Working Stiff (10 page)

“First off,” Izzy says, “you're a salaried employee so you'll be paid for the whole day. Trust me, it will all work out in the end. There will be plenty of days when you put in way more than eight hours without getting a cent of overtime.

“Secondly, don't worry about needing an appointment. Barbara loves drop-ins. In fact, all of her customers are drop-ins of a sort. Let me make a quick phone call.”

Two minutes later he's back. “You're all set. Barbara is expecting you around two-thirty. Which should give us just enough time to finish eating. I'll drop you off on the way.”

“Wow. I'm impressed.”

“I have connections,” Izzy says cryptically, wiggling those wooly caterpillars.

F
orty minutes later I am stuffed with Chinese food and wedged into the front seat of Izzy's car on my way to Barbara. Despite being in the perfect position for floating in amniotic fluid, I'm feeling pretty chipper. The prospect of both a new dress and a new hairdo has me jazzed until Izzy pulls up in front of the Keller Funeral Home.

“You'll find Barbara inside,” he says. “Probably in the basement. That's where she does most of her work.”

“Izzy, this is a funeral home.”

“I know.”

I swivel my chin on my knees and look at him. “Barbara works in a funeral home?”

“Yeah, she does hair and makeup. I've seen her work. It's very good. She's really quite talented.”

“But this is a
funeral home
,” I persist. I feel like I'm in one of those episodes of
The Twilight Zone
where I'm the only person who gets it.

“Well, yeah. Didn't I mention that?”

I give him a dirty look. “You know damn well you didn't.”

“That's why there's no waiting. Her regular clients aren't in any hurry.”

“Very funny. Dead humor.” I roll my eyes and want to kick him. But I can't move my legs. “You expect me to get my hair done by a woman who's a beautician for corpses?”

“Give her a try. I'm telling you, she's good. She went to beauty school and all that, although she had to drop out before she finished. That's why she's working here. But she didn't drop out because of a lack of talent. Trust me, Mattie. Give it a shot.” He eyes my hair and shudders. “I mean, what have you got to lose?”

There ya go. Both barrels. With my ego blown to bits, I pry myself out of the car and stand on the sidewalk shifting from one foot to the other in a futile effort to get some feeling back in my legs. I know that if I try to walk now I'll have that Herman Munster gait again, something the funeral home folks may think a bit rude.

I open my mouth to protest one last time, but Izzy says, “I'll be back in about an hour and a half. Have fun!” And with that he guns the gas and peels off down the street, leaving me standing there alone in front of Keller's. I turn and eye the building a moment before figuring
what the hell
and heading inside.

The main entrance leads into a large open foyer with several doors lining either side. It is eerily quiet, the thick carpet and acoustic walls absorbing every sound. I suppose that is so the wails and sobs of the bereaved won't travel too far, but that doesn't make it any less creepy. I've never liked funeral homes. There's something so tiptoey awkward about them, as if the dead might be offended if someone were to stomp their feet, or yell, or laugh.

No way am I heading to the basement by myself so, instead, I head for a door marked
OFFICE
, where I find an elderly woman sitting behind a desk. Her face looks like one of those dried-apple dolls: all wrinkled and shriveled and brown. She has tissue-paper skin covered with liver spots and bruises, and her knuckles are gnarled and deformed from arthritis. Her shoulders are rounded by a dowager's hump, making it difficult for her to look straight ahead.

Upon seeing me, she flashes a sympathetic smile, and then pushes herself out of the chair. I hear a loud creak and wonder if it's coming from her joints or the furniture. Once on her feet, she stands a second, wavering like a reed in the wind before beginning a slow shuffle around the desk. Somehow she manages to shift a box of tissues closer to me as she moves.

“Hello,” she says softly. “Can I help you?”

Her help
me
? She looks to be at least a hundred and, if my nursing eye still works, she's about one pill away from multi-system failure.

“It's okay,” I say, holding up a hand to stop her. Her slow progression is too painful to watch. “I'm not here for a funeral or anything.” Although, the more I look at her…

She stops, frowns, and then glances up at my hair. “Oh, yes,” she says, flashing me a smile of relief. “You're here for Barbara, aren't you? And not a second too soon either, I might add.” She studies me a moment longer, then shakes her head, though I'm not sure if the movement is a judgment or a palsy of some sort. “That color is all wrong for your skin. You're so pale. It makes you look washed-out,” she says.

This from a woman who looks like she is made out of onionskin paper.

“I'm fair, not pale,” I protest. “My hair got darker as I got older. This”—I finger the dyed ends of my hair—“happens to be the color I was born with.”

