The Appearance of Death, chapter 9

 (To see links to the previous chapters, please click on the header title above.)

Chapter 9

I slept peacefully all night, woke to my alarm, made everyone pancakes for breakfast, put on my favorite slacks and blouse from J.C. Penney's, kissed Beau on the head, and walked to the office swinging my briefcase. Patty Goyle was waiting for me, a scowl on her face. I was glowing, however. I had decided all this funeral home craziness was not my circus, and not my monkeys.

“Good morning, Patty!” I chirped.

“What're you so chipper about?” she asked. “Autopsy report is on yer desk. Myron Wagner has called twice already and cussed me out. It was all I could manage not to give it right back to 'im. Plus Herbert Plott called and he's on his way over.” She peered at me to see my response to this load of woe.

“Oh good!” I said. “I was going to call him anyway. We have things to discuss.” I poured a cup of coffee. “And if Myron Wagner calls again, tell him firmly he must come down here to discuss his wife's funeral plan, or he can call Mr. Plott himself about it.” I leaned toward Patty Goyle. “You and I, Patty, should not have to deal with all this misery. The Plotts own this funeral home, and it needs a new director!” I stood up again and straightened my blouse. “I don't know why I've been going crazy over all this. It's Herbert Plott's job to hire a new director. I'm only here to fill in a little until he chooses a family member to come in.”

Patty's hands hit the desk with a smack, and she laughed so loud her hair comb came out and flew across the room.

“A family member! Take Mr. Plott's place?” And she laughed again until she choked. Then she turned to me. “You need to understand one thing, Ivy Monson. Emery Plott was the only brain in that family. All the rest of them are the nicest folks you'd ever meet, salt uh th' earth and such, but not a one went to college, much less mortuary school, and none of them has any intention of learning this trade. Herbert's about the only one that ever leaves home.” She swiveled her chair around and pointed one long, purple nail at me. “Emery Plott selected you as his replacement because you are the only human in this entire county who has even the slightest training or natural skill set to run this funeral home.”

Her gaze drilled into me. Her country accent had disappeared as a certain fierceness surfaced in her voice.

“If you disappoint him,” she continued in an icy voice, “I will never forgive you. And this business, which he carefully constructed for all the decades will dissolve, a disappointment to the entire community.” Patty stood up. In her four-inch stilettos she towered over me. “Are you gonna let that happen, Mrs. Monson?”

“I – I – uh – I'm going to my office, Miss Goyle!” I fled.

It turned out that Myron Wagner was in Toronto and would not be home anytime soon. At 9:00 Herbert Plott strolled into the funeral home and helped himself to some coffee and a doughnut from the kitchenette. As he entered my office he stuffed the last bite into his mouth, dusting his shirt-front with powdered sugar.

“Gmmng, Msss Mnnsnnn,” he said.

“Good morning,” I replied. I reached out my hand. “Mr. Plott?”

“Mmmm,” he affirmed, and deposited sugar and a few doughnut crumbs into my palm.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” I added. Herbert looked to be about 60 years old. He was quite heavy, and bald but for a few wisps of long gray hair gracing his forehead. He had a kind face and shuffled as he walked.

“Thank you, Mrs. Monson.” Herbert Plott whispered when he talked. I leaned forward to hear him.

“We're so glad to have you here,” he continued, looking down at the desk top. I could tell he was a shy man who never looked a woman in the eye. “Em'ry had the utmost faith in you and was so relieved when you arrived.” He nodded his head. “We are so thankful he found you to continue the work of the home.” He nodded slightly and then his head hung still as if waiting for my response.

“Oh,” I said. I did not want to shock him. “Mr. Plott, I rather assumed that some member of your family would be the new funeral director, since it is a family-owned enterprise.”

“Oh, no,” he whispered slowly. “None of us could do it. Only Emery was so bold. We could never ….” And his feet shuffled under his chair in nervousness. “Please, Mrs. Monson, do be so good as to stay.” He was now peering into his lap.

“But --”

“We are fully prepared to pay you a generous salary with benefits,” he pleaded quietly. “Miss Goyle will show you the packet. We're happy to give you what Em'ry was making, if that would help,” and his hands curled together in front of his stomach as he studied them.

The wall clock ticked away. Herbert sighed. “Mrs. Monson, my uncle Em'ry supported us all from this funeral home. He did a right good job. If it closes, I don't exactly know what we will all do.” And for an instant his eyes flickered up and nearly met mine.

I stood up. “Mr. Plott,” I said gently, “I will consider it. For now, I will run the funeral home. But I cannot guarantee you I'll stay.” I leaned toward him and said more forcefully, “I do not want to be in charge of a funeral home. I do not think I'm qualified.” I walked around the desk. “However, I'll stay here for the time being, and if I feel I cannot continue the work, I will find a replacement for myself so your family doesn't have to worry about it. How does that sound?”

Herbert Plott was satisfied. He left the office with two more doughnuts. Patty was still scowling as I walked out the door to go visit Desiree Steele and dig further into Anita's death.

The yellow house on the highway 706 cut-off looked dreary and neglected in daylight. As I studied the residence I saw evidence of a woman trying to make a home and a man not helping. She'd planted annuals around the mailbox and in the front beds, but the yard was weedy and unmowed. A dead lawn mower leaned, upside down, against the garage door. A lawn chair with a bright floral cushion sat on the front porch, but broken boards, a torn screen, a few dead car batteries, dirty hunting clothes, and a rusted toolbox also sat there. Loose tools were strewn around the floor. One wall of the house was partially painted blue, but the rest remained a faded yellow with mildew trim. A wooden ladder leaned against the blue side, but Virginia creeper vines wrapped around its rungs.

“Well, at least he left his filthy hunting clothes on the porch and didn't dump them in the front hall,” I muttered.

Desiree came to the door. “Come in,” she said.

The house smelled of cigarette smoke, deep into the carpets and upholstery.

“Were you able to sleep last night?” I asked her.

“Some,” she said. “Stuff like this doesn't scare me.” She shuffled through some papers on the coffee table in the living room and gave me a hand-written paper.

“This is what I found in her desk, over there,” and she waved her hand toward a corner of the room.

I took the document and sat on the couch. She stood, looking down at me. I felt strongly that she hadn't wanted me to sit, that she'd wanted me to take the paper and leave. I looked at her, and held up Anita Wagner's instructions.

“May I?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I sat back and read the following:

Directions for my burial, dated April 3, 2018:

I, Anita Wagner, request that, upon my death, my body be immediately cremated and my remains given to my niece, Desiree Steele. I do not want embalming or burial. Ms. Steele will provide an urn for my ashes. Funds to pay for all my funeral expenses are in a separate account at Newberry Security Bank under my name, with instructions to release payment to Peace Valley Funeral Home upon receipt of the bill, and under condition that all my specifications have been met. Under no circumstances are my ashes to be given to my husband, Myron Wagner, and I particularly request that Myron Wagner not be allowed to dictate any of my funeral or memorial arrangements. I put Desiree Steele entirely in charge of my funeral arrangements.

