D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

Perry bit down lightly on his upper lip. “I wonder why she didn’t tell me to talk to her daughter.”

“She probably doesn’t have any idea how much the kid knows. This is a mother and daughter who don’t communicate going on. Besides, Suzanne wants to get this over with. She’s not the kind who likes intrusions.”

“Who does?” said Perry and almost at the precise instant he uttered the words a car pulled into the lot. The headlights swathed Perry and myself, blinding us for a few seconds. By the time I could see the car, a BMW, it had pulled alongside Perry’s cruiser.

Three doors opened almost simultaneously and I watched Suzanne get out of the front passenger side, her husband slide out of the driver’s side and Quilla step from the right side of the back. As if she couldn’t stand to be near them, Quilla darted ahead of her mother and stepfather. I checked my watch. 6:50. I couldn’t take my eyes off of what Quilla was wearing.

A black dress. Down to mid-calf. Low cut. As she got closer I saw her shoes. Red high heels, spikes, actually, about four inches. As she got closer I could make out the fishnet stockings. Her hair was up in a sophisticated sweep and she wore make-up. Heavy. Too much mascara around the eyes that made her look older and a little glamorous. Earlier in the day she looked younger than her fifteen years and not very attractive.

But now she looked exquisite.

More like she were going out on a date, rather than to a Funeral Home to visit the dead body of the person she had loved more than anyone else in the world.

As Quilla came up to me I heard her mother’s voice in the background. “Quilla would you please wait so we can all go in together.” Quilla kept moving. She strolled past Perry until she came to a stop in front of me.

“Hi, Del,” she said with an inflection that made me think she was genuinely glad to see me.

“Hi,” I said with equal enthusiasm. It was good to see her. She glared at Perry. He stared at her and said, “I’m sorry about your Aunt,” with a heartfelt sincerity.

“Thanks,” she said with more sarcasm than gratitude. I knew she didn’t believe him. “Find out who killed her yet?”

Perry was taken aback by the question, which was delivered with the straightforward intensity of a prosecutor going in for the kill on a hostile witness. He cleared his throat and Crossed his arms over his chest, his body language blatantly displaying his internal anger.

“No. But I’m working on it.” His eyes darted in my direction and stared for an instant as if to say, “See what I mean about this one?”

Suzanne and her husband were now standing behind Quilla, Alan Worthington nodded to Perry and winked at me. “Sorry we’re late,” Suzanne said perfunctorily.

Alan Worthington glanced at the empty parking lot and smirked, saying in a too loud voice, “Told you it wouldn’t matter. Nobody’s coming.”

Quilla glared angrily at him. So did Suzanne, who sniped, “The important thing is that we’re here.” She looked at me and said, “Could we go inside?”

I nodded yes and gestured for everyone to walk ahead of me. Suzanne and her husband went first, Quilla followed them.

“After you,” I said to Perry.

“Not yet. Gonna pull my car behind the building. Don’t want to turn anyone away because they see little old me.”

He half-heartedly waved good-bye and headed back to his car. I turned and caught up with Quilla who was dragging a few yards behind her parents. I spoke quickly.

“He’s serious about solving the case. I told him to talk to you.” I expected her eyes to light up, but instead they were filled with suspicion. “He’s already done a lot of work, but you’re the only real lead.”

“Why me?”

“He’s been tracking down people from your Aunt’s life. So far, he’s been hitting brick walls. No one but you has any solid information about her. When he talks to you, you have to tell him everything and arrange for him to look at your Aunt’s things.”

Quilla was about to say something when her mother called out, “Quilla, come here. I want us to go in as a family.”

Quilla muttered, “Oh yeah, right! A family.”

“You better go,” I said. “This is gonna be difficult. Your mother may need you. And you may need her.”

“I’m scared, Del. How awful is this gonna be?”

“Quilla, please!” shouted Suzanne.

“As awful as it gets,” I said.

Quilla took a deep breath, then joined her mother and stepfather who were at the front entrance. Clint was with them, a benign smile fixed on his face. I followed Quilla, stepped past all of them and opened the door.

“Viewing Room Four,” I said. With me leading the way, we moved on. “When we don’t anticipate a large turnout I’ve found this space to be ideal. Not too big. Not too small.”

The room was thirty feet deep and twenty feet wide. It was created for situations just like this. People with little or no family and friends in the community. Survivors interested in getting through everything fast. A few chairs for the immediate family and a dozen or so more for visitors.

I stopped a few feet from the entrance to Viewing Room Four, then said, “I’ll leave you here. My associate and I will be at the doors to greet the visitors. The smoking lounge is downstairs. Restrooms are up here. If you need anything, I’m close by.”

Suzanne smiled half-heartedly while Quilla gazed at me with a sad expression that suggested she didn’t want me to leave. Alan Worthington, to his credit, acknowledged my remark with a slight nod of his head. I stepped aside and let them go into the room. I walked to the front entrance and joined Clint.

“Front or side?” I asked Clint. It was how we decided which door we would man.

“I don’t care,” said Clint.

“I’ll take the side,” I said, primarily because it was closer to my office. If the turnout was as small as I expected it would be easier for me to slip away and sit down. Standing for two hours was another drawback to the job.

“Maybe by the time I go home tonight you could have an answer for me about getting Tuesday night’s off?” said Clint with an almost childish tone.

“We’ll see,” I said, then I walked to the side entrance.

Within two minutes someone was opening the door. I hoped for Quilla’s sake that the person had come to pay respects to Brandy Parker. I straightened up and prepared to greet whoever it was, but when I saw his face I did a double take.

It was Tyler DeGregorio.

The man who had married Perry Cobb’s ex-wife and who was the person he hated most in the world. But more importantly, like me, Tyler was also knowledgeable enough about the layout of Elm Grove cemetery to hide a body in the least-visited corner of the graveyard.

Undoubtedly, Perry had seen Tyler come in and was already biting at the bit to find a reason to arrest him. My first instinct was to warn Tyler that he was certainly going to be a prime suspect, but then something began gnawing at me. What the hell was Tyler DiGregorio doing paying his respects to Brandy Parker?

I knew he didn’t have a relationship with Suzanne Worthington. If he had, she would’ve buried her sister through his Funeral Home. Seeing him standing in the foyer of my Home was unsettling. And I knew that if I had this odd feeling, Perry would be going out of his mind with glee.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you,” he said with an unusual edge.

I noticed an odd intensity in his face, especially in his eyes. His boyish peaches and cream complexion looked pallid. This wasn’t Tyler. For as long as I’d known him he’d been in a state of perpetual relaxation. Nothing fazed him. He possessed an almost saintly calm.