ShadowZ952: I’d love to. Z.
Kit gets to have his own macabre happily ever after whenever I visit him, but it’s about time I got mine. I can guarantee Violet won’t be happy, but I know I will.
Are you ready for me, little flower?
About Ally Vance
About Ally:
Ally is an International Bestselling Author who writes in the Dark Romance & Horror genres. Ally also co-writes with her close friend Michelle under the pen name Ally Michelle. Ally lives in Kent, in the United Kingdom with her husband, stepson, and two cats.
https://linktr.ee/AllyVanceAuthor
Books by Ally:
Flower in the Dark
Ashes in the Dark (Coming Soon!)
Wicked Dreams (Reveries Duet #1)
Dearly Departed
Michelle Pace
Dearly Departed
"I'm sorry for your loss."
Murray’s go-to mantra sounded hollow and trite, even to him. And he wasn't sorry, not as sorry as he should have been. When his twin sister Tallulah took the twilight call requesting a pickup for the widow’s dearly departed husband, Murray had pumped a carefree fist in the air. He and Tally had even celebrated with an early morning shot. Times were tough in the Layhe household, and this family’s “loss” helped keep the lights on.
Regardless, Murray’s perfunctory line must have satisfied the widow because she reached up and touched his stubbled cheek with a clammy, trembling hand. “Thank you, Mr. Layhe. You’re a chip off the old block.”
Murray gritted his perfect pearly teeth until she released him from her gnarled grip. She waddled away, snuffling into her cloth kerchief, and he waited until she was a respectable distance away before discretely slipping the hand sanitizer from his pocket. After liberally dousing his palms, Murray briefly debated smearing some directly onto the offended cheek. Decorum prevailed. Still, his face throbbed where she’d touched him, as if she’d contaminated him with her bad luck.
He frowned at his response, which seemed over the top even to him. He hadn’t always been so neurotic. Murray Layhe had once been the life of the party, the instigator of a good time. Pandemic burnout and the ongoing echoes left in its wake seemed to have taken their toll. Little things got to him now in ways they hadn’t before. Large crowds were unbearable, and Murray avoided the “jungle public” unless he had no alternative. He found himself wandering the halls of their stately Queen Anne at all hours, checking each door and window at least four times. After his sister had caught him rigorously scrubbing his hands until his skin cracked, she suggested he see a shrink.
Murray missed Black Wednesdays, the standing poker night with his local funeral director pals, but he’d forced himself to stay away. Tallulah had left a brochure by the espresso machine two weeks back, which explained that no longer enjoying the things you used to was a sign of depression. Murray didn’t feel blue, though. He was keyed up…on high alert. A charge rippled through him, as if all his instincts were telling him to watch his six, but for what, he wasn’t quite sure.
His best friend, Reverend Townes, still managed to get him out every other weekend for a beer or two. Gone were the days when they used to close down the bar, followed by breakfast at Molly’s Diner. Otherwise, Tallulah was his only social outlet, and funerals had become a peephole to the outside world.
Murray surveyed the dated front parlor, scanning the small assembly of mourners within. Counting heads, he was pleased to discover he’d printed just enough programs for the motley crew who’d braved the rainy weather to see the old coot off. Tallulah would be pleased that he hadn’t fallen short of the required amount of swag for the job. Murray’s thriftiness had kept them afloat when so many others had extinguished their “open” signs, but appearing chintzy simply wouldn’t do. Layhe and Sons was their legacy, and the twins knew they had a reputation to protect.
Stepping into the viewing parlor, Murray’s dark eyes swept the room, taking in the overblown sprays of hothouse lilies and the top-of-the-line oak casket. He also didn’t miss the deceased’s youngest son running a careless thumb up and down his sister-in-law’s lower back. Clearly the guy believed in keeping it in the family, and Murray filed that sordid detail away.
Reading a grieving family’s pain points was an artform that Murray Layhe held mastery over. His ancestors had been death dealers since the old world, and years of mentoring under his father’s militant tutelage had honed Murray’s natural talent. Sensing just when and how far he could nudge someone was his greatest gift. As Funeral Director of Layhe and Sons, Murray’s primary role was coaxing copious upgrades out of mourners until their wallets wailed nearly as loud as they did.
Movement in his periphery caught his attention. Murray turned his gaze toward the tapestry which concealed the “back of the house,” Tallulah’s macabre nickname for the aftercare area. The morgue and embalming room were all tucked away behind that discrete entrance. Regular folk liked to pretend those parts of the funeral home didn’t exist.
The back of the house, which Tally often shortened to just “the back,” was her homage to her dishwashing days at the local supper club, La Boheme. Tallulah had worked the back of the house at the pretentious restaurant after school, saving for her tuition at Fayetteville. Meanwhile, Murray had skated through a paid-in-full business degree at Duke, compliments of dear old Dad. After all, the funeral home—which had been established in the 1897--wasn’t called Layhe and Daughters.
Murray sometimes felt guilty recalling his leisurely years at Duke. Paying fraternity brothers to write his papers while he’d hazed sad little wannabes who stupidly looked up to him. He’d completed his degree in the same manner he’d accomplished everything else—with a sprinkle of charm, a dash of luck, and skillful manipulation of others to get them to do all the heavy lifting. Murray had breezed through semester after semester, coming home only when summoned. His
