Mourning Express

by K. M. Waller

  “Call me Ruthie. Have a seat. I have another appointment in thirty minutes.” She coughed into her hand and moved her large black purse to the ground to give me room.

  I sat beside her and offered her the headshot resume.

  Ruthie waved it off. “No need. I already know everything about you.”

  “In the one hour since I called you?”

  “I’m quite thorough with my research and I keep an eye on all the talent that lives in our area.” She cut her gaze to the children who screeched and moved closer to the checkers area. “Pearl is a dear friend of mine, and to be honest, she’s the only reason I’m entertaining this interview.”

  “Oh. You don’t think I’d be a good fit for your professional mourning business?”

  “You are a little more high profile than I’m used to working with. Too well known with a reputation for being…” She paused as if searching for the right word.

  I filled in the blank for her. “A diva.”

  She scoffed. “All actresses have a bit of diva in them. I was going to say difficult to work with. And it should be known that I don’t tolerate disrespect or shenanigans.”

  No doubt. I glanced at her white tennis shoes. Those were the kind of shoes that had never seen a single day of shenanigans.

  “I’m desperate,” I said, my voice wavering slightly. Keep it together. Be professional.

  She heaved a sigh and the atmosphere around us shifted to one of understanding. “I know. What your brother did was awful and unforgivable. Family can hurt us the worst sometimes.”

  I focused hard on the row of shops across the street. Something in her tone of voice told me that somewhere in her past, family had hurt her too.

  Ruthie reached into her bag and removed a thick red dossier. “I have a rush job and none of my other mourners are available this week. Because of the connection to Pearl, I’m going to give you a trial performance.”

  I took the manila folder out of the dossier and flipped through the first few pages. “Whoa. This reads like a CIA file.”

  “I have connections.” Her plain statement said it all.

  And I had a newfound respect for Ruthie. Not a woman to cross.

  “How does this connect to Pearl?” I asked.

  “She’s paying a premium price to have one of my mourners give the eulogy tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow?” My voice jumped a few octaves. This must’ve been Pearl’s in-home patient she’d referred to earlier. I read the name off the top of the folder—Harold Baumgartner. “That’s a really fast funeral.”

  I’d have to be a quick study. Good thing I’d taken a slew of improv workshops.

  Ruthie shrugged. “Someone’s in a hurry to get him in the ground, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s my character? I mean, who am I to him?”

  “This is a difficult role to fill, to be sure. But I’ve never had a position I couldn’t satisfy. You’ll see from the file that he’s not married, didn’t have any children, and wasn’t a generally well-liked man. He owned a dry cleaners before he sold it and retired and didn’t contribute much to the community. Except…” She leaned over me and flipped through a few pages of typed notes. “In the late nineties, he contributed to the children’s performing arts school on Hendersonville Road.”

  A flush of memories trickled through my head. Mostly of Mom and Grammy arguing about my choice of after-school activities. “I started off there.”

  “I know. That’s your connection. He provided costumes from clothes that were never picked up from his business and yada yada, you were inspired by his kindness.”

  I thought back but couldn’t recall what we’d worn for costumes. “Did he really donate clothes?”

  “From what I understand, Harold was the kind of man to make change in the church’s collection plate, but I think this once he did something in which he didn’t benefit. It’s the closest connection I can make on short notice.”

  Yikes. “Is that it?”

  “I can’t do all the work for you. You’ll need to actually earn your pay.” She withdrew a slip of paper from her bag and handed it to me. “This will be the amount paid for your services.”

  I held my grin to a minimum, afraid that too much teeth would be considered shenanigans. The amount on the piece of paper slayed my doubts like a sword cutting through a dragon. “I can do this.”

  She stood. “Message me when you’re done and we’ll get your check to you. Then we’ll discuss if you’re a right fit or not for additional mourning services.” She glanced at me and reached into her bag. She opened her wallet and handed me a couple of twenties. “Consider this an advance. Go down to the Goodwill and find a funeral suit.”

