Collect the Pieces (Lost Kings MC #25)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Margot

Cold fear streaks down my spine.

My heart thumps wildly.

Detectives have stopped by before. Wanting to observe a service or ask questions about a family member. We’ve certainly organized funerals for several members of law enforcement over the years.

This visit could be totally normal.

Or the end of my freedom.

An ominous cloud hovers over me. Like somehow my conversation with Jigsaw last night was overheard by the universe and it ratted me out to the sheriff.

Grabbing my professional composure by the throat, I force my lips into a gracious and welcoming smile. “How can I help you?”

“May we come in?” the short, older, pot-bellied man asks.

“Of course.” My voice settles into the soft, dulcet tone I use with clients, concealing the chaos gathering inside me.

I step back to allow them inside.

Detective Wood crosses the threshold first.

The older detective stops and hands me a business card embossed with the shiny red sheriff’s insignia and the man’s name across the top. Walt Wearmouth. Strange name.

Walt hesitates as he steps into the foyer. Maybe he’s arrived at an age where he fears the reaper.

To further unsettle him, I lead both detectives into the viewing room, instead of the cozier parlor across the hallway.

The younger detective tucks his hands in his pockets. “Do you know a Patrick Larsen?”

Holy shit.

“I know of him.” I clasp my hands in front of me and tilt my head, like I’m a good little citizen eager to help.

“He was found dead a few weeks ago.”

“Oh.” I refuse to say “that’s too bad,” or express any sort of sympathy for that monster. But I’ll happily play dumb. “Well, my father usually handles the logistics…I can call him?—”

“No, no. That’s not why we’re here.” The young cop gives the old one a sideways glance. “Do you know Laurel Larsen too?”

“Yes. Is she okay?”

“ How do you know her?” Detective Wearmouth asks.

They should have this information somewhere, shouldn’t they? “We took care of her daughter’s cremation after Mr. Larsen beat her so badly their baby was stillborn.” I enunciate each word clearly, hoping they understand just how little of a fuck I give about Patrick Larsen’s death.

“Have you spoken to her since then?” Detective Wood asks.

“Not since the service.” I turn and peer into the hallway. Where’d Jigsaw go? “She sent me a thank-you card but I haven’t spoken to her.”

“Can we see the card?”

“Uh, yeah.” Where’d I put it? Dad’s office probably. I wouldn’t have taken it upstairs. I incline my head, indicating they can follow me.

No sign of Jigsaw in the hallway. I try to casually glance into the parlor but unless I stop and crane my neck around the corner, I can’t see much.

Inside my father’s office, I round the desk and walk straight to the wall where he often tacks up personal notes from family members. Laurel’s card is tucked into the corner with the envelope behind it.

It’s nothing fancy. A small, simple white card with a white rose on the front.

I quickly flip it open even though I already know what it says.

Dear Mr. Cedarwood and Margot,

I don’t have the words to fully express the depth of my gratitude for your kindness and generosity during one of the most painful times in my life. The care and compassion you showed in arranging and caring for baby Ashley is a comfort to my heart in a way I didn’t think was possible.

Forever grateful,

Laurel

Tears sting my eyes. Not the time to get emotional. I close the card and hand it to Detective Wood. He flips it open and slowly scans the note, then passes it to his partner.

Without looking at the card, Detective Wearmouth asks, “Did you have any personal interaction with Mrs. Larsen?”

“Of course I did,” I answer in a tone meant to convey what a dumb question that is. “The normal interaction I’d have with any family. She also stopped by before the service to give me a baby blanket that she knitted.” I have to stop to take a breath. “She asked to have her daughter wrapped in it.”

This man must be made of stone, his expression doesn’t shift at all. “Is that normal?”

“Nothing about the situation was normal . But yes, parents especially, will give us items to put in with their children.”

Detective Wood groans.

Oh, sorry. Did that make you uncomfortable?

Detective Wearmouth flips the envelope over and studies the blank side. “No return address,” he mutters.

“She said she was going to stay with her mom or her sister,” I offer. “But I didn’t ask for the address.”

“Why not?”

I only stalk bad guys. “We didn’t need it.”

“No final bills or anything?” he persists.

I drop my gaze to the floor. “There were no bills. My father didn’t charge her for the service. For any of it.”

“What about the remains?” Detective Wood asks.

“They were ready for her at the service.”

“Is that normal?” Detective Wearmouth asks. “Not to charge for a funeral?”

“As I said, nothing about the situation was normal.” After a breath, I add, “Thankfully.”

“Did your father know Mrs. Larsen before she came to you for the funeral?”

My eyes widen in surprise. Why would they think that? “No. As far as I know, she was referred to us by the hospital.”

“Then why the free funeral?”

Why are they so stuck on this point?

How do I explain human decency to two people who probably don’t see a lot of it?

“It was an awful…tragic situation. We often waive costs for stillborn babies or infants.” I swallow hard, fighting for composure. “The cost and work for us is much less in those cases. It just seems like the right thing to do.” I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and stare Detective Wearmouth down. “Three generations of Cedarwoods have operated this way. We’re not unique. Other funeral homes have similar policies.”

April says even her soulless, corporate funeral home waives the cost for a simple infant burial.

“I see.” Detective Wearmouth grunts and hands the card back to me.

They still seem suspicious. They’re detectives who deal with death on a regular basis. But they’re on the ugliest end of it. Their job isn’t to care for the dead and bring families peace. It’s to bring bad men to justice.

If they didn’t fail at their jobs so often, I wouldn’t have to be standing here as nervous as a mortician awaiting her own autopsy.