The Undertaker

Odd. His voice was animated and very empathetic, but his expression never changed. It showed no emotion at all, as if it was detached, or it was a recording, and I felt another cold shiver run down my back. Maybe this guy had been around too many dead bodies and too much grief, I thought, but he was scary.

Finally, Greene opened his eyes and saw me standing in the office doorway. He never blinked. Not the slightest hint of surprise. “Mrs. Casey, I promise you I will call you back in the morning. Yes, I will take care of everything... Now never you fear, just try to get some rest... Yes, you too.”

His delicate white hand placed the telephone back in its cradle and he looked up at me with those sincere, brown cow eyes. “I'm sorry, but Miss Sturgis has left for the day.”

“I assume you're Mr. Greene, of the funeral home Greenes?”

“Indeed I am. Lawrence Greene, the proprietor,” he said as he dropped his legs to the floor and straightened his jacket, his eyes not leaving me. “Is there some way I can be of assistance?”

“Well, I was curious about the Talbott funeral.”

“Ah,” he said as he drew the word out in a soft sigh. “Now I remember. You were there in the chapel, you and that other man.”

“I was there for the… service,” I answered as I looked around his spacious office. There wasn't a sheet of paper on his desk, not a file folder to be seen. Showroom clean.

“Ah, yes,” he continued to study me carefully, eying me from head to foot. Did you know them, then? Mr. and Mrs. Talbott?”

“Not nearly as well as I should have.”

“Isn't that always the case?” came the syrupy reply.

On the far wall hung the usual array of licenses and certificates from the state, the Chamber of Commerce, even the Boy Scouts. “You throw a nice funeral service here in Peterborough, Mr. Greene. Brief and to the point. Not much of a crowd, though.”

“All too typical when people die so young, so tragically,” he shrugged, his lips forming a soft, commiserating smile. “Friends? Relatives? Sometimes, they can't bring themselves to come to the service, they can't bear the pain.”

“The closed caskets?”

“It was a very bad accident.”

“I bet. A fire, wasn't it?”

“No, their automobile was struck by a train at one of those unguarded crossings over on the east side somewhere. You know how dangerous those things can be at night. As I said, it was very bad. And you are ...?”

“Mr. Talbott.”

I saw a flash of surprise cross Greene's face. “Oh? A relative, then?”

“Me? Oh, no, I'm the deceased.”

The soft brown eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and the thin smile began to fade. “If this is some kind of joke, sir, I fail to see ...”

“It's no joke, Mr. Greene. That was me you buried.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver's license. “I'm Peter Emerson Talbott, thirty-three years old, from Los Angeles, a lieutenant in the Army, UCLA, and all the rest.” I stepped closer to his polished mahogany desk and leaned on it with both hands, getting right up in his face. “I could show you my Visa card, my old business card, and my library card if you want, not that it matters to me, but I'm the guy you buried, all right.”

Greene looked up at me. My eyes locked on his and I saw him flinch. I saw it. In that moment of surprise and uncertainty, the brief look in Greene's eyes told me everything I wanted to know. I had him. The bastard was lying, but he was a pro. He was doing the backstroke as fast as he could and doing an admirable job of keeping his head above water, but it was too late. For that split second, I saw the truth in his eyes

He coughed and sat up, carefully studying my driver's license again. “Well, uh, it does indeed appear that your name is Peter Emerson Talbott, I will concede you that,” he shrugged. “And a remarkable coincidence, I would say.”

“Coincidence? You bury some guy who's pretending to be me and you call that a coincidence?”

“The name,” he looked up, appearing to study me. “Perhaps the age and race. Those are the only similarities I see. As for the rest of it, your delusion that someone was pretending to be you; well, I'm not in any position to comment about that. Frankly, you do not even look like the man,” he smiled pleasantly. “Or more correctly, what was left of him.”

“I guess we'll never know, will we?”

Greene blinked again. “Mr. ... Talbott? What are you suggesting?”

“That something's seriously wrong here. That wasn't Peter Emerson Talbott you buried today. It wasn't my wife Theresa June Talbott either, and I want some answers.”

“How dare you,” he puffed, but he couldn't pull it off.

I stared down at that stuffed shirt and felt the heat rising. I wanted to reach across the desk and slap the smile off his face, but I didn't.