Final Appeal (14 page)

Stan was still frowning as he mixed his nightly protein drink and poured it into a glass. Mike had seemed anxious to cut their conversation short tonight. He'd claimed he was tired and said he planned to unplug the phone and go right to bed.

Unplug the phone? Stan had thought that was crazy until Mike had explained what had happened. Three wrong numbers in the early hours of the morning, and Mike hadn't been able to get back to sleep. That had put a different light on things. Mikey needed his sleep.

There was something happening with Mike, and it made Stan nervous. His brother had changed in the past few days. He wasn't as pliable as he'd been before and he didn't seem to need Stan's advice. Even more frightening, Mike didn't require the long chatty conversations they'd held in the first few days after his escape. That wasn't a good sign, according to the psychiatrists. Everybody needed someone to talk to, and Mike had seen no one but him. Stan could only conclude that his brother was becoming introverted and secretive, one of the first signs of a deteriorating personality. What if Mike broke down completely before he'd brought this whole thing to a satisfactory conclusion?

The protein drink was far from tasty, but Stan finished it and left the glass on the counter. Maria could wash it when she came in tomorrow. She'd told him that he was throwing away money, that there wasn't enough work to justify hiring her on a daily basis. But Maria took only full-time positions, and Stan didn't want to take a chance on hiring someone new. He could trust Maria. She was scrupulously honest, and she didn't snoop through his things. He knew that for a fact. He'd tested her several times, and she'd passed with flying colors.

Stan went into his office and switched on the light. There was work to do. This problem with Mike had cut into his time for his clients, and now he had to play catch-up.

The first file he pulled out of his briefcase was the Goldstein case. A new will. Old Hal had married again, and he was making quite a few changes. His daughter was out—she hadn't approved of the marriage—but his son was back in again. It was fairly routine, and it took Stan only a few minutes to pencil in the new material. He'd have Joyce make the changes on the computer tomorrow, and Goldstein could come in to sign it.

The next file was marked with a red tab, which meant it was due to reach the court calendar this month. Stan sighed as he paged through it. An unnecessary lawsuit at best, but they were earning a hefty fee for handling it. Because there were complicated statutes involved, it would be too difficult for a paralegal to handle. He'd give it to one of his junior partners at the staff meeting tomorrow.

Mrs. Burke's file took a little longer. It was never a picnic when you sued the city. But everything was tied up very nicely by the time he'd put in a half hour's work. He'd plead this one himself. It was a sure winner. As Aunt Alice had been so fond of saying, it would be another scalp to add to his belt.

The last file was Richard O'Connell's. Stan sighed as he flipped through it. Richard was Joyce's problem son, and last month he'd been picked up for possession. An ounce and a half of pot. How stupid could the kid be? Everyone knew they slapped your wrist for under an ounce, but one gram over was intent to sell.

When Joyce had first approached him, Stan had told her he didn't handle narcotics cases. But Joyce was a really good secretary, the best he'd ever had, and he'd given in.

Stan began to smile as he thought of a perfect solution. He'd have a heart-to-heart with Joyce in the morning, tell her that he wanted to do the best for her son but he felt like a fish out of water. He would refer it to an expert at handling this type of case, and offer to pay the fee because of the valuable contribution she was making to the firm. That would impress her, and he would be off the hook. And even if the expert lost the case, which he was sure to do, Joyce couldn't blame him.

He was all through with his work for the evening. Stan leaned back and sighed. Just a few more things to do and he could get some badly needed sleep.

He opened his file drawer and pulled out Professor Zimmer's file. Stan had recorded their meeting. He recorded all his conferences and kept the ones that were important. Now he listened to it again, all the way through, and came to the same conclusion he'd drawn earlier. With the professor's tape for evidence, there was an excellent chance that Mikey would be acquitted. He'd been absolutely correct to proceed with the plan he'd formulated.

 

 

Toni opened her eyes and blinked twice. She was dizzy, and she stared up at Mike in amazement. She'd done some kissing in the past, but she'd never had this kind of reaction before. Every cell in her body was crying out for more, but before things went any further, she had to tell him the truth. She couldn't go on deceiving him and living a lie.

“Mike? I have to make a confession. You see, I really don't—”

“I know, Toni. That doesn't matter.”

Toni sat up straighter. “What doesn't matter?”

“That you don't know how to cook.”

