“Thank you. I’ve always wanted to be a sugarplum,” Chyna said drolly, but Ned had already hung up.
Chyna pulled into the parking lot of Burtram and Hodges Funeral Home. She remembered coming here with her mother when Edward had “passed away,” as the funeral directors kept saying. Edward Greer had died as he’d lived— quietly and with dignity. Vivian had simply awakened one morning and found Edward lying beside her, dead of a stroke. He had not made one sound loud enough to wake her.
Rex Greer, his younger brother, had been in France at the time, and for some reason Vivian had asked Chyna to help with the arrangements because Ned refused. Ned once shamefacedly confided to her that death terrified him. His actions seemed to prove his truthfulness. When people carried on conversations about the dead or dying, he quietly left the room. If he went to a wake, he signed the guest register but never looked at the body if the coffin was open, and left as soon as possible. When he attended a funeral, he stood far away from the proceedings and usually focused his gaze at a tree or flower arrangement near the funeral tent. Once Chyna had followed his line of sight closely and discovered he was watching a mole tunneling beneath the earth.
The day was bright and at least ten degrees warmer than yesterday. Chyna got out of the car, looked up at the baby blue sky and pale yellow sun, and drew in a deep breath of crisp air. Immediately she felt better, a little less heartbroken, a little bit cheerier. Then she opened the heavy door of the funeral home, stepped in, and her spirits seemed to hit the floor with a thud.
Mahogany walls. Navy blue carpet. Frosted glass over muted light fixtures. Mournful organ music floating through solemn halls. And a faint scent of once-fresh flowers now gone slightly stale. A slender man somewhere in his midthirties with sculpted features, medium brown hair, and slightly downcast eyes approached Chyna.
“How do you do?” he said with cool formality. “I’m Russell Burtram. May I be of assistance to you?”
Russell glanced up, seemed to catch a glimpse of her bright red turtleneck, then immediately looked down again, making Chyna immediately wish she’d dressed differently. Perhaps navy blue would have been advisable. She would have looked like Russell, whose suit matched the carpet. She noticed the sprinkling of gray at the temples in his brown hair and the hands clenched tightly, as if he were nervous or holding a pose that didn’t come naturally. Russell seemed aware of Chyna’s quick assessment of his looks and stiffened, looking up at her again with gray eyes.
“My mother died,” Chyna began. “Apparently she was suffering from heart trouble the family didn’t know about. She had a heart attack and fell down the stairs. Her neck was broken,” Chyna said in a rush before her throat tightened and the next words came out in an unintelligible bleat. “I have to make arrangements.”
“You don’t have to explain. I know all about Vivian Greer’s death.” Russell Bertram’s gaze softened in sympathy. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“What?” Chyna nearly choked past her tight throat.
“It’s Rusty Burtram, Chyna. I was in Ned’s class in school.”
Chyna swallowed and tried to hide her surprise. She took a deep breath. “Rusty! My goodness, I’m seeing all kinds of
people from the past today. You’ve … changed.”
“The acne cleared up; I got contacts, did a little bodybuilding.” He smiled almost apologetically. Chyna, having done a rotation in plastic surgery, also guessed he’d had a nose job and chin implant. “I hope it all helped.”
“Oh, it helped immensely!” Chyna burst out with unflattering enthusiasm, then realized how insulting she sounded. “I mean, you looked fine before—”
“I looked like a nerd and I was always self-conscious about it. The transformation came right after I graduated and decided I wouldn’t go off to college looking like I did.” Someone approached them and Rusty’s face immediately became sober again, his voice softer. “This is Dad’s business, but I guess you know that.” Chyna nodded. “We handled your father’s funeral.”
A tall black-haired man stopped in front of her, nearly pushing Rusty aside. “Owen Burtram, Miss—or should I say Doctor?—Greer.” Rusty’s father, Chyna thought. Vivian Greer had thought he was a ridiculous stuffed shirt. “Your mother talked about you a great deal.”
“She did?” Chyna wondered where Vivian had done all this talking to Owen. She didn’t like him and usually tried to avoid him at social functions. “Well, I miss Mom very much already,” Chyna said. “She was only fifty-two.”
