Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  Flavia emptied the shot into Rhoda’s arm, withdrew the needle, and replaced the bandage. She returned the woman’s arm under the covers, capped the needle, and zipped the hypo in the satchel. She moved to the far side of the bed, near the door, and stopped to watch the old woman die.

  For a minute, Rhoda’s muscles twitched and dimpled beneath her pale skin. The spasms soon subsided, and her breathing slowed and then stopped as the succinylcholine did its job and paralysis set in.

  Flavia soughed out a held breath, relieved it had gone off without a hitch. Victim number six was now dead.

  She envisioned her retirement nest egg growing, and that made her feel better about herself. She squeezed the satchel and glanced around the room, making sure she’d left nothing behind.

  All clear.

  Then she softly shut the door behind her and returned to her apartment to stow the satchel and change her sweat-stained blouse.

  Chapter 15

  Kennet propped open the door to the annex driveway with a concrete block. He really wanted to raise the big bay door on such a beautiful day, but unless a delivery was coming in, this was a no-no with the funeral director. If Grinold were embalming, he would promptly shove the block aside and close the side door. He hated flies.

  Kennet glanced at the cool-down timer, sat down in the chair beside the crematory, and returned to perusing the apartment ads in the McKeesport Daily News.

  MCKEESPORT 1BR, 2nd fl,

  equip kit, ww, no pets.

  Too expensive by $150.

  PORT VUE EFFCY, carport, elec incl.

  Still too much, and too far to walk to work. But I could sublet the carport. He scanned the columns of miniscule type but saw nothing else worth calling about. He tossed the paper aside.

  He wanted to be strong and show himself a man, as his mother had encouraged him in his dream. He supposed there were plenty of poor brave men out there, but what he really needed most to move out on his own was more money. The extra two dollars an hour was a step in the right direction, as was caring for the cemetery grounds. But not enough. If Nathan weren’t going away to college that fall, Kennet would ask him to share a place, split expenses.

  Maybe Alex needs a roommate. He nearly laughed out loud. He would rather live in the basement of the care home than move in with that ornery ogre.

  Twenty-seven days to make his move. It seemed impossible. He closed his eyes.

  “God? Could you make a way for me?” It had been a long time since Kennet had formally prayed, and he felt selfish asking for something without offering anything in return. “And increase my gift—for doing good, of course.” That about covered it. “Amen.”

  When Kennet opened his eyes, a large black dog entered through the open door, as if it had done so a hundred times before. Kennet tensed, not knowing what manner of dog it was, but as the animal loped closer, he sensed it was friendly. It licked Kennet’s open hand and sat down before him, panting. It was male. Kennet swore the dog was smiling at him.

  “Hey, fella. Whatcha doin’ here? Who’s your master?”

  He scratched the dog’s neck. The animal had no collar or tags, and Kennet hadn’t seen it around before. He couldn’t believe someone would drop off such a fine dog in a rural area just to get rid of it. Maybe it ran away.

  “If I had a place of my own, I’d have a dog like you.” If they allowed pets, of course.

  The animal obviously enjoyed Kennet’s attention. It licked his forearm gently. The dog’s eyes were deep black even in the light from the open door, and its thick, shiny coat glinted with the hint of a rainbow. Long upright ears, like feed scoops, made it look like a jackal.

  The dog broke away, trotted to the crematory, and sat down. He scratched gently at the door with a paw and whined.

  “What is it, boy? You like your meat well done? Sorry, but this one’s very well done, almost ready to be processed.”

  Just then the cool-down timer beeped, and Grinold stepped through the door from the funeral home, a manila envelope tucked under his arm. When Grinold saw the dog, he stopped abruptly. The dog remained seated but began to growl low, as if to warn the funeral director to watch himself.

  “Is that your dog?” Grinold’s voice was taut and shrill. “Get it out of here. Shoo! Baddog!” Grinold inched closer, fanning his fat hands to encourage the dog to leave. The dog didn’t budge.

  “Go ’way, baddog!” His eyes were frantic, and his liver-colored lips crimped in fear.

