by Rae Renzi
He went still and looked as though I had kicked him in the stomach. “I… look—”
BEEP!… BEEP!… BEEP! His pager bleated again.
He glanced at it, shook his head as if to clear it, and thrust the money at me again. “Here, take this. I have to go.”
“I don’t want your damn money!”
He frowned. “Then what do you want?” A speculative look dawned on his face. “Me?”
I was shocked. Which is why it took a few seconds for me to spit out, “You’re crazy! I don’t have the slightest interest in you. That you think so only proves how—”
“Then we have no further business.”
I didn’t waste another second. I spun on my heel and returned to my car. This time, thank God, the wretched thing started.
Chapter 13
All Hallows Fashion Week!! Mr. Botts shoved a black folder bearing the colorful banner across the polished surface of his desk. “It’s a fresh approach! New and exciting, completely outside the box!” he boomed as he leaned back in his chair and smoothed his cerise tie with both hands.
However confusing Mr. Botts’s message, which I once again labored to comprehend, I was happy to be there at the moment, having been summoned to the office while trying to restore to “perky” what had never been. Managing the feelings of the middle-aged Departed woman whose breasts, even in her ideal spiritual form, could never, ever be so described, had been an exercise in diplomacy. I had delicately suggested that it wasn’t possible to make meringue out of cheesecake, but my metaphor had not gone over well. Maybe I was spending too much time with Marybob. In any case, hiding out for a while seemed like a good idea, even with Mr. Botts, who was not the most soothing person to be around.
On this occasion, as on many others, I mused that it would be nice if ears had a self-protective device like eyes. If we don’t want to see something, we drop our eyelids. Ears are not as well equipped. It was a shame, especially today, as I had things to think about: I hadn’t seen Craig again to find out what it was he felt I needed to know. It left a crawling feeling in my stomach.
However, I was keenly aware that my own financial situation was tied to that of Tranquility Park’s, so I tried to engage my mind with the problem at hand, which was to ensure profitability. I had to wonder, though, what “outside the box” meant in terms of funerals, but I’m nothing if not open-minded. I glanced at the folder, hopeful that it would resolve the confusion the banner had stirred in my mind.
It didn’t.
I looked up at Mr. Botts. “All Hallows… Fashion Week?”
“Brilliant, right? Cross-cultural. Gets your Halloween on October 31st, and your Day of the Dead on November 1st and 2nd. Plus, a bonus, your All Saints and All Souls days. And there’s some pagan holiday then, too, for those of the witch and wizard persuasion. It’s completely metro-cultural. We’ll start a new trend!”
I wasn’t sure what element of mortuary science Mr. Botts’s “new trend” referred to. Although Halloween had its roots in the ancient Celtic pagan holiday of Samhain, and Día de los Muertos celebrations are the Latin American version of honoring the dead, both holidays are tributes to the Departed, and both involve open hospitality to the spirits of the dead.
Personally, I didn’t want to encourage the Departed to linger. They were already overstaying their welcome. However, I was quite sure this was not what Mr. Botts had in mind. Exactly what he did have in mind escaped me. I flipped to the next page in the folder.
“You see Tranquility Park hosting a fashion show?” I asked, once the evidence in front of my eyes was translated, however reluctantly, by my brain.
“Exactly! The seating in the chapel is perfect. We’ll install a runway in the central aisle and a stage in the front. We’ll dazzle them!” His passion for the topic shone on his face.
I cleared my throat, sat up a little straighter in my chair and leaned forward slightly. “This is an interesting idea. We just need to figure out what market we’re targeting with the fashion show.”
A pucker appeared on Mr. Botts’s shiny forehead. “Market?”
“We don’t sell clothing, so that’s out. We do sell services and the occasional casket—for dead people,” I added, in case he’d forgotten. “Living models displaying clothing won’t really help our sales, but we could convey newly restored corpses down the runway, perhaps in designer caskets?”