Thank you,
Anita Wagner

I looked closely at the document. “She had this notarized,” I said.

“Did she?” Desiree asked.

“She probably did it at the bank, or at the courthouse in Newberry. I'll go ask. But that means her identity has already been verified as having written this document.” Desiree did not reply. “She's pretty straightforward.”

“Yeah.”

“She and her husband didn't get along?”

“You could say that.” From the desk she retrieved a simple metal jar with a tight lid. She handed it to me.

“Well, Ms. Steele,” I said as I stood up, “With these instructions we can proceed with the cremation. The autopsy report indicated what we thought.” At these words, Desiree Steele turned and looked at me, listening intently. “She fell down the stairs and landed just as we found her. The medical examiner is certain that was the cause of death.”

She nodded. I opened the front door.

“Oh.” I turned back. I forgot to ask. “Do you happen to know if your aunt had a tattoo on the bottom of her foot?”

The change of expression on Desiree Steele's face was shocking. Instantly her eyes opened, her face tensed, he mouth tightened.

“A tattoo?”

“Yes. I saw it this morning.” I heard the smallest intake of breath from her. “It's a heart tattoo, on her right foot. The letters 'A' and 'D' are inside the heart.” I looked at her again. It was clear that intense emotion was passing over her face and she was struggling to control it. “I suppose the 'A' is for Anita. Are you the 'D'?”

For a moment she struggled to speak. “I – I don't have any idea. I don't know anything about a tattoo.”

Somehow, I knew she was lying. I proceeded to the front porch, turning away from her. “Funny thing is, I could swear that tattoo wasn't there that night, Ms. Steele. I must've just not noticed it, because it was certainly there the next morning.”

“You were really tired that night, Mrs. Monson,” Desiree said. “And if it was a tattoo with those letters, I don't think it was me. Me and my aunt weren't that close. I bet it was an old boyfriend or something.”

“Well, we'd better not let her husband see it!” I said, and instantly regretted it. That was too personal a comment to say, as a funeral director.

“I'm sorry,” I said, fumbling over my words. “I'm sure there's a harmless explanation. But it doesn't matter much now. We'll finalize the cremation this coming week and notify you when you can pick up her ashes.”

For the second time in twenty-four hours, as I drove away from her house I felt an uneasy sensation that something was not right, that something was unfinished. I needed to do something. I felt a strong compulsion to return to the funeral home and have a long conversation with Emery Plott.

“Don't be silly,” I told myself. “There is nothing left to do.” I patted the document on the seat beside me. Anita Wagner had tied things up tidily for me. Her funeral arrangements would be a breeze.

To read chapter ten, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 8

 (To view links to all the chapters in this book, please click on the header page above.)

Chapter 8

Attached to the back of the funeral home, and accessed through a long hallway, was the crematory that Emery Plott had installed ten years before. It was a steep investment for a family-owned operation, but Mr. Plott felt strongly that cremations were the future of funeral home work, and without his own retort in which to cremate bodies, he would be left behind. He'd spent an entire afternoon instructing me methodically in its operation.

“Remember, Mrs. Monson,” he said, “a cremation is as sacred an occasion as any service in a church, and the family should feel so.” I nodded, little knowing that his body would be the first I would put into that chamber. Patty Goyle and I decided we would do so the next day.

“I'm in contact with his fam'ly, Mrs. Monson. They are leaving the disposal of the remains up to us. They're plannin' a memorial service for June, when his niece is back from It'ly.”

Meanwhile Mr. Plott's ashes would remain on the shelf in his office – my office – and I planned to discourse with them often as I mishandled the business he'd so carefully built up. In fact, after Patty Goyle had tidied her desk, freshened her lipstick, and gone home, a feeling like a magnet drew me relentlessly into the morgue again. I pulled a rolling chair in front of Mr. Plott's cold chamber and stared at the door. We needed to talk.

“Mr. Plott, I'm scared. I'm not ready for this job. I'm going to ruin your funeral home,” I thought as I stared at the cabinet he lay in.

“No, you're not, Ivy. I chose you particularly because of your skill set. I knew I would not have long to prepare you.”

“You knew you were going to die?” I said aloud, not thinking how ridiculous I sounded.

“Oh, yes. I've known for several months. Dr. Whitehead told me. I'm so very glad you arrived when you did. Far from ruining this funeral home, I see your arrival as saving it.”

I squirmed in my chair. I was sure it was my own mind that was talking to me. Still, it was quite reassuring to hear Mr. Plott's voice in my head, telling me I was not a failure before I started.

“Mr. Plott --”

“Please, call me Emery. I don't care at all about last names now. I wish I'd known how pretentious I was.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, Emery, you probably know there's another body in the morgue, and Patty has a bad feeling about it. She says it's a complicated case. I'm terrified of a very straightforward, easy burial, where the family is of one mind and the plans are clear-cut. What should I do if Myron Wagner doesn't come back? Or worse, if he can't tell me what to do with his wife's body?”

“Ivy, it will all work out. Don't worry ahead of time. The niece will help you. Once you have the medical report and Anita's written instructions, you may proceed with the disposition of her remains. Perhaps you should have the instructions looked at by her employer, verify the handwriting, and have it notarized.”

“That's a good idea!”

“That will give you adequate protection within the law. If Mrs. Wagner has an attorney, you should contact that office as well.”

“But Emery --” And in that instant, I knew that he was gone. The conversation was over. But a lingering feeling of unease remained, a feeling that I should do something. I stood up and turned to Anita Wagner's cold chamber. For a reason still unknown to me, I opened the door. Anita Wagner's plastic body bag was open and her feet were showing. And on the bottom of her right foot was a pretty, heart-shaped tattoo. The letters “A” and “D” were intertwined in a flowing script with a red heart encircling them. I stared at that tattoo. It was not there the night before. I was certain – I thought I was certain – it had not been there the night before. I'd stood in the morgue, staring at her feet while Harold Garvey examined her head and shoulders. How could I have missed something so obvious, so elegant? I approached the cabinet and reached in, tracing my finger along the outline of the heart. No … I was not hallucinating.

“Emery ….” I said. I really needed his help now. I shook my head hard, as if to rid it of the confusion of what I'd just seen, and I closed the cabinet. I flicked off the light and locked the door of the morgue. Emery's office seemed the comforting place to go with its warm wooden paneling and soft lighting, so I went there and I sunk into his desk chair. My eyes were burning, my head was thumping. I figured Emery wouldn't mind my sharing a spot of his whiskey.

