The Appearance of Death, chapter 14

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Chapter 14

I felt guilty that in all my weeks in Peace Valley, I'd only been to Rick's coffee shop once. He'd done a classy job of renovating an old building on the corner of Main St. and 3^rd Ave., refitting the facade in a 1920's Art Deco look. The inside was a little Spartan, a little industrial, but still warm and inviting. I'm not certain rural South Carolina was ready for his sense of style, but slowly the younger set seemed to be finding him. His coffee out-classes all other coffee in the county, even in Newberry, and the pastries that are baked in-house are luscious. I don't feel like I'm cool enough for this place.

At 1:00 p.m. Rick's place, which he'd named Cream, Two Sugars against Karen's best advice, was nearly empty. In the family, we just called it “The Cream” for short. The temperature outside had risen to 82 degrees, and I walked into Rick's air conditioning thankfully. The bell ding-a-linged and he looked up from crunching numbers at the register.

“Hi, Rick.”

“Hi, Mom-in-law. How's life?”

“Hot. I can feel summer coming already. How long did that spring last? Three days maybe?” He laughed.

“You want a danish? Cinnamon roll? Pain au chocolat?”

I looked longingly at the case of pastries now fading after breakfast and up for grabs. “Oh, man. I really shouldn't. Patty Goyle just gave me a dressing down for all the donuts and ice cream Karen's been pawning off on me.”

He slipped a cream cheese danish from the case and onto a dish. “Here.” He added a cup of fresh coffee with generous dowsings of half-and-half. How could I refuse?

“How's business?” I asked.

“It's picking up a little,” he said hopefully. “Each year as summer approaches the beach traffic picks up along the highway. Families drop in. It helped a lot when I put up that billboard last year. They drive into town to find us now.”

“That's good.”

A woman came through the kitchen door at the back of the shop. She was short, brown, and quick, a young grandmother type. She whipped her apron over her head and tossed it into a basket in the cleaning closet. Then she squared her shoulders and headed to where we stood. Rick smiled.

“Adele, I'd like you to meet Karen's mom, Ivy Monson. Ivy, this is Adele, my pastry chef.”

I had just taken my first bite of danish. A few crumbs of crispy pastry crust crumbled from my mouth and onto my shirt-front. “H'lo,” I mumbled, and reached out a slightly-sticky hand to greet her. She laughed.

“Rick, I done tole you I ain't no pastry chef. I ain't no chef atall. I'm just an ord'nary cook.” She shook my hand.

I stuffed another bite into my mouth and said, “I beg to differ, Adele. This danish is --” and I rolled my eyes and said, “Ymmmmm.”

“Thank you, Ms. Monson.”

“Call me Ivy. I'm so glad you're helping Rick out.” I looked at my son-in-law. “I love him to pieces, but I've eaten his pancakes, and I know he doesn't have a chance with pastry dough!”

“I've been cooking all my life, Ivy, at my mother's knee. Been livin' here in Peace Valley all these years and nevuh had a chance to bake real pastry and get paid for it.” She smiled broadly at Rick. “I'm real thankful for this young man. Our town needed this place.”

Adele walked toward the door to leave, but her words caught in my mind, and I put my hand on her arm to stop her.

“Adele,” I said, and I pulled her over toward a table. “You said you've lived in Peace Valley all your life.”

“Yes, I have.”

“So you must know just about everybody?”

“I s'pose so, Ivy. I think I've worked for nearly every family in town, one way or th'other.”

I sat down and invited Adele to join me. Rick brought us both fresh coffee. Adele pulled a bag of Cheetos from her purse and began munching.

“Do you happen to know a woman, oh about 40 or 50 years old, named Bobbie Deckson? I asked.

Adele munch a bit. “Bobbie … Deckson.” A light flashed in her eyes. “Oh, you must mean Barbara Dixon. Yes, she goes by Bobbie too. I think her school friends called her that. Yes, I know Ms. Barbara.”

“Dixon!” I exclaimed. “No wonder I couldn't find her online!” I turned back to Adele. “How do you know her?”

“She worked over at the elementary school years back, in the lunch room. Sweetest lady you'd ever hope to meet. She worked there right up until she got her cancer the first time, and then she left.” Adele paused and thought. “And she went back workin' there a bit later, but not for long.” She looked at me pitifully. “She's had an awful battle, that woman has. I've nevuh seen anybody fight cancer so hard for so long.” She shook her head and ate some more Cheetos.

“And is she still living?” I asked.

“Oh, my, yes. Just barely.” She leveled a sad gaze across the table at me. “She may be comin' to visit you soon over there at the undertaker's.” And a deep frown collapsed her face.

At that point Adele relaxed in her chair, crossed her legs, and proceeded to tell me the long tale of Barbara Dixon's cancer. She relayed the details of the first melanoma and the second melanoma, the colon surgery, and nodules on the lungs, and finally the cancer in her liver and bones. Barbara Dixon had very little time left.

“She's riddled with it, they say,” Adele continued. “She's just gone on hospice, but she's still at home.”

