Grave Intent (7 page)

Reluctantly, Michael pulled his hands from
his pockets, walked to the far end of the table, and sat.

Eyeing the empty tumbler, Wilson said, “Look,
I know I’m not gonna win any awards for parent of the year, but you
could show a little more respect. I am your father you know.”

“Your point?”

“I had reasons to leave, Michael. I had stuff
to take care of.”

“So you’ve said.”

Wilson raised a shaky hand to his chin and
scratched. “If things were that bad, you should’ve just let the
bank have the place.”

Michael gaped at him. “Is that all you have
to say after I busted my ass to—”

“I never asked you to bust your ass. You
could’ve left. Could have closed the place down and gone to work
for another funeral home. Pellerin’s always looking for good
people.”

The reference to, “good people,” paralyzed
Michael for a second. Had his father just admitted he was a good
funeral director? Probably a slip of the tongue. Michael couldn’t
remember the last time his father had associated him with anything
good. Whether it was learning to ride a two-wheeled bike on his own
or being one of the top three students in mortuary school, Wilson
always had something negative to say. Some verbal twist of the
knife to assure his son he’d never measure up to Wilson Savoy’s
standards.

Deciding that some things were best left
alone, Michael got to his feet and paced between the table and
kitchen counter. “I’m not like you,” he said. “The funeral home was
never a money tree to me. I give a damn about what I do.”

“Hey, I cared.”

“Yeah, about yourself. It was always about
you. You always had to be right, even with Grandpa Joseph.”

“Leave my father out of this,” Wilson
warned.

Michael felt a cork pop off emotions he’d
kept bottled up for too long. He whirled about. “Why? The truth
hurt?”

“You don’t have a clue about what the truth
was or is,” Wilson said. “Your grandfather was too old to run the
business anymore. He made mistakes, big ones. I had to stay on top
of everything just to keep bread on our table!”

“It was
his
funeral home!” Michael
said. “And you badgered that old man until the day he died. And
what the hell do you mean, bread on the table? As soon as the place
made a profit, you took it. If there was any goddamn bread, Mom,
God rest her, was the one who made sure it got there, you . . . you
son of a—” Michael clamped his lips shut, all the more angry for
allowing himself to lose his cool.

For a second, Wilson’s face hitched with
pain, then he looked away. “If it was so bad all those years,
Michael, why in the hell did you stick around?”

It was Michael’s turn to look away, leaving
the question to hang in the air along with the sound of his rapid
breathing. Why had he stayed? For his grandfather? For Janet and
Ellie? Or was it because of some asinine, innate hope that maybe
one day things would change between him and his father? It was a
question he’d asked himself for years.

A loud exhale gathered Michael’s
attention.

“Guess it doesn’t matter now,” Wilson said
with a wave of his hand. “Too much water under that bridge
anyway.”

“Flooded.”

“Look, you think you can quit pissing in my
shoes for a little while so we can talk business?” Wilson pointed
to a chair.

Michael didn’t move.

“Ten minutes,” Wilson said. “That’s all it’ll
take.”

Wary, Michael returned to his chair.

Wilson began to knead his knotted fingers. “I
want to sell the funeral home,” he blurted.

Michael felt his jaw drop. “To who?”

“Who’d you think? You of course.”

Words refused to form on Michael’s
tongue.

“See . . . I’m in a bind,” Wilson said. He
scrunched his body closer to the table. “I need some heavy cash
quick.” He held up a trembling hand. “I know what you’re thinking,
but it’s not like that. No gambling. I swear. You know that
business venture I mentioned to you? The reason I had to leave in
the first place? Well, it kinda went sour—bad sour actually, and,
well . . . the investors want their money back.”

Michael scraped his teeth over his bottom
lip, which seemed to jumpstart his ability to speak. “How
much?”

“How much what?”

“How much do you want?”

Wilson’s head bobbed earnestly, his face an
over-planted field of wrinkles and liver spots. “I figure twice the
receipts is fair. A million and a quarter.”