It helped. My cleared head reasoned thus: Either the body in the cabinet today was not the same body that was placed there the night before, or someone had come into the funeral home last night and put a tattoo on Anita Wagner's foot, or I had failed to see the tattoo on her foot in the first place. Those were my three options. None of them seemed plausible. The disturbing reality was that, since I was confident the tattoo was not there last night, someone must have come into the funeral home during the night and tampered with that body. I put my head in my hands. I didn't want to believe this was happening.

It was 4:30, and I was utterly exhausted. I checked all the doors, examining them for signs of a break-in. That's when I realized that our security system was woefully lacking, and any teenager could easily access our facility with a credit card or a screwdriver. Leaving both bodies in the morgue overnight now made me uneasy. What if someone tampered with Emery Plott's body? How would I explain it to Patty Goyle? To his family?

The walk home late that afternoon cleared my head. I was becoming too immersed in the drama of the funeral home. On top of that, I needed to cook supper. I'd been neglecting my family for the sake of my job, and the last twenty-four hours had made that painfully obvious. What would the boys love for supper that I could make in twenty minutes? And Karen, and Rick? I walked a few blocks out of my way to the Busy Bee Grocery and picked up two extra-large pizzas, plus a pint of Haagen-Dazs ice cream each for the grown ups, including myself. White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle for Karen since she'd already demonstrated her addiction to it, Dulce de Leche for Rick, and for myself, Bourbon Praline Pecan. Emery's whiskey had merely whetted my appetite.

Both boys squealed when I walked in the front door of the house.

“Pizza!” They leapt for the bags in my hand.

“Time-out!” I yelled. “Grandma is tired and fragile. No jumping!” I squeezed past them into the kitchen. “Let me turn the oven on and heat it up.”

Karen was slumped on a stool in the corner of the kitchen.

“Long day, Mom?” she said. She looked pale, as if someone had siphoned off half her blood.

“Honey! You okay?”

“Long day here too,” she said. “I'm not feeling great. I'm going to the doctor in the morning, just a little check-up.”

“Can I take you?” I asked, guilt welling up inside me.

She looked at me pitifully. “That would be great, Mom. Rick has to do the coffee shop.”

I pulled out the ice cream and held up the White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle.

“Now? Or later?” I asked.

She smiled. “Later,” she said. “I'll eat with the boys, and we can sit on the porch after supper and do a little damage with those fat calories.”

I looked down at my feet. There sat Beau on the floor, his stare so intense I felt his eyes screaming at me:

“You've been gone for days! You don't love me anymore! I miss you so bad I can hardly stand it!” he said with his eyes, and his little body started to quiver.

“Oh, Beau, sweetheart!” I scooped him up and walked into the living room, sat in the corner of the couch and snuggled him into my chest. Poor little guy! I'd moved him to Peace Valley and promptly deserted him with near strangers. He was traumatized. He whimpered and buried his nose in my neck.

I dug into the bottom of my purse and found a pouch of his favorite treats, Pretty Paws Savory Peanut Butter Delights. He gobbled up several from my palm and stared at my purse. I heard Rick giggle from across the room.

“That dog's got your number!” he said, and laughed louder. “He's so spoiled. Every time I come home, Karen's got him up on the bed with her, feeding him ice cream. Together they've been through four pints of that Raspberry Truffle stuff this week. He's living high on the hog!”

“Beau!” I exclaimed and looked at him disapprovingly. “Are you a spoiled little boy?” I ruffled his ears. “Is Sissy Karen giving you yummies?” Beau grinned. He rubbed up against me and rolled over. I'm convinced he understands more English that your average four year old human.

Rick cleared his throat. “Ivy,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Now don't overdo it, what with your new job and Karen being sick. We don't need you collapsing or getting the flu or something. I heard about Mr. Plott.”

“Last night was grueling, that's for sure.”

“Just don't put too much pressure on yourself,” he added. “Karen says you do that. You didn't bank on assuming the entire work load when you took the assistant job a couple of weeks ago.”

“That's true --”

“Has the Plott family communicated to you what their intentions are, regarding the funeral director position?”

“Emery Plott made it quite clear,” I replied. “He requested that I become the director. In fact, I believe he knew he was dying and was training me quickly to assume his duties.”

“Really?” Rick said. He nodded his head slowly.

“Why?” I asked. “Have you heard anything otherwise?”

“No,” he said softly. “It's just that the funeral home has been in that family for many years, and a family member has always been the director. Before Emery it was Holden, his uncle. I'd fully expect them to keep you on, of course,” he continued, “but I expect they'd want one of Holden's boys, or maybe one of his grandsons, to be the new director of the business.”

I didn't know what to say. After the emotionally overwhelming events of the past twenty-four hours, this news dealt me a final blow. I pulled Beau to me and buried my face in his soft, beige fur.

“I think the pizza's ready,” I said.

That night after ice cream on the porch with Karen I took Beau on a walk around the block. The full moon hung in the trees at the end of the street, and frogs started to croak soothingly. I needed time and quiet to organize my thoughts and still my anxiety. If what Rick said was true, then I shouldn't take on my shoulders the heavy load of the director, the worry and responsibility. It belonged to some man I'd never met. Emery may have wanted me to take his place, but it wasn't his decision. I stopped in front of a massive live oak tree that grew close to the sidewalk and leaned against it. Its knobby roots buckled the concrete underfoot as it forced its way against human civilization. Beau sat. I exhaled fully, breathing in again, exhaling again, and relaxation seeped into my body. I had learned this technique when having two babies and have found it useful ever since. The disposition of Emery's remains, Anita Wagner's mysterious tattoo, her rude husband, her enigmatic niece, all the unanswered questions – they weren't my concern! Tomorrow I would call Herbert Plott, tell him I am the assistant director only, and ask who was coming to take Emery's place.

I almost had a skip in my step as I walked Beau home.

(To read chapter nine, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

Flying Away!

 I boarded an airplane at an outrageously early hour on Monday morning and flew to Mississippi to visit our daughter, son-in-law, and two wonderful grandchildren.

It's warmer here, nearly 90 degrees in the afternoons. Warm enough for the kids to play outside barefoot! They're a very busy family -- lots of work on the part of the parents, lots of fun, play, school, and activities for the kids. 

They have a very beautiful, affectionate, tummy-rub-demanding Ragdoll cat.

Last night we watched several Charlie Brown specials, things that every child should grow up with, right?

I've been given some impressive hand-made star ships by my talented, creative grandson. We've watched HOURS of Lego Star Wars on Youtube. Wow! I had no idea that such movies existed!

I brought along some light knitting. Those simple square dish cloths are so easy to make. I've also done a little bit on my pair of socks. Mostly I'm spending time with the grands, and nursing my aching back.

