Working Stiff (Revivalist #1)

Working Stiff (Revivalist #1) Page 4

“So I understand.” Fideli’s eyes fixed on hers, and stayed there. “May I see it, please?”

You never said no to a client, so she was searching for a way to turn it around when she spotted Mr. Fairview coming out of his office. He must have seen that she needed help, because he came toward them with a confident stride and smile, extending his hand to Fideli. They shook hands, looking oh so cordial. Bryn kept her own smile with an effort as she said, “Mr. Fideli would like to view the preparation area, sir.”

Mr. Fairview sent her a quick glance, then guided Mr. Fideli back into Bryn’s office with one hand casually placed on their guest’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, sounding like he’d love to take a recently bereaved on a downstairs tour of the one place they should never go. “It’s strictly off-limits to anyone but licensed personnel. Health concerns, you understand. And, of course, we wish to treat those entrusted to us with the highest order of care. That means respecting their privacy at all times.”

Something strange flickered over Mr. Fideli’s expression; Bryn couldn’t quite catch it, but she thought it might have almost been … amusement? “Of course,” he said. “Sorry. I was just curious. I wanted to be sure my brother would be treated right.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Bryn assured him, although it wasn’t. “Now, let’s talk about the urn you’ll want….”

She didn’t feel that she handled it all that well, but Mr. Fairview didn’t step in for the rest of the meeting, and Mr. Fideli didn’t seem unhappy with it, either. She shook hands with him at the end—he was taller than she was, with a very firm handshake—and Mr. Fideli walked off with a handful of information, but no contract or commitment.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Mr. Fairview said, when she closed the door and looked at him in mute guilt. “Sometimes you simply can’t close the deal. Mr. Fideli is what we like to call a comparison shopper. He’ll come back eventually. Usually, the first place he stops will also be his last. He just wants to satisfy himself that he isn’t getting ripped off. I’d be willing to bet that his brother hasn’t even passed on yet.”

“Oh,” she said. “Wow. That was … strange. They’re usually more upset than that, aren’t they?”

“Mr. Fideli did seem unusually self-contained. But from the way he carried himself, I would assume he is ex-military, like you. That would probably explain it.” Mr. Fairview looked at his watch. “I have a four thirty set up with a Mrs. Granberry. I’d like you to take the lead on that one as well, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, of course.” It was four fifteen. Bryn rushed to the bathroom, fussed with her hair, and applied just a touch of lipstick. She did some deep-breathing exercises, and smiled professionally at the mirror.

There was a little too much brightness in her cheeks. She really needed to work on looking less happy.

Bryn was standing right beside Mr. Fairview when the front bell tinkled its mournful note, and Mrs. Granberry—a neat, dry-eyed woman with an iron distance in her eyes—came in trailing a sad-looking teenage daughter who refused to raise her head.

Mr. Fairview immediately bent his head close to Bryn‘s. “Here we go,” he said. “Just remember: stay focused on what we’re here to do. Don’t let yourself get carried away on the tide of emotion.”

Bryn had no idea how he could tell the difference between Mrs. Granberry and, say, Mr. Fideli from this distance, but he seemed to know what was coming.

Well, that was all right. She was prepared for anything.

Whatever Bryn had been prepared for, it wasn’t this. Not raw, real, personal emotion from someone only a few years younger than she was. The girl sitting across from her was eighteen, just out of high school. Now that she’d finally raised her head, she kept staring at Bryn as if somehow, if she hoped hard enough, Bryn could make it all just go away. As if the universe would right itself again. It doesn’t work that way, Bryn wanted to say, and she had to fight against an impulse to reach out and hold the girl’s hand. She’d worked as a grief counselor, but that had been phone-bank stuff; she hadn’t been there in person. She hadn’t felt the personal impact of it quite this way. Her parents were both still alive, thank God; she’d never lost anyone close to her—well, except for her sister Sharon, and that wasn’t the same thing at all.

Looking at this girl was like looking in a mirror and seeing the future grieving that was coming for everyone, eventually.

The mother was both easier in one way, and more difficult in another—fortyish, solid, mostly impassive except when she dabbed at her eyes as if more concerned with her mascara than her grief. “My husband wanted a frugal sort of funeral,” she announced as the opening shot. Although Mr. Fairview had introduced Bryn as leading the session, Mrs. Granberry dismissed Bryn and focused on him directly. “I just want a plain coffin, nothing fancy. And no viewing. No embalming.”