“But how did you—”

And then, before she could finish her question, he was kissing her again. How could he have this effect on her? She wanted to kiss him for the rest of her life, maybe longer. When he stopped at last, she had trouble catching her breath. She should say something now. Tell him she liked the way he kissed her. But she more than liked it. Before she could think of an appropriate adjective to describe something that defied description, he was lifting her up off the couch.

Toni held on with both arms, but there didn't seem to be any danger of falling. He was breathing hard, but so was she. What would he do now? The bed, of course. He was putting her down on the bed.

He proceeded to undress her. He didn't have a bit of difficulty with snaps and buttons. She'd dressed very carefully tonight for exactly that reason. Everything she'd put on was easy to take off.

He had already taken off his clothes, and she peeked, then shut her eyes quickly again. He was beautiful, strong and masculine and . . she'd better not think about that part.

And then he was touching her. Her heart was beating so hard she wondered if she'd have a heart attack and die before . . .

“Do you like this, Toni?”

“Oh yes!” Toni's cry was a prayer for more. His mouth was so hot, liquid fire on her naked skin. But what if he didn't understand?

“Mike? I have to tell you that I've—”

“I know. Just leave it up to me. Please, Toni?”

Toni made a supreme effort to sit up. He obviously thought he knew what she was going to say, but he didn't.

“But Mike, you have no idea what I'm talking about!”

“Yes, I do.” He bent to kiss her again, and Toni found herself falling back on the bed, hugging him tightly. So this was what it was supposed to be like, this feeling of total lethargy and abandon. But she had to tell him before it was too late and he was shocked and upset with her.

“Please, Mike. You really have to let me say this.”

He brushed back her hair, and she shivered. What she had to tell him could ruin everything. Maybe he wouldn't want to, if he knew the truth. And then he laughed, throwing her completely off guard.

“Don't be so serious, Toni. It's not the end of the world. I don't need to know your life history or the reasons why. It's none of my business. You had me pretty confused for a while with those sexy remarks and the seductive clothes. And you've been coming on to me like there was no tomorrow, but I know you're—”

Toni cut in before he could finish. Her words came out rapid-fire, like bullets in a machine gun, and every bit as lethal.

“You think I'm a whore?”

This time he laughed so hard, she was afraid they were going to fall off the bed. And the last place she wanted to be right now was in bed with a man who thought she was a whore. Toni struggled to get free, but he held her tightly. If she could move her arm, she'd slap him. She'd never been so mad in her life!

Just as quickly as her temper had risen, it cooled with terrible suspicion. Could she really blame him for thinking that? She might have acted like a whore, for all she knew. She couldn't very well fault him for reaching a reasonable conclusion.

Tears came to her eyes, and she blinked them back. Everything was turning out wrong, and now she could see that it was all her fault. She'd played a seductress, and she'd done it so well that she'd fooled Mike. She'd done everything wrong, and now it was too late to explain. He'd never believe her.

He was kissing her neck and the corner of her eyes, holding her so tightly she was even more confused. When he stopped, she couldn't think of a single thing to say. Did he want to make love to a whore? Maybe that was what had turned him on. And when he found out it was all an act, he'd probably despise her.

“Mike?”

“Oh, Toni. You really are a nut.”

At least he'd finally stopped laughing. Toni guessed it was impossible to kiss and laugh at the same time. And his voice was soft and tender. Was there hope, after all?

“You're a terrible tease, and you drove me up the wall with all those conflicting signals, but I never thought you were a whore. I'm just damned grateful you picked me to be the first.”

“You know?”

She'd never been so embarrassed in her life. It was a good thing the lights were off, or he'd be sure to notice that her face was red. Probably her whole body was red. She felt like she was blushing all over.

“It took me a while, but I finally figured it out.” He brushed back her hair again, and she trembled. “Have you changed your mind about me?” “

“Changed my mind?' Toni shook her head. “Oh no, Mike. As long as you still want to. I never change my mind when it comes to something important. And this is very important to me.”

“It's important to me, too.”

He was serious. She could hear it in his voice. He really cared about her. That made her feel warm. and wonderful, and very, very secure.

“Mike? If we're going to—well—may I ask a favor?”

“Yes, Toni. Anything you want.”

“Oh, good! Could you do that again? The exact same thing you were doing before I stuck my foot in my big mouth?”

“And what was that, Toni?”

“The boneless chicken thing, Mike.”