“And does she still live here in Peace Valley, or has she moved away?”

“Oh, no,” Adele said as she drank the dregs of her coffee. “She's still in the house.”

“The house?”

“Her aunt and uncle's house, over on Elm St. Nice little bungalow.”

“She inherited the Gillespies' house? The house Anita Wagner grew up in? I asked.

Adele's eyes narrowed and she tensed.

“Well, that's a name I haven't heard in a while.” She clasped her hands around her coffee cup and tapped it on the table. “Yes, Anita. That's Barbara's cousin. I'd forgotten.” She stood and picked up her purse. “There was a fallin' out in that family, years ago,” she said, “Pretty bad. That's how Ms. Barbara ended up with that house. She didn't want it, really.” Adele leaned down across the table, putting her face close to mine, and whispered, “It was that vile husband of hers, Myron. He drove a wedge between her and all her family.” She put her hand on her chest. “Broke Ms. Barbara's heart, I think.”

After she left I nursed my coffee a few more minutes and reflected on all the conversations I'd had, all the gossip I'd heard. I pondered Bobbie Dixon. If I could see her and talk with her, she might be the key to it all – a family member who could tell me what Anita Wagner was really like, why nobody seems close to her, and where her birth family lived. And maybe I'd be one step closer to finding out how that tattoo mysteriously appeared on her foot.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 13

 (To see links to each of the chapters in this book, click on the header bar above, on the book title.)

Chapter 13

The next morning I had fruit and homemade yogurt for breakfast, with whole-grain toast and an egg from a free-range chicken. Patty Goyle's Nutter Butters and Karen's Haagen Dazs were making my slacks shrink and my blouse buttons pop off. Walking a few blocks back and forth to work each day was clearly not enough to offset the calorie increases in my life. I took a tray of healthy food up to Karen.

“Here's breakfast, honey. It'll make you feel better today.”

She looked at the plate. Her lip curled. “That's an egg.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is the yoke runny? Runny yokes make me feel kinda sick these days.”

“No, I cooked it all the way, just for you.” I handed her the fork. “Just doin' my job. But it's up to you to eat it. You don't have any donuts hidden under your mattress, do you?”

She laughed. I brought her some hot green tea and left for work. The day looked overcast and gray. We needed some rain. I took a detour and walked past Jimmy's day care. He was standing in the parking lot in a tidy line of four-year-olds with a teacher on each end. He spotted me and yelled.

“Nana!”

I waved back, but put an index finger on my lips. His teachers looked like the disciplined sort. They wore uniforms and one had a whistle slung around her neck.

Jimmy started jumping up and down. “We're going on a field trip, Nana! We're gonna see the dinosaurs!”

I gave him a thumbs up, blew him a kiss, and hurried past before I caused any more trouble. As I approached the funeral home, Patty was leaning into her the back seat of her Volkswagon Beetle, wrestling something. I heard a bit of hissing and spitting, and at last she stood up holding Emery's gray cat.

I gasped. “Oh my goodness! Mr. Plott's cat! I forgot all about him!” A wave of guilt came over me. How could I forget the lazy gray pillow that slept in the corner chair in Emery's office all day?

“I took 'im home after Mr. Plott died,” Patty said. “Been tryin' to incorporate him with my kitties, but it's just not workin'.”

I stroked the cat's head. He seemed comotose. “What's his name?”

“Mr. Plott called him Plato. He never does anything. But my Siamese could not settle down with him in the house.”

As it started to sprinkle rain, we took Plato inside and put him back on his chair. We stared at him.

Patty said, “Mr. Plott always took him home at night, and I didn't think you'd want him to live in the office.” Her voice lifted at the end like a question.

“I don't mind. Do we have a litter box?”

“I stopped at the Dollar Store and got one,” she said. “And some food. And some treats.” She placed a tuna-flavored nugget in front of Plato's nose. He did not stir.

“How old is Plato?” I asked. “He doesn't seem very lively.”

Patty shrugged. “Perfect therapy cat for dead people then, wouldn't ya say?”

I told Patty about my visit to the nail salon and about Bobbie Deckson. We went to her desk and tried a Google search, but found nothing under that name. She leaned back from her computer screen. Overhead the rain was drumming on the roof.

“Remind me why we're lookin' for her?” Patty asked.

“I want to find anybody I can in Anita Wagner's family who can tell me about her. Her husband is a nut case, and Desiree Steele --” I paused. “Well, I feel like she's hiding something. I don't trust her. Just call it my sixth sense.”

“I'll tell you what,” Patty said, “If anybody came in here and did something to that body, it had to be her.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because she's the only person who would've cared!” Patty replied. “Seriously. Can you think of anybody else in Peace Valley who knew Anita, who cared about her, who's come down here asking about a memorial service? Did the woman have any friends?”

“Well --”

“Exactly. But somebody cared enough to break into a funeral home, slide that body out, and mess with that tattoo. It has to be Desiree.” She popped open a Dr. Pepper with one of her iron-clad nails. “Plus, consider this,” she added. “The niece arrives in town just after Anita's death. Don't you think that's strange? I mean, she shows up conveniently to find the body?”

