(2012) Colder Than Death (4 page)

“Thought I did 'til I found out she was killed nine years ago. And from what I've learned so far, she won't be a sympathetic victim. Your basic party girl. Liked to put the booze away. Dance on tables. You know the type. Black sheep of the family. No long-term employment. And what's worse, hardly anyone remembers anything about her. Gowen and Timerlane aren't saying it, but they view this as unimportant. Like big city cops not spending more than a second investigating the murder of a junkie or a prostitute. But let the Mayor of Youngstown get bumped off and they'll call in Interpol.”

“So... who was she?”

“Name's Susan Parker. Actually, went by the name of Brandy. I did a check on the computer. Missing person report. We had her down as a probable runaway nine years ago. I vaguely remembered the name. Got the word from the Coroner yesterday afternoon. I've been digging through her file, such as it is. My dad interviewed a few people back then. His notes say it was more likely that she took off, then met with foul play.”

“How old?”

“She'd be twenty-eight now.” He extended his hand, which held a wrinkled nine-by-twelve manila envelope. “Here. Has a picture of her.”

I opened the file and saw a somewhat tattered, five-by-seven color photograph of a hard-looking, but essentially pretty girl with longish red hair, an upturned nose, mischievous grin and full pouty lips. She had a feisty, defiant expression on her face. I also noticed a scar about five inches long running from her right eye to her upper lip.

“Notice anything special about that picture, Del?”

I looked at it again for a few seconds, not quite sure what Perry was wanting me to spot.

“Check out her T-shirt, genius. It's the ‘I'm a Virgin Islander’ thing she had on when we found her body. Remember?”

“So?”

“Unless she was in the habit of wearing that T-shirt a lot, doesn't it stand to reason that she might've been killed not too long after this picture was taken?”

“Maybe. Is there a date on it?”

“Nope. And her family doesn't remember when it was taken or who took it. It was stashed in an old photo album. I asked if maybe the girl had a boyfriend back then who could've taken the picture, but from the answer I got knew I was heading in the wrong direction. Her sister, the person I was talking to, lowered her head like she was embarrassed and real soft said, ‘My sister had a lot of boyfriends’ which is important information because it lets me know what kind of girl she was.”

“Promiscuous women don't deserve to be murdered.”

“Don't go getting all liberal and moral on me, Del. Even if she were the biggest whore in town she'd have rights. But being how she was, it's gonna make finding out who killed her even harder. And for what it's worth, I asked her sister if the dead girl knew any cemetery buffs. She said she didn't know much about her sister's personal life or her friends so I let it go.”

From inside, the telephone rang. “I better get that.”

“I said what I came to say. But listen, unless I can convince Gowen and Timerlane to take more responsibility for this solving this murder, I may be needing you.”

The remark caught me off guard. “For what?”

“The only thing I have to go on so far is what you said about the killer being a cemetery buff. Who knows what other info you have locked in that Coffin Boy head of yours?”

Before I could say anything he turned away. I made a beeline for the Counseling Room where the nearest phone was located. I grabbed it on the fourth ring.

“Henderson's Funeral Home. May I help you?”

“I need to arrange a funeral,” said a low-pitched female voice. I reached for a pen. “For my sister.”

“Could I have your name please?”

“Suzanne Worthington.”

“How soon can you come over and discuss the arrangements?” I said as I wrote down the name.

There was a hesitancy. Almost childishly, she said, “Do I
have
to come there? Can't we do whatever has to be done over the phone?”

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to, but there is the matter of choosing a coffin, deciding on a vault, picking the type of service you want... that sort of thing. And if you don't already have a burial plot we'll have to decide on that, as well.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ground burial or above-ground in a crypt. Or cremation. Whichever, it means a drive to the cemetery.” I paused purposely for a few seconds, then said, “Unless, of course, you already have a gravesite.”

“I don’t.”

“Then we
really
should talk in person. How soon can you be here?”

There was silence followed by a deep sigh, then she said, “I suppose I can come now.”

“Fine. But I'll need a little more information, starting with where to go to claim your sister's remains.”

“The County morgue,” she said, barely above a whisper.”

