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  “I’ve had two cups already,” I said, “but after I get the casket in position we can certainly sit down for a few minutes and talk.”

  I slipped into the back room, made a few fine touches to Sheila Carrington’s makeup, a few modifications to the ruffles and fringes, and then rolled the casket into the front of the chapel between the flower displays. It all fit together beautifully and I hoped that Milt and the other family and friends would find something of comfort and meaning in the funeral service. I was certain that I’d be preparing Phil Carrington’s body, too. And when the time came, his funeral plans.

  I found Rose sitting in the office. She was studying Sheila Carrington’s death certificate. “You found it,” I said. “What do you think?”

  Rose handed me the certificate, apologized. “I didn’t mean to snoop,” she said. “I just wondered why a woman so young would die an untimely death. But it looks like she had a multitude of health issues. My goodness.”

  “She had issues, all right,” I said. “But I’m learning there is more to the story.”

  “That’s one thing we can always say in this business. There’s more to the story. And in her case, probably a lot of back-story.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And the story has gotten even more complicated.”

  Rose was sitting next to my desk, a cup in her lap, rearranging the sugar packets. “What happened?” She stood and made her way to the coffee pot. She seemed eager to combat the old by staying heavily caffeinated, her mug doubling as a hand-warmer.

  “They found Phil Carrington last night out on the highway. He drove off an embankment.” Rose paused to reflect on what I’d just told her. “Goodness,” she said. “Does it ever end?”

  “I was probably the last person to see him alive. He may have died shortly after our meeting yesterday.”

  “An accident?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think he was sick yesterday. While we were meeting, he looked like death warmed over. I’ll know more after I receive the forensic report . . . hopefully later today.”

  “Well, that’s sure changed a lot since your father started out in this business. Time was when all they could tell you was whether a person died of suspicious causes. Now it’s C.S.I. this and C.S.I that. Now they can tell you what the person had for lunch and if any of the Colonel’s original herbs and spices are missing.”

  “Might be that’s precisely what I’m looking for,” I told Rose.

  “Missing spices?”

  “Something on the table . . . or maybe under the table.” It was a long shot, and I knew I shouldn’t be playing the role of detective, but I was the county coroner. I knew Rose could keep a confidence, and as she had told me earlier, she didn’t mind snooping. “Let’s just keep this to ourselves for now,” I said for good measure. “We’ve still got a funeral to attend to, and after Milt gets here, we’ll make sure he has what he needs.”

  “Is Milt the pastor?”

  “A friend,” I said. “I think he managed some of the Carrington’s business interests.”

  “Sounds like we might need Lance to be our private investigator,” Rose commented.

  “Well, he’s not exactly that,” I noted, “but Lance will be here to give us a processional escort to the cemetery. That might be as close to a Private Eye as we can get today.”

  “Nice morning for a drive,” Rose said. “Too bad it has to be a burial instead of a birth announcement.”

  “Maybe we could find some births,” I said. “There might be a new beginning among these endings somewhere.”

  I watched Rose sip her coffee, checked the time. We were still on schedule, and I was expecting a small crowd for such a last-minute funeral.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Rose said.

  “You’ve already done too much,” I said. “But I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you.”

  Rose smiled, lifted her coffee mug demurely to her powdered face. Sunlight from the east was now streaming through the windows of the chapel forming patterns of crème and crimson on the mottled carpeting. The light—especially illumination wrapped in the drab shroud of a gray Hoosier winter—always made me smile. I needed more light to cut through the darkness.

  I heard the chimes ring at the front door. “That’s probably Milt,” I said. “Let me go greet him. Excuse me, Rose.”

  I hastened down the hallway, said hello to a tall, rigid man who was removing his herringbone overcoat. “Are you Milt?” I asked.

  “I am,” he said. “I guess I’ll be doing Sheila Carrington’s funeral.” Milt didn’t impress me as a business man, and especially not as a public speaker. But the times were changing, and many families were opting for private services instead of large public fanfare and invitation. Furthermore, Milt seemed overly nervous—even morose—and my heart went out to him in his anxiety.

  I thanked him, took his coat to the hall closet, and escorted him into the chapel. “After everyone gets here, I’ll have the podium in position and the microphone turned on. I’ll close these back doors to the chapel and you can speak as long as you like.”

  “I don’t know what to expect today,” Milt said. “I don’t think Sheila had a lot of friends. And this speaking gig isn’t really my forte.”

  “I understand,” I answered. “Whatever the outcome, we’ll proceed over to the cemetery immediately after. You can say whatever you like there for the committal at the graveside.”

  “It’s cold . . . bitter cold,” Milt said, feigning a shiver. “So I won’t say much. I’ll save most of my words for in here . . . where it’s warm. I think Phil will appreciate that, too.”

  I studied Milt, realized that so much had happened overnight. The news had not had enough time to distill through the media and distribute its full weight. He may not have read the newspaper or seen the story on the morning report. “I’m sorry to tell you about Phil,” I told him. “You obviously haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Phil Carrington died in a car accident last night,” I said. “I’m sorry you had to get the word at a time like this.”

  Milt sighed, mouth-open, and then gathered himself. “This is a tragedy,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure what to do. What do I do?”

  “Please speak,” I said. “Go ahead and speak. People will be arriving shortly. And then I’m sure you’ll have some words to share in a few days at Phil’s funeral, too.”

  Milt nodded—but he was swimming in his emotion. I could see the energy, and what little confidence he had, ebbing away. He was numb. “I think I need some time to gather my thoughts,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting this. Phil wasn’t just my boss. He was a good friend.”

  I rested my hand on his back. “I understand,” I said. “You can have a seat in the chapel here or you can come into the office and join me and my secretary for some coffee if you’d like.”

  Milt checked his watch. “I am rather early,” he said. “This funeral has made me nervous, I must confess. So maybe a cup of coffee would steady my nerves.”

  I showed him to the office. Introduced him to Rose. “If you don’t mind,” I told them both, “I’ll go back to the front and make sure our guests find their places. I’ll put out the guest registry. And Milt, you can use my desk if you need to write any notes. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to begin.”

  Milt thanked me and Rose said, “You don’t worry about him. He’s in good hands. We’ll just sit here and get acquainted. And Mary, don’t worry about the phone. I’ll answer if any calls come in.”

  I thanked her and returned to the front doors. I watched as the mailman drove by, shoving handfuls of neatly bundled paper and packages into the mailboxes lining the adjacent street. Two crows were picking at something fleshy and dead along the side of the parking lot. A city worker arrived in a white pickup truck and, after tinkering with the light pole on the corner, also straightened a stop sign and tightened a bolt or two. He drove away in a hurry, likely to another j
ob or perhaps his first long break of the morning.

  Momentarily, our first guests arrived—an older couple who looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting or a Grant Wood masterpiece. They walked across the parking lot, hardened against the cold, rigid as fence posts, and after entering the funeral home, shook themselves in the foyer as if attempting to expel dust or any stray snowflakes from their shoulders. “Good morning,” they said simultaneously.

  I answered the same, and noted that the man was wearing a smart, neatly pressed suit under his overcoat. The woman, perhaps older then he, had been a beauty in her time, her teeth still intact and perfect, her fingernails professionally manicured and painted. “We’re here for the Carrington funeral,” they said.

  “I’m Mary Christmas,” I said, shaking their hands. “The service will be right through those doors, in the chapel. I’ll take your coats.”

  I gathered up their things, hung them in the closet, returned to help them find their way. “We didn’t know Sheila very well,” the man said. “But we knew Phil. I worked for him for a few years before I retired.”

  I was always amazed at how quickly people revealed their relationships and associations. Some people held nothing back, and death was like a curtain lifted, a type of permission that gave people cart blanche willingness to air their dirty laundry or confess pent up secrets that they may have been carrying for years. My father had always laughed about it—saying that he had a corner on the confessional without the priestly authority. “Never be surprised at what people will tell you,” he had noted some months before his death. “And people will tell a funeral director just about everything if you give them an opening.”

  But in the case of Phil Carrington’s death, I was uncertain if I should be the one to reveal the awkward truth. I knew it was going to be a long morning.

  “Is Phil here yet?” the woman asked. “We’d like to offer him our condolences.”

  I took her arm. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” I said. “Phil died last night.”

  They both stood rigid in their shoes, stared at me, eyes wide. “I’m sorry to tell you this today,” I said. “This will not be an easy memorial. But please stay.” Glancing askance at each other, the old couple toddled into the chapel, silent as birds, their breathing heavy. They looked about as if searching for answers in the air.

  I escorted them into the chapel and allowed them to file by Sheila Carrington’s casket. They examined the few flower arrangements on the stands and then wandered, lonely and bewildered, among the vacant chairs. I could only hope that the news would travel fast. “I’ll be out front if you need me,” I told them, taking my leave.

  Heading toward the entrance, I side-stepped my usual sentry post and returned to retrieve my cell phone. My curiosity was getting the best of me and I dialed the morgue, hoped that Blanch would answer. She did.

  “Mary Christmas here,” I said. “I was calling to see if you’d completed your report on Phil Carrington.”

  “Just wrapping things up,” Blanch said lustily. “I was going to call you in an hour or so. But I’ve been able to determine a few facts without going too deep in the lab work.”

  “Oh?”

  “For starters,” Blanch told me, “he didn’t necessarily die from the car accident. There were injuries, yes . . . but he was a sick man. He had frostbite, but then he may have remained undiscovered in that ravine. According to the police report, he was found outside the car. He likely died from injuries sustained at the scene. Or, to put it another way, he was dying when he drove off the road. But he certainly died of head injuries when he was thrown from the car. I’d have to do more work to determine an answer to the question: was he comatose before he slipped over that ravine?”

  “That’s a revelation,” I said. “But do you have a verdict on what may have caused him to pass out?”

  “That’s a bit more difficult to get at,” Blanch said. “Like I say, I’ve still got to run the lab work, take some more samples. I’ve been making copious notes of his car accident injuries, but I think we’re looking for other factors . . . internally.”

  “Anything suspicious jump out at you?”

  “Give me some time,” Blanch said, coughing. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have more answers.”

  “Thank you,” I said. We hung up just as two more couples were walking into the funeral home. I greeted them—all older folks with gray or thinning hair—and pointed them to the chapel. I did not want to be the harbinger of bad news, but waited at the threshold of the chapel doors as the couples greeted each other.

  As more people entered the funeral home in a steady flow, I watched as news of Phil Carrington’s death made the rounds—one by one. Some of the conversations, I noted, were strangled with emotion. Others startlingly silent. I couldn’t help but wonder if Blanch would find an answer to the many questions.

  And perhaps, I thought, there were answers floating about in these conversations as well.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I stood at the threshold of the chapel when the funeral began. Milt was nervous, but he did an excellent job offering a few readings and reflections—kind words that gathered up drips and drams of Sheila Carrington’s life and offered them up to the small congregation, perhaps fifty people, who had gathered in clusters overlooking the casket. There was nothing particularly inspiring about Milt’s presentation, his simple reflections about Sheila Carrington’s life, but there were tears when Milt noted the irony of the situation.

  “What a tragic day,” he said at one point. “We have come here to remember Sheila and now we find that Phil died in the night. We’re shaken. Most of us knew the Carringtons as great employers. We’re going to miss them. But I think most of us are also wondering about the ice company. What’s going to happen now?”

  From my vantage point in the back of the chapel, I studied the thin crowd. There was an oddity to the gathering, a kind of melancholia that was tinged with other emotion—uncertainty, perhaps, or a veneer of formality that hovered on the precipice of boredom. It was as if many were in attendance out of obligation rather than concern, a show of inconvenience.

  There was the one man dressed in a business suit, but otherwise attire was casual, almost to the point of carelessness. A few of the men—perhaps warehouse workers or delivery truck drivers—were wearing steel-toed boots and thermal overalls. But then, it was cold outside, and perhaps even colder in the ice house. There was a woman checking messages on her cell phone, and another young man—a stocky kid with an equestrian build and penetrating stare—wore a sweat shirt sporting the company logo. Only one woman—fiftyish and dyed, a long-legged beauty with heavy eye liner and flaming red lipstick—wore a black dress. And as I looked more introspectively at the small crowd, I could also see additional yawns and darting glances as Milt rounded out his eulogy.

  As Milt closed, there were many who were nodding their heads. One fellow, in the dark business suit, choked back a sob. There was the hush of voices as Milt finished his eulogy and more whispers when he said, “I’m sure we’ll see each other soon at Phil’s funeral. So. So . . . until then.”

  The funeral service complete, I re-entered the room and invited people to file by the casket a final time. A few paused, but most strode quickly by with an air of determination, perhaps an unwillingness to pause so near to death. It was a quick service—not more than fifteen minutes—and, without the amenities of song or liturgy, the words themselves simply flowed by as a stream of consciousness.

  Most people gathered up their coats and departed. Only a handful—including Milt—remained behind to process to the cemetery for the burial. The flourish through the front doors was quick and energetic, as if the group were returning to more pressing concerns, or perhaps to work.

  I wrapped my scarf around my neck and glanced outside. Lance, always faithful, was waiting for me in the patrol car. Although he had never served as a cemetery escort before, he was unfazed, his confidence oozing from his greeting when
I sidled up next to the window in the vaporous cold. He smiled at me. “I hope this won’t be a regular fixture of our relationship,” he said. “I’d rather be out hand-cuffing bad guys.”

  “I promise . . . just this once,” I told him. “You know the way?”

  “Piece of cake,” he said. “And as you say . . . it’s not far.”

  I returned to the hearse, gave instructions to the pall bearers as we loaded Sheila Carrington’s casket into the back. I shut the door and said the parting instructions: “We will follow the patrol car. Please turn out your headlights and flashers. When we get to the cemetery, please return to the back of the hearse.” Everyone—mostly old men in black suits—walked away in silence and loaded into their cars.

  And then we were off.

  It was a short drive across town, just a few minutes—made all the easier due to Lance’s fine escort—and then we unloaded, placed the casket at the grave site, and huddled under a small tent while Milt intoned a few Bible readings and said a hasty, but heartfelt, prayer. The light was in the sky, but everyone—old and bone-weary—was aching from the deep freeze and a slight gust of west-born wind that raked at the tent flaps and set our teeth on edge.

  Lance waved goodbye and hastened away from the cemetery toward warmer digs, the last of the morning easing into afternoon. I said goodbye to Milt and the pallbearers and then slipped away in the hearse, realizing that I would likely see the same crew again at Phil Carrington’s funeral.

  Driving the short distance through town, I noted a new billboard near the interstate. This one by an accident-and-injury lawyer touting huge settlements. He was running a New Year’s special—offering free consultation for motorcycle accident victims. “I’ll bury them,” I thought . . . but he’ll get the money after.

  When I returned to the funeral home and had settled into the office, Rose stated the obvious. “Had you known about both deaths in advance,” she said, “you could have offered two funerals for the price of one.”

  “That does seem valid,” I said. “There are lawyers who advertise specials all the time. But I don’t know about Phil’s arrangements. There doesn’t seem to be any family involved in these decisions. We’ll just have to wait and see.”