Grave Intent (5 page)

“So what’s it now? Dogs?” Michael stood up,
grabbed the wastebasket, and handed it to Wilson. “Put the damn
cigarette out. You’re smelling up the place.”

“Then why’d you light it?” Wilson sucked on
his cigarette twice more before extinguishing it. “No dogs, no
horses.Actually, I had another business venture that—”

A knock at the door gave Michael just the
reason he needed to cut his father off. He didn’t want to hear the
excuses.

“Yes?” Michael called, dropping the
wastebasket back in its place.

The door opened, and Sally Mouton poked her
head inside. Her narrow face did a rendition of surprise, which
meant the propping up of one eyebrow, when she spotted Wilson. “Mr.
Savoy, when . . . how . . . I didn’t see you come in. I mean . .
.”

Wilson stood and motioned Sally inside.
“How’s my favorite hostess?” he asked with a wink.

Sally entered the office, closing the door
behind her. Her walk was stiff and regimented in her black suit
with its high collar and calf-length skirt.“Fine,” she answered.
“Glad to see you’re . . . well?” She gave Michael a puzzled look,
which read, “Is this for real?” She had worked for Wilson for many
years, and he had simply disappeared on her, too.

“Well as can be expected I suppose,” Wilson
said. He lifted his chin as though to tighten the sagging skin
beneath it. “Lots of water under the bridge, huh, Sal?”

Before she could answer, Michael asked, “Has
the Rasmussen family arrived?”

“Uh . . . yes,” Sally said, reluctantly
pulling her gaze from Wilson to Michael. “Chad’s with them
now.”

“Good. I’ll be out in a—”

“But that’s not what I came in to tell you.”
Sally patted the tight, white bun on her head, her gesture of
recomposure. “There’re some people here wanting to make
arrangements. Two men.”

Michael glanced at his watch. He had a little
less than an hour before he had to leave to make Ellie’s dance
recital. “I don’t remember having any appointments set up this
late.”

“Walk-ins. They came straight from the
hospital,” Sally said.

“Which one?”

“Didn’t say.” She lowered her voice. “I think
they’re foreigners.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sally scrunched up her nose like she’d caught
a whiff of ammonia. “They have strange accents, and they dress
funny.”

“So?”

“Probably indigents,” Wilson said with a nod.
“Get rid of ‘em.”

Michael rolled a hand into a fist at his
side. “Send them in,” he said a little louder than he intended.

Without another word, Sally retreated, and
Michael returned to his desk, where he pulled out an arrangement
folder. He pointed it at his father. “I think you’d better go.”

Wilson coughed, then scratched the faint
stubble on his cheek. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around for this one.
See how you’ve been handling business.”

“You’ve got no—”

“No what?” Wilson asked, his head bobbing
more noticeably. “No right? Is that what you were going to say,
son? That I’ve got no right to interfere with your work?” He
laughed. “I still own this place. Or did you forget?”

Michael was rounding the front of his desk,
ready for battle, when the door reopened, and two men shuffled into
his office. The older one looked to be around sixty, short and
heavyset with gray hair cut short under a snow-white fedora. He
sported a mustache the same color as the hat. He wore a black
pinstriped suit and a red shirt with white polka dots. A wide white
tie completed the ensemble. The younger man looked forty with
shoulder-length black hair and a thin mustache. He was dressed more
conservatively than his partner in a blue denim shirt and khaki
pants.

Michael bagged the fury he’d targeted at his
father and introduced himself, holding out a hand. “How may I help
you?”

The younger man peered at the older before
shaking Michael’s hand. His grip was weak, his palm cold and
wet.

“We need to make burial arrangement,” he
said.

Michael nodded and motioned them to the
conference table. “Please, have a seat.” He made a conscious effort
not to grind his teeth when he added, “This is Wilson Savoy, my
father.”

The older man nudged the younger, and they
walked to the table and sat while Michael closed the door. He
watched them nervously survey the urns as he went to his desk for a
pen.

After joining them, Michael said, “I’m sorry,
I didn’t get your names.”

“I am Antony,” the younger man said, nodding
first to Michael than to Wilson. “Antony Stevenson. This is my
cousin, Ephraim Stevenson.”

