CHAPTER SIX
Friday morning gave witness to a typical Brusley, Louisiana summer. Humidity thickened the air like roux in a gumbo, and the heat, even at eight-thirty, had already tapped thermometers up to eighty degrees.
Michael fidgeted at the red light, flipping the car’s air conditioner vents up, then down, right, then left. No matter the direction or how high he set the blower, sweat rings still grew under his arms. Along with the heat, a bad case of nerves had caused a prickly rash to sprout at the base of his neck. If he didn’t talk to his father soon and get this money issue settled, he feared his whole body would soon resemble a strawberry.
After Wilson’s final plea last night, Michael weakened and left his father with the notion that he’d try to find a way to help him. As soon as Michael closed the door behind his father, however, he wanted to kick himself. Why did he allow himself to fall for Wilson’s manipulations? He knew better. Had lived through too many Wilson episodes to expect a new outcome. Michael had to admit, though, the tears were a new twist. They were the reason he’d caved. He’d never seen his father cry before. Not even at his mother’s funeral.
The image of Wilson’s tears haunted Michael throughout the night. He’d tossed and turned fitfully, then finally gave up and got out of bed around four. Two pots of coffee later, he decided, tears or not, he had to stand firm. No money, period. It was time he stopped enabling his father.
To soothe his conscience, Michael had also decided to go to the police with Wilson if he was truly in danger. Bad business deals and killer investors sounded like an old, rehashed plot from a Godfather movie, something Wilson concocted for effect. But the truth would be revealed soon enough. His father would either accept his help or he’d back off, exposing himself as the bullshitter Michael suspected him of being. Either way, Michael didn’t take any chances with the Stevenson money. At first light, he went over to the funeral home, retrieved the cash he’d hidden in his desk drawer, then went straight to the bank depository and dropped it off. Once that was out of the way, he’d stopped off at a twenty-four hour café and had breakfast, mulling over what he would say to Wilson and the repercussions that might follow.
Janet didn’t know about Wilson’s latest financial fiasco. By the time Michael had finally gone to bed last night, she’d already fallen asleep and was still sleeping when he left at dawn, so they hadn’t had a chance to talk. Which might have been for the best. Janet had always been his touchstone, his rock in rough waters, and if it hadn’t been for her support and encouragement he would have never made it through the last three years. But she’d borne enough trouble from his family. The last thing Michael wanted to do was burden her with more. He’d fill her in on the prospect of buying the funeral home, but only if it proved to be true and only after this mess with his father and his so called investors had been dealt with.
A car horn blew behind Michael, snatching away his thoughts. He tapped the accelerator and crossed the intersection just as the traffic light switched from green to yellow. Two miles later, Michael took a right on Jenkins and noticed cars lined up on both sides of the road. Old station wagons and Pintos were fender to bumper with Mercedes, Park Avenues, and Lincolns. Vehicles straddled the curbs all the way to Sylva Lane, where he turned right again. When he stopped at the stop sign on the corner, he saw cars lined up on both sides of Alabaster Road, which ran directly in front of the funeral home.
“Holy shit!” Michael blinked rapidly, not trusting his vision. The mortuary’s parking lots, front and sides, were packed with cars, pickup trucks with homemade campers attached to the beds, and travel trailers of varying sizes. Hordes of people milled around the vehicles. Michael spotted a woman hanging a man’s shirt on a car antenna and two other women carrying a large black pot to a butane burner that sat behind an Airstream. Groups of children raced through the chaos in heated games of tag.
With his mouth still agape, Michael inched his Buick past the funeral home, then nursed it around more haphazardly parked vehicles until he reached his house, almost three blocks away.
Janet’s Caravan wasn’t in the garage, so Michael parked the Buick in the empty slot, then hurried over to the funeral home on foot.
When he reached the parking lot, Michael cornered a stout, middle-aged man dressed in a rumpled brown suit. “Excuse me, but are all of you here for the Stevenson viewing?”