  I could tell by her grimace that parting with the money pained her, but I stuffed the bills in my pocket anyway.

  Funeral suit. Ha! I’d borrow something appropriate from Grammy’s closet and tuck and pin until it fit. This money would go towards something way more important. Like, gas in the car. Also, some groceries in the cupboard. And maybe, just maybe, four dollars could go toward a little gourmet caffeinated boost to push me through the afternoon. I waited until Ruthie was long out of sight before I jumped to my feet and headed across the street to the coffee shop.

  I walked by one of the screeching kids and held up my hand for a high-five. The smack of our palms lifted my spirits even higher. One of the vagrants glanced in my direction and I dug the sandwich out of my purse and handed it to him with a smile.

  Employment was mine!

  4

  Nestled back in my car with my caffeinated spirit lifter in hand, I opened the file folder on Harold Baumgartner. All the documents were bracketed at the top with a two-hole punch. The first document on the left-hand side was a professional mourner checklist. My nerves ramped up to gurgly-stomach level, but after a few calming breaths and a couple of my “Mmmmm Ahs,” I reminded myself that most things in life were just like a movie set.

  In a movie, the producer paid for and organized the production—in this case the funeral. Which made the producer the nephew, Baumgartner’s only living relative. The director of the project was the funeral director—obviously—from Downer & Downer Funeral Services. Unfortunate name. My co-star would be the officiator, which in this case was a Pastor Tom from Grace Baptist Church.

  Beneath the first list, I found another with tips on performance. Number one: Do a proper character study at least forty-eight hours in advance. Well, that wouldn’t work for me this time. I had less than twenty-four to get into character, but since I didn’t have to facilitate a fake name, all I really needed was to focus on providing a convincing connection between us. Number two: Research the deceased thoroughly. I decided I’d call on Pearl in the morning when I went by to borrow a dress from Grammy. Number three: If you are speaking at the service, coordinate directly with the funeral home.

  Since I’d been asked to provide a eulogy, I needed to do some coordination. A pre-rehearsal of sorts to see if I could pull off my character convincingly.

  I wanted to stay and read more in the file, but I glanced at the parking meter and grimaced at the amount of time left. In two minutes, I’d be fair game for the meter maids to hand me a ticket I couldn’t afford.

  I placed a call to Downer & Downer Funeral Services. A cryptic female voice answered on the first ring. “D&D Funerals.”

  “Um, my name is Rosie Collins, um, also known as Rosalind Devoe, and I need to talk to someone about Harold Baumgartner’s service tomorrow.”

  “I’ve been expecting your call.”

  She had?

  “You can meet with Pastor Tom and me at the same time in thirty minutes.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  We disconnected and it dawned on me that Ruthie would have to include the local funeral homes in her professional mourning business, otherwise they’d get suspicious at seeing the same people over and over pretending to be someone else.

  The word “Expired” flashed across the scree
n of the meter, so I put the car in Drive and headed down Asheland Avenue until it turned into Highway 25 and passed the high school and community college. I’d be early, but at least I’d have time to review a few more pages in the Harold file while I sat in the funeral home’s free parking lot.

  An amazingly thorough file, I marveled at how much time Ruthie put into her business. I flipped through and landed on information for Harold’s home. He’d lived in a fifty-five and older community on the east side of town. The picture showed a modest house with neatly trimmed bushes and a perfectly manicured lawn. It reminded me a lot of the place Victor and I’d grown up in on the outskirts of Asheville. The one he’d sold without my knowledge by forging my name. Just one of the many criminal acts he’d racked up. My eyes fogged with tears.

  Good. I could use it as part of my performance. I straightened my shoulders and went into a litany of vocal warm ups. I let a tear slip down my cheek and checked the mirror to make sure it smudged a little of my makeup.