“Er, corpses? I—”
“Very creative, Mr. Botts. Really! Of course, the legal issues would be complex—permission of the families and all that—but I’m sure the cost of legal representation would be insignificant.”
“Er, legal—”
“Naturally, we can’t always plan on having young, nice-looking corpses, but it’s a pretty sure thing that in any given week a number of octo- and nonogenerians will pass on, so maybe we could plan the fashion show around them? Hot burial fashions for the Departed aged and infirm? On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the older the Departed are, the less likely the family is to shell out a great deal of cash. Still, if the market’s there, we could do a loss leader.”
Mr. Botts eyes had begun to lose their shine at the point that I had spoken the words “legal issues.” By the time I reached “aged and infirm,” horror had replaced enthusiasm. I was moving on to a plan for pro bono funerals when a commotion erupted in the hallway.
“I don’t care who he’s with, I want to see the director, now!”
The words practically rattled the door. Then Linda’s fingernails-on-chalkboard voice screeched down the hall in tones of desperation. I couldn’t make out what she said. Nothing intelligible, I guessed.
Mr. Botts’s eyes popped wide open, and the color drained from his face. He jumped up from his desk, threw open the window behind him, and scrambled out, calling over his shoulder, “Er, just remembered something of vital importance. Vital!”
I stood gaping at him for a moment before gathering my wits. His behavior was odd, even for Mr. Botts.
“Wait—Luke Hillyer’s funeral is tomorrow. Will you be back?”
“Can’t get distracted by a little misunderstanding. Please take care of it, Joy. Be back soon.”
I took that as a no.
The window was empty when the office door banged open. I whirled around to see a man whose expensive suit was perfectly tailored to disguise his pudginess but did nothing to mitigate the irritation on his face. His eyes hit upon me, hesitated for a second, and darted around the room in a frenzied search, after apparently deciding I couldn’t possibly be the director of the funeral home.
Naturally, I didn’t let the fact that he was correct stop me from realigning his thinking.
“May I help you?” I calmly walked around the desk to sit in Mr. Botts’s chair. I would have offered to shake hands but a glance at the man suggested that physical contact would be a bad idea. He was trembling with the effort of containing himself.
“My name is Denton. I want to see the director of this place,” he spat out.
“Mr. Botts is not on the premises. I am… the assistant director. May I help you in some way?” I kept my voice low and soothing, with the assumption—helped along by the appearance of a newly Departed in the doorway—that the man was overcome with grief, which he inappropriately, but understandably, tried to displace with anger.
He poked a finger in my direction. “This is not my funeral home.”
Obviously. But I didn’t think he meant to make a statement about ownership. I folded my hands on the polished desk and arranged my face into an expression of gentle inquiry. I avoided making eye contact with the young Departed hovering near him, another teenage boy. This was not the time to introduce myself to the deceased youngster. My quick glance had told me the boy was nice looking in a wholesome way. He wore a mischievous expression, which didn’t bode well for my keeping a somber demeanor. I focused on the father, who was hurting—that wasn’t funny at all.
The (presumed) father glared at me. “This was not what we arranged.” His arm, and the acc
usatory finger, drifted downward as grief began to get the upper hand. “We chose a different place. He… my son, Ronnie… the body—” He choked back a sob.
I popped up, offered the man the box of tissues from the desk, and put a comforting hand on his arm. “There, there. Would you like to sit down, Mr… um, sir?”
I carefully guided him to a chair, making soothing noises. When he had regained his composure, I said, “I’m so very sorry about your son. I hope you’ll take comfort in knowing he’s”—I glanced at the young Departed, who was now grinning to himself while turning cartwheels in thin air—“in a better place. Now, it seems there has been some misunderstanding. Maybe if you tell me your concerns, we can solve this together.”
The man turned his red-rimmed eyes on me. “You think he’s in a better place?”
“I think we can’t conceive of the rewards that await us when we leave the earthly plane.” I paraphrased one of Tranquility Park’s pamphlets, thrilled that it fit.
The boy had switched from cartwheels to mimicking a tornado spinning on top of his father’s head.
