William Brown - The Undertaker

“Yes, very tragic, very tragic indeed, Mrs. Casey, but you can take comfort from the fact that your mother led a full, rich life right up to the end, didn't she?” Greene was still wearing his suit coat, tie up, jacket buttoned. Habit, no doubt, like the thin plastic smile and the expression of mournful empathy. Maybe it was pinned in place or painted on, like a mannequin's. “No, no, Mrs. Casey, you have other things on your mind right now. I shall contact the hospital myself, personally… Yes… and we'll see to all the arrangements.”

Odd. His voice was animated and very empathetic, but his expression never changed. It showed no emotion at all, as if it was detached, or it was a recording, and I felt another cold shiver run down my back. Maybe this guy had been around too many dead bodies and too much grief, I thought, but he was scary.

Finally, Greene opened his eyes and saw me standing in the office doorway. He never blinked. Not the slightest hint of surprise. “Mrs. Casey, I promise you I will call you back in the morning. Yes, I will take care of everything… Now never you fear, just try to get some rest… Yes, you too.”

His delicate white hand placed the telephone back in its cradle and he looked up at me with those sincere, brown cow eyes. “I'm sorry, but Miss Sturgis has left for the day.”

“I assume you're Mr. Greene, of the funeral home Greenes?”

“Indeed I am. Lawrence Greene, the proprietor,” he said as he dropped his legs to the floor and straightened his jacket, his eyes not leaving me. “Is there some way I can be of assistance?”

“Well, I was curious about the Talbott funeral.”

“Ah,” he said as he drew the word out in a soft sigh. “Now I remember. You were there in the chapel, you and that other man.”

“I was there for the… service,” I answered as I looked around his spacious office. There wasn't a sheet of paper on his desk, not a file folder to be seen. Showroom clean.

“Ah, yes,” he continued to study me carefully, eying me from head to foot. Did you know them, then? Mr. and Mrs. Talbott?”

“Not nearly as well as I should have.”

“Isn't that always the case?” came the syrupy reply.

On the far wall hung the usual array of licenses and certificates from the state, the Chamber of Commerce, even the Boy Scouts. “You throw a nice funeral service here in Peterborough, Mr. Greene. Brief and to the point. Not much of a crowd, though.”

“All too typical when people die so young, so tragically,” he shrugged, his lips forming a soft, commiserating smile. “Friends? Relatives? Sometimes, they can't bring themselves to come to the service, they can't bear the pain.”

“The closed caskets?”

“It was a very bad accident.”

“I bet. A fire, wasn't it?”

“No, their automobile was struck by a train at one of those unguarded crossings over on the east side somewhere. You know how dangerous those things can be at night. As I said, it was very bad. And you are…?”

“Mr. Talbott.”

I saw a flash of surprise cross Greene's face. “Oh? A relative, then?”

“Me? Oh, no, I'm the deceased.”

The soft brown eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and the thin smile began to fade. “If this is some kind of joke, sir, I fail to see…”

“It's no joke, Mr. Greene. That was me you buried.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver's license. “I'm Peter Emerson Talbott, thirty-three years old, from Los Angeles, a lieutenant in the Army, UCLA, and all the rest.” I stepped closer to his polished mahogany desk and leaned on it with both hands, getting right up in his face. “I could show you my Visa card, my old business card, and my library card if you want, not that it matters to me, but I'm the guy you buried, all right.”

Greene looked up at me. My eyes locked on his and I saw him flinch. I saw it. In that moment of surprise and uncertainty, the brief look in Greene's eyes told me everything I wanted to know. I had him. The bastard was lying, but he was a pro. He was doing the backstroke as fast as he could and doing an admirable job of keeping his head above water, but it was too late. For that split second, I saw the truth in his eyes

He coughed and sat up, carefully studying my driver's license again. “Well, uh, it does indeed appear that your name is Peter Emerson Talbott, I will concede you that,” he shrugged. “And a remarkable coincidence, I would say.”

“Coincidence? You bury some guy who's pretending to be me and you call that a coincidence?”

“The name,” he looked up, appearing to study me. “Perhaps the age and race. Those are the only similarities I see. As for the rest of it, your delusion that someone was pretending to be you; well, I'm not in any position to comment about that. Frankly, you do not even look like the man,” he smiled pleasantly. “Or more correctly, what was left of him.”

“I guess we'll never know, will we?”

Greene blinked again. “Mr… Talbott? What are you suggesting?”

“That something's seriously wrong here. That wasn't Peter Emerson Talbott you buried today. It wasn't my wife Theresa June Talbott either, and I want some answers.”

“How dare you,” he puffed, but he couldn't pull it off.

I stared down at that stuffed shirt and felt the heat rising. I wanted to reach across the desk and slap the smile off his face, but I didn't.

“Dare? How dare I? You see, that's what got my juices flowing last night. You can screw around with my name and reputation all you want. They aren't worth very much to begin with,” I said, leaning over the desk again, my face getting even closer to him, my eyes blazing. “But when you dragged my wife into your little game, you made it very, very personal.

The look in my eyes must have been hot enough to scorch paint. Greene blinked and turned away, his eyes dropping to my driver's license again. “But this says you are from California,” he flicked the edge of the driver's license with his index finger, quickly changing the subject. “The Talbotts were from Columbus, right here in Ohio. So, I'm afraid you've lost me again, Mister Talbott. Who are you and why are you here, anyway?”

“Here? You mean in Columbus, or alive and walking around?”

“Mr. Talbott, if that really is your name, you're being entirely too melodramatic and too flippant about a very painful matter. Did someone send you here to cause trouble for me? Because if this is some kind of practical joke, I really don't appreciate it.”

“A joke? Suppose you tell me about the guy you buried.”

“You mean Mr. Talbott?”

“I think we've already established that he wasn't Mr. Talbott.”

“We have done nothing of the sort, young man.” Greene leaned forward and looked up at me with feigned anger. He had taken a couple of good body shots, but he was already picking himself up off the canvass. His voice turned more calm and confident as he tried to reestablish his authority. “I will admit that you share the same name and that you have some similarities in your backgrounds, but this is a very big country, Mister Talbott. I'm sure we would both be amazed by the number of people who share your last name.”

“Do you have death certificates?”

“Of course we have the death certificates; it's the law here in Ohio.”

“Signed by a doctor, a real one?”

“You should not make light of what was a very tragic situation. Mr. and Mrs. Talbott's mortal remains were forwarded to us by a very reputable medical facility, the Varner Clinic. Doctor Varner himself signed them and they are completely in order, I assure you.”

“Doctor Varner? Who identified the bodies?

“It was Doctor Varner himself and Mr. Ralph Tinkerton, their executor. He is a very prominent attorney with Hamilton, Keogh and Hollister downtown, the managing partner, I might add, so you should think twice before you go around impugning the reputation of a man of Mr. Tinkerton's standing or mine. He has many highly placed friends in this town. So do I.”