Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  “Yes?” Michael called, dropping the wastebasket back in its place.

  The door opened, and Sally Mouton poked her head inside. Her narrow face did a rendition of surprise, which meant the propping up of one eyebrow, when she spotted Wilson. “Mr. Savoy, when . . . how . . . I didn’t see you come in. I mean . . .”

  Wilson stood and motioned Sally inside. “How’s my favorite hostess?” he asked with a wink.

  Sally entered the office, closing the door behind her. Her walk was stiff and regimented in her black suit with its high collar and calf-length skirt.“Fine,” she answered. “Glad to see you’re . . . well?” She gave Michael a puzzled look, which read, “Is this for real?” She had worked for Wilson for many years, and he had simply disappeared on her, too.

  “Well as can be expected I suppose,” Wilson said. He lifted his chin as though to tighten the sagging skin beneath it. “Lots of water under the bridge, huh, Sal?”

  Before she could answer, Michael asked, “Has the Rasmussen family arrived?”

  “Uh . . . yes,” Sally said, reluctantly pulling her gaze from Wilson to Michael. “Chad’s with them now.”

  “Good. I’ll be out in a—”

  “But that’s not what I came in to tell you.” Sally patted the tight, white bun on her head, her gesture of recomposure. “There’re some people here wanting to make arrangements. Two men.”

  Michael glanced at his watch. He had a little less than an hour before he had to leave to make Ellie’s dance recital. “I don’t remember having any appointments set up this late.”

  “Walk-ins. They came straight from the hospital,” Sally said.

  “Which one?”

  “Didn’t say.” She lowered her voice. “I think they’re foreigners.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Sally scrunched up her nose like she’d caught a whiff of ammonia. “They have strange accents, and they dress funny.”

  “So?”

  “Probably indigents,” Wilson said with a nod. “Get rid of ‘em.”

  Michael rolled a hand into a fist at his side. “Send them in,” he said a little louder than he intended.

  Without another word, Sally retreated, and Michael returned to his desk, where he pulled out an arrangement folder. He pointed it at his father. “I think you’d better go.”

  Wilson coughed, then scratched the faint stubble on his cheek. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around for this one. See how you’ve been handling business.”

  “You’ve got no—”

  “No what?” Wilson asked, his head bobbing more noticeably. “No right? Is that what you were going to say, son? That I’ve got no right to interfere with your work?” He laughed. “I still own this place. Or did you forget?”

  Michael was rounding the front of his desk, ready for battle, when the door reopened, and two men shuffled into his office. The older one looked to be around sixty, short and heavyset with gray hair cut short under a snow-white fedora. He sported a mustache the same color as the hat. He wore a black pinstriped suit and a red shirt with white polka dots. A wide white tie completed the ensemble. The younger man looked forty with shoulder-length black hair and a thin mustache. He was dressed more conservatively than his partner in a blue denim shirt and khaki pants.

  Michael bagged the fury he’d targeted at his father and introduced himself, holding out a hand. “How may I help you?”

  The younger man peered at the older before shaking Michael’s hand. His grip was weak, his palm cold and wet.

  “We need to make burial arrangement,” he said.

  Michael nodded and motioned them to the conference table. “Please, have a seat.” He made a conscious effort not to grind his teeth when he added, “This is Wilson Savoy, my father.”

  The older man nudged the younger, and they walked to the table and sat while Michael closed the door. He watched them nervously survey the urns as he went to his desk for a pen.

  After joining them, Michael said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names.”

  “I am Antony,” the younger man said, nodding first to Michael than to Wilson. “Antony Stevenson. This is my cousin, Ephraim Stevenson.”

  Evidently assuming the deceased to be Ephraim’s wife or mother, Wilson gave the older man his best, I’m-sorry-for-your-loss smile. The man glared back at him.

  “Don’t know many Stevensons,” Wilson said. “You from this area? The accent sounds kinda Slavic.”

  “No, we are not from Louisiana,” Antony said. A steely look crossed his face. “Will that make a difference?”