The man’s caterpillar brows knitted, and without a word, he pointed to a woman who sat crying on the hood of a nearby Oldsmobile.
Michael took a step toward her, thought better of it, then hurried over to the service entrance of the funeral home. He half expected to find Chad cowering in some corner in desperate need of Prozac.
The side door swung open just as Michael reached it, and a young man in a Lee’s Florist uniform bustled out.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” the man said. “Did I hit you?”
“No. What’s—” Michael began, but the guy spun away, already heading for the back end of a delivery van, which was tucked tightly against the side of the building.
“Hey,” the man called out before disappearing into the back of the van. “Can you hold that door open for me?”
Michael propped the door open with a foot, and the delivery man hurried back inside with two floral stands.
“Who died?” the man asked. “A governor or something?”
“A teenage girl,” Michael said, closing the door. He stared at the multiple rows of flowers and plants lined up against the walls, their nauseatingly sweet fragrance nearly palpable. Many of them had Savoy’s Florist salutation cards attached to them.
“Yeah? She a local?”
“From out of town.”
The man placed the stands near a large wreath of white carnations that had OUR SYMPATHY written on a wide red ribbon across its middle. “Well, whoever she is, her family must sure have the bucks ‘cause Lee’s and two other shops’ve been deliverin’ here pretty steady.” He swiped his forehead with an arm and hustled out the side door again.
Michael picked up the floral stands and was heading for the viewing rooms when Chad burst out of the men’s bathroom, his hand still on his fly.
“Can you believe it?” Chad said nearly running into Michael. His eyes looked the size of salad plates. “There’s gotta be a thousand people outside!”
“I don’t know about a thousand, but it’s a hell of a group that’s for sure. Everything ready?”
Chad nodded while buttoning his suit coat. “I just finished cosmetizing.”
Michael started down the hall again, and Chad quickly fell into step.
“Where’s Sally?” Michael asked.
“In the viewing room, setting up flowers.”
“We’re going to need extra help—”
“I already called Mr. Mason. He’s on standby.”
Michael glanced over at him. “You already called Richard?”
Chad’s eyes grew wider . “Shouldn’t I have?”
“No . . . I mean, yes, you should have,” Michael said, impressed by Chad’s efficiency. “Good job.”
Richard Mason was a semi-retired funeral director whose help was an occasional blessing and a frequent curse. From the old school, Richard used embalming techniques that turned bodies into concrete statues. He also pasted enough makeup on a corpse to make a whore blush. Michael only called on him when absolutely necessary, and this service promised to accurately define necessity. Even with Richard’s help, Michael still worried about how they would manage a crowd of this size.
“Well it’s about time,” Sally said as she stormed out of viewing room A and spotted the two men.
Michael lifted the flower stands. “Reinforcements are here.”
Sally scowled, and Michael read, “where the hell have you been?” in her eyes, but she said, “I’ve got the front doors locked for now, but I need somebody to stand guard until we’re done setting up. Some weird old lady’s already snuck in here twice.”
“Was it the girl’s mother?”
Michael asked, following her into the viewing room.
“How the hell should I know?” Sally plopped a fist on her hip. “I tried asking her, but she talked so funny I couldn’t understand a doggone word she said. And it wasn’t like anybody else was around to help me figure her out.”
Blowing off Sally’s snippy mood, Michael surveyed the room. “You did a great job in here, Sal.” The accolade was said more in truth than to appease her frustration. She really had done a terrific job. The retractable wall that normally separated the fifty by forty foot room into two smaller rooms had been opened, and wooden folding chairs with tan leather cushions filled the wide space in tight, neat rows. The casket sat on an oak bier at the front of the room with a kneeler placed along its right side. Behind the casket hung a two-foot crucifix with a thick, mauve curtain serving as its backdrop. Flowers and plants of every shape and size stood in vases, pots, or on easels four rows deep along either side of the casket and extended down the length of the room along both walls.
“What’d you expect?” Sally snapped. “I always do a good job.” She let out a little harrumph, then turned on her heels and left.