Bryn cleared her throat. Mrs. Granberry’s eyes moved to her, then back to Mr. Fairview. “How did your husband pass?” Bryn asked, and offered Mrs. Granberry the tissue box. The woman waved it impatiently away.

“He died in his sleep,” she said. “Bad heart. I always told him it would do him in, but he never listened.” For some reason, she then glared at her daughter, as if it were somehow the girl’s fault. The girl flinched and looked down. “I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

“It’s very helpful to family members and friends if you hold a viewing; it gives everyone a chance to say their good-byes. Gives them a sense of closure,” Bryn said. “We would, of course, make your husband look just as you want to remember him; it’s part of our full service—”

Mrs. Granberry’s head snapped around, and her eyes narrowed in sudden fury. “I said no embalming!”

Bryn took a deep breath. “Mrs. Granberry, I know you’re very upset right now, but the fact is that embalming is a state requirement, unless you choose cremation.”

“It is?” The woman looked at Mr. Fairview, who nodded soberly.

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Miss Davis is quite correct. The only exception to this would be if your religious beliefs did not allow embalming.”

“Oh.” The mother frowned at Bryn, as if the rule were her personal fault. “Well, we’re Methodist; I don’t suppose that counts for anything these days. All right, fine. I suppose if we have to go to that much expense, we should have the viewing too. How much?”

“Mom,” the girl said faintly. “Please. This is about Dad. You’re not buying a car.”

“I know it’s about your precious daddy, but if you want to go to that fancy school next fall and have clothes on your back, you’d better let me do this my way, Melissa!” There was real anger in that sharp, vicious tone. Bryn felt its snap even from the sidelines.

Melissa was shaking all over. Bryn had to bite her lip to stop herself from saying something that wouldn’t be funeral-director appropriate to the mother, but despite her control, her tone dropped a few degrees in warmth. “We’ll work with you to make it affordable,” she said. “Let’s take a look at some choices.”

When she opened the binder that showed the coffin selections, and asked the delicate question, “Was your husband a large man?” Melissa Granberry burst into hysterical tears and ran out of the room. For a moment, Bryn was frozen in shock; then she looked at Mrs. Granberry, who was stone-faced and dry-eyed.

“My husband was a fat, sloppy frog,” she said. “Don’t mind my daughter. She brought him a bowl of ice cream yesterday, which definitely was not on his diet. She thinks she killed him. And she probably did, too. She always was his pet.”

Bryn’s palm itched to make contact with the woman’s cheek. Instead, she managed a forced, artificial smile. “I’m sure you’ll talk with her about that,” she said. “Obviously, it wasn’t her fault.”

“No?” Mrs. Granberry stared at her for so long it felt like ice picks were driving into Bryn’s head, and then she turned her attention to the coffins. “I like this one.”

Fortunately, it was one of the more expensive plus-size models. Up-sell.

It was a very long hour’s consultation.

While Mr. Fairview got the paperwork together, Bryn fought down the urge to smack the ever-loving shit out of Mrs. Granberry. She excused herself and went to wash her hands and calm herself in the ladies’ room—where she found Melissa.

To be accurate, she didn’t find her at first—she saw the stain, trickling in red streams toward the drain in the center of the floor. Nail polish, she thought first, very irrationally, and then her military mind said, Blood. Still fresh.

The second of shock snapped with a physical sensation of electricity burning through her nerves.

Bryn banged on the closed stall door at the end. “Melissa!” No answer. Bryn slammed her shoulder into the metal door, but it didn’t open. She tried again, then braced herself against the wall and kicked, hard.

The lock gave way, and the bathroom door slammed back. Melissa Granberry was propped on the toilet, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were open, still damp, and tears still stained her cheeks. Her skin had the awful, ashen look of the corpses lying in the prep room one floor below.

She’d slashed deep, all down the interior aspect of both arms, and finished it off with a deep cut to her left wrist. Couldn’t do the right, Bryn thought with a cold, precise kind of clarity, because she’d cut the tendons in her left hand. It didn’t really matter; she’d done the job well. The knife—a small folding thing, a man’s pocketknife with a deer on the handle—lay in a shimmering pool of blood between Melissa’s feet.

Bryn lunged forward, grabbed the girl, and put her on the floor. She leaned on both of the girl’s arms, applying pressure with both her hands. “Medic!” she yelled, and then remembered. “Help! I need help in here!”