I'll fly home on Saturday, and Adam will be so happy!

The Appearance of Death, chapter 7

 (To see links for each of the chapters thus far, please click on the header page above.)

Chapter 7

“Mom.”

Karen's voice drifted into my dream. She was interrupting an important conversation. In my dream I was explaining to Sam why he could not marry Anita Wagner. “She's dead, Sam.” He shook his head. Except he didn't really look like Sam. He looked much more like Harold Garvey. “Sam, she's dead!”

“Mom!” Karen's voice was louder. I woke up with a jolt.

“It's late, Mom. I think you overslept,” she said.

“Oh no!” I yelled, and leapt from the bed. “I have to get there early today!”

“Well, too late for that, I'm afraid. How early is early?”

I was throwing on slacks and a blouse, ripping a comb through my hair, reaching for the hair spray and wishing for breakfast.

“We had two bodies come in last night. We have an autopsy this morning, and I've gotta be there first!”

Karen followed me down the stairs. Beau stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at me like I was the worst person in the world.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Beau! I've hardly been here, buddy!” I scooped him up and kissed his head. “Karen, will you feed him, please?” I grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter, grabbed my briefcase, and headed for the door.

“Wait! Mom, who died?” Karen asked.

I turned a skeptical eye at her. “I thought you weren't interested in dead bodies.”

“Well,” she replied, “this is different. This might be somebody I know.”

“I haven't notified the next of kin yet, sorry.”

The door slammed behind me. I could feel her discontent.

As I walked into the funeral home office on that first terrifying morning, I quickly appreciated why Emery Plott had kept Patty Goyle as his secretary for over thirty years. All traces of last night's chaotic events were gone from the office. The classical music station from Columbia drifted its calming tones through the building. Fresh coffee was sputtering away through a filter, sending my brain into spasms of longing. Through Mr. Plott's office door I saw a vase of bright flowers gracing the desk and a plate of warm scones awaiting my rumbling tummy.

Patty held out her hand. I looked at it quizzically.

“The apple,” she said. “Give me that ugly thing.”

I looked at the apple I'd brought from home. Jimmy had taken two bites out of it yesterday and rejected it as slightly rotten. I handed it to Miss Goyle.

“I hear ya added another resident to the morgue last night after I left,” she said. “Anita Wagner. That's a shocker.”

“You knew her?” I asked as she placed a mug of warm, creamy coffee in my hands.

“Oh yes, but not well,” she replied. “She worked at the hospital all these years. Did EKGs or drew blood or some such thing.” She slid a piece of paper across her desk to me. I picked it up. It was blurry, and I squinted.

“You need yer glasses, Mrs. Monson,” she said.

I fumbled in my purse but could hardly see what I was doing in there either.

“You're a 2.75, right?” she asked. “Here, I keep a few spares around.” And she handed me a pair of glasses. I looked at her in wonder.

“You're amazing,” I said flatly. She merely smiled coyly. I stared at the now readable paper. “Ah! Myron Wagner. That's the husband?” I asked.

“Oh yes. He's a piece uh work, mind you. Got his cell number from the bar on the edge of town, that one on Main Street? My brother-in-law's cousin works there. That's th' only place Myron hangs out when he's in town.”

“In town?” I asked.

“He's a truck driver.” Patty began to file her nails in a leisurely way. “He's gone for weeks on end and comes home to torment his wife.” She paused. “Well, he used to. Won't be doin' that no more.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Goyle,” I said. “This will save me time this morning.”

“You're welcome, Mrs. Monson. I figured you'd be pushed, what with the late night and the autopsy comin' up. Garvey comin' at 10:00, I reckon?”

I smiled. “You are a wonder, Miss Goyle.” I had barely made it inside my new office when her voice followed me.

“And we'd better do something with Mr. Plott soon, before you get yourself all tied up with Anita Wagner.”

I stopped. “Tied up?” I replied. “Why tied up?”

“It's just a hunch, Mrs. Monson,” she said slowly. “But I can tell. Some burials go as smooth as butter, and some don't. Some folks don't bury easy, and I'm thinkin' Anita Wagner will be givin' you trouble all the way into her grave.” I heard her nail file scraping slowly. “Have a scone. You gonna need it.”

She was right. I called Myron Wagner. He cursed and swore before I told him of his wife's death, and he cursed and swore afterward. He seemed more angry at her than bereaved at her passing. I felt more sorry for her than before. I held the phone away from my head while he called her a few choice names, and then he hung up.

Patty called to me. “He comin' back?” she asked.

“Well, he'd better,” I replied. “He's the spouse. We can't very well proceed without him. I suppose it depends on how far away he is.”

“He's in Oklahoma, my brother-in-law said. But he'll be drunk in every major city between here and there before he sets food in Peace Valley again.” Patty sighed. “Tied up. That's what we'll be.”

The autopsy proceeded smoothly. Mr. Garvey brought a medical examiner with him, plus an assistant to close up and clean the body afterward. As I worked on paperwork in the office I heard their muffled voices from the morgue. At 1:00 Harold Garvey entered my office.

“Mrs. Monson, we are finished. We needed only a partial autopsy.” He sat in a chair across from me. “It seems quite clear. She died from a fall down a flight of stairs and landed exactly as we found her.” He paused. “The livor mortis,” he looked at me, “the pooling of the blood in the body --”

I nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“The livor mortis was accurate but the patterns were slightly,” and he paused again, “slightly irregular. But nothing to worry about.” He stood up. “I'll have the report to you tomorrow.” He turned to go. “Oh – did you reach Mr. Wagner?” His lip curled slightly.

“Oh, yes. I spoke with him. I see why you passed that little unpleasantness to me.” I smiled in return.

Mr. Garvey walked into Patty Goyle's office. “I've had many run-ins with Myron Wagner. Everyone has. He's the type of man who causes conflict every direction he turns. Might as well get it over with, Mrs. Monson.” He tapped his fingers on Patty's desk. “Thank you, Miss Goyle.”

“Yes, Mr. Garvey.”

We made a fresh pot of afternoon coffee. Patty noted that it just wasn't the same to have no one in the office drinking whiskey each day. I agreed. We sat in silence, each thinking of Emery Plott.

“We might as well have his service this week, before Myron Wagner gets back and we have the Wagner funeral to worry with,” I said.

“That'd be nice,” she replied.

While Patty washed the coffee pot and tided up the scone crumbs from our day's visitors, I sunk into one of the upholstered chairs in the waiting room and tapped Desiree Steele's number into my cell phone. I'd tried to call her twice before during the day, without success. This time she answered.

“Hello?”

“Desiree Steele? This is Ivy Monson at the funeral home.”

Silence.

