Aidelman’s assistant slips in and out of the office with a cup of hot tea for me.
“Thanks,” I say, and I promptly forget about it as I flip open my computer for a PowerPoint presentation. I jump to a slide with two alphabets, one on top of the other. “I used the Roman cipher to protect my intellectual property. In this case, I shifted the bottom alphabet over by three letters, so A equals C, B equals D, C equals E and so forth. Just in case anyone was to try anything. Now compare Derek’s handbook on pages 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16 and 18 with our pamphlet on pages 7, 9, 11, 13, 15 and 17.” I point out the code, which spells “Derek Rogers has black dye under his fingernails.” “Everyone see?”
Aidelman lets out a long sigh. “Adam Berman wasn’t kidding when he said I should take you seriously. Darwen, Hadley, please get on this right away, and in the meantime, stop all distribution of Mr. Rogers’s handbook immediately.”
I freeze, having a moment of victory. I finally release a breath. One battle won, or at least one move gained that will keep Derek behind the scrimmage line, but for how much longer? That’s one question I’d like to put to rest forever.
Aidelman stares at me. “Madison Banks. Do you have a few minutes to stay and talk about your pamphlet?”
It was a question loaded with a first-and-ten position for me. “Yes, I do,” I say, sliding into quarterback mentality.
Approximately twenty-nine hours later, I’m behind the bar at the Eagle’s Nest cleaning shot glasses and recounting my New York adventure to Richard, Rocky and Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones strokes Siddhartha’s head while she listens.
“And then he asked me,‘How many copies of your pamphlet have you sold?’ I told him ‘fourteen thousand at 2.99 apiece.’ He said, ‘That’s approximately…’ and I beat him to it, saying ‘$41,860.’”
“Damn,” says Rocky. “That’s awesome!”
“Wait, there’s more. Then he says,‘How would you like a book deal with Panda House?’ And I told him as long as my co-author and I retain worldwide e-publication rights, I’m open.” I turn to Richard. “So, Richard, are you open to a publishing deal?”
“I think I could handle that.” He smiles.
“Think you can handle a sequel, too?”
“No kidding.”
Just then the door to the bar opens and Arthur Pintock, dressed in casual clothing, saunters toward the bar. It’s so out of context for me that it takes me a minute to realize it’s him. “Mr. Pintock! Hi! What brings you to Clark Lake?”
“You,” he says, as he reaches the bar. “How are you, Maddy?”
“I’m good. This is Richard, and Rocky, and Lillian. Oh, and that’s Siddhartha. Everyone, this is Arthur Pintock.”
“Of Pintock International?” asks Lillian. “Your company helped my husband and me buy our first home twenty-one years ago. Thank you so much.”
Arthur nods. “You’re welcome. Nice to meet you all.” He looks at Richard. “Richard Wright?”
“That’s me.”
“You both did a nice job on that pamphlet of yours. Without it, I don’t think I would have been able to go through Tara’s closet—at least half of it, for starters.”
“I’m glad you found it helpful, and I’m sorry for your loss. Can I get you a drink? It’s on the house,” says Richard.
Arthur scans the specials on the chalkboard and grins. “I’ll have Tara’s Song. By the way, what’s in it?”
“It’s on the sweet side. Little Kahlúa, little vodka, little crushed ice, topped with whipped cream,” replies Richard.
“Sounds great,” says Arthur, who then trains his eyes on me. “Can we talk? In private?”
“Sure, let’s go sit by the fire. Come on, Sid.” Siddhartha follows us. Arthur and I pull two chairs up to the fire in the main room attached to the bar.
Arthur quietly begins,“While I was going through Tara’s things I found her box of songs. One song in particular caught my attention. It prompted me to do some digging…as far back as Black Tuesdays. Why didn’t you warn me about Derek Rogers’s character?”
“I didn’t know you were doing business with him. You told me he didn’t need you and that you thought he and I should meet.”
“Yes, well, he came back and worked his charm on me, but he never mentioned tributes, only acquisitions of mortuaries in terms of real-estate holdings.”
