Chapter Six
‘Coffee?’ I extend the tray with four coffees toward the funeral home receptionist, Elsie Wu.
She’s dwarfed behind the giant oak desk and the behemoth computer.
Her cramped little office sits off the main foyer of the funeral home.
I smile as widely as I can and try not to resent her for taking the job I wanted.
Elsie doesn’t speak, but shakes her head with a gentle ‘no.’ She’s in her mid-twenties and dresses in plaid skirts, black stockings and high-collared white blouses.
I have yet to see her without the giant velvet black bow in her hair.
She seems cool in a quirky way. But she’s so quiet – shy?
guarded? over it? – I might never know. It’s fine, though.
She didn’t overlap with Zoe, so I don’t have to crack this particular nut.
‘OK, no worries,’ I say. ‘Busy day today?’
Elsie just smiles gently. At least, I think it’s a smile. Her lips barely move.
‘Well … see you around!’ I leave the office. The foyer is drenched in the smell of flowers, a scent I happen to find sickening, so I raise the coffee tray to my nose as I walk through.
From Elsie’s office, I go down the short hall that abuts the foyer and knock on my boss’s door. When I hear the deep ‘come in,’ I open the door, tray first. ‘Good morning, Mr Anderson! Coffee?’
‘No,’ says Mr Anderson in his rich radio baritone, waving at the coffee as if to erase it from existence. ‘Come in, come in, and please, do call me Bill.’
‘Right! And sorry I’m la—’
‘Today’s work.’ He extends a sheaf of papers, and I have to set down the tray of coffees to take it.
I leaf through as Bill turns back to his computer and types, painfully slow, with index fingers only.
As expected, body pickup papers. Three pickups today.
Busy, but maybe between number two and three I can wander down to the crematory …
My phone vibrates, and I check it as discreetly as possible. George is ‘thrilled,’ ‘dyingggg,’ and ‘told-you-so’-ing me so hard it’s surprising my cell phone hasn’t literally exploded. Unfortunately, her details about Liam are sketchy at best. I scan the texts as they arrive.
I think he’s a finance guy??? Idk? But I think that’s all art collectors???
Arjun says he plays ultimate frisbee!!! Maybe the four of us can do a frisbee double date??? Let’s talk more tomorrow at your fitting!!!
I grimace. I know George, and if I’m not careful, she’ll make the date happen, like, tomorrow.
How about we talk double dates after your wedding? I text back.
Wait so does this mean you have a date for my wedding??? Please say yes!
I send her back some eye emojis, which sit in that perfectly gray space between encouraging and vague.
‘Your first pickup is a house call,’ Bill says, nearly giving me a heart attack as I conceal my phone under the paperwork and return my attention to him. ‘A house call,’ he repeats, then observes me quietly for a few seconds as if to gauge my reaction. ‘You know about house calls, right?’
I nod, trying to fortify myself. I’ll be collecting the body of someone who died at home, who’s likely still in their bed, with who knows how many family members watching my every move. No big deal. Totally fine. Not nervous at all.
‘Questions?’ says Bill.
‘I mean … I’m aware I haven’t done one of those yet,’ I say lightly as if mentioning an ice cream flavor I have yet to sample. ‘But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.’
‘Not on your own. House calls are two-person jobs. Sometimes there’s stairs to deal with. You know, awkward spaces, lots of maneuvering. The gurney won’t always fit where you want it to. And …’ He points a finger at the papers. ‘This one’s on the third floor.’
I nod even more furiously as images of angling a dead body up a narrow apartment stairwell fill my head.
Like the couch Zoe and I had to lug up two flights of stairs on move-in day.
At one point, the couch was completely vertical, with Zoe wedged underneath it.
Let’s just say that the couch did not make it into the apartment intact.
And while a corpse won’t know the difference of a couple extra knocks, if the family’s watching …
‘There used to be more home pickups, you know,’ Bill muses, momentarily softening his gaze into the distance. ‘Back when my dad ran this place, it was the majority of our business. It was a better time. People prefer to die at home. Now it’s all hospitals.’
‘Hospitals are the worst,’ I say.
‘Indeed.’ Bill refocuses on me and tents his hands under his chin.
‘It’s delicate, home pickups. Talking through things with the family, making sure they’re comfortable.
You’re taking their loved one away right in front of them, Margot.