“Um, Miss Steele, the coroner has performed a partial autopsy on your aunt. I don't have the report in hand yet, but the coroner says it seems pretty straightforward. Your aunt died of a fall, apparently two or probably three days ago, at this point.”

“Okay.”

“Miss Steele, I also talked with your uncle, Myron Wagner, but I could not determine when he intends to be back home. Do you know if your aunt left any instructions regarding the disposition of her remains?”

“What?”

I felt badly for the girl. She clearly had no experience dealing with such things.

“Did your aunt leave directions about what we should do with her body?”

“Oh. Yes, I think she did, as a matter of fact. I think it's in her desk, here at the house.”

“Really? Well, that would be quite useful, especially if her husband delays his return or is not helpful in deciding … um … what to do. Can you bring those instructions into our office in Peace Valley?”

“I don't have a car.”

“Oh. You don't … but how did you get to the house yesterday?”

“I walked,” she said. “I always walk from the bus station if my aunt can't come get me. She didn't pick me up yesterday, so I walked.”

“That's fine, Miss Steele. I'll come out to the house in the morning and get her instructions for burial, if that's okay.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you so much. I'll see you then.”

Desiree Steele was an enigma, that was certain. Between her uncle's overflowing mouth, and Desiree's reluctance to reveal much, Anita Wagner's death would prove to be a challenge to handle. I wished, and not for the last time, that Emery Plott were around to offer good advice.

(To read chapter 8, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 6

 (All of the chapters thus far are posted in live links, if you click on the page link above in the header.)

Chapter 6

Johnny Little lived only a half-block away from the funeral home. For years he'd been Mr. Plott's right hand man, the one who did the heavy lifting. When someone called in a body to be retrieved, Johnny Little brought it to us. His phone number was taped to both telephones in the funeral home. As soon as I hung up with the panicky girl, I called Johnny.

“H'lo?”

“Johnny? This is Ivy Monson at the funeral home.”

“Yes'm.”

“I need your help, Johnny. I'm sorry it's so late.”

“Yes'm.”

“We have a body to pick up, just outside of town. Do you usually drive, or does Mr. Plott come in the hearse?”

“Yes'm, I drive my old Woodie.”

I had no idea what he referred to, so I continued. “Johnny, I have some bad news. Mr. Plott is also dead. He died in his study this evening.”

“Yes'm. I'm not surprised. He's been feelin' poorly lately.” Why did everybody anticipate Emery Plott's death except me?

“Be there in two minutes, Ms. Monson. Meet ya out front.”

Johnny Little was a man of few words. He was older than me, a bit stooped but strong as an ox and wiry. His Woodie, I learned later from Rick, was a Morris Minor Traveller, an antique vehicle with wooden panels. She was a beauty. We drove out Cemetery Road to the highway, and out into the county.

“The cut-off, ya say?” Johnny inquired.

“Yes,” I replied, glancing at the scrap of paper in my hand where I'd written the address. Number 217, a yellow house, she said.”

“Hm,” he mumbled. “Might be Wagner's place.”

The house was entirely dark when we pulled up, but as I closed the car door I noticed a tiny pinpoint of light glowing, and then dimming, through the trees. Someone was smoking on the front porch, someone not afraid of a dark house with a dead body in it.

“Hello?” I said. “We're from the funeral home.”

A slim figure emerged from the shadow of the porch. The cigarette glowed and her face was revealed for a moment: small, hard, blank, strained.

“I'm Desiree. Desiree Steele,” she said. “Come on in. I'll show you.” I heard nothing of the panic from our earlier conversation.

“Are you the one who called?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I was just shocked to find her.”

Johnny walked up behind me, and I heard the gravel crunch under the tires of Mr. Garvey's vehicle, who was quite unhappy to be beckoned twice in one night.

“Ms. Monson,” he grumbled as he approached. He carried a flashlight. “Busy night.” He shone the light into the woman's face. She flinched and squinted. She was painfully thin with stringy blond hair hanging around her face. She could've been anything from 17 to 30 years old. “And you are?” he asked pointedly.

“Desiree Steele. Anita Wagner is my aunt. She's at the bottom of the stairs.” We went inside.

Again I smelled the sweet honeysuckle outside as a breeze lifted the air. But inside the unmistakable stench of decay hung in the closed-up house. Desiree Steele led us inside. The body lay twisted awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs. Anita Wagner's bright auburn hair lay spread around her head on the carpet like a peacock's tail. One shoe, a spike heel with gem stones across the top, stood on the top step; the other hung half-way down the stairs on a strand of carpet. She wore a pair of black leggings and a long, flowing orange top that had fallen and gathered around her waist.

Harold Garvey took charge of the situation immediately as Johnny and I stood beside the door. He took photographs, carefully examined the body's state and position, asked Ms. Steele many questions, and made several phone calls. Then he approached me.

“Ms. Monson, would you please take the body to the morgue and place it in a cold chamber. Because of the circumstances I'll be asking a medical examiner to consider an autopsy, which he will perform at the funeral home as well.” He turned to look again at Anita Wagner. “It all seems straightforward enough,” he said. “It's quite clear that she fell the full length of the stairs. The injuries, as far as I can tell at present, support that. Her niece says she was 35 and in reasonable health, but sometimes drank too much.” He turned back to me. “Do you know her husband?”

“Uh no, I don't know anyone,” I said nervously. I found Harold Garvey a bit intimidating. “I'm new in town.” I turned to Johnny. “Do you know Mr. Wagner, Johnny.”

“Yes'm.”

“How can we contact him, Mr. Little?” Harold Garvey asked.

“Ain't got a clue,” Johnny replied, “except through his truckin' line, Cross Country Movers. They might could track 'im down.”

Harold Garvey sighed. He looked at me. “I hate contacting next of kin.”

I shrugged. “Alright. I'll do it. I'll try anyway.” Johnny shuffled behind me.

“'Scuse me, ma'am, but Wagner's old mama lives over at the nursing home in Clinton.” His deep voice rumbled. “Some days she's still sharp as a tack.”

Desiree Steele lurked in the shadows of the living room, a new cigarette glowing in the dark. She seemed to be staring out a window, turned slightly away from us.

“Ms. Steele, will you be staying here in the house?” I asked.

She was silent at first. “I don't know. I guess so. I think I'll sit on the porch tonight though.”

I got her cell phone number, Johnny and I did our work, and we drove back to town. Mr. Garvey followed us.

“He's very efficient,” I noted to Johnny.

“Yes'm.”

For the second time that night Harold Garvey and I looked at a dead body together in the morgue. With Emery Plott he had been quick, even cursory. But with Anita Wagner, he was careful, meticulous, examining her head, neck, bruising and pooling of blood along her shoulders. He leaned over her head while I stood at her feet. The shape of her toes was deformed from wearing heels, and she had a bunion forming on her right foot. The bottoms of her feet were a little dirty. Her toenail polish had grown out halfway, a chipped, messy blue paint. She seemed a mystery – flashy heels but neglected polish, a bright auburn dye job, but shabby leggings.