Richard brings Arthur his drink. “Here ya go, Tara’s Song.”
Arthur takes a sip. “Excellent, thank you.” Richard leaves, and Arthur focuses on our conversation. “What happened to Lights Out Enterprises? And don’t hold back, Maddy.”
“Basically, the FTC revised the Funeral Rule and adopted a new accreditation program devised by Derek Rogers, also to be officiated by Derek Rogers, with major penalties attached. Under the new rule, Lights Out got shut out.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“One would think,” I say.
Arthur swirls his drink, thinking. “I’ve instructed my associate to hold off on mortgage lending for his expansion plans until I get to the bottom of his business practices. However, as the lender go-between, I know all the terms of the deal and if you want to see Lights Out get a long-overdue fair shake, I suggest you contact this particular list of funeral homes in Michigan, Ohio, New York and half a dozen other states and see if you can work out a mutually conducive arrangement with them.” He pulls a sealed envelope from his pocket. “I can’t make any guarantees, Maddy, but it might be worth a try.”
“But I don’t have the proper accreditation,” I say.
“That can change, under different circumstances,” replies Arthur as he hands me the envelope. “And I have a feeling it will, soon enough.”
This time I hold the envelope in my hand along with the weight of Arthur’s actions behind it. This was serious business, and for the first time in my life, I felt equal to the giants. But was the acceptance of this envelope an ethical move? I flashed back to the theme of The Brothers Karamazov—that anything is lawful, because everything is not lawful. Victor had been right all along: the game was far from over. But without Victor, I didn’t know if I had the strength and wits to carry out this mission on my own. We had been a good team together. And it wasn’t Richard’s forte to fill Victor’s role, nor did I have any intention of calling Victor to discuss it. Even though seeing him in New York had brought to the surface all the feelings I had fought so hard to bury, I would pay him back on his original investment from my share of the proceeds of the pamphlets and be done with him.
As if reading my mind, Arthur says, “You can do this on your own, Maddy, but if you need help, I’ll be there. And it’s not wrong—it’s your turn for a fair opportunity.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
“What about you? I thought you wanted to leave Pintock International.”
“When I find the right opportunity, I will,” he says. “I’ve got to get back now.”
We stand up and as I walk Arthur toward the door, Grace Pintock enters. She and Arthur are surprised and shocked to see each other. It’s a stiff, awkward moment. I see the love connection between them and then shut down, likely from memories and grief gone awry.
“Hello, Arthur. What are you doing here?” Grace asks innocently.
“I wanted to thank Maddy and Richard for writing that pamphlet. And thank you for sending it to me. It was, uh, most helpful, Grace.”
“I’m glad. Well, um, Maddy, if you’re busy, I can come back another time.”
“You two have business to discuss?” inquires Arthur somewhat curiously.
“Maddy’s helping me plan a life celebration for Tara,” says Grace. “I want to complete what we didn’t have a chance to do before.”
“I see,” says Arthur. There’s an uncomfortable pause. I can feel the brief sting of Arthur’s exclusion from his wife’s new plan for closure and redemption—redemption to memorialize Tara’s life and redemption to honor her own.
“W
ell, I was just leaving. It was nice…seeing you, Grace.” And he walks out the door.
Grace watches him go. “You know, Maddy, I think maybe I should go over this with you at another time.”
“Are you sure? You just got here.”
Siddhartha nuzzles up to Grace and whimpers. Grace looks down and pets her. “No, I’m not sure.”
“Why don’t we make a start and then you can come back next week and we’ll finish then. And by the way, Grace, you were right. He didn’t know.”
Grace nods. We sit down by the fire. Siddhartha curls up next to us as we go over Grace’s plans.
* * *
The next day, I take Siddhartha for a long walk along a dirt path through the forest. The day is full of contrasts; large white puffy clouds drift in and out of a bright, crisp blue sky. An exceptionally warm breeze drifts through near-empty tree branches, as colored leaves slip to the ground, announcing the birth of fall.