Oh, God! She'd done it again. Open mouth, insert foot. People weren't supposed to joke around at a time like this, were they?

“What was that about a boneless chicken, Toni?”

Toni knew she had to explain. He was waiting. There was nothing to do but blurt it out.

“That's what I felt like. A boneless chicken. I was trying to think of the right word to describe how I felt when you kissed me, but it eluded me before. A boneless chicken is exactly right.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Oh, yes! Very few things in the world could make me feel like a boneless chicken. As a matter of fact, I can't think of anything else that would do it.”

“Okay. If you say so.” Mike sounded dubious, but then he laughed. “I'm almost afraid to ask what you feel like after we make love.”

There were no more words, only sensations that were so heavenly, they were timeless. Toni didn't know how much time had passed, but finally she roused herself. She propped up her head on one elbow and smiled at Mike. “Go ahead, Mike. Ask me.”

There was a long silence. Mike was taking a long time to ask her. He cleared his throat and turned to face her. “All right. I can't stand the suspense any longer. Tell me, Toni . . . what did you feel like when we were making love? But I'm warning you that if you say chopped liver, I'm going home for a loaf of rye.”

Toni laughed. “It's a deal! I love chopped liver on rye. But really, Mike, I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Lester? Wake up, Lester!”

Lester woke up with a start when Sarah shook his arm. He glanced at the luminous face on the alarm clock and groaned. It was two in the morning. Why did people always die in the middle of the night?

“Okay, Sarah. I'm up.” He rolled out of bed and snapped on the light. “I didn't even hear the telephone ring.”

“It didn't. Somebody's downstairs, Lester. I heard a noise.”

“Oh.” Lester blinked hard to clear the sleep from his eyes. Sarah wasn't the type to get alarmed over nothing. And she didn't imagine noises in the middle of the night. She had grown up living over a mortuary, and she was comfortable with the concept.

“What did it sound like?”

Sarah frowned. “I'm not sure. There was a crash that woke me up. And then a thump.”

Lester nodded and slid his feet into his slippers. He'd figured it would happen again, sooner or later. He'd gone down the other morning to find a cat in the preparation room. The poor thing had crawled in somehow and was frantic to get back out. He'd scooped it up and released it in the back yard. Then he'd inspected every window and vent, but everything had been locked up tight.

“Relax, Sarah, I'll check it out. It's probably that same cat again. I never did figure out how it got in.”

“It sounded bigger than a cat, but I suppose you're right. Be careful, dear.”

Lester smiled. He couldn't resist teasing her a little. “Maybe one of our guests is breaking out, Sarah. Lavender was Mrs. Radzinski's favorite color. She's probably walking over to Kingman's right now to lie in state in his purple room.”

“Don't joke, Lester. I really did hear something.”

“I know you did. If it's that cat again, I've got half a notion to keep it. Dad used to always have a stray downstairs to take care of the mice.”

Sarah looked thoughtful. “That's not a bad idea, Lester. Why don't you take some milk with you? If you feed it once, it'll stay forever. Do you want me to come along? I'm good with animals.”

“No, I can handle it. There's no reason for you to get up. Go back to sleep so you can deal with Mrs. Wallace tomorrow. She's got some plans for the service that are just plain crazy, and I can't get through to her.”

“The music?”

“Not only that. Now she wants to charter a boat and hold the interment at sea. And she's determined to videotape the whole thing so she can give copies to all her friends.”

“Lord!” Sarah pulled the covers up to her chin.” All right, Lester. I'll do my best to talk some sense into her. Just be careful with that cat, will you? You don't know what diseases it might be carrying, and animal scratches can cause infections.”

“I'll be careful.” Lester put on his robe and slippers, and then padded off to the kitchen to get some milk. He decided to warm it a little in the microwave, so he went back to the bedroom to ask Sarah how many seconds he should give it.

“Sarah?” Lester peeked in, but his wife was snoring softly. He admired Sarah's ability to get right back to sleep. He wished he could do it, but once he was up, he was awake for a couple of hours. He wouldn't disturb her with his silly question about the microwave. If the cat turned up its nose at cold milk, that was just too bad.

Lester juggled the bowl and the carton in one hand as he opened the door. The stairs were dark, but he didn't want to turn on the light. It might scare the cat and he'd never find it if it hid in a corner somewhere.

