The Appearance of Death, chapter 8

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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