Always Kiss the Corpse (42 page)

She said nothing for a minute or two. A breeze had come up and they'd lost the sun. Would a nice man ever bash her around? Would a nice man kill himself? Would a nice man get irritated because she was off on a stakeout? Wasn't there someone partway between beating, suicide, jealousy on the one hand, niceness on the other? “I honestly don't know.”

≈  ≈  ≈

They'd understood Greek Orthodox funerals tended toward heavy ceremony and a long service, so on Thursday Kyra and Noel arrived an hour after starting time. They were there primarily to pay condolences and to respect Sandro's last moments, not to watch a performance.

On the drive to St. Demetrius Noel had remarked, “There's a loose end.”

“Only one?” Kyra pulled out and passed a truck.

“Lorna Albright. With a good lawyer she's going to walk. Scot free.”

“Not that free. The clinic's finished, her career as a researcher is over, and she'll probably lose her license.”

“But she should pay in some more active way.”

“I agree. But how?”

They drove in silence for three or four miles. The day had turned gray, neither rainy nor sunny, an unbroken grim sky, neither hot nor cold. The Pacific Northwest Coast in March.

Noel said finally, “I can't find or even create any kind of hold over her.”

“Best I can think is putting her on cleaning duty in that women's health clinic she works at. Swab the floors. But I don't know how to set that up. It'd be a waste of her training.”

Noel stared at a field of cows. “Some kind of alternative justice.”

“I'd love it but I don't see it.” Kyra's sarcastic tone. “I think society's bumpy punishing wheel will have to grind on.”

“And I'm sure Dr. Haines will have a clever lawyer too.”

“At least we did manage to stop him.”

“And Jones stopped himself.”

They had learned this morning from Assounian that the surgeon would have major brain damage. Oxygen deprivation. If Dawn Deane had found him a few minutes earlier, if he'd injected less morphine, if he'd been simply lying down so that his heart didn't have to fight an uphill battle to get oxygen to his brain— Most important, even then someone who knew, a doctor, could have administered naloxone. It was right there in the closet.

“What's naloxone?”

“An antagonist,” Assounian had explained. “It competes with opioids for their receptor sites. It would have competed with the morphine and likely he'd have started breathing normally.”

“His wife did CPR.”

“Too late.”

“But Haines was right there.”

“We know,” said Assounian.

“Jones will live?”

“We'll know more if he lasts the week. But Trevelyan is out of ICU.”

Kyra parked the Tracker three blocks from the church and walked past attractive suburban houses with green lawns and flower beds about to burst with spring blooms. A hearse and half a dozen funeral-parlor limos waited in front of red brick walls that surrounded the church property. The sides of the octagonal church, red brick as well, rose to a semi-cupola, which formed a multiple arch. The roof, gliding down to where one arch touched another, shone pristine white. From the middle of the roof rose a narrow ten-foot lantern, also eight-sided, each wall built of glass frames in reds, greens, blues, purples.

Kyra and Noel entered the courtyard. Several men stood about talking. Half a dozen children, two on scooters, played a game that involved a lot of running. The door of the church stood open; sounds of chanting poured out. Inside, a wide vestibule separated the entryway from the sanctuary, but the open glass doors created a unified space. Men wearing dark jackets and ties and deep in conversation milled about in the vestibule, and behind the pews, women in black sat with children, youngsters, and more men. On a table at the head of the central aisle, below the altar, rested the coffin. A priest waved a golden censer. Incense smoke poured from it, adding to the clouds above the coffin, the altar, the first rows of pews. Four boys in white cloaks with red cowls followed the priest.

Kyra and Noel sat in the next-to-last row on the far right aisle. A woman smiled at them, the only recognition of their arrival. The chanting continued, rose to a high pitch, became softer. Fifteen minutes later the ceremony ended with the pallbearers—they both recognized Andrei Vasiliadis and that damn Vasily—carrying Sandro's coffin down the center aisle and out to the waiting hearse. The coffin was preceded by a gowned priest and his acolytes. Behind the coffin came Maria Vasiliadis on the arm of a man they didn't recognize, but who looked a bit like Andrei, and a group of men and women in black.

Kyra and Noel lingered in the vestibule as the mourners milled past. On the right, Maria, surrounded by other mourners, received condolences. Kyra saw Diana, Sandro's ex-wife, holding the hand of a pretty, leggy young girl, indubitably her daughter, Carla.

A voice behind them: “Hello.” Noel and Kyra turned. Rudy Longelli, Sandro's bowling friend. “How you doing?”

They exchanged sad words about Sandro. Rudy said, “It's like his death was the tip of the iceberg.”

