A Rose From the Dead (4 page)

“I’ve heard Sybil’s soul,” she said, as if this were a serious matter. “So
dissonante.
So
bellicoso con fuoco.
I’ve never met anyone like her. You can see why she must be recorded.”

“Sorry. I don’t understand Italian.”

The harpist pinned me with a look that bordered on repulsion. “I’m speaking in musical terms.”

“Oh, right.” I moved around her. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d said I ate worms. Besides, Italian, music—they were pretty much the same to me. One year of piano lessons had proved that, besides having short fingers (which actually went well with my short body), I had no comprehension of music.

Before I could escape, she held out a small, slender hand with black-polished fingernails and silver rings stacked on her thumb. “Angelique DeScuro.”

I took her hand, which was a lot like squeezing a damp rag. “I’m Ab—”

“Sh-h-h!” She put her other palm on top, making my extremity feel like the meat between two pieces of soggy white bread. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then looked at me with contempt as she practically spit out, “
Staccato,
” before stepping away from me as if I were fungus on a garden plant. She drifted back to her harp, took a seat on her stool, closed her eyes, and began to play.

Okay, then.

I saw Marco, Delilah, and Max watching from our booth, looking amused.

“That was bizarre,” I said, joining them behind the long display table, which Delilah had decorated in my absence. It was now covered with an array of Happy Dreams Funeral Home brochures; Bloomers business cards; mints in a shallow glass bowl; an album of photos of funeral flowers, wreaths, and blankets; and three fresh flower arrangements that I’d made the day before.

We’d hung several of my funeral wreaths from hooks on the portable pastel green walls, one of which was my new square design made with purple anemones, white carnations, dusty pink hellebores, the interesting saw-toothed banksia foliage, wispy wild grass, and Green Goddess callas, whose graceful stems crossed through the open center of the wreath. We placed more arrangements on floral stands, along with a big vase of mums on the table to give away.

“Angelique is a different sort of person,” Delilah said tactfully. “I met her at last year’s convention. She claims to be able to record a soul’s melody at the very moment it leaves the body and passes on to the next life. She’s trying to get all of us morticians to hand out her brochures to our customers who come in to make prearrangements, so that when they’re at death’s door, so to speak, she’ll be at their bedside with her recorder.”

“That’s where the term
soul music
comes from,” Max said, then waited for a laugh.

Delilah patted his cheek. “Pumpkin, you’re simply not cut out for comedy.”

She was so right. Max was a very ordinary-looking, mild-mannered guy with kind eyes, a gentle voice, a receding hairline, and the air of assurance that people needed when they were overwhelmed with grief. A comedian he was not.

“Don’t feel bad, Max,” I said. “Apparently, I’m
staccato
.”

Marco’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Short and disconnected? Yeah, I can see that.”

I gave him a glance that said,
You are so not funny.
Lucky for him, he was hunky enough to get away with it. “How do you know what staccato means?”

“I took guitar lessons in high school. So, did you straighten out the Urban legends?”

“Urban legends,” Delilah said with a laugh. “I like that. See, Max?
He’s
funny.”

“As a matter of fact, I did straighten them out,” I said, “and trust me, they won’t pull any more pranks on me. But I can’t say the same for Sybil. When I left, they were plotting something. That reminds me. Is it just me, or does her face look plastic? And what’s with that rose in her hair?”

“What you witnessed is a walking advertisement for her line of cosmetics—Sybil’s Select,” Delilah said. “The red rose is her trademark. Her business hasn’t been successful, and I’m sure you can see why, but that makeup sure doesn’t discourage the men from coming around.”

“They’re not looking at her face,” I noted.

“You lost me,” Marco said. “Why would Sybil push cosmetics here?”

“It’s for those loved ones who pass on, dumplin’,” Delilah explained. “It makes their viewing more tolerable for their families. Some people are jaundiced when they leave us, you know. They need purple to normalize their skin tone. Then others are more of a green tone—”

“Too much information,” I said, preparing to stick my fingers in my ears.

“If you want to see the full line of her products, her booth is number four,” Max said, “right next to Chet Sunday’s make-it-yourself booth.”

“
The
Chet Sunday?” I asked. “From television? Marco, you know who he is—the star of
Make It Easy
, the Saturday afternoon cable TV show on the handyman channel.”

