“Absolutely not. I didn’t know the woman.”
“Nor did I, but that’s hardly the point.”
“What
“Seeing she gets a proper send-off. It’s the least we can do.”
“You’re a total stranger. Don’t you think it’s bad form?”
“But they don’t know that. I’ll make it clear we weren’t terribly close and therefore I can be more objective about her unfortunate choice. With a suicide, family members are often at a loss. It will help if they can talk about the situation with someone and who better than me? Surely there are details they wouldn’t share with friends. You know how it is. A veil of privacy descends. I’m both dispassionate and sympathetic. They’ll appreciate the opportunity to sort through their feelings, especially when they learn I’m an old hand at this.”
The way William described it, I was inclined to agree.
“What if they ask how you knew her?”
His tone was incredulous. “At a funeral? How
“So distant you never met.”
“This is a small town. How can anyone be sure our paths didn’t cross half a dozen times?”
I said, “Well, don’t go on my account. I didn’t even know her name until this morning.”
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “You should join me. We could make an afternoon of it.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Too ghoulish for my taste.”
“What if her criminal confederate is there? I thought you were interested in tracking her down.”
“Not now,” I said. “I’m convinced she was involved, but I don’t have a shred of proof, so what’s it to me?”
“Don’t be callous. Audrey’s accomplice bears some responsibility for her demise. I should think you, of all people, would want to see justice done.”
“What justice? I saw Audrey shoplift, but I didn’t see the other gal steal anything. Even if I did, it would still be her word against mine. The salesclerk at Nordie’s didn’t have a clue there were two of them.”
“Maybe the accomplice was picked up on one or more of the store’s security cameras. You could have them print a still shot and take it to the police.”
“Trust me, the loss-prevention officer won’t invite me in to review the tapes. I’m not even law enforcement. Besides, from his perspective, it’s the store’s business, not mine.”
“Don’t be stubborn. If the second woman showed up at the funeral home, you could follow her. If she shoplifted once, she’s bound to do it again. You could catch her in the act.”
He pulled out the jug of bad wine and poured me a glass.
I considered his proposal, remembering the younger woman’s failed attempt to run me down. It
“It just stands to reason. Imagine the guilt she must feel. Her friend Audrey is dead. I should think she’d put in an appearance to appease her conscience, if nothing else. You could do the same.”
“My conscience doesn’t bother me. Who said it did?”
William arched a brow as he screwed the cap on the jug. “Far be it from me.”
8
Tuesday morning I skipped my run. The pain in my bruised shin felt worse, but that wasn’t my excuse. The visitation for Audrey Vance was scheduled for 10:00 A.M. If I went into the office early, I’d have time to make a few calls and open mail before I had to break away. I brushed my teeth, showered, and washed my hair, after which I took my all-purpose black dress out of the closet and gave it a shake. Nothing dropped on the floor and skittered away so I thought I was safe in assuming insects hadn’t taken up residence. I inspected the dress, turning it this way and that on the hanger. There was dust on both shoulders and I brushed that away. No buttons missing, no split seams, and no dangling threads. The fabric in this garment is wholly synthetic, probably a petroleum derivative that will one day be pulled off the market owing to its newly discovered carcinogenic properties. In the meantime, it never wrinkles, never shows dirt, and never looks out of date, at least to my untutored eye.
At the office, I accomplished what I could in the brief time allotted. At 9:30, I locked up and drove back to my neighborhood. William, sharply dressed in one of the more somber of his three-piece suits, was waiting outside Rosie’s when I swung by to pick him up. Now that he was “pre-diabetic,” he’d affected a cane, a handsome ebony affair with a thick rubber tip. We did the crosstown drive in a little less than ten minutes.
There were only two other cars on hand when we pulled into the side lot at Wynington-Blake Mortuary: Burials, Cremation, and Shipping, Serving All Faiths. I chose a spot at random. William could hardly contain himself. As soon as I shut down the engine, he hopped out and approached the entrance with a jaunty step, which he corrected moments later when he remembered his condition. I took my time locking the car, wishing I hadn’t come. The facade of the building was blank. All the window openings on the ground floor had been bricked up, and I could feel a creeping claustrophobia before I’d even set foot inside.
Wynington-Blake occupies what was formerly a substantial single-family home. The spacious entry hall now served as a communal corridor, from which seven viewing rooms opened up, each capable of seating as many as a hundred people in folding chairs. Each room had been given a suitably funereal name: Serenity, Tranquility, Meditation, Eternal Rest, Sojourner, the Sunrise Chapel, and the Sanctuary. These rooms had probably once been a front parlor, a living room, a dining room, a library, a billiard room, and a large paneled study. An easel had been placed outside of Tranquility and Meditation, and I was guessing the others were unoccupied.
As we entered, the funeral director, Mr. Sharonson, greeted William warmly. William mentioned Audrey’s name and was directed to Meditation, where her viewing was taking place. In a low tone, Mr. Sharonson said to William, “Mr. Striker just arrived.”
William said, “The poor fellow. I’ll have a word with him and see how he’s doing.”
“Not well, I’d say.”
As though part of a receiving line, I stepped forward and Mr. Sharonson and I shook hands. I’d encountered him three or four times during the past six years, though I couldn’t remember ever seeing him outside the current context. He held my hand briefly, perhaps thinking I was there to mourn a loved one.
In the corridor outside Meditation, there was a wooden podium holding an oversize ledger, where one was expected to sign in. The pages were largely blank. Since we’d been so prompt, only one other person had arrived ahead of us. I watched as William stepped forward and dashed off his signature, after which he dutifully printed his name and added his address. I supposed this bit of information was meant for the family so they could send out acknowledgments at a later date. Surely, such lists aren’t sold to telemarketers who call you up at the dinner hour, thus ruining your appetite.
The person who’d signed in ahead of William was a Sabrina Striker, probably the daughter or the sister of Audrey’s fiance. The address she’d listed was local. Her handwriting was so small, I marveled it was legible at all. I stood, pen in hand, reluctant to announce my presence since I had no real business being there in the first place. On the other hand, refusing to sign in seemed surly. I wrote my name under William’s and when I reached the space meant for my address, I left a blank. On a table nearby there was a stack of printed programs that bore Audrey’s name. William took one and went into the viewing room with an air of familiarity. No telling how many times he’d been here to offer his condolences at the passing of someone he’d never met. I picked up a program and followed.
I’d attended a visitation in this very room six years before when a man named John Daggett had drowned in the surf. Not much had changed… for him, at any rate. To the right, a sofa and several wing chairs had been set in a semicircle, suggesting an informal living room. The color palette was a wash of mauves, grays, and drab greens. The upholstery was neutral, perhaps selected with an eye to its blending with the other furnishings. There were two sets of tasteful drapes at windows I knew had no outside view. Table lamps provided a suggestion of warmth that might otherwise have come from sunlight.