It takes a special touch.’ He gives me a long look, as if probing my soul to see if I have that special touch.
He makes a low ‘hmm’ in this throat. I can’t tell if it’s approval or doubt.
‘I’ll do my very best,’ I promise. Honestly, though? These families have no idea how lucky they are that there is a body. ‘Um … so who’s going with me?’
‘Normally, Buddy is our guy. But he’s on medical leave right now, so it’ll have to be Devin. He should head up here any moment.’ As if by magic, there’s a light rap at the door.
Yes! Finally, a stroke of luck! Let’s see who this elusive Devin is …
‘Ah. Mr Donaghy. Come in,’ says Bill, beckoning with his hand.
I turn slowly, and there he is, looking straight at me with dark eyes.
I don’t even have to try to assign him a fish.
Obviously, he’s a black dragonfish. No question.
It’s not just because of his lank midnight-black hair that he wears in a snaky ponytail and is totally reminiscent of the eel-like body of the fish.
It’s the look in his eyes that’s both haunted and hungry.
Someone who spends too much time in dark, solitary, dead places.
He looks around my age, mid-twenties, but carries himself like he’s lived a lot longer.
And OK, I’m not saying he’s a bad guy just because he looks so intense. But has it occurred to me that someone who deals with destroying corpses all day might be desensitized enough to be a killer? Of course.
I’m not even saying it’s likely he’s killed Zoe.
Male serial killers usually choose to kill strangers as opposed to people they know.
I’ve done my research. However … maybe he had a thing for Zoe?
And if she wasn’t into him, maybe he got angry, killed her and burned the evidence.
I realize this is a pretty big leap, and fully admit my imagination is probably going wild.
Then again, I’ve been on Reddit enough to know that anything is possible.
‘Hi,’ I squeak out with a big smile, as if going into friendly cartoon mode will somehow protect me. ‘I’m Margot.’ I extend a hand, but instead of moving forward to shake it, he just tips his chin, turns and says,
‘Let’s go.’
*
‘So next, we’re going to, um, lift Mrs Baughman and move her from the bed on to the gurney,’ I say in my most calm, professional voice.
Though Devin has been very efficient positioning the gurney right next to the bed where Mrs Baughman lies in state, he is not at all talkative, and the dozen family members gathered around seem to be looking to me for what’s going on.
In fact, the whole ride up, he blasted music so loud I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
I thought about just turning the music off, but that felt aggressive, and a bad way to start our chat.
‘On three,’ I say to Devin. He nods. I feel a bit sick as we grab the corners of her sheet.
I’m at her head, Devin’s at her feet, and as I lift a little bit, she flops toward me, making my heart lurch into my throat.
If I drop her in front of her loving husband of fifty years and the five-year-old grandkid who hasn’t blinked a single time …
At this point, pure adrenaline is fueling me, and a voice in my head is chanting on repeat, Do not screw this up, do not screw this up …
‘One, two, three,’ I say, and suddenly Mrs Baughman is airborne, and we’re sliding her on to the gurney.
Triumph overtakes me in one, hot wave, but air pumping my fist would not be appropriate.
I keep my voice calm. ‘Next, we’re going to cover her with a sheet, secure her with some straps and then we’ll carry her out to the vehicle.
Does anyone want to have a last moment with her before we cover her up? ’
This initiates a whole fifteen-minute procession of family members taking a minute with her body and murmuring last words.
Honestly, it’s kind of beautiful. I mean, she doesn’t look great.
Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes are half open too, like she drank too much and passed out, and her skin is a waxy yellow.
But to all the family present, she’s not just a body, or a logistical challenge.
This body is where a woman lived recently – up until ten hours ago.
It’s probably weird to feel jealous right now, but as I watch each person take their time, that’s what I’m experiencing. I never got to say goodbye to my best friend, and I realize the odds are I never will.
It’s hard to imagine Zoe dead. She was always extra alive.
I felt like I was burning the midnight oil with my job at the dentist office alone, but she was always doing more.
Working at Anderson & Pulaski, making her art, partying her ass off.
And that’s not even getting into her activism.
The Women’s March in DC. Take Back the Night.
She loved to wax eloquent about women supporting women, which of course always pinged the coffee shop in my mind, and the ensuing guilt that I’d done nothing about it.