It was as I was jotting down the word ‘morgue’ beneath Suzanne Worthington's name that I first wondered if possibly her dead sister was the woman found in the mausoleum. Most of the bodies we handle are removed from a hospital or nursing home or the deceased's own residence. It's not often that we claim a corpse at the Coroner's, and only when an autopsy was required, which itself is a fairly rare occurrence in a small town. “Could I have your sister's name?”

“Brandy Parker,” she said softly. “Actually her birth name was Susan. Brandy is the girl in the mausoleum. I'm sure you've read about it.”

“Yes. I'm sorry.” I waited a moment, then pressed on. This was the money part of my business. The compassion and sympathy would come later. “Did Brandy have life insurance?”

“No. Actually, I should say that I don't believe so. It's complicated. I've been under the assumption that she was alive, that she had simply run away. It's only been since last night that I found out she's dead and... I haven't had time to look into anything like insurance. But if you're concerned about payment, I'll be handling it. Can I pay by credit card?”

“Of course.”

“By the way,” she said. “Who
are
you? I just realized I don't have the slightest idea to whom I'm speaking.”

“I'm Del Coltrane, the Funeral Director here. Do you know where we're located, Ms. Worthington?”

“Yes.
Mrs
.”

“Then I'll expect you shortly. Park your car in the lot and come around to the rear entrance.”

“Alright.”

I said good-bye. I immediately splashed on a dose of Royal Copenhagen. I always try to smell nice when I sit down to make funeral arrangements. It helps to cover the scent of formaldehyde that sometimes drifts from the Embalming Room throughout the Home despite the high-priced chemicals Nolan used to downplay the aroma.

Chapter 6

Suzanne Worthington arrived in a blue Cutlass, probably a year old. She pulled into an empty spot close to the side entrance of the Home. The driver's side of her car was in full view from my office. I had my eyes on the car door, primarily in order to get a quick fix on her before meeting her in person.

I'd learned that by clocking a person for a few seconds before we sat down I could get a slight edge. The make and model of their car, their clothing, how they carried themselves. Were they listening to music as they pulled up and, if so, what type? In the case of women, if they were made up and had their hair carefully coifed and were dressed in such a way that suggested they took time in selecting the outfit, they would be harder to talk into pricey funerals. On the other hand, let a woman show up looking distressed, eyes bloodshot from crying, wearing little or no make-up, hair uncombed or covered with a haphazardly tied scarf and conveying an unashamed grief, I would have a great chance of negotiating an expensive funeral.

As I waited for the driver’s door to open, suddenly a movement in the back seat caught my eye. It was as if someone had been lying down in the back and had hurriedly gotten up. Then, the left rear door swung open and the blur was on the edge of the seat, sliding out.

It was a teenage girl.

From the gawkiness of her figure I guessed her age to be fourteen. She wore kelly green Italian combat boots, black baggy shorts and a Metallica T-shirt, also black and shredded. Her red hair was pulled into a bun, only the bun wasn't taut or perfectly rounded. Instead, haphazard wisps of hair hung loosely, like threads from a disentangled spider web. She had on a pair of cheap aviator sunglasses and wore no make-up. Her lips, without gloss or lipstick, were a whitish pink. And her face was swollen, undoubtedly from crying. Overall, she had a sad, distressed aura about her.

I knew that she was in genuine grief. If Suzanne Worthington looked the same, I would most likely be negotiating a substantial deal. I breathed a sigh of relief and my hopes lifted, but my joy was temporary when I got my first glimpse of Suzanne. She moved with an almost offensive jauntiness and authority. There was definitely a bounce to her stride. People in mourning don't bounce. They lumber along in a zombielike gait. Just as the young girl with her exuded an inner sorrow, she radiated impatience and a let's-get-this-over-with-fast attitude.

She struck me as being somewhere in her late thirties to early forties with a burgeoning weight problem and the vestiges of a youthful beauty beginning to fade. She wore a loose-fitting, floral print sundress. She called out to the young girl who had gotten out of the back seat and had started walking towards the Home. “Wait for me. We’ll go in together!”