“I'm through here for now,” Mr. Garvey said, and peeled his gloves from his hands. The smell of the body was beginning to make me nauseous, but Mr. Garvey seemed upbeat and unaffected.

“We don't get many bodies like this, delayed as it is.” He studied her again. “I'd say she died about two days ago. Rigidity seems to be passing.” I slid the the body into a cold chamber, and we walked to the office. “I'll return about 10:00 tomorrow for the autopsy,” he said. “It won't take long. Then I'll release the body to you for burial.” He paused. “Ms. Monson, how are you doing with all this? It's quite a bit on your shoulders, to handle alone. Have you done this sort of work for long?”

I felt queasy and exhausted. “Thank you, Mr. Garvey. I think I'll be fine. Mr. Plott was an excellent teacher.” A vague answer, but I didn't care to explain to him my feelings of inadequacy and fear at what had fallen into my lap.

“Good night,” I said, and he left. Outside the cool night air calmed me. It was now 3:00. Honeysuckle wafted around me. My legs felt weak, and I carefully lowered myself to sit on the stoop outside Patty Goyle's office. I should go home, but in spite of my exhaustion I was not sleepy. My mind raced with questions, questions I longed to ask Emery Plott. Did he know Anita Wagner? What kind of woman was she? Did anyone in Peace Valley know she had a niece? What was her family like? Could I trust Harold Garvey to accurately evaluate the cause of death? Of myself I asked only one question: How was I to do all this myself? I was overwhelmed.

Click here to read chapter 7.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 5

 (To go back to chapter 1, please click here.   To see all the chapter links, click on the heading above.)

Chapter 5

That was two weeks ago, and it seems I've barely paused for breath since. I spend my days dashing from the house to work and back, over and over. Cooking good meals, leaving notes for Rick, chatting with Karen in late afternoon, studying at night. Emery Plott has much to teach a newbie like me. We've had one funeral and burial of an elderly man and two pet cremations. I have discovered that this work is more engrossing that I thought, and much more difficult. I've been borrowing books from Mr. Plott's shelves, falling asleep with them on my chest, and peppering him with questions each morning.

“Mrs. Monson! Mrs. Monson!” he would say over his coffee. He insisted on the formality of last names. “Patience! All will be revealed. You cannot acquire in a few weeks the expertise of decades. It will come.” And he would stir a little Irish cream into his coffee, close his eyes, and listen to Brahms on his 1970s turntable. Emery Plot had created his perfect world of tranquility inside his funeral home. If everyone felt about it as Karen did, I imagined he was able to live quite undisturbed.

Yesterday I came home from this tranquil world to Karen, banging around in her kitchen.

“Hey, honey,” I said. “What're you looking for?”

Her head was in a bottom cabinet. “Mumblemumblemumble,” she replied.

“What?” I asked.

Her head retreated from the cabinet. Her hair was a mess and it seemed she had been crying. She wiped her mascara.

“The chicken fryer. Cast iron. I want to make beef stew.”

“Beef stew? In April?”

She rotated in her squatting position and gave me The Karen Look. “Yes. In April. I haven't had beef stew since ….” She couldn't pin a date on it. “...forever. And cornbread. I want your cornbread.”

“Honey, let me cook.”

“No, Mama!” Her lower lip started to wobble. “I miss cooking too. I miss doing things. I haven't done a dang thing in my own kitchen for months!” She leaned back against the cabinet with her legs in the floor and sighed. I walked over and stroked her hair. She was right – it was coming out.

“There, there, sweetheart.” A younger and thinner mother would've slid down easily and sat beside her. This chubby grandma, however, needed the chair back and Karen's shoulder to support me on my way down.

“You're gonna have to help get me up again,” I said. She laughed.

I reached over and held her hand. “Are you sure it's okay, having me here?” I asked. “I can find something else, a little apartment maybe.”

“No, Mama,” she answered. I expected her to say I was a joy to have around, or I felt like part of the family, or it was no trouble at all. Instead she said, “I really need you right now. I can't do all this.” It was my turn to sigh.

“It won't be forever,” I whispered to her. “This too shall pass. You'll get well --” Here, she wept. “ – and I'll get my own place. I like Peace Valley. I'll be right here to help you, even when you're better.”

Karen put her head on my shoulder. This is how Jeffrey and Jimmy found us when they burst in from school.

“Mom! Nana!” they shouted. “Woohoo!” And both boys plowed into us and made a pile of backpacks and school books on the kitchen floor. Both were sweaty and smelled of the playground, just as little boys should.

“What's for supper?” Jeffrey asked me. I felt Karen's head turn down.

“Taco rice, young man,” I answered. “But tomorrow night your mama has asked for beef stew and cornbread, and that's what I'm excited about!”

Perhaps the most exhausting thing about a long illness is the constant effort to be cheerful, and yesterday none of us had the energy to do it. After supper the boys were fighting. Karen sat on the porch waiting for Rick, who didn't return until 8:00. She was fatigued by then, and they fell into an argument. The house rang with raised voices. I sat in my room, trying to study.

“I told you I'd be late.”

“It's been such an awful day.”

“That's my Lego set!”

“Get out of my room!”

“We have to get more business in the B&B. Sales are slipping.”

“Why am I so unhappy?” Karen moaned.

“Mom!” That came from both boys at once.

At 9:00 I couldn't take the negative energy anymore, and I thought longingly of Mr. Plott's tranquil office, the drifting richness of Brahms, the squeak of his leather chair. Patty Goyle kept Diet Coke in the mini-frig and Nutter Butters in her desk drawer. I grabbed my purse, my latest reading material on cremation, and headed for the door.

Rick was in the living room with a beer and ESPN.

“I'll be back,” I said.

The walk between the house and the funeral home was beautiful in any weather, but it was like a dream that night. A nearly full moon cast shadows on the street. Not a car passed by. Pink and white azaleas glowed in massive banks and filled the yards around each home, invisible boxes but for the boxes of warm light from within. Somewhere behind it all, in the trees or in the woods, heavy drapes of honeysuckle vines filled the world with that sweet perfume of childhood. I shook off the cares of my family and my life, and stood there studying daffodils in clumps near my feet. I heard laughter far away, and the low thunder of a train.

Mr. Plott's office light was still burning at 9:15. There were no cars in the tiny parking lot, but that was not surprising since he never drove a vehicle, except the old hearse, and that only for a cemetery burial. It was parked around the back under a carport. I was surprised he was still there. We had no new deaths that I knew of, and he's quite partial to his bedroom slippers and an evening of old radio shows.