“Ah, yes. I know fifty-two seems far too young for one to depart, but we do not always comprehend the ways of the Almighty. His is a power far greater than ours, and it is He who decides when it is a person’s time to pass.” After finishing this sententious pronouncement, Owen finally smiled slightly, showing a row of perfect teeth. Too perfect, too white. Porcelain veneers, Chyna thought. She was also certain that a man in his fifties must have at least one gray hair. Owen’s was a lusterless black, the color obviously derived from a bottle. “Won’t you come into the office, Chyna?” He turned to Rusty and said dismissively, ”I will handle Dr. Greer’s needs.”
“Yes, sir.” Rusty’s voice was meek, but Chyna saw the twinkle in his eyes, gray like his father’s but much warmer.
“Would you care for tea or coffee?” Owen asked, walking briskly down the hall as if to show her how spry he was.
“Coffee, please.” Chyna followed Owen toward the back of the building, noting that he was just a shade taller than his six-foot son was and only a bit heavier. The hall was long and shadowy. She guessed that most people would find it somber, but it somehow struck her as sinister. The two-inch heels of her shoes sank into the deep navy carpet, giving her a feeling of descending into quicksand. A particular piece of organ music that sounded like a dirge droned in the background, and Owen stooped to pick up a shriveling white rose petal that had obviously fallen from a funeral arrangement, sniffing it before he crushed it in one of his large hands. The air was so cool, Chyna wished she had worn a coat instead of a blazer. I would go crazy in here, she thought. Absolutely raving crazy. I don’t know how Rusty stands it.
At least the office was a bit brighter than the rest of the funeral home, although Owen kept the vertical blinds half-shut. He motioned toward a tapestry-upholstered chair and while Chyna sat, noting that the chair had an unusually vertical back that allowed no slouching, Owen poured coffee into a dainty cup and added a dash of milk and a heaping teaspoon of sugar. Chyna had not asked for milk or sugar and wanted neither, but she accepted the cup with a polite smile and immediately took a sip. At least it was hot.
Owen sat down behind a large desk, folded his big hands with their manicured nails, a slender gold wedding ring on one hand and a large onyx ring set in platinum on the other, and turned a practiced, compassionate look on Chyna. “I assume you are here to make arrangements for your mother’s funeral.”
“Yes. I know it should have been done sooner, but my brother just can’t face . . .” She didn’t know what to say. Places like this. People like you. Death in general. “I would have been here sooner, but I had to come in from New Mexico.”
“I believe Vivian said you’re training in a hospital in Albuquerque.”
“Yes. I’m a second-year resident. I’m glad I worked so many extra shifts and skipped so many vacations so I could take off time for this event.” She smiled. Owen stared at her. Event? God, I sounded like I’m here for a holiday, Chyna thought in horror, and quickly stopped smiling. “Anyway, I have almost two weeks off.”
“How convenient for you,” Owen said, gazing fixedly in the direction of her breasts. “Now, first I suppose you would like to look at our selection of coffins. We have a wide price range, but I’m sure you’ll want the very best for your mother.”
“Well, no, we don’t want a coffin.” Owen’s eyes sliced up from her breasts to her face. “I mean, my mother wanted to be cremated.”
“Cremated!” Owen repeated as if Chyna had just sai
d her mother had wanted to be thrown into an electric woodchopper. “Vivian Greer wanted to be cremated?”
“Uh … yes,” Chyna said weakly, feeling like a toad under the suddenly frosty glare of Owen Burtram. “We were surprised, too. The family, I mean. But she made her wishes quite clear to my brother and sister-in-law. And she wrote a letter giving directions. She had it notarized.”
“A notarized letter?”
“Yes. I didn’t bring it with me, but I could show it to you….” Chyna felt like a little girl sitting across from the principal for some hideous school-related infraction. She sat a bit straighter in her chair, pulled her jacket over her breasts, and fought to compose her face, which she knew looked guilty and embarrassed. She didn’t have to prove anything to Owen Burtram. “You do handle cremations, don’t you?” she asked, forcing herself to sound stronger and more confident.