“I work Saturday afternoons,” Marco reminded me.

“No offense, Max, but what is Chet Sunday doing at a morticians’ convention?” I asked.

“It was Sybil’s idea,” Max said. “She said his name would be a big draw. Apparently he came as a personal favor to her.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Delilah said with a wink.

“Chet is even going to tape two shows from here,” Max finished.

“That is so cool,” I said. “We have to see his shows, Marco.”

Marco looked less than thrilled.

Delilah pulled out her convention schedule. “Today’s show starts at eleven o’clock, so why don’t you two use the rest of the morning to see his show and the booths, then take over for us after lunch?”

“Sounds like a plan.” I glanced at Marco, knowing he wanted to get away. “Don’t worry. You’ll be off the hook by noon.”

Suddenly, we heard a deep voice behind us boom out in fury, “Young men, you have just pulled your last prank.”

I turned around to see Ross and Jess dart between two booths as a tall, dark-suited man with ruddy cheeks, a red-veined, bulbous nose, and a bad comb-over strode after them, shaking his fist.

“Now those boys have done it,” Delilah said. “They’ve got the colonel riled.”

M
arco, who had never quite gotten the army out of his blood, perked up. “A full-bird colonel? What outfit was he with?”

“I don’t believe he’s ever said, has he, Max?”

“No, come to think of it. His full name is Walker T. Billingsworth. He and Sybil Blount’s husband did a tour of duty together in Vietnam, then came back and opened a mortuary and crematorium. They made quite a name for themselves by offering free cremations for veterans. Billingsworth and Blount. They were highly respected in the industry.”

“My uncle was cremated there,” Marco said. “He was a Korean War veteran. I remember seeing the Billingsworth and Blount names etched in the urn that sat on my aunt’s coffee table.”

I wrinkled my nose. “She kept the urn on her coffee table?”

“She said he rested his feet there, so why not all of him?”

“You’re making that up,” I said. Marco winked, so I didn’t know whether it was true.

“It was a brilliant marketing strategy,” Max said. “It helped them become the biggest name in northeastern Indiana. The colonel is retired now—he left the business when Sybil’s husband passed away last February—but he stayed on as president of the Midwestern Funeral Directors’ Association.”

“You’ll have to ask him to show you his Purple Heart,” Delilah said to Marco. “He got it for an injury he suffered in ’Nam. He always wears it on his suit coat. He’s so proud of it. He even has one of those customized license plates that says, ‘PRPL HRT.’”

“He’s so patriotic,” Max said, “that his cell phone plays ‘America the Beautiful.’”

Marco seemed impressed, and it took a lot to impress him.

“When it comes to the funeral business, the colonel is strictly old-school,” Max said. “Suits and ties are required attire, and rules must be followed. He has no tolerance for the Urban twins’ practical jokes. His three sons are models of professionalism, basically younger versions of himself, all running their own funeral homes. If he could find a legitimate way to ban the Urban boys from these conventions, he’d do it in a minute.”

“One of these days those two young men will pull something on the wrong person,” Delilah cautioned, “and then they’ll get their comeuppance.”

Marco glanced at me, and I knew he was waiting for me to tell them my phone-booth story. Right. Like I wanted to revisit
that
embarrassment.

My cell phone rang, and I heard my assistant Lottie’s big, cheerful voice on the other end. “Hey, sweetie, I’m in the parking lot with the flowers. Can you lend a hand?”

“We’ll be right there.” I slipped the phone in my pocket and said to Marco, “The flowers are here. You want to saddle up, Mr. Mule?”

“Bring your flowers through the service entrance,” Max said. “It’s faster.” He pointed us in the right direction.

I grabbed my jean jacket and slipped it on as we skirted the outside of the cavernous exhibition hall to reach the back hallway, passing a kitchen, the men’s and ladies’ restrooms, and a storage room, where I came to a sudden stop. I backed up to peer through the doorway. At least two dozen decorated caskets filled the room, leaving only a few feet of space around the perimeter, where metal shelving stacked with boxes, tools, and equipment lined the walls.

“Come take a look, Marco. This is where they’re storing the entries for the themed casket contest.”

“The what?”

“Casket contest. Didn’t you see the flyer on the table? Let’s see if we can guess which one is Delilah’s.”

“I’ll pass.”