I smothered a grin. “If you turn your eyes up toward the heavens, I’m sure you’ll realize that part of him, the spiritual part, remains with you this very moment.”
The man gazed upward piously. His son balanced on his father’s nose with one finger. “Yes, yes, I think you’re right. Ronnie’s probably looking down on us right now.”
“Without a doubt. And hoping you will soon recover your peace. Now, about the problem—how may I be of service?”
The man slid his gaze down to me and said, “I think… it seems as though your people picked up the wrong body at the hospital. Ronnie was to go to Zimmerman and Sons.”
“Oh. Oh, dear. Yes, that is a terrible mistake. If you’ll wait one moment, I’ll dash downstairs and ask our staff to stop everything. Then I’ll get on the phone with Mr. Zimmerman and get this straightened out. I apologize for the—”
The man flapped his hand. “You know what? Never mind. It’s a lot of trouble.” His eyes drifted off as he struggled with his desolation. “Who cares if it’s not over-the-top fancy? I think… we, his mother and I, we confused money with love.”
At this point, a really kick-ass salesperson would have endorsed the therapeutic benefits of spending money and encouraged it—preferably on an expensive casket. I was no good at that part. Given Ronnie’s general lack of interest in his father’s anguish, I suspected the issue of money versus love was not new. I guessed that Ronnie’s parents had given their son everything he didn’t need for a long time. I kept my mouth shut.
“I’ll cancel with Zimmerman,” the man said. “Anyway, I have a feeling Ronnie likes it here.”
Judging from Ronnie’s antics, I couldn’t disagree.
I wondered how the mix-up had happened and made a mental note to ask our secretary, Linda, how such an error could occur.
And, a bigger question, what on earth had caused Mr. Botts’s scrambled retreat?
Chapter 14
As I’d predicted, Mr. Botts didn’t return in time for the funeral. I stood in his place the next afternoon, rather liking the role of assistant director. Now, I just needed to get my salary to elevate along with my title. Luke hovered beside me, gazing down at his corpse. “Seems kinda gruesome, this stuff. Who wants to see a dead body?”
“It’s one way of saying goodbye.” I placed myself behind the casket and a little to the side, attempting to project a serious and comforting demeanor. It was a challenge with a cheerful teenage boy chattering at me.
“I could, like, give a little wave with my body’s hand. You know, campaign-trail style.” Luke demonstrated a politician’s wave and moved closer to the open casket.
“That should be good for at least one cardiac arrest. Probably your father’s.”
“Nah. He’s in good shape.” Luke straightened up. “Uh-oh. Here comes Ashley. Get ready for more waterworks.”
It sounded like an unkind remark, but Luke’s face told the real story.
A pretty girl wearing a black skirt and jacket walked up the aisle. Her hair was held off her face by a black hairband and her nose was pink.
“Jeez. She looks so sad.” His upbeat mood had vanished.
“She’s grieving, Luke.”
“I know. I get that. I just don’t know how to make her stop. Can you help, Joy? I don’t like to see her like this. She’s the kind of girl who should be happy.”
Ashley bent over the coffin and kissed Luke’s forehead. She laid a tiny hammered silver heart on his chest. Her lower lip trembled, and her big blue eyes watered up and spilled over.
Luke moved up beside her and tried to stroke her arm. “Aw, Ash, don’t cry, baby.” He turned pleading eyes on me.
I wilted under the combined sadness. It was against my principles, but I had to do something. I went to Ashley and put a gentle hand on her arm. “Ashley, I know you’re in pain, but I know Luke well. He’s in a good place now, but he’ll worry about you. It’s important for you to accept the help of others in getting over this terrible loss. He’d want that. He’d want you to be happy.”
That was as close to a pitch as I could get. Really, I was kind of disgusted with my wimpiness. How would the dating service succeed if I couldn’t bring myself to make a sales pitch?
Ashley searched my face and nodded briefly before she moved down the aisle. She wasn’t any less forlorn, but she had stopped crying.