The girl shot Suzanne a dirty look, which she did not see, and waited for her. I assumed they were mother and daughter.

The instant they crossed out of my sight I walked briskly to the rear entrance. As I made my way I squirted a spray of Binaca into my mouth. By the time I got to the door, Suzanne was pressing the bell.

We exchanged greetings that were more businesslike than polite, me saying, “Mrs. Worthington?” and she saying a curt, “Hello” then introducing the girl as her daughter, Quilla. Seeing her puffy face and bloodshot hazel eyes close-up, I gave a comforting smile to the girl. She made momentary eye contact with me, then glanced down. “Right this way,” I said, opening the door.

They stepped inside, Quilla following her mother. It was a pleasant enough looking room with muted colors, a classic mahogany desk that had belonged to Lew's father, two oxblood leather chairs, matching sofa and a couple of innocuous framed prints of sailboats on the off-white walls. We called it the Counseling Room because it was where we brought people to discuss funeral arrangements.

To give the room an aura of dignity we had a couple of fake Tiffany lamps and three-glass encased mahogany book-shelves filled with two different sets of long out of date encyclopedias and several books by three writers: Herman Melville, Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck. The books had been in the room since before I'd been associated with the Home and I have no idea who chose them or why. I once asked Lew and he didn't know either. They'd been there since he was a boy. Lew guessed that his father had probably obtained them from an estate sale.

Suzanne sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. Her daughter plopped on the sofa and immediately picked up one of the throw pillows and clutched it to her stomach. Because there was no insurance, I assumed it would be a quick meeting.

I began this meeting as I always do: “How many nights of viewing would you like?”

“None.”

“Bullshit!”

Mother and daughter glared at each other.

“I mean,” Suzanne continued, taking in the girl's icy stare. “I would
like
to have some kind of memorial service, but considering the condition of her body... even if it weren't in such a bad way... I don't know if there's anyone who would even
come
to pay their respects.”

“One never knows about such things,” I said. “Word spreads. Old friends and acquaintances pop out of the woodwork. Co-workers. You'd be surprised.”

“I don't anticipate many people,” she said curtly. “So if my husband and daughter and I and a few friends will be the only ones it doesn't make sense to have the coffin there because it would have to be closed and the thought of knowing that my sister... or what's left of her being in a coffin a few feet away from me... I don't know, Mister Coltrane. This is so difficult. I'm not good at death.”

“
Lots
of people would come to see her,” blurted Suzanne's daughter in a voice that was inappropriately loud and assertive. “Aunt Brandy was very popular.”

Suzanne glared at the girl, then tersely, almost with a tinge of intentional cruelty, said, “The kind of men she was popular with aren't the type who pay respects.”

“Who cares if she liked to have a good time?” the girl stated firmly. “She had people who miss her and care about her and would come to see her.”

Suzanne looked at me, sort of half rolling her eyes, then with exasperation said, “Even if there were people interested in coming, they wouldn't be seeing her. They would be looking at an ugly, depressing closed coffin.”

“But at least they would be near her,” said the girl, lurching forward. “They could touch the coffin and know she's inside and maybe it would make them feel better and... ”

“What would be inside is nothing but bones with some strands of flesh, Quilla, and I don't think anyone in their right mind would want to go near it.”

“
I
would,” the girl said defiantly.

I felt for the kid. Her pain almost oozed out of her. I saw this as an opportunity to make some money. “Mrs. Worthington, we have closed coffin visitations quite often.” Quilla smirked at her mother, then looked at me. “I assure you,” I continued. “That, while it might be disconcerting now to know that your sister's remains are inside the coffin, once the reality of that fact sets in it's not as bothersome as you might think.”

Quilla continued to stare at me. In her eyes, bloodshot as they were from crying, I felt a twinkle that she was beginning to consider me an ally. “What's usually done is to place a photograph of the deceased directly over the coffin.”

“That would be excellent,” Quilla said.

“Seeing the face of the deceased somehow enables people to forget that the person is lying in the coffin,” I glanced at Quilla who stared intensely at me, then added, “There's another delicate area. It's the matter of clothes.”