  Kennet could barely contain his laughter at Grinold’s antics. He headed toward the door, and the dog willingly followed, wagging its tail.

  “Go on . . . out you go.” Kennet pointed to the door.

  The dog looked back at Grinold and gruffed. Then it licked Kennet’s fingers again and bounded onto the driveway in the flood of sunshine.

  Grinold crossed the concrete, kicked the block away from the door and let it slam shut. “We do not need filthy animals in a place of business.”

  Kennet grinned despite himself. “I didn’t invite him in. Seems like a real nice dog.”

  “I hate dogs. All animals, really. Don’t let it in here again. And keep that damned door closed.” Grinold straightened his suit jacket, but his sour look remained. “Cool-down’s over. Process Miss Osgood, and get started on number two.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Grinold frowned at him. Kennet knew he hated being called boss, chief, cap’n, but Kennet recently had picked up the habit from Jack Dodds, who called everybody boss, chief, and cap’n. The funeral director reopened the door to the driveway and, after scouring the area to see that the dog was gone, took the envelope from under his arm and started for his Lincoln. “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he called.

  “Okay, chief.”

  When Kennet heard the car drive off, he propped open the door again. It was time for a marshmallows.

  He donned his vestments and speared three Jet-Puffeds. In the roiling heat, revelation swept over him like the tailwind of a speeding semi. He stumbled backward and nearly dropped the skewer. He started for the chair, but his legs gave out—his whole body grew weak—and he collapsed to the floor in a heap.

  What the hell was going on? He’d eaten breakfast, so it wasn’t hunger making him weak. Was it his gift causing this reaction? His powers were growing stronger, but he’d never experienced this before. The only thing he gleaned from the bright recesses of his mind was paralysis. Not just a word, but a sense.

  How could Rhoda Osgood have died of paralysis? She’d been inactive during the few days she was a resident at Ms. Costa’s, but she wasn’t paralyzed. He remembered her covering her mouth when she yawned.

  When his strength returned, he picked himself up off the floor and scraped the dirty marshmallows into the garbage. He checked the death certificate: Congestive heart failure.

  Kennet sat down in the lawn chair. Congestive heart failure?

  This was the first time he’d ever been wrong about his death perception. He didn’t understand. He didn’t feel the heart pain he often experienced, the shortness of breath. Paralysis was all that came to him, and he felt more strongly about it than ever, despite what was printed on the death certificate.

  After he fully recovered, Kennet pulled on his gloves and face shield and hoed out the ashes of Miss Rhoda Osgood. Picking up the broom, he wondered if his prayer had anything to do with his misdiagnosis.

  • • •

  “What is the meaning of this?” Grinold shook the manila envelope and the torn photos at her.

  Delores peered over her rhinestone-encrusted glasses. She was working on an arrangement of dried milkweed. “I’m going to get what I want,” she said. “You get what you want twice a week on your lunch hour. What do I get? I get to sit here in this flimsy dump and paste flowers together and wait for Mabon to get home and crack a beer.”

  “Your little plan has backfired, Delores.”

  “It has?” She set the weeds and the glue gun aside. “How?” She didn’t
look upset, and not very curious, either. She was an ignoramus, like everyone else he endured.

  Grinold inched closer to the table, crushing the photo shreds in his hand. “Any intentions I had of helping you out of your predicament are absolutely dashed. Did you think this, these, would convince me?” He slammed the crumpled papers on the table, making the flowers and foliage and pruning tools jump in the air.

  Delores’s red mouth hardened. She lifted herself from the creaking chair and then stepped away from the table, toward him. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you? A sap. Some stupid tramp you can screw on your lunch break for the price of a department store shopping card and a few gifts.” She waved her hand over the tools and supplies he had purchased for her. “Well, Cecil, you underestimate me.” She sashayed closer, hands on her ample hips. “I can’t type, but I do have some skills. And I’m going to use them to the best of my ability to find a way out of this mess.”

  She stopped directly before him and smoothed the lapels of his suit coat. He stepped back, overwhelmed with loathing at her audacity.

