The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(25)

Artie had explained that Phyllis Oldham inherited the funeral home from her husband, Douglas. He had run the business with his brother, Howard, the English-gentleman type at the end of the table.

Mrs. Oldham stood up and warmly welcomed Paul Jensen’s Danish daughter to Racine. Her large ice-blue eyes sparkled. The children must have gotten their eyes from their father, Ilka thought, which a glance at their uncle confirmed.

“Have you been to the museum? There’s a great deal about the Danish immigrants who came to Racine in the late 1800s. Two-thirds of the townspeople at the time were once from Denmark, did you know that? You’ll meet many of their descendants out in West Racine.” She added that some of them still spoke Danish.

“Coffee will be served in a moment,” Howard said, “and we also have kringles. After all, you Danes did bring the kringle to our town.” You Danes—it was almost as if Ilka personally had introduced the pastry to Racine.

“We have three Danish bakers famous for their kringles. Thanks to them, Racine is known as Kringle Town.” He laughed. “President Obama even visited one of our bakers in 2010 to try out a kringle before a meeting.”

The sister knocked on the door and came in with a large white cardboard box containing an oval kringle with icing. “A black currant kringle.” She set it on the table and then handed out cups to everyone.

Ilka bit into what they proudly called the “famous Danish kringle.” Unlike the kringles in Copenhagen bakeries, it was as heavy as a rum ball. There was nothing light, airy, and sugary about the clump of dough with thick icing, so sweet that her teeth screamed. Everyone else seemed happy with it, though; Artie had already gobbled his up before coffee was poured.

“We were very fond of Paul,” Mrs. Oldham said after everyone had been served. “He was a good and loyal colleague, though we of course were competitors. But we always chose to think of ourselves as colleagues; that’s a much better way to do business in a small town like Racine. We were all very sad when we heard he passed away.”

The door behind them opened, and Jesse, the son who had been standing outside smoking, walked in. He sat down beside his mother and helped himself to a piece of the kringle.

None of the children had spoken; it was easy to decode the hierarchy at Golden Slumbers.

“We were also very sorry to hear about the difficulties your father fell into before his death,” Mrs. Oldham continued. “And as we told Artie, we would like to help you out of this unfortunate situation.”

Ilka said nothing, though it annoyed her that the family matriarch made it sound as if they only wanted to bail an old friend out of trouble. To top it off, an old dead friend. As if they were forking over sixty thousand dollars only as a personal favor.

“Fortunately we’re also able to act quickly. Tomorrow is the IRS deadline, isn’t that right?”

Artie nodded.

“What exactly happens with this type of business deal?” Ilka asked. “As I understand, it’s not the physical assets of my father’s business you’re buying, only…the business part.”

Phyllis and Howard Oldham both nodded. “Business activities, yes.”

“And now you’ll be dealing with the tax authorities?” she added.

They nodded again. The three siblings sitting in silence like stone statues were getting on Ilka’s nerves. Apparently, they were following the conversation; each sat with a pen and sheet of paper, onto which they occasionally scribbled something.

“We are completely okay with that,” Howard said. “The first thing to take care of is the sixty thousand dollars to be paid tomorrow. After that, the final amount will be settled, presumably within the next…maybe six months.”

“But you can take over all the business activities immediately?” Ilka asked. She was thinking of the man they had just picked up at the morgue. It would certainly be nice to avoid the expenses connected with him, especially now that it looked like his family wouldn’t be able to pay for his burial.

Howard nodded. “Of course that’s contingent on you signing the sales agreement; that has to be done by noon tomorrow at the latest to avoid having the IRS freeze all the assets. But if everything goes smoothly, we’ll be ready to take over by this weekend. We’ll be able to handle the current clients you have and all those who might come in.”

He pointed at the sons. “Jesse handles the pickups in our business; his older brother and I do the embalming; while Phyllis and Carlotta handle all contact with the relatives, all sales and marketing and printed material.”

“But we’d like to show you around,” Mrs. Oldham said. “You haven’t even seen what we have to offer.” She pointed at her eldest son and asked him to take Miss Nichols around. “Have a look across the street, too.”

He looked terrified; his mother might as well have grabbed a belt and whipped him. He uttered a weak excuse about having to go downstairs, something about a coffin that needed to be sent to the crematorium before three.

Mrs. Oldham’s eyes lingered on him for a moment. Then she straightened up, smiled at Ilka, and told her she would be very pleased to take over. She immediately stood and strode toward the door. “Follow me; I’ll show you our business.”

Ilka was already impressed when they reached the second floor, where a large display room was practically decorated with coffins. As if it were a safari hunter’s trophy room, they had hung the ends of coffins in perfectly spaced rows on all the walls. Coffins of all colors, coffins with carvings and without any decoration. Varnished and unvarnished. It was like stepping into a luxury catalog; nothing was ordinary. Urns of gold and glazed clay, large centerpieces to be decorated with photos and placed on coffins. There was even an example of how it would look if an enlarged photo of the deceased covered the entire coffin lid. Overwhelming, and way too much. Nothing could be further from the more Spartan Danish mentality concerning funeral and burial ceremonies.