I pondered all her observations, but I couldn't organize them into a sensible whole. What did it all mean?

“Patty, my brain is tired. I'm too old for this.”

She laughed. “Yer not too old. Yer just not eatin' right. Too many donuts and too much ice cream with that daughter of yers.” She shook a bright green fingernail at me. “I see her in the Piggly Wiggly. I know what she's puttin' in her cart.”

“I do the grocery shopping, Patty.”

“Uh huh,” she replied. “But she does the sugar shoppin'.” She sniffed. “An' it's not helpin' yer waistline any either!” And she gently prodded my jelly roll that rested happily over my waistband. Then she changed the subject. “Why don'tcha just ask Desiree Steele. Ask her where she's from, and how to contact her mother and gran'mother. You don't have to be nosey. Tell her the funeral home keeps family contact information like that.”

“I've left her two messages,” I answered. “I don't even know if she's still in town.”

“How long you plannin' to keep that body in cold storage?” she asked.

“Until I get explanations for why the body seems to have been tampered with. And until I have more contact with extended family. I don't feel comfortable with only that niece telling me what to do.”

“Has she told you what to do?”

“Well, no.” I hesitated. “Technically, Anita did.” I started digging in Patty's desk drawer for a Nutter Butter, but she slapped my hand.

“Mrs. Monson, no-no.”

“Patty, if it wasn't for that tattoo, I'd be willing to cremate her. But I have to know how it got there. And Desiree already told me she doesn't know anything about it. Plus, there are other little things that just don't add up. So I have to find out where the rest of the family is, and dig a little further.”

She giggled. “Diggin'. Well, that's what undertakers do.”

The rainstorm had passed, so over my lunch break I drove to Anita Wagner's house. No one was there. The doors were locked and the blinds drawn. Desiree had removed the porch cushions and left the porch light on. Anita Wagner's Toyota Camry, which had been parked beside the house, was gone too. I got out of Simone and walked around the yard. The ground where Anita's car had been parked was powdery dry. I puzzled over this. It meant that Desiree had driven the car away in the past two hours, after the rainstorm ended. And by the look of the house, she wasn't coming back soon. Maybe she'd returned home. I tried to call her again on my cell phone. Again, I was sent to her voice mail. I had a nagging sense she was avoiding my calls. It seemed more important than ever to locate Bobbie Deckson, the only person in Peace Valley who could possibly tell me more about Anita Wagner's family.

To read chapter 14, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 12

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

Chapter 12

I walked home early that afternoon, too exhausted to spend one more hour in the funeral home. With the exciting discoveries about Anita's body, Patty Goyle seemed to have forgotten her fury at my decision to decline the position of permanent funeral director. I didn't tell her about my response to Herbert Plott. I simply allowed her to assume that he had convinced me to accept the offer.

I took the long way home and passed the school. Jeffrey hung from the monkey bars on the playground with another boy pulling on his legs. When I called his name his face lit up, and he released one hand and waved at me. Immediately he lost his grip on the bar and tumbled to the ground on top of the other boy's head. The girls were playing jump rope, and a few were seated on the ground in a circle, whispering secrets. Other children were competing to see who could go highest on the swing set. The world seemed right. I wanted to forget Anita Wagner and think about my grandchildren playing, think about Beau eating cucumber slices with that silly look on his face, think about Karen healing from her cancer.

When I walked in the door I heard her voice talking to someone upstairs. She must've heard the stairs creak as I walked up, because I heard her say, “Okay, honey. I love you too. See you soon!” Click.

Karen was tucked into bed with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. There were crumbs on her nightgown.

“Was that breakfast or lunch?” I asked.

“Both,” she said smugly.

In my mind I was shaking my head and telling her how important it was to eat healthily, but I was learning to keep my opinions to myself. Instead I asked, “Who was that on the phone?” I assumed it was Rick.

“Daddy.”

“Daddy?” I retorted. So much for keeping my opinions to myself. “Is he coming here?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You said, 'See you soon.' So either he's coming here or you're going there. And I assume you're not hoofing it to Atlanta.”

Karen sighed a long, weary sigh. “He wants to come here, Mom. He wants to come for a visit to see the kids.”

I sat on the bed. It creaked. Beau slinked out from under the bed and jumped onto the comforter. I lifted the lid of the donut box, hoping for a chocolate-covered glazed one. The only two left were a French cruller and one with colored sprinkles on top. I frowned.

“Why do we buy these kinds? Nobody likes them.”

“The boys like the sprinkles,” she said. She picked up the cruller. My face fell.

“Uh, Karen! Really?!” Donut-stealing was the straw that broke my camel's back today.

She laughed. “Just joking, Mom. You can have it.” Beau sniffed it as she passed it to me.

“Well,” I mumbled between mouthfuls, “If your daddy comes to visit, I'd prefer to stay in a motel somewhere.” I fixed my beady eyes on her and added, “Or I can just sleep in the morgue.”

“Mom!”

