Rachel Caine - Working Stiff

Rachel Caine is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than thirty novels. She was born in White Sands Missile Range, which people who know her say explains a lot. She has been an accountant, a professional musician, an insurance investigator and, until recently, had a secret identity in the corporate world as a communications executive. She and her husband, fantasy artist R. Cat Conrad, live in Texas with their iguanas, Pop-eye and Darwin.

rachelcaine.com

The Morganville Vampires

Glass Houses

The Dead Girls’ Dance

Midnight Alley

Feast of Fools

Lord of Misrule

Carpe Corpus

Fade Out

Kiss of Death

Ghost Town

Bite Club

I was going to dedicate this book to my mother, but

the fact is, I’m not sure she’d totally appreciate being

named in a book that verges on the macabre (often).

But I love her anyway.

So instead I’m going to thank Kelley W. I am

withholding her last name to protect her, because

the reason I am dedicating this to her is that, finally,

I believe there is enough blood mist in it for her.

(She loves the blood mist.) See why I withheld

her last name? Love you, Kelvis.

And for Sarah Weiss, about whom I have nothing

embarrassing to say but plenty to praise, for she

is awesome.

To Cat for coming up with a brilliant title (again)!

I wish I knew where to start, but I’ll just jump in.

Thanks to Kenneth McKenzie and Todd Harra,

authors of Mortuary Confidential: Undertakers Spill

the Dirt; to Amber Lenore Winckler, author of The

Final Bath; and Tom Jokinen, author of Curtains .

These books got me started flying down the road.

The wild, strange divergences I took are entirely on

me. If you’re curious about the funeral industry,

those books are a great place to start.

Also, I want to acknowledge and thank the

unsung heroes: those true believers who work in the

funeral business. It’s important work, and these are

the last people we will ever meet. They don’t get

thanked, and they should.

Bryn’s first embalming instructor had told her, straight up, that two kinds of people entered the death business: freaks and true believers. Bryn Davis didn’t think she was either one of those. For her, it was a prime career opportunity—a genuine profession .

Oh, she’d picked up odd paychecks during college as an office temp, a dog walker, and one memorable afternoon at a chicken factory, but none of those had ever felt real to her. Joining the army after college had seemed like a good idea at the time (steady job, good wages), but four years in Iraq hadn’t made her want to be a career soldier; it had, though, given her a bedrock understanding of the fragility of human life. After that, dead bodies didn’t scare or disgust her.

One good thing she could say for her time in the military: it had led her to where she was now, to this job … a good, stable one, and even better, an important one.

Bryn smiled a little at the thought. Maybe she was a true believer, after all.

She smoothed the white lab coat—with her name stitched on the left breast—and felt a warm surge of accomplishment. Bryn Davis, Funeral Director, Fairview Mortuary . Her business cards rested in a neat little cardboard box on her shiny new desk, all sober black ink in raised type, with the Fairview logo embossed in the corner. They wouldn’t stay in the box for long; Fairview had furnished her with nice wooden desk accents, including a business card holder, and just as soon as possible, she intended to make that desk her own. She’d never had an office before.

The cards and desk were elegant, like everything here. The room was neat and clean, filled with sober antique furniture and soft, dark cloth. Deep carpets. Subtle fragrances. Not a lot of flowers to overwhelm the already raw senses of the grieving.

She was a little nervous, but she also felt proud and happy. In fact, she felt ready . She tried not to feel too happy, though; it didn’t seem appropriate to be so glee-filled about starting a job that was all about someone else’s loss. The mirror on the wall confirmed that there was still a smile hiding in the corners of her mouth that she couldn’t quite get rid of, and for a moment, she worried about the shade of her lipstick. She’d chosen a light pink, but was it too light? A little too festive? She’d spent too many years in khaki, far away from the fairy-tale world of Maybelline.

There was a knock on her office door, and before she could say come in , it swung open to admit the head man … Lincoln Fairview. Mr. Fairview was the fourth Fairview to operate the funeral home, and he looked the part, from his sober, well-tailored suit to his impeccably cut gray hair and soft, kindly face.

She felt her whole body jolt with adrenaline when she saw him. This was the man she had to impress with her professionalism. Hoo, boy . She worried, again, about the lipstick.

He crossed the room with a confident stride and shook her hand. “Hello, Bryn. Good morning. How are you settling in?”

She unbuttoned the lab coat and put it on the hanger in the small closet. Even the hangers were solid wood, and nicer than anything in her apartment wardrobe. “Everything’s fine, sir,” she said, and glanced down at herself to be sure she still looked okay. Her business suit was new, and a little stiff, but it was a solid dove gray color, and the soft pink shirt seemed like a nice match. Her new gray pumps pinched her toes, and she was afraid she was going to have to endure the blisters they were bound to raise, but overall … she thought she was presentable. Except for the lipstick, maybe. “Am I properly dressed?”

He gave her an X-ray stare, up and down, and then nodded. “Perfect,” Mr. Fairview said. “Soothing, professional, everything I could ask. Perhaps a touch less on the lipstick next time; a pretty girl like you really doesn’t need to emphasize her youth and beauty. Go on, have a seat, Bryn.”

Oh, she knew it: the lipstick sucked. Bryn tried not to seem nervous as she settled into her leather chair on the other side of the desk. Mr. Fairview stayed on his feet. He studied her for a few seconds, and then said, “I assume that in your course work, you did live role-play on handling difficult clients.”

“Uh—yes, sir.” What an odd way to start…. She’d at least expected to get a tour of the building, maybe an introduction to the staff. At least she’d thought he’d show her the coffee machine and the bathroom. Pretend he’s your new commanding officer , she told herself, and that steadied her. She’d gone through plenty of those meetings, and she knew the drill. Impress them early, and a lot, and they’d never bother you again. Bryn felt her spine straighten to military correctness. “Shall I be—”

“You’ll be you. I’ll be your client. Let me go out and come back, and we’ll get started.”

She steeled herself as he left the room, hastily blotted her lipstick with a tissue. She missed her lab coat. Her lab coat had given her an air of … scientific detachment, and there was always something comforting about wearing a uniform.

This time, when the knock came at the door, Bryn stood and walked around her desk to meet him, shaking his hand and making and holding eye contact, just as she would have to establish her bona fides back in the war zones. Firm handshake, not too firm; chin up, eyes steady and straight. Convey a sense of solid competence and trustworthiness. “Sir, thank you for coming to Fairview. Please have a seat. How may I assist you today?”