Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  He stepped back and lifted the face shield. Grinold was still watching, his disgust unbridled, and Kennet’s face flushed with more than the heat from the oven. Sweat trickled down his temples. He downed the browned morsels and, as he chewed, he fluttered his eyelids. Up the drama, but don’t overdo it, Singleton.

  One of Grinold’s weasely eyebrows shot up. “Well?”

  Kennet placed a hand on his chest. “Heart attack,” he said. “Mr. Connors died of a heart attack.”

  “O’Connor.” Grinold minced open the envelope, pulled the death certificate out, and stared at it a few moments. “Hmm.” Then he dropped the paperwork on the workbench and retreated into the funeral home.

  Kennet scanned the certificate for cause of death. Myocardial infarction. Heart attack. He grinned and reached for the hoe.

  Chapter 12

  That Saturday night, Kennet strode the dirt path through the field behind the care home. Alex’s place stood up ahead, its windows dark, and the cemetery lay to the left, about half a mile off. In between he spied the glow of a campfire against the trees.

  The clearing by the woods was a favorite Tenleytown party spot of the younger crowd. Kennet had never come before, but Nathan convinced him he should go. He spotted Nate’s beat-up Toyota pickup and quickened his pace. Someone was blasting Pearl Jam on a car stereo, the doors open. He caught a whiff of wood smoke and cigarettes.

  “Doctah!” Nathan stepped away from a group of kids and bumped fists with him. “Good to see you here, dude.”

  Kennet recognized a few faces from their graduating class, and figured the rest were underclassmen. A few greeted him and offered condolences about his mother.

  “Hi, Kennet.” Christy smiled at him and ran her hands through her silky blonde hair. Nathan’s sister was younger than he by two years. Kennet had harbored a crush on her since she entered high school.

  “Hey, Christy. How’s it going?”

  She sashayed over, slipped her arm in his, and gave his forearm a little squeeze. “Doing great. And you?”

  His stomach quivered with the thrill of her touch, the sound of her voice. She could have led him all the way to the cemetery, and he would have followed, but she drew him only to a log seat near the campfire.

  “Okay, considering.”

  “I’m real sorry about your mom.” Her green eyes brimmed with concern. “I’m sure it’s hard.”

  “Yeah. She’s the only person I had left.”

  “Well,” she said, patting his hand, “you have me and Nathan. We’ll be your family now.” Kennet watched the fire dance in her eyes. Inside, he felt she meant it.

  “Thanks, Christy. That makes me feel good.”

  They talked a while about school, summer plans, and employment. She’d found a job doing computer work at a travel agency in White Oak. He told her about losing his job for a day, getting it back, and gaining the cemetery grounds work with Nathan’s help. He caught Nate watching them from across the campfire. The look was cautious, but not disapproving. Kennet figured he’d better go easy where Christy was concerned. Although Nathan was his best friend, he was a protective brother first.

  Blue light exploded next to Nathan’s truck. Had lightning struck? But the sky was clear, and there was no thunder or wind. It was merely someone taking a flash picture. Ashley Tanner made her way toward them, carrying a digital camera.

  “Smile pretty!”

  Christy leaned into him, and they cheesed it for the shot. Flash and clisk.

  “Thanks,” Ashley said and wandered off to find another subject. A blue spot floated across Kennet’s vision like a ghost.

  Just then, something flew into the fire, stirring sparks and making the wood sizzle and steam. Kennet pulled Christy away from danger.

  One of Alex’s cronies had tossed his beer. Kennet only knew his first name. Rick was a string-bean of a guy about six-foot-five. He sprawled in the dirt at the edge of the fire pit, but jumped up, shaking debris from his long, dark hair.

  “That’s it, Keckler. I’m gonna kick your stupid ass!”

  His face twisted in hate, Alex slammed his plastic beer cup on a nearby stump and then grabbed Rick by the front of his shirt. Rick had five inches on Alex, but Alex outweighed him by fifty pounds of muscle. Alex muttered something to him, probably ugly, that Kennet couldn’t hear over the grinding music.