Familiar with his father’s definition of
fair, Michael stalled. He’d done the books for the funeral home
long enough to know the price was above fair market value. To get
out from under his father’s control now, however, would be worth
twice what he was asking. But fair or not, Michael had to deal with
reality. He didn’t have the money. After bouts with attorneys, a
long struggle with debt reorganization, IRS liens, and all but
groveling to the bank, he’d managed to untangle the mess his father
had left behind and survive the last three years. But barely.

Michael slumped in his seat. “I don’t have
that kind of money.”

Wilson tsked. “Hell, I know that, but the
bank does. And your personal credit’s good, right? What would it
hurt to ask?”

Michael had to admit his personal credit
history was in fair shape. And although the company profits were
low, they were at least in the black again. Maybe the bank would
view his ability to turn the company around as a positive sign when
they considered all the risk factors. Maybe it would be enough for
them to at least consider a loan. Then again, maybe all he was
doing was slow dancing with wishful thinking. But Wilson was right
about one thing. What would it hurt to ask? “All right,” Michael
said. “I’ll go on Monday and talk to the loan officer.”

“Why Monday? Why not Friday? That’s tomorrow.
You could do it tomorrow.”

“We’ve got the Stevenson service tomorrow,
and as soon as that’s taken care of, I’m going up to the cabin with
my family. I won’t be back until Monday.”

Wilson wrung his hands and looked about
nervously. Suddenly, his eyes brightened. “So you take a few
minutes in the morning, slip out, go to the bank. I’ll cover for
you while you’re gone.”

“I’m not doing it tomorrow,” Michael said
firmly. “I have too much to do. And if we’re going to do this sale,
I want it done right. No screw-ups. Going tomorrow won’t make that
big a difference anyway. It’s not like the bank’s going to give me
a check in an hour. Loans take time.”

“Yeah, but at least you’d get the ball
rolling quicker.”

“I said no.”

Wilson turned sideways in his chair, picked
up the tumbler from the table, and brought it to his lips. He
tongue flicked across the dry rim. With a grunt of frustration, he
returned it to the table and faced Michael again. “I thought you’d
be more excited about this.”

“I’m a realist. When and if it happens,
great.”

Wilson tapped an anxious foot on the
floor.

“Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?”
Michael asked. “You didn’t actually think you’d be walking around
with a million in cash tomorrow, did you?”

“Of course not. Not at all.” Wilson stood and
pressed a hand to the small of his back. He walked around in a
tight circle for a moment, then said, “Tell you what, son, I’ll
sweeten the pot. You give me the cash you got from the Stevensons
earlier, and I’ll lower the sale price to a million even. That
should make things even easier for you at the bank.”

The kitchen suddenly felt the size of a
breadbox, and Michael got to his feet. “Forget it,” he said, and
headed for the living room and the front door. “Your ten minutes
are up.”

“Wait!” Wilson caught up with Michel and
followed alongside him in a lopsided gait. “I’m just trying to help
you, lowering the asking price and all.”

“The sale’s a ruse,” Michael said, not
looking back. “All you’re after is that cash. I should’ve known,
goddammit. I should’ve seen it coming.”

“No, no! I really want to sell the business
to you,” Wilson insisted. “Really!”

“Bullshit.”

“I could just take it you know. I still own
the funeral home. So theoretically, it’s mine anyway.”

Michael reached the front door but before
opening it, he turned to Wilson and jabbed a finger at him. “Stop
playing your games! The fucking cash isn’t yours,
Dad.
The
bank’s in possession of all receipts and even if I could give it to
you, I sure as hell wouldn’t!”

Wilson grabbed his arm. “Listen, please—son—I
gotta have that cash. I promise—I’ll go through with the sale. You
have my word.”

“Which means about as much as dog turds in
the rain. Runny—and floats off in any damn direction. The answer’s
no. It belongs to the bank.” Michael shook his arm free and opened
the door.

“Y-you don’t understand,” Wilson said in a
broken whisper. “If I don’t give the investors some kind of good
faith offering, they’ll . . . they’ll do something terrible to me.”
He let out a little sob. “Really terrible.”

Michael clutched the edge of the door until
his hand hurt. Something inside of him seemed to be ripping in two.
One half wanted to shove his father out the door and scream,
“That’s your problem, you dumb fuck!” The other half hung numb.