Luke was relieved. “Thanks. That was like giving her permission to go out with someone, when, you know, the dating service finds a guy for her. That is, if I can come up with the money.”
“The money isn’t that important. Maybe we could make an exception…”
“Marybob would kill you. Anyway, don’t worry. I have a plan.”
I thought the funeral would be the low point of my day. All that concentrated grief brought up my own feelings of loss, both past and future, and almost undid me. I was wrong, of course—the day got worse.
I turned up my street to see a strange car—a white Lexus—in my driveway. A woman wearing a sharp navy-blue suit and a knife-edged haircut stood on the walk with her hands on her hips, scrutinizing my home. I eased my foot off the accelerator, suddenly wary. The woman proceeded to the porch and jabbed a long-nailed finger at my doorbell.
She didn’t look familiar, but it didn’t take any special insight to recognize that she was in the business of making money. And, obviously, she was better at it than I was.
I was tempted to drive on by. I doubted very much that she would offer the kind of comfort I desperately craved at the moment, which centered on hugs, cookies, hot chocolate, and escapist fiction.
On the other hand, she might have come knocking to offer a different form of relief, some hitherto unknown (to me) form of financial finagling that would give me the time I needed to get on my fiscal feet.
I pulled into the driveway and, with more than a little trepidation, got out of the car and addressed her. “Can I help you?”
She whipped around, flashed a pseudo-smile, and extended her hand. “You must be Ms. Abercrombie. I’m Loretta Hammer, top-selling realtor, and I’m here to help you. Just because you’re going to lose your house doesn’t mean you have to be a loser. I can turn your unfortunate situation into a win-win. Can I come in?”
Chapter 15
“I should be Madam Mystique. You’re too… you know.”
I suspected Marybob was referring to my sense of fashion, which diverged fairly widely from hers. It was three days later, and we’d just walked into the Viewing Room for Ronnie Denton’s visitation. She was dressed in her version of sedate: a short, tight skirt, with a shorter, tighter jacket, skyscraper shoes, and fishnet stockings. Mr. Botts would have had a fit, but he still hadn’t returned after his defenestration two days earlier, and I needed some help. I’d asked Marybob because I suspected that asking Marshall to help would be a mistake. Comfort was not what he projected. I’m not even sure he’d understand the conc
ept.
Anyway, in my opinion, having Marybob propping open the door to the Viewing Room was at least as good a marketing device for the funeral home as shoe-designer caskets, if one assumed encouraging the potential customers (male) to return to Tranquility Park was the first step toward an actual purchase. Probably a safe assumption, as mortuaries did not top the list of places to casually window-shop. I doubted they got much in the way of impulse buying, either, but certain enticements might overcome that. I made a mental note to suggest to Mr. Botts that Marybob be offered a commission on funeral arrangement pre-sales.
Tonight she wasn’t here for ornamentation, but for business—DDDS business. We were eager to get the dating service off the ground and wanted to start right away with our first sales call. First, though, I had to work the Denton visitation.
The Departed, and more to the point, the Departed’s family, were usually somewhat impatient about keeping things moving along at a brisk pace. Probably a leftover from when it was a hygienic necessity. The motivation these days was more emotional, some vague notion that the sooner the remains were dealt with, the sooner healing could begin. Not far from the truth, actually.
“The Dentons will be here in a minute,” I said to Marybob, by way of a suggestion that she whisper rather than shout. “You can be Madam Mystique for some of the clients, but the Madam Mystique approach will only work for people who believe in the occult. We have to have other, more—”
“— sneaky ways for the nonbelievers. Yeah, that makes sense.”
“—more businesslike methods for the logically minded,” I corrected.
The visitation room looked nice, in a somber way. Apparently the idea that green is restful had inspired the décor. Soft, green velvet draperies covered the windows, and the carpet was patterned in shades meant to suggest the dappling of sunlight through leaves. It was old-fashioned, but I liked it. Mr. Botts hadn’t yet managed the funds to redecorate in a style more au courant. Probably a good thing.
