Importance of Being Urnest Page 3

  Christy raised her hand to stop me. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Maggy. That for somebody like me, a crematorium would be …’ She was searching for a term.

  ‘Icky?’ I supplied. ‘Horrific’ and ‘morbidly depressing’ came to mind as well. But that wasn’t what I’d been about to ask. ‘They don’t actually do the cremations there, do they?’

  ‘Of course. What did you think?’

  ‘I guess I assumed that sort of thing was … outsourced.’ Preferably to some big anonymous building far, far away from my house. ‘And the funeral home – or mortuary – got the ashes back and maybe packaged them for the family to pick up.’

  I saw Sarah grin, and God forbid she should keep her mouth shut.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You thought it was like my dry cleaner.’ She turned to Christy. ‘All this time I thought they were cleaning the stuff right there but turns out they ship it out and then just put it in plastic bags for me to pick up.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Christy said. ‘That’s how things get lost, you know.’

  I wasn’t sure if we were talking about corpses or clothes now. ‘But at Brookhills Mortuary and Cremation you do it all right there?’

  ‘One hundred percent in-house,’ Christy said proudly. ‘Our pledge is that we will walk your loved ones through every step of the journey to their final resting place, whether that be a dignified casket or lovely – and life-appropriate – urn. Mort,’ she nodded to the convertible, ‘is quite inspiring. Did you see the article about him in last week’s Observer?’

  ‘Mort of the Goddard Gang?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Christy said. ‘He’s my new boss.’

  ‘Wait,’ Sarah said. ‘Mort is a mortician?’

  ‘Yes,’ Christy said. ‘Mortician, funeral director and owner of Brookhills Mortuary and Cremation. You didn’t know that?’

  Again, I probably should have. But I didn’t. ‘Mort is a nickname, then?’

  ‘I’d assume so.’ With her green eyes wide in the heart-shaped face, now Christy resembled an owl. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know – it just seems a little flippant,’ I said, and then shrugged. ‘Though I suppose it’s one of those fields where black humor is necessary to survive. Like being a cop or a coroner.’

  ‘Humor?’ Christy seemed completely lost. ‘I don’t understand what you mean. Mort is short for Morton. Morton Ashbury.’

  ‘Wait, wait.’ I thought Sarah was going to wet herself. ‘Mort Ashbury owns Brookhills Mortuary?’

  ‘And Cremation. Yes, I—’

  But my partner had turned to me. ‘You have the marketing background. He has to have made that up, don’t you think?’

  I shrugged. ‘I suppose it could be a matter of what came first, the name or the profession. Maybe Mort went into the business because of his name.’

  ‘Then why not take full advantage of it? If I were Mort, I’d make hay where the sun don’t shine, in this case.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ Christy asked before I could shake my head in warning not to encourage Sarah.

  Who was breaking herself up, at least. ‘In the grave, of course. Remember the song “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone”? Which would be a great theme for Mr Mort Ash & Bury, come to think of it.’

  ‘Bill Withers might disagree,’ I said as evenly as I could. ‘Are you off your meds?’

  My partner was bipolar, and I had a hunch which of the two caps we were visiting today.

  But Sarah just looked offended. ‘I’m not manic, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’

  ‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ I said.

  ‘Which is your passive-aggressive way of saying you’re coming right out and saying it.’

  ‘I am not passive-aggressive,’ I snapped.

  ‘And I’m not manic. Just—’

  ‘High on life?’ I suggested.

  ‘I was going to say “clever.” Not that you would know anything about that.’

  I felt my eyes narrow. ‘I’m clever, too. Just not—’

  As the door into Uncommon Grounds opened behind me, I heard a loud snap and something sailed over my head. Monica Goodwin, busy stashing a napkin-wrapped sticky bun in her purse, didn’t notice as a yellow rubber glove splatted on the floor in front of her.

  Her son looked down at the glove. ‘Can I have it?’

  Monica glanced up from her purse guiltily. ‘No, dear. It’s for Grandma. You know how she likes pastry.’

  I had a hunch the boy, who appeared to be six or seven, sensed there was a sweeter score to be had than a rubber glove. ‘I like it, too.’