  Kennet watched explosions erupt over the orderly’s head, the kind of emotional fireworks only he could see. “Easy, Alex . . .”

  Nathan and some other guys rushed in to pull the fighters apart. Kennet grabbed Rick by the arms and held him tight, although Rick soon stopped struggling and resorted to name-calling and swearing. Nathan and Drew Danielson had a little more trouble subduing Alex, but he calmed down soon enough, and he shook them off. Kennet headed back to Christy.

  Alex called after him: “What the hell are you doing here, Singleton?”

  Kennet turned back as Christy approached him and took his arm. “Enjoying a party, that’s all. A nice, peaceful party. Good times, fun, you know.”

  Alex stalked closer, rubbing a fist with his hand, bitterness still warping his features. He grabbed his cup off the stump. “Want a beer, Basement Boy?” Alex extended the half-full cup toward Kennet.

  Kennet didn’t drink, and Alex knew it. The only time he’d taken a drink, he’d become violently ill. Probably some psychological reaction triggered by his aversion to becoming like his father. But he hated not having a beer with the rest of the guys, and it was a struggle every time he was asked.

  “No, thanks. I don’t do drugs, either.”

  Alex snarled in disgust. His eyes were pink slits from smoking weed. “Yeah, well, you oughta be lookin’ for a new place to live.” He leaned toward Kennet, trying to look menacing. He did look menacing, but Kennet held his ground and kept his voice steady.

  “What’s it to you? I’ve got thirty days.”

  “Twenty-nine, Doctor Death. Time’s runnin’ out, and the sooner you leave, the better.”

  Kiss my ass, you dickhead is what Kennet wanted to say. He kept quiet. Alex was looking for anyone to start a fight, and Kennet wouldn’t fall for it. When Nathan and Drew sidled up to him, Alex hocked a phlegm-ball into the fire and swaggered off.

  “What a jerk,” Christy whispered.

  Kennet draped his arm around her and led her back to their seat by the fire, where he told her about being moved to the basement and having to find a new place to live.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, entwining her fingers with his. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

  Kennet relished the touch of her hand and did not let go. Staring into the flames, he hoped she was right.

  Chapter 13

  Flavia locked the dishwasher on the morning’s breakfast dishes and started the wash cycle. Drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she stepped out the side door and followed the driveway to the back of the care home, carefully avoiding the spilled mulch behind the Ramirez Landscaping truck. The truck bed was loaded with gas-powered trimmers, rakes, fertilizer bags, a pesticide canister, a folded tarp.

  Hector Ramirez was mulching the flower beds in the backyard and putting in some annuals to replace ones that hadn’t taken.

  “Good morning, Hector. Did you find my flossflowers?”

  Hector stood and wiped his forehead with a soiled handkerchief. If she were wearing heels, she could have looked him in the eye. He had beautiful dark eyes and a full head of wavy, black hair peppered with silver. An attractive man.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Costa, no one carries them. I could special order, but that shoulda been done four weeks ago. I found the bachelor’s buttons, though.” He grinned with large white teeth.

  Beautiful. She imagined him using them to nibble sensitive places.

  “You did get purple bachelor’s buttons, didn’t you, Hector?” She stood within a yard of him and smoothed a manicured hand down one hip.

  “Yes. And lobelia for the edging.”

  She looked him
up and down. Hector was thick but not overweight. His rugged face was almost handsome. And that smile. . . .

  “Anything purple will do.”

  He picked up a heavy chrome hand trowel. “Purple is the color of passion.”

  Flavia’s heartbeat quickened. “So they say.”

  “I’ll plant a purple garden for a passionate woman.”

  Flavia took a deep breath that filled her chest and threatened to burst the buttons of her blouse. She dabbed her breastbone with the kitchen towel. This was no ordinary hot flash.

  “Don’t forget to clean up when you’re done, Hector.”

  “I work quickly and I’m clean and neat. I leave my customers satisfied.” He smirked, caressing the shining trowel.

  “I may need you to come back in a week or so. To see if the plants are flourishing.”