“My turn to joke. But seriously, I'll stay somewhere else. I'm never sharing a bathroom with that man again.”

“Understood.” She nibbled on the crumbs in the donut box. So did Beau. “Besides, I don't think he'll come. He's threatened to about half a dozen times, and he's never done it.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't here before,” I replied, “and he might do it just to irritate me.”

“True.” Karen lay back on her pillows. Beau licked her hand and she didn't seem to mind. “So, how's the case of Anita Wagner going?” She was gloating that she'd discovered the identify of the body in my morgue.

“How'd you find out? It's not in the papers yet.”

“I know,” she answered, “and I wondered why. But I heard from a friend I used to teach with. Her sister has a friend who waits tables at the Stop-and-Go Diner. I think it's all over town.”

“Prob'ly so.” I polished off my cruller and wished for another. “It's fine. Not an easy situation with the family. She's supposed to be cremated, but --” I paused. “Her husband's not home yet. Not that that matters much.” I shrugged. “I still have a few loose ends to tie up.”

“Loose ends?”

“Well, for starters, I'd like to contact her family. I've only had one disturbing conversation with her husband, and a couple of equally disturbing conversations with her niece. She has a sister, a mother, and at least one cousin.” Then an idea occurred to me. “Speaking of which,” I asked Karen, “have you ever heard of the Gillespie family, here in town. Older couple who are now deceased, but there was a niece who lived here too. The Gillespies adopted Anita Wagner. I'd like to track down any family that live in Peace Valley.”

Karen's face took on a puzzled look, and then she said, “Actually, I think I do. Maybe. I was in a cancer support group for a while in the winter, over at the hospital in Clinton. I stopped going because it was too far to drive. But there was a lady in the group called Bobbie,” she said.

“Bobbie?”

“Yeah. Not sure what it's short for. Barbara maybe? Anyway, she mentioned once that she'd lived in Peace Valley, and she mentioned a family called Gillespie. But it might not be the same woman you're looking for.”

“But it might be.” I nodded. “What was her last name?”

“I don't know. We didn't give last names.”

“Oh, good grief.”

Karen stretched. “You should ask around town, Mom. Somebody's bound to know a woman named Bobbie.” She shoved the covers off. “Get up. I'm sore staying in bed all day. You wanna go somewhere?”

I was exhausted. But my daughter the cancer patient wanted to go somewhere with me. You don't turn that down.

“Sure! What'ya want to do? Get our toe nails done?”

She thought for a second. “Yeah, that sounds good. There's a salon over near the highway.” She stretched again. “I feel awful.”

“You need vegetables.”

“Yeah, probably. I also need to brush my teeth,” she said. “Ghastly breath.”

The Beauty You Nail Salon was a tiny place with one hair stylist, one nail technician, and one bossy man bustling around. They had two functioning massage chairs. Karen and I slid our crusty feet into the warm water, said “Ah!,” and squeezed each others' hands.

I was just drifting off into never-never land when Karen interrupted me.

“Psst!” she said.

“What?”

“You could ask them!” she whispered. The water gurgled in the foot basins, and some tinny Asian background music played softly, but otherwise the salon was silent as the tomb.

“Ask them what?”

“About Bobbie, of course,” she replied. “Maybe they know her.”

I stared at her incredulously. Really? A few folks from Thailand who don't speak English? Why would they know the mysterious Bobbie?

“Oh, all right,” Karen said. “I'll ask them.” So she did.

“'Scuse me, please?”

The woman looked up from scrubbing the bottom of Karen's left foot.

“Do you know a woman in town, in Peace Valley, named Bobbie?”

The woman tilted her head. “Boe Bee?”

“Bobbie. Yes. Do you know anyone called that? A woman?”

A smile spread across the woman's face. “Ah! Bah Bee! Yes, I know Bah Bee! She like gel nails. She come here for hair too. High light!” Then the woman's face fell and great sadness spread across it. “Except not now. Now no hair. Very sad.”

Karen nodded and looked at me. “She's lost her hair from the chemo. Yep, must be her!”

Karen spoke to the woman again. “Bobbie is a friend of mine. I have cancer too – sick too,” and she spoke a little louder as people do when trying to communicate with difficulty. “I want to find Bobbie. Do you know where she lives? Do you know her last name?”

The woman paused in mid-scrub. “Name. Last name … is … Deck Son.” She nodded. “Yes, Deck Son. Bah Bee Deck Son.”

Karen and I looked at each other. “There you go,” she said. “Easy Peasy. Now you gotta go find Bobbie Deckson, wherever she is.”

(To read chapter 13, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 11

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the link above, in the header bar.)

Chapter 11

Neither the landscape nor the glorious weather on the ride home could take my mind off Willard Riggins's words as I left. “Let me know --” he said. Let him know … what? Let him know if there's a memorial service? The intensity of his tone certainly meant more than that. Let him know what I find out? Let him know if there was foul play? Foul play. There was no evidence of foul play. Harold Garvey was certain about the cause of death and the position of the body. Why did my brain tell me that something was wrong, that the pieces of Anita Wagner's death weren't fitting together. I felt an urgency to get back to the morgue, to look at her body one last time.