Intrigued, I stepped inside to see more. “Here’s one that looks like a race car, and there’s one that looks just like an iPod. How clever. And there’s one that looks like a piano keyboard. Someone even decked out this interior to look like a day at the beach, with real sand in the bottom. How crazy is that?”

“See you later,” Marco called.

“Spoilsport.” I hurried after him, exiting the building through a pair of heavy steel doors that opened onto the parking lot. About fifty yards west of us was the glass-fronted public entrance, which also faced the parking lot. Connected to the convention center was the Woodland Hotel, a five-story L-shaped structure that attempted by color and design to blend into the woods behind it.

As we left the building I was surprised to see two police cars pull up—one from the county sheriff’s department and one from the New Chapel PD. On the sidewalk near the public entrance stood a group of sign-carrying protesters, along with a photographer and a camera crew from the local media. The seven protesters were dressed in brown burlap robes that tied at the waist with lengths of ropes. Around their necks hung strings of garlic bulbs, and their signs read,
GO NATURAL
and
GREEN BURIALS SAVE THE PLANET
.

Sign in hand, their leader, a reedy, hollow-cheeked man with thick, iron gray curls covering his head like a fright wig, was urging them on through his bullhorn as they chanted, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

As the cops exited the squad cars, Sybil came marching out of the main entry shouting, “Officers!” She made sure the cameras had swung in her direction before pointing to the group and calling, “I want those people arrested immediately.”

“She’s the one you should arrest,” the leader shouted at the cops through his bullhorn. He used his sign to point directly at her. “She and all the other phonies that run the funeral directors’ association. They’re the reason we’re out here and not in there. They denied us the right to rent a booth.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Marco said under his breath as the protesters booed and hissed at Sybil. “Abby, where are you going?”

“Reilly’s here,” I called over my shoulder. “Didn’t you notice him get out of the car?”

“I was hoping you hadn’t,” he said with a sigh, and started after me.

After my father, who was now retired, Sgt. Sean Reilly was my favorite police officer in the entire world, partly because he had come to my assistance at least five times in the past year, and partly because he was highly tolerant of my natural curiosity. As a young rookie, Reilly had worked with my dad and still greatly admired him, and had also become fast friends with Marco during Marco’s stint on the police force.

Reilly was a big, gruff forty-year-old with intelligent-looking hazel eyes and brown hair starting to show a bit of gray on the sides. He was an honest, no-frills kind of cop who preferred to play by the rules but didn’t feel he had to push anyone around to prove he was in charge.

At that moment, Reilly was standing in front of his squad car sizing up the protesters. He saw me come up and said out of the side of his mouth, “Imagine finding you here.”

“I knew you’d be thrilled to see me, Sarge. I’m attending a convention. What’s your excuse? This isn’t New Chapel PD territory.”

“Sheriff’s department is running shorthanded because of a toxic-waste spill on Highway 20. They asked for backup, and lucky me, here I am.” He saw Marco come up beside me and managed a quick nod of greeting before his attention was drawn back to the leader of the small band of protesters, who was attempting to argue his position with Sybil. She was too busy posing for the cameras to notice.

“These people are lunatics,” Sybil said into a microphone thrust beneath her face. “Look at them. They’re wearing burlap, for God’s sake.”

“We’re not the lunatics,” the leader shouted through his bullhorn, his hollow cheeks puffing out in indignation. “You’re the lunatic! You and your self-serving committee of asses!”

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave,” Reilly said, stepping between the two combatants. “You’re trespassing on private property.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble, Officer. I’m an upstanding citizen who just wants to be able to promote my natural burial bags.” As the cameras focused on him, he said, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Eli Cotton.” He offered a hand to Reilly, who was having none of that.

“Do you know anything about natural burials?” Eli asked him, undeterred. “Here, I’ll show you.” He thrust his hand into his robe pocket, sending a strong wave of garlic-scented air our way.

“Keep your hand where I can see it, sir,” Reilly barked as the other cops moved to surround him.

Eli carefully withdrew a pamphlet, which Sybil promptly snatched from him and ripped into pieces. “Here’s what I think of your natural burials.” She threw the pieces into the air, then brushed her hands together. “Now, Officers, as the convention chairperson of the Midwestern Funeral Directors’ Association, I order you to arrest this lunatic and his motley crew at once.”