  “No, no,” Michael said, and gave his father a quick ‘hands-off’ glance. “We just like to get to know a little about the families that come to us so we can serve them better.”

  Ephraim cleared his throat and placed his fingertips on the edge of the table. Antony leaned forward and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “We finish with this business and make burial arrangement now,” Antony said.

  “Of course.” Michael uncapped his pen. “And the deceased is?” As he prepared to write down the information, Michael heard a gurgling sound. He glanced up and saw Ephraim’s face contort, his mouth shifting from left to right. He’d seen the look before, especially with men in the throes of grief.

  Antony had his head bowed so low it nearly touched the table. Michael lowered his eyes and gave the men a moment to compose themselves. His father tapped a soft, impatient rhythm on the table with his thumbs.

  After a while, Ephraim reached into the breast pocket of his suit, pulled out a handkerchief, and swabbed his face. When he was done, he clutched the linen in his hand and lifted his chin.

  “My dau—” Ephraim’s hands folded in tightly, his knuckles turning the color of old chalk. In contrast, his face fell slack, his eyes void, like a man who’d just awakened to find himself the only one left on the planet. No one to love, no one to love him. For a moment, the intensity of it made Michael forget the problem sitting next to him with a Zippo.

  “Your daughter?” Michael asked quietly.

  Ephraim’s eyes shut tightly in response.

  “Yes,” Antony said.

  Ephraim opened his eyes and leaned back so abruptly Michael thought he’d fall out of his chair.

  “Her name is . . .was—“ Antony squirmed in his chair and tucked his hair behind his ears. “Is. Her name is Thalia Stevenson.”

  More gurgling sounds from Ephraim.

  Michael struggled to keep his eyes on Antony. “Where is she now?”

  Ephraim stood, then wandered to the window across the room. Heavy drapes covered the pane, but he stared at them as if they were transparent.

  Antony cleared his throat. “Riverwest Medical Center.”

  Wilson harrumphed, and Michael sought his father’s shin with the toe of his shoe. When they failed to connect, he wrote down the hospital information. His father knew, as did he, that the staff at Riverwest rarely recommended Savoy Funeral Home. One of their board members was Lionel Pellerin, the owner of Pellerin’s Mortuary, which was located near the hospital, just outside Baton Rouge. Staff members who recommended other funeral homes usually lost their jobs.

  Before his father could blurt out a comment, Michael asked, “Did someone there refer you to us?”

  “No,” Antony said. “They did not tell us of you. Our family had no choice but to come here. Here is where Thalia’s spirit settled, and here she must be buried.”

  Wilson gave a quiet snort, and Michael missed his shin again while considering what Antony had said. He decided not to pursue the spirit comment. A person’s belief was a person’s belief. “So you won’t be moving her back . . .uh . . .home? You’ll be burying her here?”

  Antony nodded, and his hair fell back over the sides of his face. “Yes. Her spirit has settled in this town, so must her body.”

  From the corner of the room, Ephraim suddenly shouted something that sounded like, “Naught!” He charged toward Antony, slinging a barrage of strange words as
well as a fair amount of spit.

  Antony flinched. A look of exasperation and pain fell over his face as Ephraim towered above him.

  Michael slouched in his chair, wondering whether he should leave the room. He didn’t have any idea what had made Ephraim so furious, but he certainly didn’t want any part of making it worse. He looked at his father who gave him an I-told-you-so smirk before propping his chin on a fist as though preparing to watch a favorite movie.

  Eventually, Ephraim ran out of steam. He glowered at Antony a moment longer, then walked back to the window.

  Antony rubbed his cheeks slowly. “We finish with this business,” he said to Michael, his voice tired and low.

  For the next forty minutes, Michael gathered the rest of the information he needed from Antony without further outbursts from Ephraim. He found out that their family had been en route to Lake Charles and decided to stop in Brusley for the day to celebrate Thalia’s nineteenth birthday. They’d set up camp in Pelican Park, which was only a couple of miles south of the funeral home. Thalia and a friend had decided to race two of the horses that traveled with them. Midway through the race, Thalia’s horse spooked and reared, throwing her to the ground headfirst. The impact broke her neck, killing her instantly.