Patty Goyle sat cross-legged in her chair, swiveling back and forth on one of her spikey heels. She was polishing her nails with a satin handkerchief and listening to Andy Williams.

“Moon River, wider than a mile, I'm crossing you in style … someday!” she crooned. Her eyes were closed.

“Patty,” I said.

She snapped to attention. “Ever'body and his brother been callin' you,” she said, and she held out a handful of memo reminders to me.

“They can wait,” I said shortly. “I want to give Anita Wagner's body one more going-over.” Patty's clicking heels followed me into the morgue.

“Whatcha lookin' for?”

“I don't know. But something – something just isn't right, Patty.” I turned to her. “Something about her death is off, and I can't put my finger on it.” I pulled the body from the cold chamber on its stretcher. “You knew her just a little bit, and I never saw her alive. Maybe you can spot something …. I don't know.”

Patty Goyle was no stranger to a little light mortuary work. Together we studied Anita. Patty stooped close to her head and with one lengthy fingernail pulled back Anita's hair.

“That's a bad job, for Anita,” she said. “I thought she dyed her hair, but it always looked so good. Her complexion was a perfect candidate for that color, Clairol's Light Warm Auburn. Hmm,” and Patty inspected the hair carefully, “she should've switched to 'Age Defy.' Very nice product.” She moved along the neckline. “Look here, Mrs. Monson! This dye was slopped on. What a mess!' I moved to her side of the stretcher. She was right. Clairol's Light Warm Auburn had stained the skin. A bit even seemed to have dribbled down the back of her neck. We both stared at it.

“You say Anita's hair always looked perfect? She'd never have left stains like this?” I asked.

“Nevuh in a million years, I'm tellin' ya. But that's her color alright.” Patty shook her head. Then she explained, “Anita was a stylish woman, but not showy. No bling. None uh this,” and she shook her fingernails at me. “But she cared about her looks and took good care of her body. Now you've got me curious.” And Patty proceeded to inspect the body further.

In spite of the hair color, Anita's fingernails were appalling. The nails were chipped and filthy underneath, but a coat of pink polish was applied sloppily on top. The inconsistency I'd noticed on her feet that first night in the morgue continued elsewhere. Now Patty was leaning over Anita's body, sniffing.

“What do you smell?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “It's hard to tell now, but I think this person smoked.”

“So?”

“Like I said, Anita was quite health-conscious. She didn't smoke, not since she was in high school. Do ya still have her clothes? We should smell them.” It seemed Patty was becoming interested in the inconsistencies of Anita's death.

The clothes were smoke-free. They smelled of Tide and Downy. I rolled Anita's body back into the cabinet. “Come into the office, Patty,” I said. We sat on either side of Emery's desk.

“Patty, you're gonna think I'm crazy, but I feel like we have two people here. We have the Anita everybody knew, and we have the body in there in that cold chamber.”

“There's a lot of little ways they don't match up,” she said.

“Yes. Willard Riggins said the same thing,” I replied.

“Willard Riggins? What'd he have to say?”

I leaned back and Emery's leather chair creaked comfortingly. “He's known Anita Wagner nearly all her life. He handled some legal work for her family. Patty, he seemed more alarmed at her death, at the way she died, than anybody else.” I fingered Emery's crystal paper weight nervously. “I felt like he thought there was some kind of foul play, but was afraid to say so. I left there --” I didn't know how to continue. “I left there feeling like we both knew Anita Wagner's death was a piece of mischief!”

Patty laughed. “A piece of mischief?”

I continued. “So that's why I'm hesitating about the cremation. Her body is the best evidence we have that something is awry.”

Patty giggled again. “Uh-rye?” Then she frowned. “I know what you mean. But you have to remember what Mistuh Garvey said. That woman in there,” and she shook one pointed nail toward the morgue, “died of falling down the stairs and landed just as we found her. That doesn't sound like foul play.”

I sat silent, thinking. Finally the words came out. “I think somebody messed with her body, Patty. Everybody knows that's Anita in there, but her body doesn't look right, and I want to find out why.” Suddenly I remembered, and I jumped up. “Oh! And Patty, I forgot to tell you about the tattoo!”

“What tattoo?”

“The tattoo on the bottom of her foot! Come look!”

We returned to the morgue, and I showed Patty the heart-shaped tattoo on the bottom of Anita's foot. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and took a picture of it. I took two more, just in case.

“What about it?” Patty asked. “Granted, Anita didn't strike me as a tattoo kinda girl.”

“More than that,” I replied. “That tattoo was not on her foot the night we brought her in. I'm certain of it,” I said, wondering at my own words. Was I absolutely certain? “Somebody came in this morgue that night after I went home and put that tattoo on her foot.”

This time Patty guffawed. She had to cover her mouth. “Oh, Mrs. Monson, that takes the cake! That's the most ridiculous thing I've eveh heard!”

“Patty, the other option is that someone switched that body for this one, overnight. It's one or the other.” I raised my eyebrows at her. “Now which one is it?”