“Yes,” said Kyra.

“I mean, can you imagine, those doctors killing him? Crazy.”

Kyra and Noel agreed. “Are you going to the cemetery?” Noel asked.

“No, I took a few hours off but I got to work tonight.” He said goodbye, and left.

Brady and Ursula came out. Brady dabbed her eyes with a tissue, then spotted Noel and Kyra. “Hi,” she said in a small voice. “I think she's resting quietly, don't you?”

It took Kyra a moment to understand. “I think she is, yes.”

“Jeez, I just about cried my eyes out. Again.” Brady smiled bravely. Ursula said they would go to the cemetery and bid a final goodbye to Sandra. “Thank you.” They hugged, and she led Brady out.

Noel spotted Garth Schultz in the slowly exiting group; he hadn't noticed Kyra or Noel. Fifteen or so people behind Garth, the incongruous green-haired figure of Cora Lipton-Norton ambled past. No one paid her particular attention, and she seemed oblivious.

The crowd around Maria and the man who looked like Andrei led her to the door. Kyra and Noel headed toward them. Kyra said, “Mrs. Vasiliadis, we just came to present our condolences.”

Noel said, “And wish you great strength for the future.”

Maria Vasiliadis took a moment to recognize them. “Oh. Yes. Thank you very much.”

Kyra said, “It's very sad.”

“No. Truly. It's—it's better like this. Now I know that Sandro—that Sandro—”

“Maria. Come along.” Andrei Vasiliadis had appeared at her side. “The limousine is waiting.” He glanced at Kyra. “Oh. You. You have no place here.” He took Maria's arm. “Come.”

“Mrs. Vasiliadis?” A deep voice, behind Noel.

“Yes?” said Maria.

“My name is Chelsea.”

Noel and Kyra turned.

“I was a friend of Sandro's. And an advisor.” She reached out her hand to Maria. She stood three inches taller than Noel. Her makeup had been applied with a fine hand. She wore a straight black wool dress with a black sateen jacket over, and a string of pearls.

Maria took the offered hand and studied Chelsea's face. “You were a friend.”

“Yes. I believe I helped Sandro in the last year of his life.”

Noel would have sworn Chelsea had lowered her voice. Contradiction between an elegant woman and her baritone. Noel believed he could see that Maria Vasiliadis had heard what Chelsea was telling her.

Andrei stood at her side. “Maria, we really have to go now, the cemetery—”

“I'm glad you were able to help,” said Maria to Chelsea, smiling sadly.

“In ways he wanted to be helped.”

“Maria, really, we—”

Chelsea faced him. “Mr. Vasiliadis, I'm sorry for your loss. But Sandro's life would have been far easier if you'd tried to understand him better.”

“What right do you—”

“Very little. But it's important for me to tell you that. And for you to hear it.” She turned and strode out the door, a tall elegant woman, and disappeared around the corner.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Vasiliadis,” said Noel. Kyra nodded at her, a small smile, and they left.

A NOTE

This novel deals in part with transgendered sexual identity and sexual reassignment procedures. Trans experiences vary widely from person to person, and the story would like to honor that reality. The limited incidents and issues included here are not meant to represent any full spectrum of the trans community, nor should they be construed as a full understanding of what it means to be trans. This, therefore, is an apology for any offense that might be taken, for none is intended.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The authors would like to thank a number of people who have given us considerable insight into the complex subcultures that play a role in
Always Kiss the Corpse
. Barrie Humphrey guided us as we tried to clarify much of the science produced by the doctors of the WISDOM Clinic. Dorothy and Alex Ludwick were our first informants regarding the social and cultural side of Whidbey Island. Demetra Peters answered many of our questions about Greek Orthodoxy. And David Szanto shared with us his knowledge about queer identity. We appreciate all we learned from all of you. Any errors in the text are our own, either accidental or intentional to further the story.

Much of Whidbey as we have represented it is drawn from our research on the island. But don't go looking for the clinic. You'll have a hard time locating it.

Sandy Frances Duncan
is the author of ten award-winning books for children and adults. Her short fiction and non-fiction articles have appeared in numerous literary journals, magazines and newspapers. Sandy's most recent historical fiction is
Gold Rush Orphan
, which was shortlisted for the BC Book Prize.

A National Magazine Award recipient and winner of the Hugh MacLennan Prize for fiction,
George Szanto
is the author of half a dozen novels, the most recent being his Mexican trilogy,
The Underside of Stones
,
Second Sight
and
The Condesa of M.
, as well as several books of essays. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada. Please visit
www.georgeszanto.com
.

Duncan and Szanto's previous collaboration is the Islands Investigations International series is
Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island.

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