The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(27)

Ilka looked in puzzlement at Sister Eileen, who said, “The police sent her here.”

The woman walked over to them. “I want to see him.” She took both of Ilka’s hands in her own and looked pleadingly at her. “I have to see him.”

Her face was pale, her lips pressed together to keep from sobbing, but tears appeared anyway when she began talking and slowly shaking her head. “It can’t be true,” she murmured.

“Go get Artie,” Ilka said, sending Sister Eileen off with a gentle but firm shove.

“Let’s go in here, into the arrangement room, shall we?” she said to the woman—Mike Gilbert’s mother, Ilka was sure. They had just sat down when Artie walked in, but she stood and walked to him.

“Oh, Shelby!” He put his arm around her.

“You never met Mike, but I’ve got to know if it’s my son they found,” she said. Artie murmured something soothing; Ilka couldn’t hear what. Obviously, they knew each other well. “The police say they’re sure. Fingerprints and dental records match.”

She looked exhausted, but she settled down as Artie spoke to her. Her head and shoulders sank, and suddenly her clothes looked much too big, as if she had shrunk. Tears dripped onto the floor, and Artie held her. Ilka left the room, but she heard him say the woman couldn’t see her son.

“What do you mean?” she sobbed. “You don’t have the right to stop me.”

Artie spoke calmly. “I can’t show him to you the way he is now. That wouldn’t be good for anyone, least of all you. Give me a little time, and I’ll get him ready. Come in tomorrow afternoon; then you can see him.”

She pulled herself together and nodded. For a moment, she stared straight ahead; then she lifted her shoulders. Artie offered her a chair.

Ilka went out into the tiny kitchen, found some cups, and filled a carafe. She dumped some small wrapped chocolates into a bowl, then brought it all in and set it on the table and went back for a few bottles of water. She wasn’t used to serving in this sort of situation, but she used what they had. Quickly she moved everything around on the table to make it look appealing, but it wasn’t her strong suit; she realized that. Finally, she gave up and left everything alone.

Shelby Gilbert sat down. Pale, stone-faced, weeping. And so small and alone in her sorrow, Ilka thought.

“Do you have a photo of Mike?” Artie asked. He pulled a chair over and sat beside her.

Shelby didn’t react, so he repeated his question and added, “I’ll do everything I possibly can to make your son look like himself. But I need to see how he looked before he disappeared.”

“But I can’t afford it,” she sobbed, gasping for breath. “First I thought I’d have to sell the house, now that Emma is sick, so I could pay for her treatment. Then Mike wrote that he was coming home to help us. But now he’s dead, and I can’t afford to pay for his funeral.”

That surprised Artie. “You’ve been in contact with him?”

Ilka offered her a cup of coffee in the pause that followed. Shelby nodded, then lifted a Kleenex out of the box and dried her cheeks. “I knew all the time he was out there. And I knew he would get in touch when he was ready. And he did; three years ago, he sent me a post office box address I could write to. We were careful; we only wrote a few letters a year. We were scared the police would come for him if they knew where he was. It’s hard when you’ve been made the scapegoat. But then I wrote to him when his sister got the diagnosis. I just thought he should have the opportunity to say good-bye to her, if it came to that.”

She began crying again, and Ilka felt her eyes growing damp as well at the thought of Shelby Gilbert’s son lying in there. No one had been given the chance to say good-bye to him.

“We’ll find a way,” Artie said. “Don’t be thinking about the money. But help me with the photo, so I can re-create his face. Unfortunately, there’s been a lot of damage.”

“Is it that bad? How bad?” Shelby looked straight into Artie’s eyes. “What did they do to him?”

Artie ignored her question. “I won’t be finished this weekend, but tomorrow I’ll let you see him. And next week he’ll be ready so you can say your good-byes. Do you want a funeral service?”

Shelby shook her head. “We just want to say good-bye, real quiet. It’ll only be Emma and me, and of course I’ll let their father know. He can come if he wants.”

Artie nodded and suggested that Ilka and Shelby talk some more about the interment. Or the inurnment, if she chose to have him cremated. He motioned for Ilka to follow him outside; then he closed the door behind them. “This is going to be on us, but try to keep the expenses down.” He left, and shortly after she heard the fan start and the garage door open.

Keep the expenses down. Great idea, but how? How could she save money in this crazy undertaking business? She shook her head and walked back inside.



A pale Shelby Gilbert sat in the arrangement room, staring off into space. She’d stopped crying, but the corners of her mouth were quivering. Ilka handed her a cup of coffee. She set it down without drinking.

“She was no good,” she said, her voice low now. “I warned him, told him she was a devilish girl; you can just tell, the kind of girl she was. She had him wrapped around her little finger, talked him into skipping school. And he admitted to smoking pot; he’d never done anything like that before. But he wouldn’t listen; he was in love. And now they’re both dead. So young.”