Chapter 1
Waverly Pembrooke
Newton Creek, Wisconsin
One would think coming upon the scene of one’s uncle and aunt’s brutal slaying would be enough to send one into a dead faint.
Instead, it was the cut of the trocar into her uncle’s corpse that caused Waverly Pembrooke to slide off her seat and onto the floor in a pile of black mourning silk.
She was brought to by smelling salts and the perturbed tapping of male fingertips against her cheek.
First a blurry face with skin darker than most of the area’s European descendants came into view, and then vivid blue eyes narrowed into irritated slits.
“As I said before you became one with the floor, Miss Pembrooke, the embalming process is not for the faint of heart, let alone a female, and certainly not in one’s own home.”
Waverly blinked and tried to gather her senses. She wasn’t fond of weakness and simpering and the poppycock that went along with it, perhaps because her aunt—her very murdered aunt who lay awaiting her own embalming—had always encouraged it.
“No man will ever feel needed if you laud yourself to be as intelligent and strong as they are.”
Waverly struggled into a sitting position, batting off the undertaker’s hands of assistance. That was precisely the point she wanted to make to men. She was as intelligent as they were, yet her body had betrayed her strength.
“I’m . . . I’m quite all right.” Waverly reached for the chair she’d been sitting in and pulled herself up.
“You aren’t.” The undertaker’s gravelly vocal cords grated on her nerves.
“You’re not a doctor, Mr. Fitzgerald. You’re merely an undertaker.
” Waverly hoped it would put the man, a mere ten years her senior, in his place.
She had known him since her arrival at Traeger Hall a year ago.
They were acquaintances, perhaps bordering on hesitant friendship.
But now? This was quite embarrassing indeed.
His mustache quirked, and Waverly had no idea how to interpret the expression on his face.
That her words seemed to have no effect irked her.
“And yet here I am, applying the smelling salts.” He shoved the cork back into its vial.
“As I stated before, Miss Pembrooke, you should take your leave during this process. It is unseemly at best. Your uncle is barely clothed at the moment, and the inappropriateness of your presence will be gossiped about for the next decade.”
Her uncle. Waverly allowed her vision to rest again on his body.
Wiry gray hair sprung from her uncle’s chest that had been recently bathed from the crusted blood that had covered it.
All fourteen stab wounds now seemed like small cuts in spongy flesh rather than the violent marks of death.
His face was gray in pallor. His arms lay by his sides, and a white sheet covered his nether regions.
“My uncle has no opinion at the moment,” Waverly muttered, swallowing the nausea she felt. “His requests prior to his death were very clear. His body was not to be removed from Traeger Hall, and a member of the Traeger family must be present with his body until lowered into the grave.”
And that responsibility fell onto her shoulders, the only remaining heir—all gratitude given to her aunt—to the Traeger Estate, bank, sawmill, and subsequent authority earned by status over the town of Newton Creek, Wisconsin.
“That is hardly unusual, hence the term wake. But do you truly, Miss Pembrooke, intend to sleep beside the corpses until a dead man’s wishes are appeased?
I hardly imagine your uncle meant his words to be taken so literally as to deny you the privilege of leaving the room.
It’s ungodly. A ridiculous request, if I may say so.
” Mr. Fitzgerald retorted and returned to the side of the deceased Leopold Traeger.
“You may not.” Waverly folded her gloved hands in her lap and straightened her posture.
“And how long did your uncle say he was to remain unburied?” Mr. Fitzgerald’s voice was muffled as he bent over the body.
Waverly swallowed back another wave of nausea. “Seven days,” she answered, “to be certain of his state of death.”
“Seven days. Four, I understand, is traditional, but seven?” Mr. Fitzgerald jabbed the trocar into the abdominal cavity once again, intent on releasing the embalming fluid that contained a mixture of arsenic and herbs.
“If this hasn’t killed him and he awakens in four, I will resign from my position as undertaker.
We’d best double the request for floral arrangements.
I would also advise you to consider obtaining incense and the like and burning it slowly.
” He lifted his head and gave the spacious front parlor of Traeger Hall a once-over.
“This room is going to be quite ripe by the end of seven days.”
“At which point then we shall rest,” Waverly added.
His oceanic blue eyes locked on to hers. “Miss Pembrooke, only God rests on the seventh day. We, on the other hand, shall be busy burying the dead.”