D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

“I’ll have to get that fixed.”

“My cell conked out. I need to make a call. Do you have a phone I could use?”

“Sure. In my office.”

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. This way.”

As we walked to the office Gretchen said, “Quilla mentioned that you’ve been very supportive to her since she got the bad news.”

“She seemed to need it.”

“She speaks very highly of you, which isn’t something she often does of adults. By the way, I’m Gretchen Yearwood.”

“Del Coltrane. Nice to meet you. Here we are.” I opened the door to my office and turned on the light. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll wait outside.”

“I don’t need privacy,” she said as she stepped inside. She went to the phone and dialed a number. She pressed a couple of buttons, listened to a message for about twenty seconds, then hung up. “All done.”

I noticed her eyes go from looking directly at me to something over my shoulder. She blinked nervously a couple of times. I turned around to see what had gotten her attention. It was the photographs I had on the wall. There were a dozen or so pictures of the headstones of famous people’s graves. In some of the photos I was posing next to the grave with a stupid smile on my face.

“It’s a morbid hobby of mine.”

“ Hobby ?”

“I like to explore old cemeteries. Find unusual headstones. Celebrity graves.” She stared at me tentatively. “I know. It’s weird.”

“Not weird. Different.” She moved closer to the wall and examined the photos. “Billy the Kid, Aaron Burr, Al Capone, John Dillinger, Jack London. Joe McCarthy. Scott Joplin.” She turned to me. “You just jump in your car and drive to cemeteries looking for famous graves?”

“Not quite. I go to trade conventions a couple times a year. It’s usually a different city. Put a bunch of morticians together and the talk comes to what well-known person is buried in or near a town. I’ll rent a car. I’ve taken vacations and checked out local cemeteries. I don’t tell a lot of people about it.”

“There are worse things you could be interested in.” She glanced at her watch and said, “I’m enjoying our conversation, but I think I better get back to Quilla.”

“Right.”

Gretchen walked me to the front entrance. She made a joke about tripping on the carpet, then said, “Thanks again for letting me use the phone.”

As I watched her walk away I knew that I wanted to get to know her better. The nature of my business isn’t the most ideal for meeting women in circumstances conducive to dating. Dozens of times I’ve had a gorgeous woman show up to make funeral arrangements herself or accompany a parent or sibling. It would be tasteless to make a move. And I would always be positioned in a woman’s mind as the man who buried dad or uncle Bill or aunt Sally. Because I couldn’t rely on my line of work to meet women, I had to utilize the conventional ways like bars, fix-ups, on-line dating or chance encounters, which I was horrible at because I’m not good at chitchat in normal situations. I’m only good with words when I’m selling.

I’d gotten to the point where I had unofficially given up on ever finding someone. My life was too screwed up. She would either have to be enormously understanding or just as damaged as I. Whichever it was, Gretchen Yearwood was the first woman in years who had caught my fancy.

And I was more than a little curious as to how she had gotten so close with Quilla.

At exactly 9:00 p.m. Quilla and her two teenaged friends emerged from the Viewing Room. Right behind them was Gretchen. They all headed towards the door. The two kids mumbled something to Quilla, then they said soft good-byes to Gretchen. The girl left without looking at me, but Viper turned and waved good-bye mouthing the word “Later.”

Quilla and Gretchen talked quietly for a few seconds, hugged, then Quilla walked her to the door, holding it open for her. Quilla closed the door, noticed me and came over.

“Do you know who she is?”

“Gretchen Yearwood. We met before.”

“I know, but do you know who she is?” There was a smugness in her tone, as if I was supposed to be impressed that she knew Gretchen Yearwood.

“Her name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She writes Young Adult novels. For teenagers. And she’s sort of famous. With teenage girls. Go to a bookstore and she has four books in her own rack.” She smiled with great pride. “Gretchen’s kind of a recluse. I never even would’ve known she lived around here if it wasn’t for the book dedication.”

“How do you mean?”

“It was like three years ago and I was in the B Dalton at the Dankworth Mall and I just started browsing and I saw a few of Gretchen’s books on the shelf so I picked one up for no reason and sort of skimmed the plot on the jacket and it sounded decent so I turned to the first page, but I didn’t turn far enough and I was on the dedication page and the book was dedicated to my Aunt.”

“To Brandy?”

“Yeah. I really freaked. It said, ‘To Brandy Parker, Wherever you may be’.”

“That could be just the thing Perry needs.”

Quilla looked at me. “You’re right.”

I wanted to pursue the subject, but I couldn’t because Suzanne, her husband and the elderly Marilyn Monroe look-alike were approaching from the Viewing Room.

“I want to thank you for convincing me to have this tonight,” said Suzanne. “I was dreading it from the moment we talked, but it’s definitely helped.”

“Thank you,” I said, impressed that she had the class to say what she said. “But I think the person who really deserves your thanks is Quilla. She was the most convincing.”

Wearily, Suzanne looked at her daughter. “Thank you.” Quilla uttered a self-satisfied “You’re welcome,” but before the words were even out of her mouth old Marilyn coldly interjected “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

I looked closely at the woman who was heavily made up, wondering who the hell she was. She looked as if Nolan had applied a hearty dose of embalmer’s wax which he used to add color to a corpse’s face.

Suzanne looked at me. I said, “The cremation will take place tomorrow morning. Interment is at noon.”

Without even acknowledging me, the woman turned to Alan Worthington and curtly said, “Are you going, dear?”

Alan shook his head no, saying, “I have a meeting.”

“So do I,” said the woman coldly. “Suzanne, are you?”

“Yes. Quilla and I will be going.”

Quilla looked pleased at her mother’s answer.

“If you want me to be there for you I will,” said the woman. “But as I never knew your sister and since Alan hadn’t even been part of your family at the time of her death, I… ”

“It’s alright, Helen,” said Suzanne with an insincere graciousness.

“You’re sure? I consider you the daughter I never had.”

Alan Worthington put his arm around this unpleasant old crone and said, “It’s the thought that counts, Mom.”

Mom . It figured.

“So then,” I said, looking at Suzanne and Quilla. “I’ll meet you tomorrow noon at the front gate at the cemetery.”

Suzanne nodded. Alan Worthington winked at me and extended his hand. I shook it unenthusiastically. “Thanks for everything, chief.” His mother said nothing to me as she slid her left forearm under Alan’s right arm and headed for the door. Suzanne followed. Quilla waved at me and joined her mother.

Perry waited until they had pulled out of the lot before appearing again. I expected him to be reeking of smugness over the fact that Tyler DeGregorio had shown up and I was anxiously waiting to inform him of Tyler’s reason, but when Perry stepped into the foyer his expression was anything but smug. It radiated a sense of childlike eagerness. He looked like a little boy who had just discovered something with the potential for adventure, like a secret cave in the woods.