He knew these stairs like the back of his hand. After all he'd grown up right here at Robinson's Mortuary. The proudest moment of his life had been when Dad had changed the name to Robinson and Son.

He turned right at the bottom of the stairs and went into the preparation room. The familiar odor assailed his nose as he opened the door. It was a combination of embalming fluid and the ammonia he used to swab the floor and the table.

Lester flicked on the lights, and the room shimmered under the harsh fluorescent glare. It was every bit as immaculate as an operating room in a hospital. The metal embalming table gleamed in the light. It was level now, but there was a lever to tilt it when he drained the fluids. The top had a removable neck rest that snapped in place to hold the deceased's head. The neck rest was made out of hard rubber, and it was shaped like a diagram of a concave lens.

In Mortuary Science 103, Lester had learned that the Japanese frequently used similar neck rests for sleeping. Pillows were thought to be bad for the back, while neck rests cleared the air passages and forced the sleeper into a proper position. Since Lester had always been plagued with lower back pain, he'd gone right home to try it. He'd appropriated his father's neck rest from the preparation room and taken it to bed with him that night. All he'd received in return for a sleepless night was a very sore neck.

Lester looked under the table and in the closets. Nothing there. He even checked the rack of gleaming instruments, but the cat wasn't hiding among them. He flicked off the lights and tried the display room next.

The room was long and narrow with caskets lined up like sentinels on both sides of the aisle. In Mortuary Marketing 217, Lester had learned that their placement was critical. His father had always lined them up at random, but Lester had changed all that when he came home from college. As a result, Dad's profits had risen almost immediately.

The bereaved tended to shy away from inspecting every casket in the room. They wanted to make their choice quickly and walk away from the reality of death. They generally stopped midway, deciding on one of the first few models. Naturally, that was where Lester had placed the expensive caskets.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” Lester walked down the aisle and called out softly, but there was no answering meow. He was standing by the middle-range models now the ones most folks almost picked. Lester had devised a way to bring them up a notch by deliberately stocking the two middle-range models in homely colors. The one on the left was orchid, and its opposite number was puce. It had almost backfired on him for the very first time with Mrs. Radzinski. But the family had decided to place a special order after he'd pointed out that their dear mother's skin tones wouldn't be all that good on an orchid-colored satin pillow.

Lester called the cat again, and a moment later, he heard a scratching noise that seemed to be coming from the front of the building. The cat was in one of the viewing rooms and he sure hoped it hadn't taken a notion to climb in with one of the deceased. Cats might do that, for all he knew. They probably wouldn't have scruples about lying down next to something that was dead. Lester switched off the lights and hurried down the hallway to see. He'd have to redo all the makeup if it was smudged.

There were three viewing rooms. They used the small one for family-only services. The second was larger, with couches and end tables to make it comfortable for the bereaved. The large viewing room had a conversational grouping at one end, and they brought out folding chairs if they had a crowd. Not the cheap metal kind for Robinson and Son. Sarah had shopped all over the area to find padded folding chairs with arms that looked like something you'd find in someone's den. If it weren't for the caskets, you'd never know you were in a mortuary.

The caskets sat on collapsible metal stands, lightweight and sturdy. Sarah draped the stands with velvet to hide the struts and the wheels. The loved ones were surrounded by a grove of artificial palm trees, the expensive kind that looked natural even though they were made out of washable plastic.

Lester reached the doorway of the medium-sized room and clicked on the lights. The room was illuminated with a soft bank of rose-colored bulbs. That had been Sarah's idea. It made the bodies look almost alive, as if they really were only sleeping.

Mrs. Kaczynski was fine. No little cat tracks anywhere on her or on the metal casket her family had chosen. He flicked off the lights and went to the second viewing room.

Baby Boy Thompson was undisturbed in his tiny white casket with the needlepoint of praying hands on the inside cover. No feline intruders here. Sarah had done wonders with the Thompson's stillborn child. The little tyke looked so real, Lester had the impulse to pick him up and rock him.

They'd put Neal Wallace in the largest viewing room. He was resting in the most expensive bronze Lester had in stock. Now he wished that he'd picked up that gold-leaf beauty he'd seen at the last casket show. If Mrs. Wallace had spied it in his display room, she would have forked out another four grand.

