Grab your bag,” I said. “I do.”
Chapter 19
We took the Volkswagen one exit south of town to the business park that had caught my eye the day before. It was just after ten when I drove around to the building at the back of the lot and parked in one of two visitors’ spots. The sign affixed to the structure read, distant horizons family cremation. It was built of dun-colored masonry, with two small windows facing the parking area.
I took a quick peek around back. The hearse was gone, but a pale blue Honda was parked against the side of the building. A big black metal smokestack presided over the rear of the structure. It seemed to be idle: no smoke drifting out in little puffs, no heat distorting the view of the pastures beyond. I wondered if a crematorium was obliged to ensure that it didn’t smell like a tri-tip sandwich from Tex’s Fourth Street Barbecue. The thought made my mouth water. Was it too early for lunch?
“I smell barbecue,” Gail said, reading my thoughts.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Whatever you say. What made you think of this particular place?”
“Just a hunch.”
A sprightly tune sounded as we entered the front door. The lobby was cramped, with a small seating area to the right consisting of a vinyl-covered sofa surrounded by a couple of cheap plastic chairs to form a conversational grouping. A small oak coffee table held a box of tissues and a vase of plastic lilies; next to it was a big upended bottle of water with a stack of paper cups. A half-dozen decorative urns were displayed on a shelf along the opposite wall, along with a clothbound visitors’ book. Everything, even the carpet and the paint on the walls, was done up in a peculiar shade of mauve, no doubt a color of especial comfort to the recently bereaved.
A door marked STAFF ONLY was set into the back wall. Wires ran across the ceiling from the door chime through a hole above the employee door, so I presumed we wouldn’t be alone for long.
I moved over to the guest book and ran my finger down the names. About midway down the second page, I spotted the name “Martha Watts” in a distinctive bold cursive that matched the open-house note from Marian Woods. Interesting. I turned the page. Midway down, I saw Russell Wellburn’s name, and remembered his grief over his fiancée. Love sucked.
Just for fun, I took the lid off one of the urns, a silver oblong with a stunted tree etched into the metal, and peeked inside. All I saw was a price tag: two hundred bucks. What a racket.
The door opened and a man stepped through. He was my height, with dark hair that had been carefully slicked across the bare spots of his scalp, and a round face atop a jiggly body. He smiled, showing at least twenty-six teeth.
“Ladies, welcome,” he said. “Please, if you would be so kind and sign my guest book.”
Obediently we wrote our names, addresses, and phone numbers on the page provided.
“Thank you. Now, how may I be of service today?” He delivered the line as if he were auditioning for the role of beloved minister: voice pitched low, head solemnly tucked toward his chin, hands clasped in front of him. But the effect was spoiled by glittering dark eyes that watched us from beneath the tufts of his brows, glinting at the prospect of a hot sale.
I glanced at Gail. What was our cover story? While I scrambled to come up with something, she spoke. “This is…a difficult time.”
“I understand completely. I hope you will allow me to ease your burden.” He stepped forward and clasped our hands in turn. His grip was soft and moist. “Harold Hilstrom, facilities owner and director. Since I took over Distant Horizons last year, it’s been my privilege to assist many, many families in their time of need.”
Gail took a Kleenex out of her bag and dabbed at her eyes. “It was just so unexpected.”
“Media vita in morte sumus,” he said solemnly. “ ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’ A sad truth that all on earth must face, however painful.”
“You understand so well. I just don’t know—” Gail’s voice faltered.
“Yes?”
She blew her nose with a honk, speaking into the tissue. “Cremation seems so—so primitive. I know it was Great-uncle Everett’s wish, but I know so little about the process.”
I’d turned away at the mention of Great-uncle Everett, ducking my head so my snort of laughter might be mistaken for a sob.
Hilstrom became expansive. “Please, have a seat,” he said, steering us toward the sofa. “May I offer you some coffee? Perhaps herbal tea?” When we shook our heads, he settled himself in one of the plastic chairs, leaning forward to push the box of tissues closer to us. His navy blue suit was made from shiny synthetic fabric, the jacket scuffed at the elbows. He wore a white dress shirt with blue pinstripes, and his matching tie was held in place with an ornate silver clip. His trousers were two inches too short, displaying rumpled black socks and a sliver of dead-white ankle covered in coarse black hair. Black leather dress shoes were lightly coated with dust that I hoped wasn’t human in origin.
