He chuckled. “Death is a whole industry which means it comes with its fair share of backstabbing and high-jinks. There are stores for it, schools for it… I went to university in Britain for four years to become a mortician. You have seen for yourself how much more there is to it than just embalming bodies.”
Eileen nodded as she turned off the highway and onto a narrow road. He was right about that. In just over two months, Eileen had instituted cost and time-saving measures and made suggestions to increase business. Holden had been impressed with her business savvy, declaring her a valuable asset to Davis and Sons. Clifford agreed to an extent, jokingly saying that her ‘hot-coal typing' was the only thing keeping her humble. The three of them had morphed into a well-oiled machine, functioning so seamlessly that Holden no longer went into fits of melancholy when the bills arrived.
“So why do you go to almost all of the pick-ups if Clifford is already going?”
“It’s an old practice called touting — basically face-to-face advertising. Some mortuaries post touters outside the hospital’s A&E to solicit the relatives of new decedents. They do their best to outbid each other and can be a rather unruly bunch."
Eileen cringed. “That’s heartless.”
Holden agreed. “Which is why I do it myself and offer a more sympathetic ear. But touting is good business. If I’m there to listen and offer advice to the bereaved, I’m more likely to get the job.”
“Ah…” Eileen smiled. “…so that’s why you needed an assistant with a car?”
“Yes. It’s bad form for Clifford to be dawdling with a corpse while I try to drum up business. A family may wonder what sort of indifferent brutes we are.”
Eileen laughed.
“By my father’s logic, a family may open the yellow pages and pick whomever they see first. Due to the disadvantages of alphabetization, ‘Davis’ isn’t the first name on the list.”
Not for the first time, Eileen realized how much she regretted not having met Holden Senior. “Your father was a regular renaissance man, wasn’t he?”
"That he was. This is the turn we're looking for."
They were driving through an overgrown area that was so unkempt that the grass formed a bushy blanket over the sidewalks. Holden pointed to a narrow gap ahead of them. “Slow down by the lime grove opposite the cane field and you’ll see an old mill as soon as we turn in.”
Eileen manoeuvred the car onto a rocky lane. Above the treetops, the funnelled tip of a mill wall loomed like a dark shadow in the waning light. Plumes of white dust coated the car as the tyres bobbled down the gritty track. On both sides of the lane, tall trees grew wide branches that melded overhead to form a bright yellow arch that extended the entire length of the driveway. Warm sunlight illuminated the bright yellow blossoms, making them glow like tiny comets as they fluttered down into flowery drifts on either side of the path.
The leafy tunnel opened up to a wide courtyard, complete with a rustic villa that looked as though it had been freshly plucked from a natty little vineyard in the French countryside. Clifford and his son were closing the back door of the boxy white van at the foot of the flared staircase. Next to the circular fountain, two police officers spoke to a harried-looking middle-aged woman and Dr Thorpe, the Crown's pathologist. Even without him turning around, Eileen recognized Derricks from his broad-shouldered build. She was surprised to see the commissioner at a collection for a man who died of a stroke. But then again, this was no routine collection.
Holden said, “Eileen, I’m sure you remember Commissioner Derricks from the office and Dorothy Greaves of Happy Home Funeral Parlour.”
"I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms Greaves," Eileen said as she reached out to clasp Dorothy’s hand, but the woman merely nodded and clutched a lacy handkerchief to her nose as she wrapped her other arm around her midsection. Dorothy’s stocky frame was clad in a pale pink dress with far too many frills, her grey wig trembling as she shuddered. Eileen stepped back awkwardly. Dorothy had been warm and friendly the first time they'd met, but her brother's death had made her cold and distant.
“I can’t believe it,” said Dorothy, her deep voice a sad murmur. “I thought Lloyd had overslept. But when I shook him this afternoon I realized how cold he was.”
“Yes, yes… rigour had already set in by the time I arrived,” offered Dr Thorpe as he adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Truth be told, it’s not unusual for someone with Lloyd’s history to have a stroke.”
Dorothy sniffed. “High blood pressure runs in our family.”
Holden’s face was pained as he looked at the older woman. “Dorothy, if you need anything at all, you call us. We’ll handle Lloyd free of charge.”
Dorothy squeezed the handkerchief in her fist and shook her head. “No need. He wanted to be cremated.”
Dr Thorpe fished a slip of paper out of the top pocket of his shirt jac and scribbled a note. “Very good. I’ll write up the certificate tonight so you can organize the paperwork and ship him to Trinidad.”
Derricks tapped Holden on the arm. “Davis, now that you’re here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” He tilted his head toward the covered verandah and tipped his hat to the rest of the group. “If you’ll excuse us.” He strode away and Holden followed in his wake.
“Love, I real sorry ‘bout this,” Clifford said soberly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t think twice to call if you want to talk or need any help.”
Eileen wasn’t sure if her eyes deceived her, but Dorothy seemed to recoil slightly before she smiled feebly at Clifford. It just went to show that even
