D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

“Let’s go outside.” He reached for the doorknob.

“No. Perry’s watching.”

“Watching what?”

“The people who’ll be coming in here tonight. He thinks that whoever killed the girl in the mausoleum might show up. You’re the first visitor.”

“I’m not here to visit. I don’t even know these people. I’m here to see you.”

“Too late. Perry saw you walk in. That’s another, no pun intended, nail in your coffin.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Del?”

“You’re already a suspect.”

“Suspect in what?!?” he said, looking even more confused. His forehead was moist with sweat.

“So am I.”

He paused for a moment. “Why me? Why you?”

“What do you know about the murder of Brandy Parker?”

“Not a lot,” said Tyler. “Body was found in a mausoleum. They didn’t know who she was for a few days. Now they know. I only pay detailed attention to the deaths of people who are buried through my Home.”

“They found the body in the Old Section. He’s playing with the notion that the killer knew his way around cemeteries.”

“Which we do, so we’re suspects. And now he sees me here and because he watched too many episodes of CSI, I must be the killer.” He shook his head. “What does he think? That he’ll put me in jail and get Jeanne back?”

“He really wants to solve this thing.”

Tyler grimaced. “Perry’s lazy. Unless he finds out who did it fast he’ll forget about it. That’s Perry’s tragic flaw. No stick-to-itiveness. That’s why Jeanne divorced him. She couldn’t stand how he gave up on everything so fast.” He shook his head slowly. “He really thinks you or I could be capable of murder?”

“Deep down he knows we aren’t, but he’s suspicious enough in general to keep it brewing in the back of his mind.”

“Gives him another opportunity to break our balls. He sent me a welfare case last week. I had to spring for the cremation.”

“What did you want to talk to me about, Tyler?”

“It’s my Dad. He’s… we think it’s time.”

“Tyler… Jesus, I’m sorry. I… ” His father, Alphonse DiGregorio had been diagnosed with lung cancer last year.

“He could go tonight or tomorrow. I discussed this with my mother and my brother and, well, we’d like you to handle the funeral.”

“Me?” I was truly shocked.

“You. Henderson’s. I know it’s a weird request, but my father always talked about how when he took over the business from my grandfather the worst experience of his life was when Grandpa died. He actually embalmed his own father. This is Dad’s idea. Will you help us, Del?”

“Of course, man.” I reached out and touched Tyler’s right shoulder. Through his shirt I could feel that he was hot, sweating. “So the entire service will be here?”

“Yes. I’d like you to coordinate everything from calling Mel at the cemetery to having Nolan do the embalming. We have a family plot. I just can’t do it, Del. Strange, huh? I’ve buried hundreds of people, but when death smacks me in the face, I’m a basket case just like everyone else. Plus I’ll be having my hands full with my mother.”

“Consider everything done.”

“I appreciate it, Del. On the way over here I thought about how it must have been for you when your Dad died. How old were you, fifteen?” I nodded yes. “God. You were a kid. I’m thirty-two and just the thought of not having him around makes me think I’ll fall apart.”

“Somehow we all get through the deaths of our parents.” To myself I said, but some get through it better than others.

He looked at his watch. “I better go.” He reached for the door and opened it. “Thanks, Del. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

Tyler and I shook hands, then he stepped out the door. Not counting the Worthington’s BMW, the only car in the lot was his. For a moment I thought of Quilla and her expectation of visitors to pay respects to her Aunt. It was still early though. There was plenty of time for people to show up.

As Tyler walked to his car I glanced around, wondering where Perry was hiding and what he was making of Tyler’s visit. I wanted to find him and tell him why Tyler had come to the Home and to erase his name as a suspect, but I couldn’t leave my post. Besides, I sensed that at the end of the viewing Perry would pay me a visit.

I went back inside and heard voices coming from the front entrance. I stuck my head around the corner only to find Alan Worthington standing with Clint, gesturing wildly. Clint seemed to be trying to calm him down. As we often get family members who overreact to certain things, handling them becomes another part of the job and, in Clint’s case, another part of his training in learning to deal with the living and breathing part of the funeral business. But in the case of Alan Worthington, I knew Clint would be no match for a steamroller like him, so I interceded.

“Is there anything wrong?” I asked.

Clint started to speak, but Worthington cut him off.

“Look, ace,” he said, ignoring Clint as if he were no longer there. “I know we’re going through the ruse that somebody’s actually going to stop in here tonight and I can go along with it for awhile. I know for a fact that a couple of people will make duty calls, but they’ll be in and out fast. It’s approaching seven-fifteen and not a soul has shown and it’s getting real uncomfortable in there for the three of us staring at that fucking coffin. What do you say that instead of stringing this out until nine o’clock, you go to the kid and make up some kind of rule that says if nobody shows by, say, eight or eight-fifteen, you close up?”

I wanted to punch him in the mouth. “I can’t do that. The arrangements call for a seven-to-nine p.m. viewing. Many people often come later.” This was a lie. Most people come in the middle. “If you’re uncomfortable in the Viewing Room perhaps you’ll feel more at ease in the smoking lounge.”

“Look, pal, I’m paying for this and I’m telling you to cut it short.”

“Cut what short?” said Quilla’s voice. She was standing directly behind Clint.

Worthington looked at me, then at her, then snapped, “Nothing. I’m going back to your mother.”

He sneered at me, snubbed Clint and went back to the Viewing Room. Quilla looked at me. Despite the fact that I heard weeping from the Viewing Room, Quilla’s eyes didn’t look as if she’d been crying, but the expression of sadness on her face was more than enough to indicate her grief.

“Could I talk to you in private?” she asked, tilting her head at Clint. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“No problem,” said Clint with a smile.

Quilla and I walked back to my post at the side door. “How you doing?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I wish I could see her. I know I can’t.”

“How’s your mother holding up?”

“She cried. I couldn’t believe it. Do people usually come early to these things or later?”

“Various times.”

“Like a party. Nobody wants to be first. I probably wouldn’t want to be first if this was somebody else.”

Suddenly the door behind me opened. Quilla and I turned to see who was coming in. An elderly couple appeared, the woman holding on to the man’s left arm. I looked at them with my practiced grin and said, “May I help you?”

“Woodley,” said the man.

“Room One,” I said. “Straight ahead and to your left.”

They both nodded and made their way to the room containing the remains of Fred Woodley, one of the victims of the bus accident.

“How soon can I talk to Cobb?” Quilla asked.

“Probably whenever you want.”

“What about now? He’s here. I’m here.”