“Cremation is an honorable tradition that has been around for thousands of years,” he began. “Here at Distant Horizons, we offer what’s known as direct cremation. Families who wish to honor their loved one without incurring the, e
r, considerable expense associated with a traditional funeral home service often find that cremation provides an economical and earth- friendly alternative. They are then free to hold a memorial service at a time and place convenient to relatives and friends.”
Gail leaned forward. “Earth-friendly?”
I could tell Harold was fighting to keep his eyes from straying down to Gail’s boobs, pushed up aggressively by her arms as she gazed up at him. “Y-yes, exactly. You see, as cemeteries continually expand to meet the needs of an aging population, raw land, a limited natural resource, is consumed. More and more people who choose cremation do so based on the belief that the land is better suited to serve the living.”
Gail allowed her voice to tremble appealingly. “That makes so much sense. It’s just that I feel so, so ignorant about the whole process, Harold. Would it be possible to explain it to me step-by-step?”
He puffed out his chest. “Of course. You see, it’s very simple. The family chooses a suitable vessel for their departed family member, quite often selecting from our line of convenient economy containers. The vessel is placed in our state-of-the-art cremation chamber, which operates at temperatures up to two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, and the remains are reduced to elemental fragments.”
“And those are placed in an urn?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. Most family members prefer the, er, consistency of the remnants to be finer—suitable for scattering, for instance. That can be achieved through the use of a pulverizer to create the ashes you might see in a memorial urn.”
This was a bit more than I wanted to know, but Gail hung on his every word. “I suppose you have a large staff to assist you in your work.”
“Just me, dear lady.” His smile showed a lot of silver fillings in the upper molars.
“But what if you have more than one customer at the same time? I wouldn’t want Great-uncle to wait around.”
“Oh, no. Rest assured, with today’s modern equipment the process is quite efficient, taking a few hours at best. In the event of a scheduling conflict, there is, of course, a refrigeration unit on hand. Everything is most hygienic.”
Gail placed a hand on his wrist. “You explain it all so clearly. My, what an interesting tie clasp that is. Did you buy it locally?”
“This?” He fingered the silver clip. “Oh, dear me, no. This design is unique. Solid titanium. I was honored to receive it as a quarter-finalist in the Northwest Regional Championships.”
I stared at the odd looping design. “Tennis?”
He shook his head. “Yo-yo.”
“How fascinating.” Gail’s hand still rested lightly on Harold’s wrist, her eyes wide. I thought she was laying it on a bit thick, but he became expansive.
“The noble sport of ancient Greece. But I digress. Tell me about your great-uncle. If it’s not too painful a subject, may I ask how he passed?”
“Stroke,” Gail said, just as I said, “Heart attack.”
Harold looked a little taken aback.
“Not to mention the fall down the stairs,” I added. “The man was never ill a day in his life until that last terrible week.”
He shook his head sadly. “That is so often the case.”
“He was extraordinary,” Gail said, sitting back on the couch cushions and crushing the tissue between her fingers. “A simple man. I believe he would be more than satisfied with the services you suggest. But other family members tell me it would be disrespectful to send him off without a proper ceremony and viewing. I suppose that couldn’t be arranged.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I do, on many occasions, coordinate with local funeral directors so that both a traditional service and final disposition by cremation can take place. However, the costs are significant, as you must add in the expense of embalming and so forth. A casket is also a sizable investment, although in this circumstance, one can be rented from the funeral home.” He paused, probably calculating the additional fees that would find their way into his pocket. “After the service, the deceased would be transported here, and transferred from the viewing casket to one more suitable for cremation.”
“Couldn’t we just have an informal visitation here?” Gail asked, her eyes straying to the STAFF ONLY door.
There was a moment of startled silence. “I’m not sure I understand you,” he said.
“In the back. Before the actual cremation. You see, there’s really only one cousin—”
“Cousin Biddie,” I put in.
“—who insists on paying her last respects. And I’m afraid money is too tight for the full funeral home bit. So I was hoping we could just sneak Cousin Biddie in back to give Everett a final what-have-you.” She smiled appealingly at him. “Since you’ve been so kind.”