  ‘But you know we don’t eat sweets, Timmy. Grandma—’

  ‘Is old enough to decide what she wants to eat.’ He seemed to be parroting what he’d been told. ‘Is that because she’s old and going to die soon anyway?’

  ‘Heavens, no.’ Monica zipped up her purse, bun safely stowed. ‘At least I hope Grandma’s not going to die soon. Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Because Daddy says Grandma’s a diabetic and sweet stuff will kill her.’ The kid was transforming into a devil child before my eyes. Apparently the cumulative result of systematically being denied pastry. ‘You’re not trying to kill Grandma, are you, Mommy?’

  ‘Mommy’ was appropriately mortified that we were watching. And listening. ‘No, of course not, Timmy. I wouldn’t—’

  ‘So why are you giving her sticky buns then?’ The kid’s eyes were an innocent blue, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if pea soup had started spurting out of the mouth of his rotating head. In fact, I’d have applauded it. Who needed television when you had this kind of reality playing out on your front porch?

  Mom was trying to pull Timmy toward the sidewalk but his feet were planted wide on the bottom step. ‘Daddy says you never liked his mother.’ He cocked his head and looked at her cherubically. ‘That’s Grandma, right?’

  ‘Well, I … She …’ She was looking wildly around, as if for help.

  So Sarah gave it to her. ‘Maybe, kid. Or she could be your mom’s mom.’

  ‘Nope.’ Timmy shook his head decisively. ‘She’s dead already.’

  ‘Well, then, yeah. The grandma that Mommy is feeding sticky buns to is probably your dad’s mom.’

  ‘I’m not feeding her sticky buns!’ Monica exploded. ‘I’m eating them myself, all right? Are you satisfied?’

  The surprise admission must have startled Timmy because his mother was able to pull him away down the sidewalk.

  The last words we heard were, ‘But Mommy, you know we don’t eat sweeeee—’

  ‘Perfect imitation,’ Sarah said. ‘The kid has a gift.’

  I shivered. ‘Kind of spooky the way he handled her. It was like he was a six-year-old adult.’

  ‘A malevolent six-year-old adult.’

  ‘His father is a lawyer,’ Christy offered.

  ‘Oh,’ Sarah said, like that explained everything.

  And speaking of explanations … ‘Christy, what in the world made you snap your rubber glove like that and send it flying?’

  ‘I was just trying to get your attention,’ Christy said, crossing her arms in front of her.

  ‘You could have hurt somebody,’ I said.

  But Christy was the one who looked hurt. ‘One minute we were talking about my job and the next you were arguing about something. I’m not sure even sure about what.’

  Bill Withers’ song, Sarah’s sense of humor, my passive-aggressiveness – take your pick. So I just settled for, ‘I’m sorry, Christy. You know we couldn’t be happier that you’ve found something that you love to do.’

  She didn’t look so sure. ‘Then what was all that about Mr Ashbury’s name and marketing and songs and such?’

  ‘Sarah was just,’ I glanced at my partner, ‘brainstorming.’

  In truth, I was feeling ashamed I’d brought up Sarah’s bipolarity in front of Christy. Not that my partner made any secret of it. But still, it wasn’t my place to talk about it.

  Sarah
seemed grateful to drop the quarrel as well. ‘It’s what we do to come up with new ways of marketing the store.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Christy said, cocking her head. ‘Tell me again. Maybe it’s something I could suggest to Mort and impress him.’

  Or tick him off. Sarah wouldn’t be the first to find the convergence of name and occupation hilarious. ‘When you brainstorm, you throw out all sorts of ideas, good and bad. I barely remember what we said, do you, Sarah?’

  Sarah hesitated and then mumbled, ‘Barely.’ Breaking up with a good theme song is hard to do.

  I turned back to our neighbor. ‘But tell us more about this new job. You were saying cremations are done right there at the funeral home? I had no idea.’ An understatement.

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t notice anything,’ Christy assured me. ‘Perhaps a little puff of smoke when the cremator starts up. But there’s no smell or black smoke, unless there’s some problem with the cremator or the person is …’ She let it drift off.

  But now that I realized the so-called cremator was in my neighborhood, I had to know more. ‘Or what?’

