The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(26)
After Erik died, Ilka didn’t get out of her pajamas for three days. The funeral director had come to their house and showed her a folder. Photos of various coffins that looked absolutely nothing like what hung from the walls here. Ilka had also chosen the chapel from pictures he brought out. Also, the decoration for the coffin, though she changed her mind later. Erik’s coffin had been covered with yellow tulips, a flower he had loved.
They walked back downstairs. Phyllis Oldham was agile and a fast talker. Ilka noticed the same stink of formaldehyde as in their funeral home, not only in the hallway but all over the first floor. Heavy paintings in gaudy frames hung from the walls. It was all overwhelming, yet it also projected authority, proof that the Oldham family was successful and had been for many years. One wall was devoted to pictures of the family over four generations; it probably goes even further back, Ilka thought. She followed Mrs. Oldham across the street to an even larger building.
“These rooms are for larger funeral arrangements we can’t handle across the street.” She nodded at the building they’d just left. “We also have live music here. We’ve had gospel choirs as well as string orchestras.”
They walked into a large, high-ceilinged hall with seats and a stage at the end, like a theater. It was beautiful. And it could hold almost one thousand people, Mrs. Oldham said. “We rent this out for weddings when there are no funeral arrangements. The acoustics in here are so good that we’ve also put on a few concerts open to the public.”
Ilka smiled. She wondered how her father had made any sort of a living, having to compete with Golden Slumbers.
Mrs. Oldham smiled back at Ilka. “There will always be a need for funeral homes.” She turned off the lights in the large crystal chandelier, and they headed back to the office across the street. “It’s a bit like hairdressers and lawyers.”
She walked faster now, though it seemed wrong somehow, moving so fast through a funeral home. Ilka could barely keep up.
“As I said, David takes care of preparation. We have an elevator, so the deceased comes directly up to Reception from the parking lot. We have two large cold rooms in there, and out back the florist has her own room. When they come to decorate, they can just walk in. They can also decorate out here when necessary. And we have our own crematorium; it’s on the outskirts of town.”
Earlier, Ilka had thought that the crematorium might be at the rear of the building, that they burned the deceased in the middle of town, which made her uneasy. But Artie had explained there were small apartments in back that they rented to relatives arriving from out of town.
“All of our marketing material is upstairs,” Mrs. Oldham said. “We send representatives to all the senior citizen fairs, and we visit nursing homes to speak with the elderly. Carlotta has begun arranging home parties; they’ve been an enormous success. It’s like Tupperware parties, where female friends and families get together and hear about all our offers. Jewelry for ashes has become incredibly popular.”
Ilka gawked, though she said nothing.
“We have to protect our interests. Paul would have said the same. Now that people can order coffins on the Internet, we have to emphasize service and extras.”
“Time to go,” Artie said when they returned to the arrangement room, where Ilka had laid her jacket. The kringle box was empty, and it appeared he’d had the pleasure of the snobbish daughter’s company the entire time Ilka had been gone.
“You’re welcome to walk through the garage,” Mrs. Oldham suggested after they said their good-byes and thanked her for the pastry.
Artie nodded, but instead he led her out the way they had come. “She just wants you to see their two new hearses and the escort cars to lead them.” He held the door for her.
10
Ilka had just sat down in her father’s office chair to take a look at his will and the legal papers on the transfer of activities when her phone beeped: an e-mail from her lawyer in Denmark. The attorney was furious that right off the bat, Ilka had signed papers confirming she was Paul Jensen’s daughter. Now Ilka was stuck with the consequences. This wasn’t good. On the other hand, it was unavoidable, because, quite likely, their relationship would have been confirmed anyway. And presumably Ilka had a way out of the hopeless situation she’d put herself in.
“Just don’t count on any financial windfall. You’ll be lucky to get out of this without losing anything. If you enter into a transfer agreement with Golden Slumbers Funeral Home, it looks like they can take over your debt. Both to the IRS and the other creditors. But it’s important to pay the sixty thousand dollars tomorrow, to prevent the governmental wheels from starting to turn. Otherwise you risk them making a claim on your assets in Denmark.”
Ilka was about to write back that she had just visited the Oldhams, that everything was ready to be signed, when Sister Eileen appeared in the doorway and asked her to come.
“Can it wait a moment?” Ilka glanced at her father’s will with a mixture of fear, excitement, and anxiety; she had decided to put off looking at it until last.
The nun shook her head. “No, unfortunately. You should come right now. There’s someone you need to talk to.”
“Can’t Artie handle it?”
Sister Eileen shook her head again and began walking back to the reception area. Ilka followed her. She noticed the woman from a distance, sitting on one of the high-backed chairs along the wall. Her hair was in a loose ponytail, and she wore an oversized cardigan, a white blouse, and a pair of dark pants. It was her shoes, however, that revealed she’d left home in a hurry. Red Crocs with splotches of paint and blades of grass clinging to them.