The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(24)
“We do that in Denmark, too. In many ways, we’re lucky to live where the weather is always changing. At least it gives people something to talk about.”
He smiled and took the last bite of his fish. Ilka looked him over for a moment. It was easy to imagine Artie the Artist on a porch, wearing his Hawaiian shirt, listening to the Beach Boys. In fact, it was harder to picture this gaudy undertaker behind a closed door with the big fan roaring.
“And I miss the food,” he added.
“Why didn’t you go back?” She drank the rest of her root beer, which tasted like bubblegum in a bottle.
Artie checked his watch before standing and picking up their plates. He nodded toward the preparation room. “If I weren’t here, who would make sure they look decent?”
“There must be others who could. Surely you don’t need an art education to learn how to embalm.”
“Anyone can do the embalming, but not many people can re-create a face and bring it back to life.”
Ilka didn’t ask, but then she didn’t need to. It wasn’t hard to see that the appreciation of a deceased’s relatives was much deeper and more meaningful than remarks from happy tourists strolling by Artie the Artist on the main street of Key West.
He carried the plates into the small kitchen and returned. “Ready to go?”
She nodded; then she asked if Sister Eileen ever ate with him.
“Once in a while. Mostly she eats lunch by herself at her place.”
His black pickup was parked just outside the door. Artie pointed to the end of the addition that held the coffin storage room. “She has a little apartment; she likes to go over there on breaks. I don’t know how it is in Denmark, but here, she’s not on salary. She’s a volunteer, and she receives donations for the work she does. She gives most of the money to the church. Occasionally your dad put on small charity auctions; the profit was donated to her parish. She liked your dad a lot, and he understood how important it was to her to be useful. But nuns aren’t allowed to take salaried jobs. I haven’t said anything to her yet, but if I take over, she can stay with me.”
Ilka got into the passenger side of the pickup.
“Even though there probably won’t be much to do at first. All this business with laminating and bookmarks and folders, I won’t need that. But she’ll still talk to people and greet them, and a lot of them like how the church is represented here, sort of.”
They drove past several small bars and restaurants she hadn’t noticed before. On the sidewalk in front of a big Harley-Davidson dealership, enormous bikes were lined up in an impressive row. But it still seemed like no one was home in Racine. Artie hung a right on the coast road, and after a few hundred yards he turned in. They drove past an impressive building and farther on to a large parking lot that spread out on both sides of the road; Ilka thought it was the city hall until she noticed the sign with cursive script—GOLDEN SLUMBERS FUNERAL HOME. Behind the parking lot, Lake Michigan was completely calm, and the American flag on the enormous flagpole barely moved. The flagpole was fenced in on a small plot of grass in the middle of the parking lot.
Artie led her to a back door with EMPLOYEES ONLY written on it. A tall body-builder type in his early thirties stood outside nearby, smoking a cigarette. His face had delicate features, and he nodded when they approached and told them to go on in. Ilka couldn’t help looking closely. His dark eyes were so deep set that his forehead cast a shadow over his irises. Otherwise he was handsome enough.
“What are we actually going to talk about in here?” she whispered. She looked around. “I haven’t heard from my lawyer yet. I don’t dare sign anything that has to do with the deal, not before she contacts me.”
They walked down a long, high-ceilinged passageway with big windows on both sides that reminded Ilka of the party tents rented out in Denmark, except the passageway was wood. A red deep-pile runner lay on the floor, and small decorative gold rosettes lined the walls. Three short steps at the end led up to the building itself. Red rugs also covered the floors inside, and behind a massive mahogany desk sat a nun who looked like Sister Eileen’s twin. She stood and smiled when they approached; then she asked them to follow her. She wore the same type of shoes as Sister Eileen, beige and soft, almost indistinguishable from her tightly woven skin-toned nylons.
“We’re just here to say hello; they want to meet you,” Artie said. She felt his hand on her back, as if he were leading her on a dance floor.
“They’re waiting for you. Please go on in!”
Ilka hadn’t thought much about what to expect, but she froze when she walked into the enormous high-paneled room with heavy draperies and an oval conference table, high-gloss finish, made from the same massive mahogany as the desk outside.
At one end of the table sat a plump but elegant elderly woman wearing a dark blue suit, her hair piled on top of her head. A man sat at the other end. Ilka guessed he was in his early sixties. His hair was neatly cut and almost white, and he wore a vest under a dark blue suit with a muted tie. A small, neatly folded handkerchief stuck up out of his suit pocket. A thin woman a few years younger than Ilka sat between the two. Carlotta was arrogant and snobbish; Artie had told her before they walked in. That sounded accurate to Ilka, the way the woman watched her as she walked around the table shaking hands. Beside her sat her older brother, David, a stocky man with acne scars. He stared down at a stack of papers. The third brother, Jesse, was still outside smoking. All three of Phyllis’s children had deep-set eyes that gave their faces an oddly anonymous look.