  But she gathered his lapels in her fists, the amethyst ring twisting on her finger. “Like it or not, willing or unwilling, you’re my ticket out of this goddamn hole, and you’re going to do things my way, or it’s going to cost you your reputation and your business—everything you hold dear.”

  Grinold scraped her hands away and went for her throat, but she moved away. She snatched the pruning snips from the table corner.

  “You touch me, you bastard, I’ll cut your fat prick off and stuff it down your throat.”

  Grinold stepped back, holding out his plump hands. “Delores. Delores. You’ve got to see that this just will not work. You can’t—”

  “It will work, Cecil, and you’re going to see that it works. I’ve done my part. Now you do yours.”

  “And what’s my part? What part can I possibly play in this sordid little crime of yours?”

  “Money, stupid! I don’t care if you want me. You’re a lousy fuck anyway. I just want cash.” She thrust the snips at his belly. He jumped back. “A big lump sum would be best. To start with. Fifty thousand ought to do it for now.”

  “Delores!”

  “Don’t you ‘Delores’ me, you bastard. I’ve got another set of photos my college student friend took, with a few shots even more incriminating than the ones I sent you. Let me tell you, Cecil, your fat ass ain’t pretty in pictures.”

  He started to tremble, to shake with fury and humiliation. If he could wrench the snips out of her claws, he’d cut off the cheap amethyst ring and then gouge her hateful eyes out.

  “The pictures are in a lock box,” she said.

  “A lock box? Where?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She inched toward him again, brandishing the snips. “And that’s not all. Along with the photos, there are letters. Letters to the Daily News. And the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.”

  Grinold shuddered uncontrollably now, flexing his fat hands into fists. He was certain his head was about to blow off.

  “And one to the National Funeral Directors Association.”

  “Delores!”

  “And one each to Channel Two, Channel Four, and Channel Eleven.”

  “Not Channel Eleven!” Channel Eleven was Pittsburgh’s most sensational news broadcast, and he blanched at the treatment they would give him, the scandal they would launch.

  “Cecil, it wouldn’t matter if I sent only one of those letters. Your reputation will be ruined, and all your plans will be shot to hell. See how fast Presby kicks you off the board of deacons and out of the church, with all its elderly members waiting to be buried. You won’t have enough business to keep one shop open, let alone three. That is, unless you deliver the money.”

  Grinold wanted to say something, but he was at a loss for words, and even if he found the words, he couldn’t speak through his paralyzing rage. His heart trip-hammered in his chest.

  “I’m already making plans to leave town. You have until next Friday to come up with the cash.”

  He found his voice. “And, and if I don’t?”

  “If you don’t, a friend has instructions that unless they hear from me by the following Saturday, they’re to take the key, open the lock box, and distribute its contents according to the instructions. But if you deliver the dough, I’ll phone my friend and call them off.”

  Must be rational. Must stay calm. But he felt sick with betrayal, trapped by fear.

  He broke her gaze and smoothed back his sideburns with trembling fingers. “You may succeed in blackmailing me for a few thousand dollars, Delores, but you’ll never make anything of yourself.”

  “Of course I will, darling,” she cooed with a cruel smile. “Because if you don’t keep making installments until I get myself fully established, my friend knows just what to do.”

  “You fucking cunt!” Grinold roared like a wounded bear. He overturned the work table, scattering her teacup and the tools and wire and snippets of flowers and leaves.

  “Stop it!” she spat.

  He dropped to the worn carpet and searched for a weapon, another sharp tool, but found nothing. He snatched a catalog from the arm of the sofa, rolled it, and raised it to strike her with it.

  With a deft motion, Delores cut off his tie tack and then touched the snips to his fly. “One more move, and you’re a eunuch.” Her eyes blazed with fury.

  Grinold lowered his arm. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t bet on it. Now get out!” Wielding the snips, she maneuvered him toward the door. “I don’t want to see you again until you come bearing the first deposit.”

  He squeezed the catalog in futility and then backed out the door.

