The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(5)

“We’ve booked a room for you at the Harbourwalk Hotel. Tomorrow we can sit down and go through your father’s papers. Then you can start looking through his things.”

Ilka nodded. All she wanted right now was a warm bath and a bed.



“Sorry, we have no reservations for Miss Jensen. And none for the Jensen Funeral Home, either. We don’t have a single room available.”

The receptionist drawled apology after apology. It sounded to Ilka as if she had too much saliva in her mouth.

Ilka sat in a plush armchair in the lobby as Artie asked if the room was reserved in his name. “Or try Sister Eileen O’Connor,” he suggested.

The receptionist apologized again as her long fingernails danced over the computer keyboard. The sound was unnaturally loud, a bit like Ilka’s mother’s knitting needles tapping against each other.

Ilka shut down. She could sit there and sleep; it made absolutely no difference to her. Back in Denmark, it was five in the morning, and she hadn’t slept in twenty-two hours.

“I’m sorry,” Artie said. “You’re more than welcome to stay at my place. I can sleep on the sofa. Or we can fix up a place for you to sleep at the office, and we’ll find another hotel in the morning.”

Ilka sat up in the armchair. “What’s that sound?”

Artie looked bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“It’s like a phone ringing in the next room.”

He listened for a moment before shrugging. “I can’t hear anything.”

The sound came every ten seconds. It was as if something were hidden behind the reception desk or farther down the hotel foyer. Ilka shook her head and looked at him. “You don’t need to sleep on the sofa. I can sleep somewhere at the office.”

She needed to be alone, and the thought of a strange man’s bedroom didn’t appeal to her.

“That’s fine.” He grabbed her small suitcase. “It’s only five minutes away, and I know we can find some food for you, too.”



The black hearse was parked just outside the main entrance of the hotel, but that clearly wasn’t bothering anyone. Though the hotel was apparently fully booked, Ilka hadn’t seen a single person since they’d arrived.

Night had fallen, and her eyelids closed as soon as she settled into the car. She jumped when Artie opened the door and poked her with his finger. She hadn’t even realized they had arrived. They were parked in a large, empty lot. The white building was an enormous box with several attic windows reflecting the moonlight back into the thick darkness. Tall trees with enormous crowns hovered over Ilka when she got out of the car.

They reached the door, beside which was a sign: JENSEN FUNERAL HOME. WELCOME. Pillars stood all the way across the broad porch, with well-tended flower beds in front of it, but the darkness covered everything else.

Artie led her inside the high-ceilinged hallway and turned the light on. He pointed to a stairway at the other end. Ilka’s feet sank deep in the carpet; it smelled dusty, with a hint of plastic and instant coffee.

“Would you like something to drink? Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich.”

“No, thank you.” She just wanted him to leave.

He led her up the stairs, and when they reached a small landing, he pointed at a door. “Your father had a room in there, and I think we can find some sheets. We have a cot we can fold out and make up for you.”

Ilka held her hand up. “If there is a bed in my father’s room, I can just sleep in it.” She nodded when he asked if she was sure. “What time do you want to meet tomorrow?”

“How about eight thirty? We can have breakfast together.”

She had no idea what time it was, but as long as she got some sleep, she guessed she’d be fine. She nodded.

Ilka stayed outside on the landing while Artie opened the door to her father’s room and turned on the light. She watched him walk over to a dresser and pull out the bottom drawer. He grabbed some sheets and a towel and tossed them on the bed; then he waved her in.

The room’s walls were slanted. An old white bureau stood at the end of the room, and under the window, which must have been one of those she’d noticed from the parking lot, was a desk with drawers on both sides. The bed was just inside the room and to the left. There was also a small coffee table and, at the end of the bed, a narrow built-in closet.

A dark jacket and a tie lay draped over the back of the desk chair. The desk was covered with piles of paper; a briefcase leaned against the closet. But there was nothing but sheets on the bed.

“I’ll find a comforter and a pillow,” Artie said, accidentally grazing her as he walked by.

Ilka stepped into the room. A room lived in, yet abandoned. A feeling suddenly stirred inside her, and she froze. He was here. The smell. A heavy yet pleasant odor she recognized from somewhere deep inside. She’d had no idea this memory existed. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to when she was very young, the feeling of being held. Tobacco. Sundays in the car, driving out to Bellevue. Feeling secure, knowing someone close was taking care of her. Lifting her up on a lap. Making her laugh. The sound of hooves pounding the ground, horses at a racetrack. Her father’s concentration as he chain-smoked, captivated by the race. His laughter.

She sat down on the bed, not hearing what Artie said when he laid the comforter and pillow beside her, then walked out and closed the door.