Evidently assuming the deceased to be
Ephraim’s wife or mother, Wilson gave the older man his best,
I’m-sorry-for-your-loss smile. The man glared back at him.

“Don’t know many Stevensons,” Wilson said.
“You from this area? The accent sounds kinda Slavic.”

“No, we are not from Louisiana,” Antony said.
A steely look crossed his face. “Will that make a difference?”

“No, no,” Michael said, and gave his father a
quick ‘hands-off’ glance. “We just like to get to know a little
about the families that come to us so we can serve them
better.”

Ephraim cleared his throat and placed his
fingertips on the edge of the table. Antony leaned forward and
crossed his arms over his chest.

“We finish with this business and make burial
arrangement now,” Antony said.

“Of course.” Michael uncapped his pen. “And
the deceased is?” As he prepared to write down the information,
Michael heard a gurgling sound. He glanced up and saw Ephraim’s
face contort, his mouth shifting from left to right. He’d seen the
look before, especially with men in the throes of grief.

Antony had his head bowed so low it nearly
touched the table. Michael lowered his eyes and gave the men a
moment to compose themselves. His father tapped a soft, impatient
rhythm on the table with his thumbs.

After a while, Ephraim reached into the
breast pocket of his suit, pulled out a handkerchief, and swabbed
his face. When he was done, he clutched the linen in his hand and
lifted his chin.

“My dau—” Ephraim’s hands folded in tightly,
his knuckles turning the color of old chalk. In contrast, his face
fell slack, his eyes void, like a man who’d just awakened to find
himself the only one left on the planet. No one to love, no one to
love him. For a moment, the intensity of it made Michael forget the
problem sitting next to him with a Zippo.

“Your daughter?” Michael asked quietly.

Ephraim’s eyes shut tightly in response.

“Yes,” Antony said.

Ephraim opened his eyes and leaned back so
abruptly Michael thought he’d fall out of his chair.

“Her name is . . .was—“ Antony squirmed in
his chair and tucked his hair behind his ears. “Is. Her name is
Thalia Stevenson.”

More gurgling sounds from Ephraim.

Michael struggled to keep his eyes on Antony.
“Where is she now?”

Ephraim stood, then wandered to the window
across the room. Heavy drapes covered the pane, but he stared at
them as if they were transparent.

Antony cleared his throat. “Riverwest Medical
Center.”

Wilson harrumphed, and Michael sought his
father’s shin with the toe of his shoe. When they failed to
connect, he wrote down the hospital information. His father knew,
as did he, that the staff at Riverwest rarely recommended Savoy
Funeral Home. One of their board members was Lionel Pellerin, the
owner of Pellerin’s Mortuary, which was located near the hospital,
just outside Baton Rouge. Staff members who recommended other
funeral homes usually lost their jobs.

Before his father could blurt out a comment,
Michael asked, “Did someone there refer you to us?”

“No,” Antony said. “They did not tell us of
you. Our family had no choice but to come here. Here is where
Thalia’s spirit settled, and here she must be buried.”

Wilson gave a quiet snort, and Michael missed
his shin again while considering what Antony had said. He decided
not to pursue the spirit comment. A person’s belief was a person’s
belief. “So you won’t be moving her back . . .uh . . .home? You’ll
be burying her here?”

Antony nodded, and his hair fell back over
the sides of his face. “Yes. Her spirit has settled in this town,
so must her body.”

From the corner of the room, Ephraim suddenly
shouted something that sounded like, “Naught!” He charged toward
Antony, slinging a barrage of strange words as well as a fair
amount of spit.

Antony flinched. A look of exasperation and
pain fell over his face as Ephraim towered above him.

Michael slouched in his chair, wondering
whether he should leave the room. He didn’t have any idea what had
made Ephraim so furious, but he certainly didn’t want any part of
making it worse. He looked at his father who gave him an
I-told-you-so smirk before propping his chin on a fist as though
preparing to watch a favorite movie.

Eventually, Ephraim ran out of steam. He
glowered at Antony a moment longer, then walked back to the
window.

Antony rubbed his cheeks slowly. “We finish
with this business,” he said to Michael, his voice tired and
low.