“You can’t have us arrested,” Eli shot back at her. “We have the right to free assemblage.”

I started to raise my fist to show my solidarity, but Marco put a hand on my arm. “Stay out of it,” he said quietly, “or you’ll be on the six o’clock news.”

“Sir, do you have a permit to assemble?” Reilly asked Eli.

Before Eli could answer, Sybil screeched, “I don’t care if he has three permits. Arrest that crackpot right now.”

With a roar of rage, Eli grabbed his sign and swung it at Sybil, narrowly missing her but causing several rose petals to fall off the blossom above her ear. She stamped her foot in outrage while one cop seized the sign, two more pulled Eli’s arms back, and Reilly snapped the cuffs over his wrists and began to recite his Miranda rights.

Once Eli had been subdued, Sybil gave a nod of satisfaction. “Thank you, officers,” she said, making sure to display as much cleavage as possible. After ensuring that her rose was securely in place, she sashayed back to the center.

“Too bad Eli’s aim wasn’t better,” I muttered to Marco.

Poor Eli looked so dejected as they stuffed him into the backseat of the cruiser that I couldn’t resist stepping up to the car window to say through the glass, “When you bond out, picket across the street. It’s public property. They can’t arrest you there.”

At Reilly’s furious scowl, I said, “What? I thought he could use some free legal advice.”

“You want free legal advice? Here it is. Go back to law school and get your degree.”

Ouch. That smarted.

“What did you expect?” Marco asked as we hurried across the parking lot. “You were interfering with police business.”

“I got caught up in the moment. Besides, Sybil looked so self-satisfied that I couldn’t resist trying to help Eli. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to rent booth space if he can pay the fee?”

“How do you know whether he can pay it? And don’t give me that look. You don’t have to get involved. Eli isn’t your concern, so just erase this whole incident from your mind, and let’s get back to what you came here to do, okay?”

“Fine. It’s erased.”

“Good.”

Men are so gullible.

As we hurried toward the white minivan we rented for large deliveries, I could see Lottie sitting inside fanning her face with a folded newspaper, even though it was a chilly October day. She gave off so much heat that she wouldn’t need a coat until the snow fell in December. She was dressed in a pair of black Keds, black jeans, and a short-sleeve T-shirt with scenes from Paris on the front and back, and had her usual pink barrettes clipped into her brassy curls to keep them out of her face.

“Sorry,” I said. “I got sidetracked.”

“Don’t ask her how,” Marco said.

“Fair enough,” she answered as we loaded our arms with boxes.

Hailing from the lovely bluegrass state of Kentucky, Lottie Dombowski was a raw-boned, big-hearted, full-bodied, forty-five-year-old dynamo who had given birth to quadruplet sons seventeen years ago and was now trying to survive their teenage years. Originally, she had owned Bloomers and I had worked there as her summer help.

Half a year ago, while I was busy flunking law exams, being dumped by my fiancé
and
my insurance company, and crossing off my dream to become the success my brothers were, Lottie’s husband developed serious heart problems, starting a cascade of financial difficulties that threatened to sink her ship—er, shop. Since we were both looking for a life raft, Lottie suggested what seemed like a crazy idea at the time. And now, one gi
normous
mortgage later, I owned a flower shop and she worked for possibly the best employer in the whole country.

We’d trudged back to the center with our boxes and, as we set out the flowers, Delilah and I filled Lottie in on the events of the morning, including Chet Sunday’s upcoming show and the pranks pulled by the Urban twins. Prudently, I waited until Marco was out of earshot before telling the others about Eli’s clash with Sybil.

“Isn’t that just like Sybil,” Delilah said. “I do wish I could have seen Eli swing his sign at her, though.”

“Sybil Blount,” Lottie mused. “Seems like I read something in a gossip column linking her with a TV star not too long ago.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Delilah said. “After her husband passed, she went hog wild with the menfolk.”

Suddenly, the beginning strains of a familiar song blared over the PA system—“Make It Easy on Yourself,” sung by Jerry Butler, which also happened to be the theme song of Chet Sunday’s show.

“It’s showtime,” I announced. “Who’s coming with me?”

“I’m heading back to Bloomers,” Lottie said, slinging her purse over a hefty shoulder. “I’ll be back at two o’clock.”