“Mr. Plott? It's me, Ivy Monson.” I dropped my purse and book on Patty Goyle's desk. “I'm surprised to see you here this late. I hope you don't mind --” I was saying, as I walked through his door.

And Karen was right. Emery Plott was dead. He was sitting in his chair as usual, a bit slumped, his hands on the desk. He'd knocked his whiskey over and made a mess. I stood, shocked, looking at this man I barely knew, frantic that somehow the weight of his death, his burial, this business, his deep obligations, had somehow fallen on me. I had not bargained on this.

“Oh, my God!”

I felt for a pulse in his neck and on his wrist, but it was silly; I could tell he was dead. He just was. I mopped up the whiskey and walked to Patty Goyle's desk and sat down. That's who I needed to call. Patty would know what to do. The phone rang seven times.

“H'lo?” she asked.

“Patty? Patty Goyle?”

“Yeah, honey. That you, Ivy Monson?”

“Yes, it is. Oh my God, Patty, I'm at the office. You have to come down here.” I tried to calm myself. There was nothing to be alarmed about, really. “Mr. Plott, I've just found him dead in his office.”

“Is that a fact?” she asked. “Well, I'll be darned. He was saying yesterday he was feelin' a little poorly.” She paused. “My hair's up in rollers, but I'll be right over. Just hang on, honey.”

I sat at her desk, ate seven Nutter Butters, downed a small Diet Coke on ice, and waited. I wondered about Patty. If she weren't at least 70 years old, I'd have labeled her an air-head, but few women are truly air-headed at that age. Life's bumps and abuses have usually knocked them down to the ground and put some sense in their heads. In two weeks I'd only seen Patty Goyle do two interesting things, and both involved her fingernails. She typed with the tips of her fingernails, and she could talk on the phone and paint little pictures on her fingernails at the same time. At the time I thought she might've gone into the wrong line of work.

Patty breezed into the office with her purple rollers under a Japanese silk head scarf and wearing a matching silk robe over red silk pajamas covered in black hearts. She wore 3-inch spike heels in faux alligator skin on her feet. Her toenails were unpolished. She glanced down.

“I know, hunnee. I'm sorry. Couldn't get to the toesies. Your call interrupted my evenin' rooteen.” She came to the desk and squeezed my hand. “Let's go in togethuh, shall we?” We processed into Mr. Plott's office, which was now swathed in darkness. She flipped on the light and stared at him. She dropped my hand and gently laid one painted 2-inch fingernail against his brow.

“Oh, he's gone alright. No doubt.” She looked up at me. “Did ya call the coronuh?” I shook my head. “I'll call him then,” she said, and she left the room.

It was all quite fast after that. The coroner came, one Harold Garvey, and examined the body, talked briefly on the phone with Dr. Whitehead, and left the office with his certificate in hand. He paused at Patty's desk.

“Well, Miss Goyle, this was thoughtful of Emery, wouldn't you say?” he asked. “Quite convenient.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You got his latest envelope?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He snapped his briefcase closed, patted her on the back, and left. Patty sniffed and wiped her nose with her Japanese silk scarf, which had slipped off her rollers.

I sat on the padded chair next to her desk. “Latest envelope?”

She reached in a bottom drawer and removed a crisp, white envelope. “Mr. Plott wrote up a new one ever' three months,” she said. “Instructions pertainin' to his death. He was a man prepared for his last day.” She handed it to me. “He gave me this one last week.”

I ran my finger under the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper. As the wall clock ticked away in the hallway, I read it aloud:

“Dear Miss Goyle and Mrs. Monson,

If you are reading this letter, then I have passed. Please prepare my body for cremation. The urn I have selected is in the alcove in my office. It is a round mahogany box with mother-of-pearl inlay. You may do with my remains as you see fit, but I would prefer for them to remain here at the funeral home, at least for a time, as long as I am remembered here.”

At this point Miss Goyle began to weep loudly. I continued reading.

“If family and friends wish to gather for a memorial, I would be honored for them to do so at the location of their choice. My will can be found with my attorney, Mr. Ben Stade. You will find that I request that the proceeds from the sale of my home on Mulberry Street be given for the care of the memorial gardens at Peace Valley Cemetery. The funeral home will continue operation as before with you, Mrs. Monson, as its director. The business is owned by my cousin Herbert, according to the dictates of my will, so it will remain in the Plott family as it has for over seventy years.

Dear ladies, I bid you farewell until we meet again.”

He signed it in a flourish of letters in eloquent Southern style. I flopped against the back of the chair and stared at Miss Goyle. We were both speechless. Finally I spoke.

“Miss Goyle, it's nearly 11:00. Will you help me move the body into the morgue? I will … I will tend to the body in the morning, if it's okay with you.”

She nodded. In a few minutes we had completed the task. Miss Goyle had clearly done this many times before, helping her boss. Her tears fell on his dress shirt as we rolled him into the morgue. She tidied her head scarf and went to the door.

“See ya tomorrow,” she sniffed.

I had turned out all the lights and had my keys in hand when Miss Goyle's phone rang. It was nearly 11:30. I wanted to ignore it, but the feeling of responsibility that was Emery Plott's very heart's blood was now trickling through my veins as well. I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Yes,” a desperate voice choked on the other end. “Is this the funeral home?”

“Yes, this is Peace Valley Funeral Home. May I help you?”

“Yes, yes! She's dead! I don't know what to do!” The desperation rose to panic. “She's dead!”

“Miss,” I said coolly. “It's okay. Calm down. Please give me your address. I will call the coroner, and we will be there as soon as possible to do everything necessary. You don't need to panic. We will take care of everything.”

My tone seemed to work. I could hear her breathing. “Oh, good,” she said. “Oh, good. We're at 217 Hwy. 706 cut-off, after the water tower. A yellow house. And please hurry!”

My evening was just beginning.

To read chapter 6, please click here.

Copyrighted by M. K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 4

 (If you'd like to start back at chapter 1, please click here.)

Chapter 4

I fell asleep that first night pretending to read Embalming: History, Theory, and Practice. Actually I was rereading Dorothy Sayers's Whose Body?. I woke in the morning when Jeffrey slammed the front screen door on his way to school as only a running six year old boy can do. I jumped at the noise, yelled in the middle of my dream about embalming Bob Hope prematurely, and the heavy textbook fell from the bed to the floor.

“Mom?” Karen's voice drifted down the hall. “You alright?”

“Fine, dear,” I mumbled, smearing the drool from my face.

The clock on the night stand told me it was 7:30. That meant Rick had been gone an hour, as had Jimmy, and only Karen waited on my motherly ministrations. I'd need to rise at 5:30 to get the jump on this family and make them a hearty breakfast. I tripped down the hall, dragging the tail of my bathrobe belt behind me. Karen was propped on Pillow Mountain, staring at a mug cradled in her hand.