She scoffs at that. “You were also born with creases in your thighs and a misshapen head. Do you want those back, too?”

I glare at her and ask, “Is Barbara here?”

“She's downstairs. Go back out to the foyer and through the door all the way in the back on the right. Down the stairs and ring the buzzer. We keep it locked, you know. Wouldn't do to have families wandering around down there and coming across all the bodies.”

She seems rather glib for a woman who is frighteningly close to being a body herself. I thank her and hurry back out to the foyer, wanting to escape before she starts her journey back to the chair.

As I move toward the door she indicated, I glance into the rooms on either side of me. In one of them an open coffin is set up on a stand at the front of the room. There are several rows of chairs lined up, but except for the resident of the coffin, the room is empty. I look around, see no one, and venture inside.

Despite the fact that I've seen plenty of dead bodies in my work at the hospital and am likely to see plenty more now that I work with Izzy, I've never been to a funeral with an open casket. I've heard comments from others about how “life-like” the bodies look and always figured some kind of miracle occurred between the time when I saw them freshly dead and the bereaved saw them at a funeral. But this is the first prepared dead body I've ever seen with my own eyes and it's one I've seen before.

Laid out before me is Ingrid Swenson, the woman with the bashed-in head, my first official autopsy. The difference in her appearance between then and now is nothing short of startling, so much so that I almost don't recognize her. I mean she is dead—that is obvious—there is a certain lifeless quality to her that no makeup or hair style can hide. But her skin looks soft and dewy, her eyes are perfectly shaded, and her cheeks bear an ironically rosy glow. There is nary a hint of the discoloration, swelling, and bruising I saw in her face when Izzy and I autopsied her.

The crowning glory, however, is her hair. At the autopsy it was stained with blood—dirty, dingy, and as lifeless as the rest of her. But now it is lustrously blonde, gleaming with ironic health and streaked with subtle high-and lowlights. It is straight near her scalp—the incision Izzy made totally invisible—and curled at the ends, the soft curves laying about her face and shoulders in a perfect frame. It strikes me as incredibly sad to waste such a good-hair day on being dead.

“So what do you think?” says a voice behind me. I whirl around, startled, and no doubt looking guilty. Behind me stands a short, thin woman with hugely round, blue eyes. Her skin is deathly pale and contrasts sharply with her black hair, which she wears short and spiked, a look that is surprisingly flattering on her. She is wearing stretch slacks, some sort of open smock, and beneath the smock, a tight-fitting tank top with a low-cut neckline that showcases some
very
healthy cleavage—she could hide Jimmy Hoffa in there. And just in case that isn't enough to draw one's eyes to her chest, she has a tattoo of a horse along the crest of one breast, galloping over those rounded hills.

“You must be Mattie,” she says, eyeing the top of my head with a pitiful expression. Her voice is low, sultry, and slightly hoarse. She comes forward and extends her hand, which is cold. The question of whether she sleeps in a coffin flits through my mind. “I'm Barbara. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, wishing I had one of my chopsticks from lunch so I could use it as a wooden stake, just in case.

“What do you think of Ingrid here?” Barbara asks, nodding toward the coffin. “Doesn't she look great?”

“She does,” I admit. “Your work?”

Barbara nods proudly. “It is.”

“I'm impressed.”

“Thanks. Come on downstairs and let's see what I can do for you.” Her tone suggests she expects to find me every bit as challenging as any dead woman.

I follow her down to the basement into an area that looks a lot like the autopsy suite at work. Two steel tables with gutters around the edges stand in the middle of the room and a network of tubes and bottles hang overhead. At one end of each table is a sink, at the other, a drain in the floor. Cabinets line the walls and a faint but noxious chemical odor lingers in the air.

I assume this room is where the embalming is done and I'm relieved when Barbara leads me beyond it to a smaller room where a single, wheeled stretcher stands near a wall-mounted sink. Barbara opens a cupboard and pulls out a rolled up pad, which she proceeds to lay out on the stretcher.

“Hop up,” she says, patting the pad.

“Huh?”

“Climb onto the stretcher and lay down with your head at the end by the sink so I can shampoo your hair.”

“I washed it this morning. You don't need to do it again.”

She glances at my head. “You use hair spray?”

I nod.

“Then I need to shampoo to get the hair spray out. Otherwise your hair won't work right.”

“Don't you have a chair or something I can sit in?”

“Nope, just the stretcher. Most of my clients don't sit too well.”

I chew my lip as she turns away and starts sorting through the cupboard, removing several bottles that contain God knows what. “So you put dead people on that stretcher when you work on them?”

“Yep.”