  “Fifty thousand dollars. I’ll see you by next Friday, lover.” Then she slammed the door.

  Chapter 16

  Kennet entered the care home through the side door that opened on the upstairs landing of the basement steps. He had started using this door because it gave him direct access to his room in the cellar and let him avoid interaction with Flavia. Although she’d recently said little to him, sweet or sour, he felt increasingly ostracized because of his continued presence in the house. He knew she wanted him out.

  He met Albert Putterman in the front hallway. Putterman wore a broad smile, made goonish because he hadn’t put his teeth in. His shriveled penis dangled out of his polyester pants.

  “Hey there, Putterman. I thought you said that thing was dead.”

  Putterman looked down. “Oh, ith dead, all right. Thith ith the viewing. You know I don’t believe in cremathion.”

  “Put it away, Putterman. Nobody wants to see your old wiener.”

  “Thought maybe that new gal would.” Putterman was referring to Alice Bailey, a new resident who had just moved into Kennet’s old room, taking Rhoda Osgood’s place.

  “I don’t think she’ll want to see it, either.”

  “Let her dethide! Gotta make the motht of my opportunitieth. She might be the next to go, you know. Dropping like flieth around here.”

  Kennet’s mother was one of those flies, but he admitted Putterman was right. There’d been a high turnover recently. First Herman Kuntz. Then his mother. This week, Rhoda Osgood. But Flavia kept filling the beds, giving him no opportunity to escape the basement. As if she would let him. He had three weeks left, and no lead on another place to rent. He needed to redouble his efforts.

  Flavia rang the dinner bell and then bustled into the parlor to assist the residents into the dining room. Gladys Wilson complained of a stomach ache, but it didn’t keep her from pulling her chair up to the table.

  “Come on, Putterman, let’s eat.”

  With his walker, Putterman led the way to the dinner table for another bland and soft-cooked meal in the fellowship of the elderly and the mentally deficient.

  Passing the mashed potatoes, Gladys Wilson knocked over the pepper shaker. “Oops-a-daisy!”

  “Another dead soldier,” Putterman cried, and righted
the pepper before accepting the potatoes.

  Helen Streider, the wandering Alzheimer’s patient, leaned across the table and stage-whispered, “Murderer! Beware . . . killer on the loose! You could be next. . . !” Then she drifted back into space, oblivious to the activity around her.

  Kennet, Putterman, and Miss Wilson sat in stunned silence, amazed at what seemed to be a moment of clarity for Helen. It had been a year since she’d said anything that resembled coherence.

  Flavia stood frozen in the doorway, holding a serving dish of overcooked broccoli in one hand and one of cottage cheese in the other. She pursed her lips as if perturbed, and brought the dishes in, setting them on the table.

  Kennet slopped potatoes onto his plate, wondering if Putterman had told some wild stories that Helen had overheard and, strangely, remembered. Putterman sometimes spun tales to stir up some excitement.

  Dropping like flies around here.

  That must be it. But Flavia was watching Helen carefully, as if weighing some decision about her.

  • • •

  Grinold slumped behind his desk with a glass of single-malt Scotch, neat. He could hardly believe how low that bimbo had stooped. He obviously had underestimated Delores.

  She’s wretched, but she’s not stupid. And she’d hit him where it hurt.

  Being exposed as a philanderer would damage his reputation. Others might recover from such a blow, but he would not. Especially not when he was on the cusp of expanding. People whose loved ones had just passed away wanted to do their final business with someone of sterling character. They didn’t want their memory of the dearly departed tainted by someone involved in moral scandal. And if they started digging, they might find out how much he really cut corners. If he lost his reputation, he might as well be dead.

  “Bitch.”

  Did she actually believe he would let her blackmail him into a life of poverty, give up his cash for business development to set her up in a new life that was destined to fail? Yet, what choice did he have? There seemed no way to save himself. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t and she sent the photos out. Perhaps he could contact his lawyer. But he had no evidence. He’d left behind the shredded photos. And if the case went to court, it would no longer be a private matter.