(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
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