  Antony insisted on the best. He chose a bronze Mediterranean casket, an expensive model with blue velvet interior, and a garden crypt, which would allow room for another casket to be placed atop Thalia’s at a later time. Without any prompting, Antony explained that the only person allowed a choice regarding a burial site was the mother of a dead child. If the woman remained faithful and deserving, she might be granted permission by her husband to be placed beside or atop her child after her own death. Provisions were often made for that purpose.

  Antony also made it clear that they wanted a one-day viewing, and that a funeral mass was to be held at Saint Paul’s Church since Thalia and her family were Catholics. The actual burial was to be done in the adjoining cemetery at dusk, and Antony assured Michael they would compensate the priest for complying with the unusual request. He also warned that there would be no room for other families in the funeral home while Thalia’s viewing was in progress. Many people were expected to attend, lots of food and drinks would be served, and they would gladly pay extra for the inconvenience. The family would also pay extra to have a tombstone engraved and ready by tomorrow.

  At the mention of money, especially extra money, Wilson perked up. He got to his feet and offered, “Coffee anyone? Or maybe something cold—”

  “I’m afraid we can’t allow food or alcohol in the funeral home,” Michael said. “We—”

  “You will have to excuse my son,” Wilson blurted. He shot Michael a fierce look. “He’s still relatively young in this business. We’ll be more than glad to accommodate whatever needs you might have. Now, what about that coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Antony said, his countenance visibly drained.

  Michael bit his tongue as his father approached Ephraim, who still stood staring at the drapery. “Mr. Stevenson, would you—”

  Ephraim spun around to face Wilson, and for a second, Michael thought the man was going to throw a punch at his father. He jumped up, ready to block both men, then felt foolish when Ephraim shoved a hand into his coat pocket. With a flip of his wrist, he tossed a handful of bills onto Michael’s desk, then grunted something to Antony.

  Michael couldn’t help but gape at the twenty or thirty greenbacks crisscrossed on the desk. More than one had 1,000 stamped around its corners.

  “He says that is what he is willing to pay,” Antony said. He stood and walked toward his cousin. “Do we do business?”

  Wilson, eyeing the bills, said expansively, “Of course, of course!”

  “This may be too much money,” Michael said firmly. “Why don’t we add up the expenses first?”

  “We expect much,” Antony warned.

  “That may be,” Michael continued, “but—”

  “Excuse my son again,” Wilson said. He glared at Michael, then smiled at Antony. “I will personally see to it that all of your expectations are met. This will do fine.”

  Antony nodded.

  “We’ll contact the hospital about Thalia’s release,” Wilson said, his face beaming. “Have someone bring her clothes here first thing in the morning. We’ll start visiting hours tomorrow afternoon at—”

  “We will send someone with clothes and stand watch tonight,” Antony said, his voice hard. “She is not to be left alone at any time. Rest of family will come in early morning.”

  Michael frowned. “I’m not sure we can have her ready by—”

  “Absolutely,” Wilson interrupted. “Whatever you—”

  Ephraim sliced a hand through the air, cutting off Wilson’s words and nearly smacking Antony across the face. He turned toward Wilson, his black eyes hard, cold marbles.

  “This makes you hungry, no?” he asked, pointing to the money on the desk.

  Wilson sucked in an audible breath as the man crept closer to him.

  “Yes,” Ephraim said. The word hissed through his teeth like steam from a kettle. “There is much hunger within. I am but to wonder what planted such a seed.” His finger ran the length of Wilson’s tie without touching it.

  Michael heard a crackle of static electricity, and his father suddenly shoved a finger behind the knot in his tie, his eyes widening. Wilson began to gasp as though struggling for air.

  “Dad?” Michael took an uncertain step toward him.

  Ephraim and Antony stood nearby with their arms folded. They watched Wilson with casual amusement as saliva escaped from the corners of his mouth and he abruptly dropped to one knee.