“Well, yes, on occasion,” Owen said with distaste, “although it somehow goes against the grain. It doesn’t quite meet the standards, the dignity, the decorum for which Burtram and Hodges has become known—”
Or the money the usual funeral costs, Chyna almost said snidely. Burtram and Hodges would make at least seven thousand dollars less for a cremation than for a regular funeral.
Maybe more, if the family decided to go all out on this final good-bye to Vivian. Chyna realized Owen had stopped talking and was looking at her hopefully, perhaps thinking he’d shamed Chyna into asking for a funeral with all the frills. “What matters to me is following my mother’s wishes,” Chyna said, glad her voice sounded cool and firm. “If she wanted to be cremated, then she will be cremated. However, if you’d rather not be associated with cremation—”
“We’ll do it,” Owen said swiftly. “You still have to pick out an urn, though.” He paused. “You do want an urn, don’t you?”
No, a shoe box will be fine, Chyna had an urge to reply solemnly, but bit back her retort. Vivian would have gotten a huge kick out of the reply to this haughty man, but Chyna’s father would have been embarrassed, believing you should always be polite even to people you don’t like, and Chyna was not here to take down Owen Burtram a peg.
They spent what seemed like hours studying urns. Owen relentlessly tried to convince Chyna a service was crucial— what would people in town think?—but her refusal remained firm. When they finally finished, Chyna felt as if she’d run a race in the Olympics, and during the ordeal she’d managed inadvertently to insult Owen at least four times until he’d begun looking at her with barely concealed dislike. Chyna remembered an older man who must have been Owen’s father taking her and her mother back to his office for a quiet chat and more refreshment after they’d arranged Edward’s funeral, but Owen couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.
As they walked toward the front door, Owen’s gait was even brisker than it had been when Chyna arrived. Chyna tried to make conversation but got only “yes” or “no” in response. Owen even seemed to be breathing harder, no doubt waiting to vent his frustration about cheapskate Chyna Greer to some unlucky underling who worked at the mortuary.
Halfway down the hall, just such an underling appeared— a young man asking obsequiously if he might interrupt Mr. Burtram on a pressing matter. Owen couldn’t hide his smile of relief. He looked at Chyna. “So sorry, but I’m needed. I’m sure you can find your way out—down the hall,
turn right, and the doors are straight ahead of you. There will be a lovely funeral in about an hour in the slumber room to your left, so I’m sure you won’t blunder—walk in there and disturb anything. Just go straight out the front doors. I’m glad we could help you in some small measure.”
“Thank you.” And sorry I broke your heart with my mother’s cheap funeral requests, Chyna fumed inwardly, but I don’t care what anyone in this town thinks.
As Owen marched away talking in hushed tones with the assistant, Chyna began her longed-for escape from the funeral home. Down this hall, Owen had said, and then to the right. Chyna made the turn and slowed down slightly when she saw die blessed front doors ahead of her. Outside there would be fresh air. Birds. Sunshine. Her deluxe rental car and a Coldplay CD to fill it with music she loved. Maybe a trip to Bev’s to see her nephew, Ian. Kate would be in kindergarten at this hour.
As Chyna neared the door, the aroma of flowers became stronger. Fresh flowers, the scent sweet and enticing. As Chyna walked on, she remembered Owen’s words: “There will be a lovely funeral in about an hour in the slumber room to your left…” Owen had nearly told her to stay out of the area, as if Chyna’s very presence would cast a blight over the intended dignified and proper service. But as Chyna passed the room, she came to a complete stop without even realizing it. She peered in at the rows of chairs set up for mourners, the intricately carved pulpit for the minister and eulogists, the flower baskets and wreaths—good heavens, there must have been over fifty of them—grouped most densely near the cherrywood coffin. The open coffin.
I should walk right out of here, Chyna thought. I should head straight for that front door. But she couldn’t. She felt as if she were being pulled into the room, her free will quashed by something much stronger than she was. Chyna looked over her shoulder. The hall was empty. Then, with the stealth worthy of a burglar, she entered the “slumber room.”
Here the horrible organ music had been shut off.