  Turning back to the file, I flipped through a few pages of police reports and homeowners’ association complaints. Harold was a terrible neighbor and a bit of a misanthrope. The accusations of harming the local migratory ducks and sabotaging his neighbors’ pristine St. Augustine lawns came up more than once. Yikes. In the margin of one of the printed pages was a handwritten name, Lou Kadlec, and private investigator with a question mark beside it. Maybe that’s who Ruthie used to dig up all this information.

  I set the folder in the passenger seat and regarded the funeral home. The red brick building had lacey white curtains shaping the inside of the windows. The double doors were painted a bright white and matched the faux shutters.

  For Mom’s funeral, I’d used the one on Patton Avenue. Grose or Groce might have been the name. As much as that dark memory sat heavy in the recesses of my mind, I still had trouble remembering some of the little details. Like, who’d styled her hair straight as a board when I knew she liked soft waves around her face to make her look younger.

  A wave of emotion hit me hard like an actual ocean wave that smacks someone from behind and holds them down for a few seconds. Just long enough to create a rush of panic. Too much, I told myself. I glanced up at the ceiling of the car and fanned my face until the tears stopped trying to push forward. This was not about Mom. Grammy needed me now, and I couldn’t let her down by failing at another job.

  The strong smell of incense hit me as I walked through the door. I knew Mrs. Downer before introductions were made. She wore a long black dress with black tennis shoes that matched Ruthie’s in make and model. I almost wondered if the two women were sisters. Mrs. Downer’s long, naturally gray hair flowed down her back without a clip or barrette. Her sharp eyes took in everything around her like a hawk scouting for prey. At the moment, her piercing gaze settled on a younger man in jeans and dark pink polo shirt.

  The man made wide hand gestures and appeared to be having a one-sided animated conversation. Intruding felt awkward, so I hung back until Mrs. Downer leaned around the man and beckoned me forward.

  “Rosalind?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Downer?” I gestured to the man’s back. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  The man spun around, his smile wide against his pale skin. His light red hair matched the color of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the pink shirt didn’t do his complexion any favors. Still, his athletic build and jovial bright blue eyes made him attractive in an unusual way.

  Mrs. Downer tilted her head slightly toward the man. “This is Pastor Tom.”

  The pastor? The man looked barely old enough to be out of high school let alone Seminary.

  On cue, he reached out his hand, grasped mine, and closed it on the other side with his left hand. The warmth of the greeting provided me with a sense of security.

  “Bless your heart,” he said. “I was just telling Mrs. Downer how grateful I am there’s someone else to speak at Harold’s service. I didn’t know how I could possibly conjure up enough kind words to say about the man.” He dropped my hand with a chuckle. “And trust me, I’ve prayed on it since yesterday.”

  I opened my mouth to respond but couldn’t find the right words.

  “Don’t scare her off, Pastor.” Mrs. Downer raised a thin eyebrow. “Mind your manners.”

  He chuckled again and pointed to his temple. “Sorry. Born without a filter. But God forgives my bluntness, so I hope everyone else will too.”

  “I know I haven’t been around to see him in the past few years, but was Harold really that bad of a person?” I asked, trying to perfect the ruse that I’d known of Harold before today.

  Pastor Tom clicked his tongue. “I’m not sure Saint Peter’s going to let him through the gates.”

  Mrs. Downer placed her hand over her eyes and emitted a small groan.

  I didn’t want to break character by laughing at Pastor Tom’s inappropriate comment, but I couldn’t work up the energy for fake outrage either.

  “Why don’t we run through the service schedule for tomorrow,” Mrs. Downer said, her tone brokering no further nonsense from the pastor.

  He tucked in his lips and gestured for me to follow the funeral director. She led us to a darkened room with chairs outfitted in a deep mauve fabric. “We’ll use the Red Room for the main services. Harold will be laid out with an open coffin.”

  “Open?” I squeaked out. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be staring down at his dead body as I delivered the eulogy.

