The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(18)

“Why in the world do you want this house?” she asked after wolfing down five enormous chicken wings and noting that even though the doors to the hallway were closed, a whiff of death and formaldehyde still hung around. Who would want a house that had been a funeral home? she wondered. She looked around.

Shelves of urns lined the walls, and a poster demonstrated how a large machine could thaw the ground if a coffin had to be lowered in the winter.

He laid his spareribs down and wiped his hands on a napkin; then he looked at her. “When your dad was alive, he did the talking with the relatives. I did it occasionally, after he was gone. But for the most part it was his job. I took care of the deceased. We did the pickups together.”

She started eating again while he spoke. “And when we get out of this mess, hopefully, I’m going to start working for the Oldhams. But as a freelancer, so I can help the other undertakers around here, too. That way I’ll only be doing the embalming, reconstructions, preparation, makeup. I’ll make sure the deceased look the way they’d want to be remembered.”

Ilka nodded. She wasn’t all that surprised to hear he already had a deal in place. But if he wanted to take over the house and had arranged things to his advantage, that was fine with her too. “And Sister Eileen, what about her? Is she also an employee? And what does she actually do?” Her mouth was half-full of coleslaw.

Artie smiled briefly. “She’s from a parish west of here. A lot of nuns work voluntarily in different places, in daycare centers, schools, nursing homes, funeral homes. Some nuns are supported by the parish; other places pay for their services. That’s the way it is here. Your dad always took good care of Sister Eileen. She lends a hand; she gives our clients a sense of peace. It’s her calling to help wherever she can, wherever she sees it’s needed. She wants to work where it’s cooler than down south. The heat bothers her.”

Ilka was getting full now, and it was hard to ignore the stink of death in her nose. They could have it all, lock, stock, and barrel, as far as she was concerned. Really.

“I just don’t want to get dragged out of bed in the middle of the night anymore, when someone dies. And I don’t want to scrape people up off the highway, either. You know what? Crushed bones feel like jelly when you lift them over into a coffin. And I won’t have to pick up anyone dead so long that their skin slips off like overcooked chicken. I just want to do the creative work; it’s what I’m best at.”

Ilka nodded. She was finished eating now, and an image of the chickens she cooked for soup was not something she wanted stuck in her head. She always covered chicken bones on her plate with a napkin; it was instinct. “So you want to keep the house as your workshop.” That made sense.

“I can take on customers from the entire area. When a funeral director gets severe accident victim cases they can’t do anything with, they can send them to me. Just like we pay the Oldhams for using their crematorium.”

Artie stood and began picking things up. There was still food left in the sacks. When he walked into the preparation room, she went to look for the cat. It was right outside, and it made plenty of noise when Ilka opened the door. She squatted down and gave it some chicken; then she stroked its back. She turned around and jumped at the sight of Sister Eileen in front of her.

“I made the reservation at the hotel. I’m very sorry about the misunderstanding, but now it’s taken care of. Your room is ready, and you can use your father’s car.” She held out a set of keys. “You won’t have to pay for your stay at the hotel, of course.”

Who will? Ilka wondered. Artie walked out pushing a stretcher holding the old man who had fallen. Music from the room streamed out: “California Girls.” The Beach Boys. He hummed along as he slipped his arms into a long white lab coat and covered his loud shirt. She couldn’t care less if they turned her father’s funeral home into a beauty salon for the dead. She just wanted out. Now that she’d eaten, her exhaustion returned.

“But I don’t mind staying here,” she said. “In fact I’d rather sleep in my father’s room. I go to bed early anyway.” She walked over to Artie’s door to say she was on her way up. She’d stopped holding her hand over her mouth, but the embalming fluids still seemed to line her throat, all the way down.

He promised to gather up all the papers dealing with her inheritance and the upcoming sale, so she could mail them back to her lawyer. Then he walked inside and closed the door.

“I’ve already moved your belongings,” Sister Eileen said, behind her now. “Everything’s ready, and your father’s car is outside, parked in the large space.” She pointed down at the asphalt behind the trees.

“You’ve already been up and packed my things?” Ilka asked.

“Yes, everything’s at the hotel, but I didn’t unpack for you. I thought you’d rather do it yourself.”

Ilka could see the pile of clothes on the bed, the empty potato chip bag. What else had been lying there? “I’d rather stay here.” She tried to smile. “I also have to go through my father’s things and decide what to take home with me.”

“We can do that together. Do you know where the hotel is?”

Ilka’s head began to spin. She needed to lie down, be alone.

“When you pull out, just drive straight ahead and then to the right,” Sister Eileen explained, but before she could continue, Ilka raised her hand.