Mozart’s beautiful Clarinet Concerto: Adagio played softly through wall speakers. Chyna walked closer to the coffin, noting the opalescent torcheres at either end casting an almost mystical light over the white silk interior. And within the coffin, her head on a lace-edged pillow, lay a girl of about seventeen in waxen perfection, her long ash-blond hair arranged in soft waves around her pale face and expertly combed over her shoulders and down the front of her dainty lace and pink organza dress. One small, perfectly manicured hand had been crossed over the other at her waist. A star sapphire and diamond ring on her right ring finger glinted in the light from the torcheres.
Desolation filled Chyna at the sight of the girl. A week ago, this had been a giggling teenager full of dreams and secrets and probably boundless energy. And now here she lay, all her dreams and secrets, all her energy, all her future, gone forever. Gone to a place called Heaven? Chyna hoped so, although she’d never been particularly religious. In fact, the last time she remembered wishing fervently that Heaven existed was when Zoey never came home and Chyna had known her friend was dead.
“Good night, sweet princess,” Chyna whispered to the oblivious girl, her eyes filling with tears she feared might drip onto the silk and organza.
Abruptly the Mozart ended and before another song began, Chyna heard a girl’s sweet young voice, a voice remarkably like Zoey’s, coming from the coffin. “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…” Chyna gasped, rubbed her hand roughly over her eyes, clearing away her tears, and looked at the girl’s motionless mouth.
“Beautiful girl, wasn’t she?”
Chyna nearly screamed. Rusty Burtram had come in so quietly she hadn’t even heard him.
“The family will be arriving soon.”
Chyna tried to swallow and couldn’t. She looked at the girl, motionless as a statue, then back at the inquisitive gaze of Rusty. He couldn’t miss seeing the fear in her eyes, the panic on her face. What could she say?
“I… the room looked so beautiful… you did a wonderful job….” Rusty tilted his head a fraction. “I couldn’t help being drawn in … the music, the flowers.” She nervously twisted her hands together. “I didn’t touch anything.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Chyna. You don’t have to look at me like I’m going to strike you or something. It’s just that Dad doesn’t want anyone in here before the service—” He broke off awkwardly and blushed. “I mean, he always wants things perfect for a service and thinks someone might disturb the setting. It’s not just you.”
“It is me and it’s all right, Rusty. I rubbed him the wrong way.” Chyna knew she should leave as quickly as possible. She
had no doubt that Owen Burtram was capable of wielding considerable wrath if disobeyed, and Rusty would probably be the victim. Still, she couldn’t make herself move.
“Who is she?” Chyna asked.
“Nancy Tierney,” Rusty answered. “Didn’t you read about her in the newspaper?”
“I didn’t arrive in Black Willow until yesterday.” Chyna heard the tremor in her voice and she tossed her jacket over her hands to hide their shaking. “I haven’t read a newspaper and no one mentioned her to me.” She paused, looking at the girl again. “She was so young and pretty.” And she talks even though she’s dead, Chyna almost added.
Rusty looked at her closely and she knew he saw the leftover tears in her eyes, the paleness of her face. Both his posture and his voice softened. Apparently, he was more swayed by Chyna’s obvious emotion than he was by fear of his father.
“Nancy was my cousin, Dad’s niece,” Rusty said with a catch in his voice.
“Oh, Rusty, I’m so sorry for your loss!” Chyna exclaimed. Then she grimaced. “I hate that phrase. It sounds so automatic and canned. I apologize for intruding. And I’m truly sorry about Nancy.”
Rusty reached out and put a surprisingly large hand on Chyna’s shoulder. “Calm down. You’re trembling. I frightened you—” No, she frightened me, Chyna thought, trying not to look at the lovely Nancy Tierney, who spoke even in
death. “This has been a hard time for us,” Rusty went on. “Nancy was such a beautiful girl. Everyone adored her. She was the darling of the family.” Chyna averted her gaze from Rusty. Had she imagined it, or was there a trace of resentment in his voice? “Unfortunately, her death has been the talk of the town, which makes it even harder for her parents.”
Last Seen Alive Page 7