I contemplate the stretcher again, my mind scrambling. “How about if I just bend over the sink and you wash my hair like that?”

“I need you to lay down.”

“I don't think I want to lay on a stretcher for dead people,” I say finally. “It's kind of…creepy.”

She turns and gives me an exasperated look. “Don't tell me you're going to be one of those silly squeamish women. I figured you for a strong one, given that you work with Izzy and all.”

“I'm plenty strong, thank you. I just don't want to use that stretcher.”

She shrugs. “Well, then, I can't help you.” She turns back to the cabinet and starts putting away the supplies.

“What do you mean, you can't help me?”

“Just that,” she says over her shoulder.

“Just because I won't get on the stretcher?”

“That's right.” She sighs heavily. “Look, I've spent too many years working on clients who are in a reclining position. It's what I'm used to. It's how I visualize the hair and makeup. I can and will sit you up when I cut the back of your hair but I've tried to do the rest of it when people are upright and it never comes out right. Sorry, but that's how it is.”

I blow out a breath of exasperation and tap my foot as I weigh my options. My hair does need a touch-up—okay, more than a touch-up. It needs a major overhaul. And Izzy has generously given me the time off and vouched for Barbara's results.

Barbara glances at her watch and raises her eyebrows at me. “I have a body coming in at four o'clock that I need to fix up for a viewing tonight. The clock is ticking. What's it gonna be?”

The thought of laying on the stretcher is one thing. The thought of laying there while a corpse waits in the next room prompts me to action. “Okay, let's get this over with.” I climb up and lay down, my hands folded over my lap in perfect repose. Oddly enough, it feels kind of natural.

Barbara walks over and stares at me for a minute, then her face splits into a smile. “You won't be sorry,” she says, beaming. “I can see it in my mind's eye already. I'm gonna do great things for you, Mattie Winston.”

A
n hour and a half later, Barbara and I have planned out my entire funeral, including the music, my dress, who will be invited, and which coffin I'll be buried in. I take Barbara's advice and opt for the mahogany box with the blue satin lining. At first I think it makes me look too cold, but once Barbara finishes my makeup and lets me look in a mirror with the blue satin beneath my head, I have to admit it looks quite stunning.

And speaking of stunning, Izzy was right—Barbara truly is a whiz at her work. My hair is the color of sun-baked wheat with subtle highlights of golden flax. The conditioner she uses has left it feeling incredibly silky, yet she's managed to give it more body than it's had since the time Teddy Laver's bratty little brother got cotton candy in my hair when we were riding in Teddy's convertible with the top down.

Even more amazing is my makeup. Barbara introduced me to a whole new color scheme based on brown and russet tones that I likely wouldn't have experimented with on the bravest of days. And I've done some experimenting. In the hall closet of my old house is a box filled to the brim with makeup orphans I've bought and tried over the years: foundations, eye shadows, blushes, lipsticks, concealers, powders…you name it.

I would have sworn the colors Barbara used on me are all wrong for my complexion and yet she's managed to turn me from a pale ice queen into a warm vibrant woman—and all without making me look like a hooker. After providing lengthy instructions on the techniques she uses to apply the stuff, she gives me some samples and a list of the brand names and colors so I can go out and buy some for myself.

By the time I rise from my stretcher like Elsa Lanchester in
The Bride of Frankenstein
, I know I'm looking better than I have in a decade or more. I am a woman transformed—perfectly willing to have my hair done for the rest of my life on an embalmer's table.

And despite her rather droll appearance, Barbara is a lively and entertaining conversationalist. During the course of her ministrations, we discuss everything from men and clothing to local politics and world peace. It is a life-changing experience for me—I've finally found a hairstylist I can keep, right through to eternity.

And that gets me to thinking about Karen Owenby. I know Deborah Martin, Karen's hairdresser, because I went to Deborah myself once on Karen's recommendation. I never went back, but not because Deborah's haircut was the worst I'd ever had; that credit went to a Vietnamese woman named Mi at a place called Hairy Kari. Mi's understanding of English was poor at best and after several attempts to communicate what I wanted, I resorted to making chopping motions to the side of my head while I said, “Layer it.” Mi's enthusiastic nod led me to believe she understood. During the subsequent translations by the owner, which were triggered by the scream I let out when I looked in the mirror, I found out that Mi thought I was saying “Razor it.”

No, the reason I never went back to Deborah Martin is because she wears a ton of perfume—and not particularly good perfume either. It's a noxious, floral scent that, after my one visit with her, had my sinuses messed up for a week. Though I must confess, when I consider that my current hairdresser smells like formaldehyde, Deborah's perfume seems like a minor transgression.