  “Dad?” Fearing a heart attack, Michael hurried to his father’s side. A loud rip sounded from Wilson’s chest, and the tie he’d been struggling with fell to the floor in halves. Wilson gulped air as Michael helped him to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” Michael asked, puzzled. He looked from his father to Ephraim, then back to his father. “What happened?”

  Wilson grabbed onto the edge of the desk with both hands. “I-I don’t . . .the tie—”

  Ephraim grunted loudly and rubbed his palms together. “It is settled,” he said to Michael. “You will present her in early morning.” With a brisk nod, he turned to Antony. “Come, we have much to prepare.”

  Antony opened the door and held it ajar for his cousin. Before he crossed the threshold, Ephraim turned to Wilson.

  “Beware of such a hunger and where it will lead you, Wilson Savoy. If you do not hold it in its place, this greed will send most horrible death.” With that, Ephraim reached into his coat again and pulled out a large pinch of white powder, which he tossed across the carpet. Pollen-fine residue settled on the desk, the urn shelf, and the picture of Ellie that rested on the windowsill.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Wilson demanded.

  Ignoring Wilson, Ephraim looked at Michael and bowed his head stiffly. “A gift,” he said, “which your honesty has earned. It will help carry your most heartfelt prayer to the very gates of heaven.” Ephraim cocked his head toward Wilson once again, eyed him gravely, then followed Antony out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Standing in the northeast vestibule of Riverwest Medical Center, Anna Stevenson took the knife she had borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember and stared at the palm of her left hand. Never again would this hand touch the cheek of her beloved Thalia. It would never feel the warmth of her like it once did when they had hugged. There would never be another time when it would feel the smoothness of a brush gliding through her daughter’s hair as she helped to brush it before a party.

  A party . . . a birthday party . . . Thalia’s—

  Anna sliced an X into her palm with the knife and watched blood pour between her fingers, then splatter to the floor. She felt only a tingling sensation from the wound, so minuscule to the torture that ravaged her heart.

  It
seemed like only seconds earlier when she had laughed and clapped as Ephraim promenaded their daughter before friends and family. “Nineteen and so beautiful,” he had said with so much pride, you would have thought he alone had given birth to the girl. Thalia had held onto her father’s arm, glowing in the congratulatory applause.

  Anna had wondered then about the passage of time. Hadn’t it only been a year or two since Thalia turned four? Wasn’t it only a month or so ago that her daughter had lost her front teeth? Surely it was no more than days since she had tried on her first bra. As she’d watched Thalia dance and sing, Anna felt happy but cheated. It was as if she had looked away for only a second and some giant clock in nature had suddenly sped up, turning her child into a woman.

  Anna let her hand fall to her side and peered over at the long double windows to her right. Such a beautiful day, so bright, so full of promise—

  “I won’t ruin my new skirt,” Thalia had insisted. “I promise. I’ll even throw a blanket over Joe-Joe’s back to make sure it stays clean. Just once around the field, please?”

  Anna had been basting a lamb quarter over an open pit when she first heard the shouting. She looked on as everyone ran toward the west end of the park where one of their quarter horses bucked and neighed wildly. It took Anna a moment to recognize the rust-colored animal as Thalia’s Joe-Joe. Two arrhythmic beats of her heart later, she spotted the still, crumpled form on the ground.

  She’d ran, feeling her soul melt inside her, hearing it whisper with horrid certitude and in breathless agony—She’s gone. Thalia’s gone.

  A muted clatter drew Anna’s attention away from the windows, and she looked down to see the knife lying on the floor. There was an impressive splatter of blood on her clothes and around her feet. Anna studied the dark swirls and droplets for a moment, her mind straining to remember where the blood had come from, then decided it didn’t matter.

  She turned and faced the hall behind her. Somewhere in this building, in this maze of corridors and antiseptic-scented rooms, lay her daughter’s lifeless body. They had moved Thalia from the curtained cubicle where a scrawny-faced doctor had said simply, “She’s dead,” to some other place in the hospital. Anna had held onto Thalia’s hand, wanting to follow the gurney, but no one would allow it. It had taken Ephraim and two other men to pry her away from her daughter.