Neal Wallace's funeral promised to be an extravaganza, if his mother had her way. He hadn't told Sarah yet, but there was even a possibility of television coverage. They'd scheduled the first visitation, and Mrs. Wallace had told him to expect more than four hundred between the hours of eight and ten. Lester just hoped they'd come in shifts. The room would be stifling with all those people, and Neal's preparation had been a bit iffy. He'd have to remember to turn the air conditioner on full blast. Neal wouldn't last long if he heated up too much.

Lester turned on the overheads and walked toward the casket. He was only halfway across the room when he stopped in his tracks. The milk carton fell from his nerveless fingers, covering the new gray carpet with a large, irregular splotch of white. Lester was staring, his eyes focused on the deceased with horror. They'd never be able to put Neal back together again, not in a million years. Some weirdo had broken in to desecrate the body.

He backed away and opened his mouth to yell for Sarah, but the sound died on his lips before he could force it out into the silent, flower-scented air. A final stab with the long embalming syringe and Lester was the second dearly departed in the large viewing room.

 

 

Sarah awoke at six in the morning. It was still fairly dark, but she didn't bother to turn on the light. She wouldn't wake Lester until seven, providing the telephone didn't ring. He'd probably had trouble getting back to sleep after he'd chased down that cat.

In less than ten minutes, Sarah was dressed and ready to start her day. This was her favorite time. The coffee sang a cheerful tune as it perked in her old-fashioned perculator—no modern drip machines for her, thank you very much!—and Sarah smiled in enjoyment. It had been difficult to find a new percolator when she had gotten married. It seemed everyone used drip coffee makers now. Sarah had finally found the percolator in a thrift shop, and she'd shopped around in other secondhand stores until she'd found three more percolators to use for spares. Perked coffee was much better than drip coffee. She could testify to the truth of that!

Sarah opened the kitchen window and inhaled the crisp air of the morning. It was too early for smog. The commuters weren't even out of their beds. It was wonderful to breathe in air that hadn't been polluted by exhaust fumes and faulty catalytic converters. This was the clean morning smell she remembered from her childhood.

The coffee was done. Sarah took a Guardian Casket Company insulated mug from the shelf and poured herself a cup. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and thought about how lucky she was to be Lester's wife. Several years before Lester had asked her, she'd already resigned herself to being single. The face that confronted her in the mirror every morning was far from pretty. Even though her mother had always claimed that beauty was only skin deep, Sarah knew her looks would never attract a husband. The few men she'd met had shied away when they'd found out where she lived, and even though she'd lied and said she'd never had anything to do with what happened downstairs, they hadn't asked her out again.

Lester had come along as an answer to her prayers. He was intelligent, and industrious, and very good looking. When he'd asked her to marry him, she'd been so happy she'd broken down and cried. Her life would have been so predictably dull without him. She would have kept house for her father, gone out to an occasional movie with a friend, and grown older and uglier with each passing year. There had been no options for her. Even if she'd left home and gone out on her own, she had no skills to speak of. She knew she could easily have earned a degree in mortuary science, but that would have been a terrible waste of time and money. No one would have patronized a mortuary run by a woman. Yes, Lester was a godsend, and she did her utmost to be an asset to him.

There was ironing to do. Sarah got the bag of shirts she'd sprinkled last night and started to work. Lester changed shirts at least twice a day, and she wanted to have some hanging in the closet for emergencies. Sarah and Lester both agreed that white shirts were required in this profession. Belinda Kingman had started buying pastels for her husband, but Sarah didn't think that was right. Mint green and baby blue were much too casual, and pink was totally inappropriate. If Belinda had been a friend, Sarah might have warned her, but she'd decided to let the Kingmans make their own mistakes. If people didn't like the way Harvey Kingman dressed, they might just switch over to Robinson and Son.

Sarah glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. She'd hang these shirts in Lester's closet, and then she'd wake him. She rattled the hangers a bit as she arranged them in the closet, but Lester didn't wake up to ask her what time it was. When she was through she walked over to the bed and spoke to him softly.

“Lester, dear? It's time to get up.”

The covers were mounded on his side of the bed. He had a habit of pulling the blankets over his head when it got light outside and he didn't want to wake up. She lifted them gently and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, but the bed was empty.

Sarah frowned as she went back to the kitchen to fix him a hot cup of coffee. She knew exactly where he was. He'd been so tired after chasing that cat, he'd stretched out on a couch in one of the viewing rooms, rather than make the climb up the stairs to bed. That meant he'd be sure to wake up with a stiff neck.