  Christy squirmed. ‘Well, I heard that if the load is very large,’ she spread her hands wide, ‘it can cause more smoke momentarily—’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘Load? You mean the body?’

  ‘Yes,’ Christy said. ‘Apparently if there’s a very high percentage of body fat it can cause problems.’

  ‘Oh.’ I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  ‘That’s assuming the retort – that’s the chamber inside the cremator – is large enough. At our mortuary, we have—’

  I waved surrender. ‘No more. But are you sure the mortuary is your’ – ugh – ‘niche, Christy? You’ve been amazing, visiting Ronny in jail, which is enough of a challenge. Don’t you think you might be pushing your cleanliness boundaries a little too—’

  ‘Oh, heavens, Maggy. A crematorium is a picnic,’ she seemed to brush an imaginary ant off her arm, ‘compared to either county jail or state prison. And cremains – or cremated remains, as Mort prefers we call them – are totally sanitary.’

  ‘Not surprising, after toasting in a thousand-degree furnace,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Cremator,’ Christy corrected. ‘And they get much hotter than that – even twice as hot.’

  ‘So you see my point.’ Sarah reached for the chain we’d all but forgotten during our wide-ranging exchange.

  I nudged it nearer to her with my foot. ‘But surely you’re not cleaning out the actual cremator, are you?’

  Christy looked pleased at my retention. Me, I was afraid I’d never forget.

  ‘Not yet,’ Christy said, putting her hand over her heart. ‘I’ll consider the process a sacred trust when Mort decides I’m finally ready. It’s not just sweeping out the ash and bone fragments for packaging, you know. You have to go over them with a magnet to remove metals like surgical screws and such, so the rest can be pulverized, bagged, tagged and given to the family.’

  Bagged and tagged. Better and better. ‘I’m sure the families are grateful for the attention to … detail.’

  ‘What happens to things like gold fillings?’ Sarah asked curiously. ‘I’ve always wondered.’

  ‘Gold isn’t magnetic, so I think anything left after the cremation would have to be sifted out. The dental gold used for fillings now doesn’t have much value, though. Especially after … well, you know.’

  Now she chooses to mince words?

  ‘The family can also request the teeth be pulled prior to cremation.’

  I must have made a noise because Christy turned to me. ‘Removing teeth is optional, of course. But things like pacemakers have to be removed because they can blow up in the chamber. And I understand silicone implants,’ she shivered, ‘make a terrible mess.’

  I wasn’t sure if the shiver was for the implants or the mess. I was betting the latter.

  ‘But the point is,’ Christy continued, ‘that it’s essential the retort be spic and span for the next person.’

  Having coiled the chain, Sarah aimed for the box again and this time made it. ‘Assuming they’re deader than the not-quite-dead guy in Monty Python, why would they care? It’s not like they’re going to catch something.’

  I restrained a grin. The ‘bring out your dead’ scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail was one of my favorites.

  But our Christy seemed less amused. ‘It’s for the families. The cremated remains mustn’t be blended.’

  ‘Like frozen custard,’ Sarah said.

  First the dry cleaner, now this, God help us.

  Visit a ‘custard stand’ in southeastern Wisconsin and you’ll be treated to one of the flavors of the day, scooped just as the rich, egg-based ice cream worms its way out of the machine that churns and freezes it.

  ‘Making frozen custard is about as far removed as you can get from cremating bodies, I would think.’ Ugh. Double ugh.

  ‘I didn’t mean the process itself,’ Sarah said. ‘Just the idea of cleaning out the chamber for the next person.’

  ‘Or flavor, in keeping with your analogy.’ Christy was nodding. ‘I worked at a stand and we had to thoroughly flush the frozen custard maker before the next flavor was put in to freeze. After all, who wants leftover Death by Chocolate mixed with their Peach Melba?’

  ‘Or George down the street mixed with Aunt Edith?’ Sarah was nodding back.

  Before they could descend further into the dead rabbit hole – not to mention ruin the remainder of the flavor of the day list for me forever – I cleared my throat. ‘So, Christy, any idea how Clare’s Antiques and Floral next door is doing?’