I know that Karen saw Deborah regularly and, with most women, that's the next best thing to a shrink. Women tend to treat their hairdressers as confidantes, the intimacy of what they do promoting a sense of trust and revelation. If Karen Owenby followed true to form, then Deborah Martin might have some insight into what was going on in Karen's life right before she died.

Izzy is waiting for me outside and the look on his face confirms what I already know. “Damn,” he says, followed by a low whistle. “She really is good.”

On the way back to the office, I share my thoughts about Karen Owenby's hairdresser and Izzy agrees it is worth a shot. I debate making an appointment and approaching Deborah that way, but at the last minute I decide it will be better to use the same “official” approach I used on Molinaro. After calling the salon where Deborah works and discovering that she will be there until seven that evening, I tell her what I want and arrange to meet her at the end of her shift.

I spend another hour or so in the library studying up on my new profession and then wander upstairs to see what Arnie is up to. I find him in his office but he isn't alone. In the middle of the room stands a giant of a man with a surprisingly baby face. His crew-cut hair nearly brushes the ceiling, his feet are the size of a Sasquatch, and his neck looks as big around as a tree trunk. I figure he weighs at least 350, maybe more, although he doesn't look fat so much as he simply looks huge.

When Arnie sees me, he lets forth with a low whistle. “Wow,” he says. “You look fantastic.”

“Thanks,” I say, glowing. He continues to stare at me longer than is comfortable and I realize the big man is gawking at me as well. I make a self-conscious swipe at my nose, suddenly worried I might have a booger hanging there or something.

Arnie finally breaks the tension by introducing me to his visitor. “Joey Dewhurst, this is Mattie Winston, Izzy's new assistant.”

Joey thrusts a paw as big as my head at me and says, “Hi. Nice to meet you.” I brace myself as I place my hand in his, fearing a bone-crushing grip or, at the least, to have my arm shaken out of its socket. But he surprises me. His shake is firm but gentle, with very little motion. The smile he gives me is dazzling.

“Nice to meet you, too, Joey.”

“Joey works as a field technician for a local computer company,” Arnie explains. “He goes out and troubleshoots whenever clients have a problem. He's been doing it for…what's it been now, Joey? About ten years?”

“Eleven,” Joey says proudly. He continues to stare at me with that unblinking gaze for several seconds, then says, “Wow. You're big for a girl.”

“Pardon me?” My smile dissolves, as does the glow I was feeling on the heels of Arnie's whistling praise.

Joey's face morphs into a horrified expression. “Oh, geez…I'm sorry,” he stammers. “I didn't mean anything bad. It's just that most girls make my neck hurt when I try to look at them. I'm pretty big, you know,” he says, totally deadpan.

He's big, all right. Huge. And intimidating. Yet despite his size, there is something sweet about him, a bumbling innocence that charms me. “No offense taken,” I say. “You're right. I am big for a girl.”

The smile he flashes at me is so brilliant it's almost blinding. “It's hard to be big,” he says. “My clothes don't fit good, cars are too small, and sometimes I scare little kids, even though I don't mean to.”

“Can't say I've scared any kids, but I can relate to the rest of it,” I tell him.

He cocks his head to the side. “I'd love to have a girlfriend as big as you,” he says wistfully.

I smile, not sure if I should feel flattered or insulted.

Arnie clears his throat. “Joey, you don't want to be late for your next appointment.”

“Oh.” Joey glances at his watch. “Yeah, okay. I should get going.” He flashes his megawatt smile again and blushes sweetly. “It was very nice meeting you, Mattie.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Joey.”

“Bye, Arnie.”

“See ya later, Joey.”

He moves with amazing grace considering his size. As I watch him leave, I notice a wide rectangular piece of red material hanging from beneath his shirt, the end reaching halfway to his knees. It's odd-looking to say the least and as soon as he is out of sight, I look over at Arnie, my eyebrows raised in question.

“Don't worry, he's harmless,” he says. “Sweetest guy you'll ever meet. He suffered some sort of brain damage at birth and as a result he's mildly retarded and has a few odd quirks.”

“Like a total lack of sartorial sense?” I ask.

Arnie looks puzzled.

“I'm referring to that huge piece of red material that was hanging out from under his shirt.”