Michael shook his head and placed the floral stands he’d been carrying beside a parade of wreaths. He signaled to Chad. “Let’s see how you did with the body.” He heard his apprentice draw short, nervous breaths as they neared the coffin.
The girl’s heart-shaped face was flawless and framed by long black hair. Thick, dark lashes lay against skin almost golden in color, and her lips, which had been shaded with the slightest bit of lipstick, were full and supple to the eye. She wore a white silk blouse scooped low at the neck and an ankle-length skirt to match. White satin slippers with intricate embroidery covered her feet. The overall effect against the royal blue velvet interior of the casket was breathtaking.
“Any problems with the removal at Riverwest last night?” Michael asked.
“Not really. Had some big guy follow me here from the hospital, though. He didn’t speak English that well, but I got the impression he was acting like a bodyguard or something. I had a little problem getting him to sign the release forms so he could go into the prep room, but once we got past that, the guy was a kitten. Just hung out in the back and watched me. He left about twenty minutes ago.”
Michael nodded. “What about the incision? You use the femoral?” He moved the girl’s hair away from the right side of her face and neck. No sign of sutures.
“Yeah,” Chad said, polishing a smudge off the bronze casket with his jacket sleeve. “There’s no way I could’ve hidden a carotid with those clothes.”
“Excellent work, Chad.” Michael straightened the girl’s hair, then closed the bottom half of the casket, leaving her exposed only from the waist up. “You’re going to make a great funeral dir—”
“But, Ma’am!” Sally’s voice boomed from the hallway.
A woman, who looked to be in her eighties, appeared in the doorway, a small brass bowl balanced in one hand. She wore a white blouse with long, puffy sleeves and a cardinal red, ankle-length skirt embroidered with small black and gold squares. A bright red kerchief was tied tightly about her head like a skullcap. It accented a face drawn and wrinkled and a nose and brow splotched with scabs. Her back was bowed, her walk slow and deliberate as she made her way across the room.
Sally followed her and mouthed to Michael when she passed him, “I tried to stop her!”
The old woman waved a gnarled hand. “All move. I am grandmother.” She dipped her fingers into the brass bowl and flicked what Michael hoped was water into the air.
He signaled for Chad and Sally to leave, which they did, quickly.
“We’re not quite finished here, but you’re welcome to stay, Mrs. . . .uh—” Michael stepped aside as the woman approached the coffin. “Is it Mrs. Stevenson?”
Ignoring him, the woman placed the bowl on the kneeler, then gripped the edge of the casket. She spoke softly to the girl in a voice choked with emotion and in a language Michael didn’t understand.
He moved away, deciding to leave the woman to her grief and help with the rest of the flowers.
“I am Stevenson,” the woman said suddenly. “Lenora.” She turned to him slowly. “Now I must see. You open.”
Michael looked at her, puzzled.
“You open,” she said again, and pointed to the closed portion of the casket.
“Oh.” Michael walked around the woman to the foot of the coffin and opened the lid.
Lenora wiped tears from her face. “You are to keep open, yes? Now dress.” She pointed to the girl’s legs. “Dress. You move dress, yes? I must see.”
Michael frowned. “Something’s wrong with the dress?”
“You move,” Lenora said. She made a hooking motion with a crooked finger. “You move.”
“You mean straighten it?” Michael tugged lightly on the hem of the girl’s skirt.
Lenora shrieked, “Naught! Naught!”, which caused Michael to jerk back in surprise.
“What?” he asked.
She glared at him, her face twisted with disgust, then moved her hands over the girl’s skirt without touching it. She mimed pulling up the hem.
“You want me to lift her skirt?”
Lenora nodded hesitantly.
Michael had heard a lot of strange requests from grieving relatives before, but this one ranked in the top ten. He pulled the skirt up to mid-calf. “Here?”
She held onto the edge of the casket, cocked her head for a closer look inside, then mumbled something that sounded like, “Me aster.” She fluttered a hand over the girl’s legs. “Me aster,” she said louder.