Wilson’s body appeared to sag even more under
Michael’s gaze, his face draining of what little color it
possessed. Tears pooled in his eyes. “They’ll kill me, Michael. I
swear to God, they’ll kill me.”

CHAPTER SIX

Friday morning gave witness to a typical
Brusley, Louisiana summer. Humidity thickened the air like roux in
a gumbo, and the heat, even at eight-thirty, had already tapped
thermometers up to eighty degrees.

Michael fidgeted at the red light, flipping
the car’s air conditioner vents up, then down, right, then left. No
matter the direction or how high he set the blower, sweat rings
still grew under his arms. Along with the heat, a bad case of
nerves had caused a prickly rash to sprout at the base of his neck.
If he didn’t talk to his father soon and get this money issue
settled, he feared his whole body would soon resemble a
strawberry.

After Wilson’s final plea last night, Michael
weakened and left his father with the notion that he’d try to find
a way to help him. As soon as Michael closed the door behind his
father, however, he wanted to kick himself. Why did he allow
himself to fall for Wilson’s manipulations? He
knew
better.
Had lived through too many Wilson episodes to expect a new outcome.
Michael had to admit, though, the tears were a new twist. They were
the reason he’d caved. He’d never seen his father cry before. Not
even at his mother’s funeral.

The image of Wilson’s tears haunted Michael
throughout the night. He’d tossed and turned fitfully, then finally
gave up and got out of bed around four. Two pots of coffee later,
he decided, tears or not, he had to stand firm. No money, period.
It was time he stopped enabling his father.

To soothe his conscience, Michael had also
decided to go to the police with Wilson if he was truly in danger.
Bad business deals and killer investors sounded like an old,
rehashed plot from a Godfather movie, something Wilson concocted
for effect. But the truth would be revealed soon enough. His father
would either accept his help or he’d back off, exposing himself as
the bullshitter Michael suspected him of being. Either way, Michael
didn’t take any chances with the Stevenson money. At first light,
he went over to the funeral home, retrieved the cash he’d hidden in
his desk drawer, then went straight to the bank depository and
dropped it off. Once that was out of the way, he’d stopped off at a
twenty-four hour café and had breakfast, mulling over what he would
say to Wilson and the repercussions that might follow.

Janet didn’t know about Wilson’s latest
financial fiasco. By the time Michael had finally gone to bed last
night, she’d already fallen asleep and was still sleeping when he
left at dawn, so they hadn’t had a chance to talk. Which might have
been for the best. Janet had always been his touchstone, his rock
in rough waters, and if it hadn’t been for her support and
encouragement he would have never made it through the last three
years. But she’d borne enough trouble from his family. The last
thing Michael wanted to do was burden her with more. He’d fill her
in on the prospect of buying the funeral home, but only if it
proved to be true and only after this mess with his father and his
so called investors had been dealt with.

A car horn blew behind Michael, snatching
away his thoughts. He tapped the accelerator and crossed the
intersection just as the traffic light switched from green to
yellow. Two miles later, Michael took a right on Jenkins and
noticed cars lined up on both sides of the road. Old station wagons
and Pintos were fender to bumper with Mercedes, Park Avenues, and
Lincolns. Vehicles straddled the curbs all the way to Sylva Lane,
where he turned right again. When he stopped at the stop sign on
the corner, he saw cars lined up on both sides of Alabaster Road,
which ran directly in front of the funeral home.

“Holy shit!” Michael blinked rapidly, not
trusting his vision. The mortuary’s parking lots, front and sides,
were packed with cars, pickup trucks with homemade campers attached
to the beds, and travel trailers of varying sizes. Hordes of people
milled around the vehicles. Michael spotted a woman hanging a man’s
shirt on a car antenna and two other women carrying a large black
pot to a butane burner that sat behind an Airstream. Groups of
children raced through the chaos in heated games of tag.

With his mouth still agape, Michael inched
his Buick past the funeral home, then nursed it around more
haphazardly parked vehicles until he reached his house, almost
three blocks away.