  “They’ll flourish, I assure you. I fertilize generously, and my work is guaranteed. Like I said, I leave my customers satisfied.”

  I’m sure you do, Hector. I’m sure you do. . . .

  Flavia looked deep into his eyes, eyes even darker than her own. He held her gaze until she turned away and headed for the house, fanning herself with the dish towel.

  • • •

  Grinold pulled up before the defunct Chupa Funeral Home and Mortuary and threw the Town Car into park. The first floor windows were boarded over with plywood. The brickwork needed pointing and then painting, perhaps, but the structure looked sound, all the way to the third floor where the windows were unboarded.

  He would rip out all the shrubs and resod the lawn. Pour new sidewalks and install a handicapped ramp. Inside, replace the flooring, replaster everything from top to bottom, and redecorate with a richness an old parlor deserved.

  He had toured the inside with the realtor last evening. The place needed a lot of work. But, in the heart of McKeesport, it was a steal. With the new housing project going up on nearby Riverview, the neighborhood was turning around—in the right direction, unlike so many neighborhoods in this failed city. And regardless of a community’s prosperity, people still died and needed a place to be laid out. His place. Grinold’s Funeral Home, number two.

  Grinold drove off, maneuvering the broken brick avenues toward the cleaner, smoother streets of neighboring White Oak.

  His plan was to purchase a second and then a third funeral home. He would hold office hours in each of the new homes, including his present business, hire salespeople to staff the offices, but perform the embalming and preparation at the Tenleytown facility. By the time he acquired a third home, he would need to hire an assistant funeral director to do the embalming.

  Of course, all of the cremations would be performed at his Tenleytown headquarters. And he could offer a no-frills direct cremation service for $990 instead of the $2000 he charged for a full service cremation, which actually cost him only $250. He would employ someone as a full-time creamer then or, better yet, hire one or two to work part-time for minimum wage and no benefits. At that point, he would let Kennet go.

  Despite the young man’s galling attitude, Grinold admitted that Kennet was loyal and, except for the horrid habit of toasting marshmallows in the crematory oven, a conscientious worker. Dependable. Easy to manipulate. And intimidate, if necessary. Although this was becoming more of a challenge recently. Kennet was a unique young man, especially now that he’d discovered his “gift.”

  Grinold laughed aloud. How preposterous! The poor loser had no skills to cultivate a sense of self-worth, and instead came up with a cockamamie tale like that to save his skin from being fired. Kennet’s prediction had proved true concerning Harlan O’Connor’s cause of death, but it was just a lucky guess. Many men that age die of heart attacks. Kennet’s forecast was no more prophetic than the horoscopes in the morning newspaper.

  Grinold turned off Lincoln Way into the freshly tarred parking lot of The Real Estate Company. Inside, the air conditioning cooled his sweaty skin. Thomas Wagner, a stooped fellow with a buzz-cut who should have retired a decade ago, brushed a Subway sandwich wrapper into the trash and stood up behind his desk.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Grinold. What can I do for you today? Interested in learning more about the Chupa property?”

  “I know enough. I’ve come to make a bid.”

  Wagner’s eyes sparked with what looked like relief. “It’s a great place. Needs some work, like I said, but it has loads of potential.”

  “Yes, yes. This we know.”

  Wagner withdrew a bid form from a folder in his desk drawer and picked up his pen.

  “Sixty thousand,” Cecil said.

  Wagner stopped writing and looked up. “Asking price is one hundred nineteen five.”

  La-de-frickin-da. Grinold leaned forward. “And my offer is sixty. I want you to present it to the seller. Let them decide.”

  “We don’t want to insult the seller.”

  “If they’re insulted, that’s their choice. It’s been boarded up well over a year. Offer them sixty.”

  A telephone shrilled across the office. Wagner resigned himself to recording the bid on the form. When he turned the papers around, Cecil managed a smile as he signed. He’d left some room to negotiate, but he wouldn’t part with a penny over seventy-five thousand for the place. He’d be putting at least another sixty grand into renovations, so he wanted to keep the total outlay reasonable. A place like that, no matter what the shape, would sell for nearly a million in Squirrel Hill, twenty minutes away. But this was McKeesport, and he was taking advantage of a depressed market.