  The building was owned by Ronny and had been sitting empty. Now, with Christy in charge, the place had been speedily rehabbed and then leased to Clare Twohig. Probably also through Craigslist.

  ‘The shop is doing well, I think,’ Christy said. ‘And Clare is ever so clever. Have you seen how she’s displayed the coffee and tea services?’

  ‘I have,’ I said, hefting the box. ‘Using the steps of that wrought-iron staircase is genius. Made me wonder if we shouldn’t do some kind of history of coffee with—’

  ‘We’re already surrounded by history,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘The depot dates back to the 1880s, which means nothing to me except that not a day goes by when we don’t have to fix something. And now you want to add more old crap?’

  The depot with its graceful wraparound deck and vintage ticket windows – now used for serving coffee – was gorgeous and Sarah knew it. She also owned it. In fact, she had been the one who’d suggested re-opening Uncommon Grounds in the depot with herself as my new partner.

  It was a package deal and had worked out amazingly well to date. Like any relationship, of course, it required acceptance and respect. I accepted that Sarah was going to be her smart-ass self and she respected my ability to ignore ninety percent of what she said.

  Now, balancing the heavy box of tarps on my hip, I opened the shop door. ‘There’s a difference between old crap and antiques.’

  ‘Yeah, if crap is old enough, it becomes antique. Still old, though, and still—’

  The door, blessedly, closed behind me.

  THREE

  Unfortunately, moments later Sarah and Christy opened it again and followed me into Uncommon Grounds.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I asked Amy as I set down the box. ‘I heard there was an accident.’

  ‘Just a wet chair. All taken care of.’ Only Amy could be so perky about a piddle puddle, especially one she’d had to clean up. But that’s why we loved her.

  She went where neither Sarah nor I dared to go. Consider her our Starship Enterprise.

  As the door closed again behind Sarah and Christy, a manicured hand caught it. The tall woman who’d gone running out with the two elderly ladies poked her head in.

  Christy clapped her hands. ‘Hannah! I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.’

  The Goddard Gangers, who took up four of our six table
s, turned en masse to look as the brown-haired woman stepped in.

  ‘Who’s rat?’ Gloria Goddard demanded from her wheelchair.

  ‘Rat?’ Already seeming on edge from earlier events, Hannah glanced around nervously as the door closed behind her.

  Oliver grinned and shook his head. ‘Sometimes Mrs G’s words don’t come out quite right. But you’re getting better at the manor, right, Mrs G?’

  ‘Better? Better to die.’

  Oliver’s face dropped.

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean that either,’ I said.

  ‘My mother gets confused sometimes, too,’ Hannah added gently.

  He tried to smile and I patted his shoulder. ‘Wow, Oliver, you’ve got guns!’

  Now the young man blushed with pleasure while still managing to flex his new bicep muscles. He was wearing a T-shirt on this March day and I had a feeling it was more to show off his arms than beat the heat. ‘Can’t major in Exercise and Sports Science without looking the part. Who’d listen to me?’

  ‘Practice what you eat,’ Gloria said, patting his cheek.

  ‘You tell him, Gloria,’ I said and turned to Hannah. ‘You must be Hannah Bouchard. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. I’m Maggy Thorsen.’

  ‘Oh, Maggy. I’m sorry about what happened. I think Nancy must be getting the flu or something. She was complaining of a headache last night and now it’s aches and pains and a scratchy throat. But incontinence has never been a problem before. I suppose a cough or a sneeze might cause her to …’ Her face was bright red as she trailed off.

  I thought we should change the subject. ‘I understand you just moved to Brookhills.’

  ‘Yes, with Nancy and my mother, Celeste.’

  ‘Your mother cut quite the figure in that hat.’ I skipped past the makeup and suffocating perfume.

  A wan smile. ‘Mother won’t leave the house without being fully decked out and with “her face on.”’

  ‘Celeste owned a string of boutiques out east,’ Christy told me and then turned to Hannah. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t get to meet her today.’

  ‘With Nancy feeling ill, I thought it best to take them both home to rest. It’s such an effort to get everybody up and out – I’m afraid we don’t do it as much as we should.’