Dreading another outburst, Michael carefully moved the skirt up to the bottom of the knees. He glanced over at Lenora, who nodded, then exhaled slowly.
“Now turn,” she said, rolling the word off her tongue. She planted her feet flat on the floor, held out a hand, then moved it so her palm faced him. “Turn.”
Perplexed, Michael asked, “Turn the dress?”
Lenora stared at him quizzically.
He pinched a fold in the dress. “You want me to turn this?”
With a vigorous shake of her head, Lenora leaned over and slapped the calf of her left leg. “Turn. Turn.”
Michael felt like he was trapped in a macabre game of charades. “You want me to turn her leg?” He touched the girl’s left leg. “This one?”
Lenora straightened and nodded.
He wanted to ask why but figured it might well turn into a two-hour
translation marathon. He leaned over the casket, grasped the left leg, and turned it carefully, keeping a cautious eye on the rest of the body. The head and hands stayed set in their mimic of deep slumber as he pulled the calf into view. In the middle of the calf he saw an odd patch of dark skin that looked like the silhouette of a prehistoric bird.
“Is this what you wanted to see?” Michael asked, studying the strange shape. When he heard no response, he glanced back.
Lenora no longer stood beside him. The brass bowl she’d carried in earlier still sat on the kneeler to his right. Only now it belched skinny tendrils of blue smoke that smelled faintly of burning flesh.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“There ain’t no way we’re going to be able to keep up like this,” Bertha Lynn said, blowing a strand of gray hair out of her eyes. “Think Theresa would come over and give us a hand?”
Janet clipped a Savoy Florist card to one of the fifteen rose bouquets she’d completed since opening shop. The first indicator that business would not be as usual this morning was the cars and trucks parked along every roadside she passed on her way to work. The second was the funeral home parking lot filled to capacity even at that early hour. Janet hadn’t had a chance to talk to Michael since Wilson’s visit last night, and with Michael leaving the house before she woke this morning, she didn’t have a clue about what might be causing the hoopla at the funeral home. Whatever it was had forced her to find backup quick. Fortunately, Bertha Lynn had bee
n able to get her cousin, Pauline, into the shop to answer the phone, and Janet had talked Laura Trahan, Ellie’s sitter, into making deliveries. Even with two more people, Janet still felt like she was swimming through a tsunami with one arm.
“I doubt it,” Janet said, snipping through another bundle of carnations. “She told me yesterday she’d be shopping this morning with Heather, who’s supposed to be coming with us to the cabin—which we’ll probably have to cancel anyway—then she had a carpet cleaning service coming over to do her rugs. Theresa wouldn’t be much help anyway. All she knows to do with flowers is smell them.”
“We’re not going to the fair?” Ellie asked. She sat on a stool beside Bertha Lynn, holding a block of green Styrofoam and discarded stems and stalks. Her expression went from one of idle contentment to shock.
“Honey, I don’t see how we can,” Janet said. “With all those people at the funeral home, I’m sure Daddy won’t be able to get away. And I can’t leave Miss Bertha Lynn to handle all this by herself.”
Ellie’s lower lip trembled. “But, Mama—”
Bertha Lynn tsked. “Don’t you worry, baby girl. We’ll figure out a way for ya’ll to go.”
Ellie gave Janet a doleful look.
“Even if we get someone to cover for me here, Bertha, I’m sure there’s no way Michael’s going to be able to get away.”
“Then go on up there just you and the girls,” Bertha Lynn said. “You know he’ll drive out there to meet you as soon as he’s done.”
“Driving up there alone with the girls is one thing, leaving you alone with this mess is another.”
“Oh, good Lord, I’ve handled a lot worse than an overload of plants,” Bertha Lynn said. “I’ll call the women I play pinochle with on Tuesday nights. I bet they’ll be glad to have something to do. Lydia does a decent job with her own flowerbed at home, and Flo can do miracles with ribbon. Gina can’t do much but gripe about her rheumatism, but we’ll keep her busy doing something. And with Laura running deliveries, there ya go, we’re all set.”
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