  “Call me with the seller’s response. My cell number.” Cecil handed Wagner a business card with his cell phone number penned on the back, along with a thousand-dollar check.

  “I’ll do that. Best of luck, Mr. Grinold.”

  “That’s what I have, Tom, the best of everything. At my price.”

  Grinold headed out of White Oak for Tenleytown under a lowering sky. It was too late to drop by Delores’s place, but he didn’t want to see that barking asthmatic gold-digger anyway. She was hell-bent on extracting money from him, and he wasn’t about to give in, now or ever. What did she think their relationship was, true love?

  He considered it nothing more than a passionate affair that had lost its passion. He’d bought her an amethyst ring and, when he presented it to her the other day, she’d gushed and forgotten their argument, disrobed in less than a minute. With the Viagra he’d taken, they had a successful slosh in the waterbed. A fitting finale to their tawdry tryst. He was glad to be rid of her.

  In the office, Mary Grace had deposited the morning’s mail on the corner of his desk, stacked neatly from the largest envelope on the bottom to the smallest on top, just as he liked it. He usually worked his way from top to bottom, but not today. He wanted to see what was in the big white envelope sealed with the red-white-and-blue Priority Mail tape. It was hand-addressed.

  Cecil sliced open one end with his gold-plated letter opener and tugged out the contents. He laid aside a sheet of gray packing cardboard to reveal half a dozen color photographs.

  Of himself.

  And Delores.

  In her driveway.

  In her living room, shot from the back window.

  In her bedroom, disrobing.

  His heart stumbled painfully. “You evil bitch!”

  Grinold shot out of his chair and shredded the pictures with pink and trembling hands.

  Chapter 14

  Flavia Costa locked the door to her third-floor apartment with an old-fashioned skeleton key and swiftly descended the two flights of stairs to the ground floor, clutching a small black satchel under her arm. Alex hadn’t arrived yet, and she had only fifty minutes until it was time to rouse the residents and get them prepared for 7:30 breakfast.

  She tip-toed to Kennet’s old room, now the confines of her newest resident, eighty-five-year-old Rhoda Osgood. Rhoda had arrived two days after her brother Charles.

  Flavia pushed open the door. The blinds were drawn against th
e sunrise, but the sky was overcast when she’d first looked out from her apartment upstairs and there still wasn’t much light.

  Rhoda was sound asleep. Not because she’d had an active day yesterday, but because she slept most of the time.

  Flavia quietly moved into the room and opened the satchel on the dresser top. She withdrew the hypodermic and the vial of succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant foisted from an anesthesiologist she’d seduced last year. She uncapped the needle, punctured the rubber stopper, and measured the dose. Because Rhoda took metoprolol for her heart, Flavia didn’t need much succinylcholine to do the job.

  A bed rail clanked on the second floor. Flavia froze until the commotion stopped. Her heart raced. Cold sweat already dampened her underarms. She paused a moment to catch her breath. Then, holding the hypodermic in her right hand, Flavia drew back the covers with her left and gently rotated Rhoda’s left arm. The old woman’s face contorted as if she were waking from a disturbing dream.

  Don’t wake up, Rhoda. Don’t. Wake. Up. Flavia waited until Rhoda resumed her shallow breathing.

  She peeled back the adhesive bandage in the crook of the old woman’s arm. In the brownish-purple bruise were several needle marks where the visiting phlebotomist had finally succeeded in drawing blood yesterday afternoon. The spots also provided a convenient cover-up if an autopsy was performed. At Rhoda’s age and in her health, this was unlikely.

  Flavia straightened the woman’s arm and smoothed the papery skin. She inserted the needle and then pulled on the plunger. When blood swirled into the syringe, she knew she’d hit a vein. First try, girl. You are good.

  Rhoda moaned and knit her brow in pain.