She didn't answer.

I'd skipped lunch, so Patty and I closed up the office and walked to the Dairy Queen. Over chicken strips, two Cokes, an Oreo blizzard, and a Buster Bar, we talked more about Anita Wagner.

“Do you know anything else about her family, Patty, or anybody who I can talk to who would know about them?” I asked.

“You mean the Gillespies? Or her birth family?”

“Either one,” I answered.

Patty sipped her Coke. “Well," she began as she stirred with her straw, "The Gillespies had a nice home over on the corner of Elm and 2^nd. They didn't have any children of their own, of course, but there's a niece in town, a good bit older than Anita because they did foster care later. Her name's --” Patty pondered. “Oh, I can't recall. I'll hafta think about it.”

“What about the Prescotts, her birth family?”

“I don't know nuthin' about them,” she said. “You ought to inquire of that niece, Miss Steele. Don't let on you have any suspicions. Just find out where she's from, where her mama and grandmama live.” She dipped a fingernail into her Oreo Blizzard like a scoop and licked off a clump of ice cream. “Just don't mention the body at all.”

“But what do I say if she asks why we haven't cremated Anita's body yet?” I asked.

Patty's fingernails took a chicken tender from my plate. “Tell her,” she replied between bites, “Tell her the crematory needs repair. Or there's a hang-up with the autopsy, or you're waiting on a document, or even on the husband to come back. Heck,” she added, “Tell her Anita has a metal plate in her knee and you have to take it out first!” She slurped her Coke down to the bottom.

“Just come up with somethin'!”

(To read chapter 12, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 10

 (To see links for all previous chapters, please click on the title of the book in the header bar above.)

Chapter 10

I drove home, took a nap, made lunch for Karen and drew her a bath, snuggled with Beau on the front porch, and returned to work. That afternoon Patty Goyle and I proceeded with the cremation of Emery Plott's remains. He wore two rings, the first a high school class ring from 1954 and the second a nugget of gold inscribed from his uncle, Holden Plott. These we reserved for his family. Into the lovely mahogany box Emery went, and there I determined that he would stay. It was his request. Now I could have private conversations with him in our office any time I wanted.

London broil and hash brown casserole were on the menu for dinner, followed by watermelon on the porch and a nightcap with Karen and Rick. Karen's visit to the doctor that morning revealed that she was coming down with the flu. She required rest and fluids, so her drink was iced green tea. I sipped my Amaretto Sour guiltily.

My visit with Desiree Steele niggled in my brain oppressively until 1:00 a.m., when I fell asleep at last. At 5:30 Rick tripped over a toy in the dark, knocking a chair over in the kitchen below my bedroom. My eyes hurt if I opened them, so I lay on the bed fingering the worn fabric of Karen's old Laura Ashley comforter from 11^th grade. Desiree's face floated in my mind and her words lingered. What was it about my conversation with that girl that bothered me?

“Me and my aunt weren't that close …” she said.

“I put Desiree Steele entirely in charge of my funeral arrangements,” Anita wrote.

“I always walk from the bus station if my aunt can't come get me,” Desiree told me.

“Ms. Steele will provide an urn for my ashes,” the aunt wrote.

These statements didn't cooperate in my mind. If the two women were not close, why did Desiree visit her aunt so often? Why would Anita put her in charge of all her burial funeral arrangements if they weren't close?

“She's lying,” I thought. “I know she's lying.”

I hesitated to go to the Stop-and-Go Diner at 6:00 a.m. after my last run-in with Lottie, but I wanted even less to engage my son-in-law and discuss family matters. I needed to get out of the house. This time the diner door was open, and Lottie didn't grouch at me from behind the counter. She also didn't greet me with a cheery “Hello!” I chose a booth in the far corner and felt guilty for making her walk.

Lottie Andrews was a person worth studying. Thin, wiry, brown, short, she'd damaged both her skin and her voice with years of smoking. Her face screamed intelligence and defensiveness. Mostly she looked chronically exhausted. Her cigarette dangled from her bottom lip in spite of the “No Smoking” sign behind the counter.

“Whatcha want?” she asked.

“Coffee. Cream. Toast, butter, strawberry jelly. Thank you.”

She paused for a fraction of second longer than I expected, giving me the impression she wanted something. I did not look up. Instead I ran my fingers through my hair over and over again, studying the pattern on the linoleum table in front of my face. My trouble was this: I knew I should cremate Anita Wagner's remains that afternoon, but something in my mind told me not to do it. Not yet. But what reason could I possibly give for delaying? I shook my head.

“Here ya go,” Lottie said, and slid the steaming cup across to me. She set a bowl of many creamers down next to it.

“You look worse than the first time you came in here,” she said.

I looked up, surprised at her honesty. “Yep. I feel worse too.”

Her blue head scarf wound around her head like a turban. She put one hand on her hip. “You the new funeral home lady, right?”

“Yes.”

“You handlin' Anita Wagner's funeral, are yeh?”

“Yes, we are.” I paused. I could tell she had something to say. “Did you know her?”