“Rick always makes me coffee,” she said.

“That's nice.”

“Coffee makes me sick,” she added. “So I wait until he's gone to throw it out.” She held it out to me. “In the bathroom sink.”

I obeyed. “Why don't you tell him you hate it?”

“Oh, I do. And then he researches new coffee blends that are supposed to make sick people feel better.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “So I stopped telling him, because he was spending too much time looking for a new brew for me. I just tell him this one is fine. It makes him feel better.” We both laughed.

“That's kinda sweet,” I said. “I smooth her comforter and hold her hand. “Green tea?”

“Yeah.”

“Honey?”

“No. Just plain, especially in the morning.”

“Breakfast?” I asked. “Oatmeal?” Something bland seemed wise. “Cheerios? Grits? Eggs?”

She slid down in the bed. “Ugh – no eggs.” She seemed to turn a bit green. “And no milk in anything. I can't do milk.”

“Toast?”

She smiled. “And butter.”

I stood up to go, but she asked, “What fell on the floor this morning?”

I paused, fabricating a plausible falsehood. “Last night's reading that I left on the bed,” I answered.

“Oh?” Karen was always looking for a new read. “Anything fun?”

“Dorothy Sayers. Whose Body?.”

“Oh, ugh, Mom! Not more dead body reading!”

I laughed. “Honey, this is just your average murder mystery. Nothing close to a mortuary science textbook. I couldn't help the smile that twitched teasingly at the corner of my mouth. Karen frowned.

After toast and tea, she rested. I cleaned the bathrooms and mopped the kitchen. A note for Rick on the counter, propped beside a tasty turkey sandwich, applesauce, and a slab of cinnamon spice cake, completed my duties. Karen was sleeping deeply when I left the house at 11:00, heading for Pine Street.

Peace Valley Funeral Home is the only funeral home in the county, outside of Newberry, the county seat. Although located downtown, the unassuming, one-story brick building is on the outskirts in a wooded area. Live oak trees and skirted magnolias crowd the sidewalks, and mosquitoes drone among the leaves. The other buildings on Pine Street are mostly Victorian two-story homes in various stages of gentle decay. True to my natural clutziness, I tripped on a tree root that shoved up the brick walkway leading to the door. I composed myself and walked inside.

A skinny, nervous, 60ish woman with flaming orange hair sat behind the desk.

“May uh hepp yoo?” she asked in languid Southern drawl.

“Hi, I'm Ivy Monson,” I said as I reached my hand across the desk toward her. It was met with a claw of terrifyingly long fingernails, slathered in bright pink polish. I gingerly touched her wrist with my fingertips and retreated. “Is the funeral director in?”

“Emery's in the back,” she replied, shoving her gum into her cheek. Her eyes studied me quizzically and twinkled a bit. “He's havin' his noon whiskey.” She stood up. “Just a sec.” She disappeared behind a curtained doorway. “Mistuh Plott! There's a woman out heuh to see yoo!” she called.

I discovered Emery Plott to be a true, old-fashioned Southern gentleman, such a rare man in our modern world. He sat behind his desk, portly, mustached, single, intelligent, non-commital, and around 80 years old. His health and longevity have depended on drinking three snifters of neat whiskey each day: one between lunch and his nap, one between dinner and his evening cigar, and one in the middle of the night if he is working in the morgue. I began by telling him why I was in Peace Valley, to which he merely nodded. I like to study people, and found him to be a fascinating specimen. From his penetrating eyes I guessed he might feel the same about me. I had never interviewed to be a mortuary assistant before and felt I was doing an awkward job of it. I tried not to drift into morbid detail about my untidy life and focused on my zealous interest in funeral work.

When I finished Mr. Plott leaned back in his rolling swivel chair with a long creak from its ball bearings. He closed his eyes. “So you finished your studies in Georgia?” His soothing, elegant drawl fell on my ears like an old, beloved tune.

“Yes, sir. Outside Atlanta in Decatur.”

“I know it well,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Gupton-Jones. And you performed acceptably on your licensing exam?”

“I did.”

His eyes popped open and he studied me. He crossed his fingers and tapped his fingertips together lightly on the edge of his mustache. I knew he was pondering some important idea that he'd been wrestling with for a long time.

“Mrs. Monson,” he began, “I would like to see your documentation.” He cleared his throat. “The work here,” and with one hand vaguely waving through the air he included it all – the scuffed oak desk, the red-headed receptionist, the elderly gray cat snoozing in the waiting room, the caskets, the chapel, the morgue, the refrigerators – “has been my life's commitment, a trust, a fidelity to my neighbors.” He sighed. “I feel it is coming to an end.” He paused and wagged a finger at me. “Not quite yet, of course, but coming.” He was silent for a while and studied a file of papers on his desk.

“I need an assistant, Mrs. Monson,” he said quietly and slowly, “and I would be willing to consider you, contingent upon viewing your documentation and license.” He looked up and smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled. “Are you interested?”

Mentally, I had to rewind his last words and listen to them again in my brain before I could process them. He was offering me a job. I simply couldn't believe it!

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir!” I replied. “I am definitely interested!”

So began my new career at Peace Valley Funeral Home and my new adventure with Emery and his long-nailed, red-headed secretary, Patty Goyle. I was terrified and thrilled. It seemed that my new life was actually happening! Mr. Plott walked me back to the reception area.

“Miss Goyle, this is Mrs. Monson,” he said in that reverent, patient voice I would learn to know so well. “She will be returning in the morning with some documentation for me.” Miss Goyle's head snapped around in my direction and she pierced me with her gaze. “I believe we have found some assistance for our labors, Miss Goyle, and I am quite thankful.” He turned to me and shook my hand. His hand was limp and cold, and he barely held mine as he waved it listlessly back and forth a few times.

“Thank you, Mr. Plott. I'll be back in the morning.”

Karen was mortified.

“Mama! No! That creepy place is just five blocks from my house! What will my friends say? Now I can't lie and tell them you're a nurse!” Karen had moved to her afternoon position on the front porch. A fan overhead and a glass of iced green tea in hand make a deep, Victorian front porch nearly perfect in the spring, especially for people-watching. She and I were observing her neighbors do yard work.

“Hush, Karen. They'll hear you.”

“Hear me! With the Instant Grapevine Communication in this town, they probably already know!” she retorted.

“Well,”I replied. “Maybe they'll be happy to have somebody besides Mr. Plott handle their loved ones' arrangements when they die.”

She leaned back in her chaise lounge and plumped her pillow. “Ha!” she said. “That old geezer? Emery Plott will probably be the first person you bury.”

To read chapter 5, please click here.

copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen