The Undertaker

“Me? I keep people from getting their noses stuck in places they don't belong.”

“Now that does sound interesting.”

“Sometimes it is. Sometimes it saves 'em a lot of time and trouble.” He seemed to be studying me, not sure. “Like you, for instance. You came all the way here from Boston? That's a long damn way to come for a funeral.”

“Well, you know how close us Talbotts are, Sheriff.” I looked down and saw Dannmeyer had a U. S. Marine Corps emblem and “Semper Fi” tattooed on his hairy forearm. “Semper Fi? Well, goddamn! Were you in the Crotch?”

“Hey, is there anything else?” Dannmeyer suddenly beamed.

“No shit, what unit?”

“Fifth Marines. And you?”

“Me? Oh, I was in the Army, but I just love those cute jarhead tattoos.”

His eyes narrowed. His smile faded and he couldn't quite make up his mind whether I had put him on or insulted him. Whichever, he knew he didn't like it. Slowly he backed his head out of the car and handed me back my driver's license, but those hard eyes never left me.

“The fuckin’ Army, huh,” he said as he spat on the ground, gave me a two-fingered salute, and slowly put the silver-lensed sunglasses back on. “You be real careful driving back to Boston. We had to scrape the last two Talbotts off a bridge abutment out on I-71 and you wouldn't want to put us through all that mess again, now would you?” Then he turned and walked back to his cruiser. He got in and slowly backed the big car away from the gate.

I tried not to smile, but I couldn't help it as I drove on through, turned south, and didn't stop until the cemetery was long gone from my rear view mirror.

A private family funeral? The whole thing stunk even worse now than it had before. Maybe it was Greene and that expression of surprise on his face when he looked up and saw me sitting in the chapel. Maybe it was the callous indifference of those men in the black suits as they stood under the awning, smoking and laughing while clods of dirt thumped down on the two wooden caskets. Or, maybe it was Sheriff Dannmeyer's attitude that got to me most, that look of dim-witted power and arrogance. I turned the car around and headed back toward Peterborough. I wanted some answers, and I figured the best way to get was to put the screws to the good Mr. Greene.

CHAPTER THREE

All it takes is one slippery mortician…

It was nearly 3:00 by the time I got back to the funeral home. The parking lot was as empty as it had been when I left. Looking in the far corner, I saw that the five employee cars were still there, but some of those must belong to the crew that had taken the coffins to the cemetery. In any event, the day's business appeared to be finished and it was too early for the evening's schedule of wakes to begin, so I had the parking lot all to myself. I stepped inside. Other than the gaudy floral arrangement in the center of the room, the foyer was still empty. They'd switched off the organ music. Even the sticky-sweet flower smell had vanished. Figured.

I walked down the hallway to the right and found Greene's business office at the far end. There was a black felt sign on the wall next to the door with the usual gold letters that said “Enter,” so I did. There was no one in the outer office. It was well appointed, like the rest of the place, with a beautiful couch and loveseat, two tall wingback chairs, and colonial prints on the wall, straight out of the Ethan Allen catalog. The secretary's big, L-shaped mahogany desk was empty. It had a laser printer, a modem, fax machine, cables, wires, and a large computer with a flat screen. Impressive. And expensive. Greene probably had his own web page too. I could just picture those two hearses outside rolling down the fast lane of the Information Super Highway. Why should that come as a surprise either?

I heard a familiar, syrupy male voice coming through the doorway to the right. There was a bright red light on one of the extensions on the secretary's telephone console, so I walked over and peered around the doorframe. It was Greene all right, the silver-haired undertaker himself, leaning back in an over-sized leather desk chair, feet up on the desk, his eyes closed, talking on the telephone.

“Yes, very tragic, very tragic indeed, Mrs. Casey, but you can take comfort from the fact that your mother led a full, rich life right up to the end, didn't she?” Greene was still wearing his suit coat, tie up, jacket buttoned. Habit, no doubt, like the thin plastic smile and the expression of mournful empathy. Maybe it was pinned in place or painted on, like a mannequin's. “No, no, Mrs. Casey, you have other things on your mind right now. I shall contact the hospital myself, personally ... Yes ... and we'll see to all the arrangements.”