“Well,” she began, and glanced at the door. “I did years ago. Lived next door to her, back before she married that slug.” She peered at me. “You met Myron the Monster?”

“I've spoken to him on the phone, just once.”

“He ruined her life, I'll say that.”

“Her niece is in town,” I told her. “She's handling the arrangements for the family.”

“Niece?” Lottie asked. “Don't remember --” She broke off. “Oh, yeah. There was a baby. I forgot. They were both mighty young, Anita and her twin sister. Not yet twenty, I bet.”

“Twin? Anita Wagner has a twin sister?” I asked. Desiree hadn't mentioned her mother.

“Oh, yeah. She moved in with Anita for just a bit when the baby was little. Then she left again.” The bell above the diner door tinkled insistently and Lottie left. A few minutes later she brought my toast and generously rewarmed my coffee.

Before she left again she added, “They was split up, you see,” referring to the twins. “As babies. Anita told me one night when we was drinkin'. Their mama kept the other one, the sister. But she give Anita away because she was sickly and needed medical care, expensive stuff.” Lottie took out her table rag and mindlessly wiped at my table, lengthening her stay. “Anita was a nice girl, very nice, would give ya the shirt off her back. But I do think that troubled her, about her mother. She went into foster care as a baby and settled down with a family here in Peace Valley, stayed here all her life mostly. Had a real good life until Myron.” She frowned and shook her head. “And now this. Very sad.”

I sipped on my coffee and nodded. Lottie tapped my table with her fingertips. “Let me know if there's a service of some kind. Just stick yer head in here and tell me. I'd like to come.”

“I'll do that,” I said.

It was increasingly difficult to find a place to clear my head. At home, there were Karen's and Rick's troubles. At work, there was the professional pressure of Patty Goyle. Even the local diner added to the weight of this case. A case – that's what it felt like, an investigation. Something was hidden under the surface of Anita Wagner's death, and I could not let it rest until I knew what that something was. This, I suddenly realized, was the reason I was hesitating to proceed with the cremation.

I added eggs over-easy, bacon, and grits to my breakfast and reached the office at 8:15, having read the county paper.

Patty Goyle greeted me. “You been to Lottie's,” she said. Her attitude seemed brighter.

“How can you tell?” I asked, amazed yet again at her skills of detection.

“The smell,” she said with a slight sneer in her voice. “It sticks on yeh.”

“Well, she makes a creamy bowl of grits and fabulous coffee,” I rebutted. “Anything new this morning?”

“Not yet. Just that body chillin' in the morgue. When you firin' up the crematory?”

I frowned. I did not like her tone. “I'm not sure. Her instructions for arrangements were hand-written and notarized. Can you get that document for me?”

Patty rolled out her massive file drawer, picked through the tabs with her nimble one-inch nails, and retrieved the paper with Anita's handwriting on it.

“Thanks,” I said. “Patty, do you know where this notary is from? Do you recognize the name?”

She perched her reading glasses on her nose and stared at the bottom of the page. “Willard Riggins.” She looked up at me. “He's over in the courthouse in Newberry.”

I removed the paper from between her fingers and turned back to the door. “I'll drive over and give Mr. Riggins a visit this morning, Patty. See you later.”

“Um – But --”

I let the door close on her voice and rushed to my car.

I took the back roads to Newberry, the county seat. In late April, the rural South is a glorious place – perfect temperatures, blue skies, no mosquitoes, and the endless quiet of farm fields and tiny communities. This is what I needed, a good drive in the country. With the windows down on Simone, my blue Volvo, all that was missing was Beau, curled up on the seat next to me. This was his favorite kind of ride too, but I didn't want to take him into Willard Riggins's office with me.

Newberry, South Carolina is a lovely Southern town with a large red brick courthouse sitting squarely in the center of its old downtown . I passed a quaint Japanese garden, open to the public, on my way into town, and was tempted by a cute coffee shop on Main Street as I drove around, wondering where Mr. Riggins's office might be. I parked in front of the courthouse. A kind elderly lady greeted me when I walked inside the old building. I must've looked lost.

“May I help you?”

I smiled thankfully. “Yes. I'm looking for Mr. Willard Riggins. I believe he's a notary here in the courthouse?”

She laughed and smiled at me. “Willard Riggins. Well, yes, I suppose he can notarize something for you. But Mr. Riggins is a retired lawyer here in Newberry. He doesn't keep an office in the courthouse anymore, not for years. He has a little office over on Friend Street, a couple of blocks over. Can't miss it.”

I thanked her, but I was more puzzled still. Anita Wagner could have found a notary at the bank in Peace Valley. Why come to Newberry? And why choose an elderly, retired lawyer with a little office off the beaten path to notarize your funeral plans instead of asking for one in the courthouse? Did she know Willard Riggins? Did he know her?

On Friend Street, I parked Simone in front of a pretty clapboard home-cum-office with a striped blue awning under towering pecan trees. Mr. Riggins himself answered the door. He was tall and large, but not fat. He wore a blue bowtie and linen trousers and jacket. A broad smile spread across his face. He was a tidy, manicured man, a clever man, a man used to handling people. He took my hand in one of his large paws and then placed the other one on top of it in an affectionate way.