For the next forty minutes, Michael gathered
the rest of the information he needed from Antony without further
outbursts from Ephraim. He found out that their family had been en
route to Lake Charles and decided to stop in Brusley for the day to
celebrate Thalia’s nineteenth birthday. They’d set up camp in
Pelican Park, which was only a couple of miles south of the funeral
home. Thalia and a friend had decided to race two of the horses
that traveled with them. Midway through the race, Thalia’s horse
spooked and reared, throwing her to the ground headfirst. The
impact broke her neck, killing her instantly.

Antony insisted on the best. He chose a
bronze Mediterranean casket, an expensive model with blue velvet
interior, and a garden crypt, which would allow room for another
casket to be placed atop Thalia’s at a later time. Without any
prompting, Antony explained that the only person allowed a choice
regarding a burial site was the mother of a dead child. If the
woman remained faithful and deserving, she might be granted
permission by her husband to be placed beside or atop her child
after her own death. Provisions were often made for that
purpose.

Antony also made it clear that they wanted a
one-day viewing, and that a funeral mass was to be held at Saint
Paul’s Church since Thalia and her family were Catholics. The
actual burial was to be done in the adjoining cemetery at dusk, and
Antony assured Michael they would compensate the priest for
complying with the unusual request. He also warned that there would
be no room for other families in the funeral home while Thalia’s
viewing was in progress.
Many
people were expected to
attend, lots of food and drinks would be served, and they would
gladly pay extra for the inconvenience. The family would also pay
extra to have a tombstone engraved and ready by tomorrow.

At the mention of money, especially extra
money, Wilson perked up. He got to his feet and offered, “Coffee
anyone? Or maybe something cold—”

“I’m afraid we can’t allow food or alcohol in
the funeral home,” Michael said. “We—”

“You will have to excuse my son,” Wilson
blurted. He shot Michael a fierce look. “He’s still relatively
young in this business. We’ll be more than glad to accommodate
whatever needs you might have. Now, what about that coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Antony said, his countenance
visibly drained.

Michael bit his tongue as his father
approached Ephraim, who still stood staring at the drapery. “Mr.
Stevenson, would you—”

Ephraim spun around to face Wilson, and for a
second, Michael thought the man was going to throw a punch at his
father. He jumped up, ready to block both men, then felt foolish
when Ephraim shoved a hand into his coat pocket. With a flip of his
wrist, he tossed a handful of bills onto Michael’s desk, then
grunted something to Antony.

Michael couldn’t help but gape at the twenty
or thirty greenbacks crisscrossed on the desk. More than one had
1,000 stamped around its corners.

“He says that is what he is willing to pay,”
Antony said. He stood and walked toward his cousin. “Do we do
business?”

Wilson, eyeing the bills, said expansively,
“Of course, of course!”

“This may be too much money,” Michael said
firmly. “Why don’t we add up the expenses first?”

“We expect much,” Antony warned.

“That may be,” Michael continued, “but—”

“Excuse my son again,” Wilson said. He glared
at Michael, then smiled at Antony. “I will personally see to it
that all of your expectations are met. This will do fine.”

Antony nodded.

“We’ll contact the hospital about Thalia’s
release,” Wilson said, his face beaming. “Have someone bring her
clothes here first thing in the morning. We’ll start visiting hours
tomorrow afternoon at—”

“We will send someone with clothes and stand
watch tonight,” Antony said, his voice hard. “She is not to be left
alone at any time. Rest of family will come in early morning.”

Michael frowned. “I’m not sure we can have
her ready by—”

“Absolutely,” Wilson interrupted. “Whatever
you—”

Ephraim sliced a hand through the air,
cutting off Wilson’s words and nearly smacking Antony across the
face. He turned toward Wilson, his black eyes hard, cold
marbles.

“This makes you hungry, no?” he asked,
pointing to the money on the desk.

Wilson sucked in an audible breath as the man
crept closer to him.

“Yes,” Ephraim said. The word hissed through
his teeth like steam from a kettle. “There is much hunger within. I
am but to wonder what planted such a seed.” His finger ran the
length of Wilson’s tie without touching it.

Michael heard a crackle of static
electricity, and his father suddenly shoved a finger behind the
knot in his tie, his eyes widening. Wilson began to gasp as though
struggling for air.