I pull the sealed envelope out of my pocket and stare at it. I hold it in my hand, thinking as we walk the path. Siddhartha finds an acorn and proudly carries it in her mouth, looking for someone to show it to. We pass a farm where an old thoroughbred named Romeo roams the field. Siddhartha runs up to Romeo and drops the acorn for him and barks as if to make her gift known to him. Then she runs up to me and sits right down at my feet. I pull a carrot from my pocket and give it to Sid. Sid gently takes it in her mouth, carries it over to Romeo and plops it down next to the acorn, then backs up and barks at Romeo again. Romeo bends down and eats the carrot. Satisfied, Siddhartha rejoins me on our walk, taking the lead once again, happy that all is well with her assorted flock.
All the while, I ponder my options. What are the risks, what are the rewards and what does my gut have to say about it? Sid and I reach a small knoll in the woods. Siddhartha leaps on top of the knoll and with a glance, offers me an invitation to join her.
I climb to the top, pet her and look around. “Sid, think Uncle Sam is here?” I ask. Siddhartha barks and a ray of Sunshine peeks through drifting clouds to land near my feet and Siddhartha’s paws. I smile. “Just checking.”
I hold the sealed envelope in the light. “What do you think?” The ray of light disappears for a long moment, and then just as suddenly it reappears even brighter than before. “Hmm. Interesting.” I re-pocket the envelope in my jacket. “Come on, Sid. Let’s keep moving.” And then I look up at the sun and add, “Thanks, Uncle Sam. That’s what I thought.”
Richard serves drinks at the Eagle’s Nest while I stand engrossed at the computer next to the register, checking the blog for updates and responses. “Hey, Richard, someone from Louisville wants to know about outer burial containers and grave liners. Can you take this one and I’ll cover for you?”
“Sure,” he says, adding,“fellow at the end of the bar wants a mug of hot tea. Can you take this to him?” Richard hands me the mug.
“Got it,” I say as we switch places. I carefully carry the tea to the end of the bar, only to discover Victor Winston quietly sitting there. I nearly drop the mug.
“Hi, Maddy,” he says, smiling smugly. “How are you doing?”
“Victor. What…are you doing here?”
“I thought we should talk.”
“Well, I can’t talk. I’m working.”
“I’ll wait until you get off.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because…because I have to work after I finish…working,” I blurt out.
“Okay, well, when you have some time, let me know. Maybe during your break or something. I’ll be right here.”
“That’s not a good idea, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because…because, I’m not going to have time for a really long time,” I sputter, exasperated, trying not to make a scene. “And I’m sure you have more important things to do than hang out in a bar on Clark Lake,” I whisper fervently.
“No. I have nowhere to go, so whenever…because, you know, the dead don’t have agendas. Or do they?” Victor turns to Wally sitting next to him. “What do you think? Do the dead have agendas?”
“Hell, yes,” says Wally. “You think they just stop being ’n doing cuz their bodies dropped out on ’em? Nah, I think they’re comin’ and goin’ all around us. Not a day goes by I don’t feel ’em in the air. Fact is, I think Guy’s here right now.”
“What do you think is his agenda?” asks Victor.
“To see to it that we appreciate life…the way he did.”
“And how would that work?”
Wally thinks about it. “He’d probably want us to have a Guy Special.”
“Okay, one round of Guy Specials for this gentleman and me,” Victor tells me. “On me,” he tells Wally.
“Thank you. Guy would appreciate that,” says Wally. I look up at the ceiling and shake my head, then get their drinks for them. I see Richard crack a smile to himself from behind the computer.
Victor spends the rest of the evening chatting with other customers and playing with Siddhartha. I do my best to ignore him. Rocky walks in and hands me my new subscription to the Financial Street Journal. I blatantly make a lot of noise as I snap it wide open to scan the headlines.
When Richard and I finally close up for the night, Victor asks me, “Can I drive you home?”
“No, thanks. Sid and I prefer to walk.”
“Can I—”
“Girls only.”