But Harold was already shaking his head no, no, no. “That would be most irregular. Most irregular indeed. There simply cannot be a visitation in the usual sense without significant preparation. Embalming, for instance. Selection of appropriate clothing and jewelry. Certain restorative measures—makeup and hair styling, for example—to enhance the, er, vitality of the deceased. No, I’m afraid what you ask simply isn’t possible.”
“Could we go back there and take a look around?” I asked.
Maybe I was a bit abrupt, because Harold stiffened. “I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“It’s like this, Harold,” I said. “We have a friend who stopped by a week or two ago. A redhead. You’d remember her, I’m sure.”
Now he looked not only uncomfortable but seriously alarmed. “I can’t say that I remember your friend. You must be mistaken. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Her name is in your guest registry.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He stood, and so did we, but I watched his face.
“She told us she got a tour of the whole facility. Back room and all. So it can’t be as impossible as all that.”
His eyes darted back and forth. “I have to close for lunch. Let me escort you to the door.”
“It’s not even eleven.” But we allowed him to herd us to the exit.
“It was nice meeting you, Harold,” Gail said.
“Please,” he said. “I don’t—please go.” We heard him fumbling with the lock behind us as we hit the pavement.
“Kind of a nervous type,” Gail said.
“You’d be nervous, too, if you spent your day alone with a bunch of stiffs. You were amazing, by the way. I thought you were going to crawl right into his lap.”
“I still got it.”
“You sure do. Where to next?”
“Let’s get a bite to eat,” she said. “Something about this place gives me an appetite.”
Chapter 20
We swung by the market so I could grab a bag of chips. Gail bought a diet soda. Then we drove back to the office, where Gail retrieved her lunch from the refrigerator. I sat at the computer and tried the multiple-listing service. Access denied.
Gail appeared in the doorway with the Tupperware of chili in her hands. “Isn’t this your handwriting?”
“Yup. A little treat for Biddie.”
“She’s gone to Duluth for the week. Family reunion. I’m surprised you didn’t notice she wasn’t at her desk.”
“I try not to notice her whenever possible.” Biddie had warmed to me ever so slightly over the past few months, but it wasn’t enough of a thaw to crack the ice of her humorless face whenever she spotted me.
Gail peeked under the lid. “This looks delicious. You mind if I, uh—?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” She took a sniff. “Smells wonderful.”
“Trust me. It’s irritable bowel syndrome in a bowl. More than irritable. Downright furious.”
“I have an iron stomach.”
I shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She disappeared, and a minute later I heard the ping of the microwave. Gail re
turned, spoon in hand, and sat on Carl’s desk, her feet dangling down. “So, what’s our next move?”
“You tell me. You’re on a roll.”
She pointed the spoon at me. “Marian’s stepson. The yoga instructor. Let’s talk to him.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Maybe he’ll tell us his stepmom kept a collection of human fingers around, just for laughs. Call over there and find out when his next class is.”
Grumbling a little, I did as she said. A minute later, I hung up the phone. “Breath and Meditation at one.”
She spooned up the rest of the chili. “I’ll just wash this up, and we’ll go.”
“But what’ll we say to him?”
“It’s your turn to come up with a story. I did my part with Mr. Creepy Undertaker.”
—
The Creamery Building was a towering, century-old structure a few blocks west of downtown, shaped like a wedding cake with the top tier knocked off and frosted in gray asphalt shingles. During the Roaring Twenties, the building had cranked out endless loaves of Golden State Swiss, shipping them all across the country via the still active Northwestern Pacific line. After cheese demand dried up, the building and its surrounding warehouses sat vacant for years, until someone had the bright idea of repurposing them into cheap studio space for musicians and dance companies. Now there was also a small community theater, and the Morning Light Yoga Center.
Gail and I trudged up two flights of somewhat rickety exterior stairs until we were high enough to look down on the tarpaper roof of the first two stories. Below us, cars as small as Matchbox toys rolled down the street. I spotted the Jacobsen Storehouse a few blocks east, and beyond it the faux-mission architecture of Redwood State University. To the west were the floodplains of the Blue River, stretching all the way to the sand dunes that held back the Pacific. A thick gray bank of fog was rolling in from the west, and I could already feel its clammy moisture on my skin.
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