“Come in, young lady, come in! Willard Riggins at your service.” He almost seemed flirtatious.

I felt creepily as if I were stepping back a hundred years, as if I were an antebellum lady in a sweeping skirt and he were courting me. I put this concept out of my mind.

“Hello, Mr. Riggins. I'm Ivy Monson from Peace Valley.”

“Ah! Peace Valley!” he said knowingly, and turned toward the reception area of his office. “Please, do have a seat, Mrs. Monson,” and he let me down gracefully into a sofa, finally releasing my hand.

He nodded at me and reached slowly for a decanter of some clear liquid, pouring himself a glass. “Would you care for a glass? Selzer water. Clears the mind.”

I thanked him, took my glass, and sat back for the entertainment that everyone who meets Willard Riggins was clearly in store for.

“Peace Valley! You know, Mrs. Monson, the origin of that name. No? Well, I'm sure you've noticed the lack of mountains or even significant hills around your town. So one must ask oneself, how can a town be in a valley without any corresponding rises around it?” He smiled at his cleverness. “The name originally was Pierce's Volley, after a skirmish fought there in the Revolution in which a number of settlers died. Time, and the mangling of the language, gradually gave us this mongrel pronunciation – Peace Valley. A quaint alteration, yes?”

“Yes, I'd say so.”

Willard Riggins sat back into his matching couch and crossed his legs. “How may I help you, Mrs. Monson?”

“Mr. Riggins, I'm the new director of the funeral home in Peace Valley. You may have heard that Emery Plott died recently.”

His face grew serious. “Yes, I did. Read it in the paper. A great loss for your town.”

“Yes, it is. Well, we had another death in Peace Valley, an Anita Wagner. Did you know her?”

Willard Riggins's normally soft and jovial appearance instantly stiffened. His brows lowered and his hand gripped the arm of the couch.

“What? Anita?” Real grief washed across his face. “I can't believe it! She was young – what, maybe thirty-five?”

“Thirty-seven. Yes, she was young, and she died unexpectedly of an accident. She fell down the stairs in her home.” I paused to allow him to process the information, but he was quicker than I.

“An accident?” He leaned forward. “Was her husband home?” His voice lowered. “Mrs. Monson, he is a brute of a man. Are you certain it was an accident?”

“Mr. Wagner was in Oklahoma at the time of her death. He had been out of town for nearly a month. There is no evidence of foul play, Mr. Riggins. The coroner called for an autopsy, which the medical examiner performed. They are satisfied with the findings. It's quite clear how she died and where she died.”

He sat back, disturbed and fidgeting. He tapped his index fingers together but said nothing.

“Mr. Riggins, I'm coming to you because of a document that you notarized for Anita Wagner only a few weeks ago.” I handed her instructions to him. “Did you notarize this?”

He looked at it. “Yes, yes, I did. She sat exactly where you are seated now. She wrote it out by hand on that coffee table there,” and he pointed to a low, glass-topped table with a scattering of pretty magazines on it. “She assured me that it was merely an assurance that, whenever she might die, her husband would be prevented from interfering with her wishes.” He shook his head. “He is such a beast of a man, and she was such a lovely woman.”

I hated to press him, but I continued, “And you're certain this document was written by Anita Wagner?”

“Mrs. Monson, I've known Anita Wagner since she was an infant. She was Anita Prescott then. Her foster family, the Gillespies, wanted to adopt her. They came to me, to pursue that option, but Anita's birth mother would not relinquish her. I tried so hard.” He looked out the window. “I lost track of Anita over the years, and the Gillespies are both dead now, but every once in a while she'd stop in here to say hello. Myron put an end to that when they married.” Willard looked at me severely. “He is a controlling man.”

“She mentions her niece, Desiree Steele. Did you ever meet her?”

He shook his head. “No. I knew she had a sister, and the sister had a baby. They were all rather close, I gather. For a while they lived together, and I suppose they had a falling out, because the sister left. But there was a bond there. Anita was so happy to find them again. Or rather, I think they found her. Either way, that was the happiest I ever saw her.”

We lapsed into silence as he sat brooding. I stood to go.

As he showed me to the door he asked, “You said she fell down the stairs in her home?”

“Yes, her niece says she sometimes drank too much. That, combined with the high heels she was wearing, probably caused the fall.”

“High heels?”

“Oh yes,” I replied. “Stilettos. One snagged the fabric on the steps."

His face was puzzled. "I never knew Anita to wear heels at all. She worked at the hospital and was on her feet most of the day. She wore nurses' shoes, and when she came to see me was invariably in tennis shoes. That seems strange.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps she was on her way out to a party?” Even as I said it, the words fell flat, untrue.

“Thank you, Mr. Riggins. I appreciate you help.”

He held my hand, but this time in sincerity. “If I can help any further, please don't hesitate to call. And let me know – let me know --”

“I will,” I answered.

(To read chapter 11, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

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