“All right,” says Victor. He leans down to pet Siddhartha. “See ya later, Sid.” He walks out.
The next night, I open up the bar wearing the black ribbon pinned to my shirt. Victor walks in right when the doors open and sits at the end of the bar. He carries with him a copy of the Pamphlet on Grief Wellness & Creating Personalized Tributes. He orders another cup of hot tea, which he never takes a sip of, then notices my shirt.
“What’s with the black ribbon?” he asks.
He sounds surprised. “I thought you were done mourning your uncle.”
“I am. I’m mourning an old lover now,” I say, and turn around to ignore him.
“Ouch.” He sits there for a moment, then quietly reads from his pamphlet until Lillian Jones enters. “Aren’t you the one who painted that remarkable portrait of Guy?” Victor must recognize her from Guy’s tribute.
“Yes, that’s me, thank you.”
“Could I hire you to paint my portrait?”
“Why, of course.” She beams. “Do you have a particular location in mind?”
“Yes, right there, by the fireplace.”
I pretend not to hear, realizing the fireplace is in my direct line of vision. I sigh to myself and roll my eyes.
Lillian grabs her paints and easels out of her car and spends the next three nights creating an exquisite portrait of Victor beside the fireplace with Siddhartha next to him remaining perfectly still.
Every time I call Siddhartha over to the bar, she refuses to come.
Richard smiles. “I think Sid is bent on having her portrait done, Maddy.”
“F-fine,” I stammer. “I need to check the e-mails anyway.” I read one from Sanford Aidelman telling me to expect the contract for the book deal in two weeks. I send an e-mail to Arthur, letting him know how much I appreciate his intentions, but that I’ve decided to wait on that envelope he gave me…for now.
After we close shop, Victor asks if he can walk Sid and me home. Again, I refuse.
The next night, while having his portrait completed, Victor asks Lillian, “So tell me, what’s the real estate like around here?”
I stare at Victor from across the bar, wondering what he’s up to.
“Oh, you can still get some good buys,” she says.
Just then, Victor’s mobile phone rings. It’s on the bar next to his pamphlet. I see it but ignore it.
“Hey, Victor,” Richard calls, “your phone’s ringing.”
“Could you answer it for me? Thanks, Richard,” Victor responds.
�
��Hello?” Richard covers the mouthpiece and calls out to Victor.
“George Toffler from the Financial Street Journal.” George Toffler calling Victor? What’s that about? I snuff my curiosity by continuing to nonchalantly wipe down the bar.
Victor turns to Lillian. “Do you mind if we take a break?”
“Not at all,” she replies.
Victor gets up and takes his cell phone outside with him. I peer after him. Fifteen minutes later he returns, still talking on the phone. He looks at me. “George Toffler would like to speak to you. He’s had a difficult time getting a hold of you.”
I hesitate. Taking the phone would acknowledge Victor’s presence.
He smiles at me. “Just for tonight, we can pretend I’ve been temporarily resurrected.”
I take the phone. “Hello?” Victor returns to his seat next to Siddhartha so Lillian can finish their portrait. I head outside for the conversation as Victor had done.
When I return twenty minutes later, I find Victor back at the bar next to Lillian. I hand him his cell phone, pretending nothing unusual happened.
“Since we’re pretending I’m in the flesh tonight, I’d like you to have something to remember me by,” says Victor. He hands me the finished portrait of himself and Siddhartha. Even I feel my breath taken away by the incredible likeness of both man and beast. “Be careful not to touch it until it dries.”
“It’s remarkable,” I comment.
“Thank you,” says Lillian. “Now where are your manners?”
“Um, thank you,” I say to Victor.
Victor, Lillian and Richard release simultaneous sighs. I look at them, wondering whose side they’re on.
“With regard to that phone call we both received,” says Victor,“there’s something I need to show you and you’re just going to have to trust me on this.”
I hesitate. Anything to do with the Financial Street Journal is my Achilles’ heel and he knows it, and I know he knows it. “How long will it take?” I ask.
The Funeral Planner Page 32