  Pastor Tom leaned in close but didn’t attempt to lower his voice. “I think it’s a bad idea too considering the amount of people who want to spit on him.”

  “The open coffin is per the request of his nephew.” Mrs. Downer ignored Pastor Tom’s comment and continued on to the front of the room. “Pastor Tom will start with a prayer, and then the Grace Baptist Church choir will rise to sing a verse or two of ‘Amazing Grace.’” She pointed to a couple of chairs near the podium. “You’ll sit here until the song is finished, and then give the eulogy. After, the Pastor will give closing remarks and he’ll invite everyone into the reception room for lemonade and buttercream pound cake.”

  Pastor Tom joined Mrs. Downer at the front of the room and nudged her with his elbow. “Mrs. D makes a killer pound cake. My favorite funeral snack.”

  The two stared at me expectantly. I cleared my throat and made a lap around the room to gather my nerves. Tomorrow’s job sounded less like a funeral and more like a circus to me. “I think it will be a lovely service.”

  They both nodded, Pastor Tom a little more enthusiastically than Mrs. Downer, but it was clear I’d given the correct response.

  Pastor Tom stepped forward. “Why don’t I escort you out?”

  We walked almost shoulder to shoulder in silence and he opened the front door for me. Once outside, he winked and held out a piece of paper. “Do you mind signing this?”

  My hand shook, the situation reminding me of the guy from the library earlier.

  “It’s just that my mom was a huge fan of your mom in her soap opera days and when I told her you were going to be at the funeral tomorrow, she asked me to get an autograph.”

  I’d been given the job less than an hour ago and already the news of my eulogy appearance began to travel. The earnest expression on his face pushed me to give in. At least he didn’t say he’d followed my downfall from Hollywood like most other fans. I signed my stage name and drew a smiley face beneath it.

  “Could I possibly get your phone number too?”

  “For the funeral?”

  “Or… about grabbing a bite to eat sometime. If you’re interested.”

  “How old are you, Pastor Tom?”

  His chuckle, one I was beginning to like a lot, filled the empty parking lot. “Please just call me Tom. And it’s a question I get all the time for some reason. I’m twenty-six.”

  Only two years younger than me. Pastor Tom, er, just Tom, would be a nice change from the type of man I’d dated in the past. But still, getti
ng to know me meant getting to know a slew of drama that accompanied me. Grammy, lawsuits, the evil twin brother. Plus, I didn’t know how a man of God viewed professional mourning yet.

  “Why don’t I give you my phone number, then that’ll take the pressure off? If you call, great. If not, I’ll be sorely disappointed but it won’t kill me.”

  “Okay,” I said and handed him my phone to add his contact information.

  A green Lexus pulled into the lot and Tom’s shoulders stiffened. “That’s Harold’s nephew, Bowman. I called him right after Mrs. Downer told me about you. He thinks you’re giving the eulogy as some publicity stunt, so you might want to get out of here before he starts a confrontation. I’ll hold him off.”

  Tom waved at the older gentleman who exited the car, and he dashed forward to intercept him. With the scowl Bowman thrust in my direction, avoiding confrontation seemed like the best decision I’d made all day.

  I backed out of the funeral home parking lot with wary glances in my rearview mirror. After tomorrow, I’d rethink my new career choice as a professional mourner, but for now I focused on the best way to split my upcoming paycheck to soothe all the money-hungry beasts at my door.

  ∞∞∞

  Still jazzed from the delicious cup of java and the weird interaction with Pastor Tom and Mrs. Downer, I stopped by the grocery store to spend the leftover clothing allowance. While employment might be mine, I still needed to sweet talk Mateo into letting me live rent free long enough to get enough cash together for Grammy’s needs first, and then for my own. I pushed the letter from the lawyer down to the bottom of my priorities list. I’d grovel in the form of a home-cooked meal comprised of Mateo’s favorites.