Arnie smiles. “Oh, that. That was his cape. You see, Joey is an idiot savant. Despite his overall mental limitations, he has this incredible ability when it comes to computers. He can take them apart, put 'em back together, or even build them from scratch. He can write programs and troubleshoot existing ones. And his hacking abilities are absolutely amazing. He's quite proud of what he does and thinks of himself as a kind of superhero. He has this little red outfit he wears under his everyday clothes that's part of his alter ego. He's Hacker Man. He even has a big yellow letter
H
on the front of his outfit.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. He can get into any computer anywhere anytime,” Arnie says, misunderstanding the genesis of my sarcasm. “He's dug up stuff that will blow your mind.”

“Like what?”

“Like the two dozen or so people that Clinton had contact with who turned up dead under the most mysterious of circumstances. Or the fact that our government routinely runs tests on the populace without our knowledge. Or the CIA document that talks about remote viewing and mind control. That kind of stuff.”

I don't know what to say. I like Arnie, but his conspiracy theory mentality is starting to wear a bit thin.

“I think he has a crush on you,” he says then.

“What?” I blurt out, startled by the quick change of subject. “Who? Joey?”

“No, Clinton,” Arnie says, rolling his eyes. “Of course, I mean Joey. Didn't you see the way he was looking at you? And the way he blushed?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.

“You'll see,” Arnie says. “I'm pretty sure Joey's got it bad for you. Something tells me you'll be seeing a lot more of him in the days to come.”

 

Arnie is right. I do see more of Joey. In fact, I see him later that same night as I am getting out of my car at Shear Indulgence, the hair salon where Deborah works. The place is fairly crowded when I arrive and one of the customers just happens to be Joey, who is paying for his haircut and preparing to leave. Deborah is finishing up with a customer and says she'll be with me in a minute, so I have no reasonable excuse for escaping Joey's doe-eyed stare and blushing cheeks.

“Hey, Joey,” I say when he sees me. “Fancy meeting you again.”

“Hi, Mattie. You're not getting your hair done, are you, because you don't need to. It's very pretty already.” His face takes on an “Aw, shucks” expression and he drops his gaze to the floor, where he starts drawing imaginary lines with the toe of his shoe.

“Thank you. But I'm just here to meet someone.”

He peers at me from beneath lowered lids and as soon as he sees that I'm watching him, his gaze falls again. “You are very pretty, Mattie,” he says in a low whisper. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, I don't. But I don't want one right now,” I add quickly, lest Joey get the wrong idea. “I'm going through a divorce.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says. “Well…I gotta go. Bye.”

He turns and ducks as he goes through the door to keep from hitting his head. I note that the red cape is no longer showing and wonder if he's taken it off or if it's merely tucked away inside his outer clothing. As soon as he's outside he begins to whistle and then he starts skipping. The incongruity of that huge hulk of human flesh skipping along like a child makes me smile.

“You ready?” asks a voice behind me. I turn and find Deborah standing there with her jacket on, her purse slung over one shoulder. I follow her through the salon to a back door, the stench of her perfume wafting along behind her, mixing with the acrid scent of permanent solution and hair bleach. By the time we reach the alley behind the store, my eyes are burning and I have an instant, throbbing headache.

“So you work for the medical examiner now, huh?” Deborah asks me once the door closes behind us.

“I do.” I show her my badge and she glances at it, clearly unimpressed.

“Interesting change of jobs. What made you decide to switch?” She is rummaging around in her purse and finally extracts a bent pack of cigarettes.

“You don't want to know,” I tell her, knowing full well she does. “When was the last time you saw Karen Owenby?”

“Two weeks ago.” She pauses, shakes out a cigarette, and lights it. As she sucks in that first drag, she assumes a momentary expression of ecstasy. Then she starts talking with the exhale, adding smoke to the assault on my sinuses. “She came in for a color touch-up and trim. She was always good about that. Regular as clockwork. Never let her hair get shaggy or let her roots show to any degree.”

Chalk up another point for Karen.

“Did you know Karen was a natural blonde?” Deborah asks, sucking down another drag. “It's rare for a blonde to want to go dark. Seems everyone wants to be blonde these days. Especially around here.”

I know what she means. The original settlers to this part of the country, assuming you ignored the Indians who had been here all along, were Scandinavian. Consequently, the ratio of blond-haired, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked people is high. I wonder if Karen's dye job was part of her disguise.

“Did Karen talk much when she was here?” I ask. “Did she ever mention anything about work?”

“Sometimes. I know she was pretty excited about some sort of investment scheme she had going on at work with some of the surgeons.” She shrugs. “Mixing business with pleasure, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I'm pretty sure she was sleeping with at least one of the doctors, because she told me. And I kind of think there may have been others.”

“Did she mention any names?”

Deborah drops her cigarette and grinds it into oblivion with her shoe. Then she gives me a long, assessing look. “Your husband is a doctor, isn't he?”