The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(62)



“Everyone around him dies,” she was quoted as saying. Ashley, himself, and now his sister was dying, too.

“Idiot!” In her irritation, Ilka spilled coffee on the newspaper. Beside the article was a small box containing a short statement from the police. Two people detained for questioning that weekend had been released.

Poor Shelby, Ilka thought, sad and tired now as she glanced over the local announcements and sports section.

Soft rain fell from the gray Monday morning sky, streaking the window and blocking the sunlight. But Ilka enjoyed the peace and quiet. For the first time since she’d been in Racine, her morning hadn’t been disrupted, no one banging on her door to rouse her out of bed; that alone was enough to loosen her shoulders up, relieve her tension. She’d planned on spending the day going through her father’s business papers. Yesterday she had found a cabinet filled with files, but it had seemed far too much to tackle. She’d also called her mother and explained why she had to stay in Racine. Everything was up in the air—finances, creditors. No one knew much about the orders that had come in. Or how many prepaid funerals the funeral home had. She’d realized these things made up the business’s actual worth.

“I’ve got to take care of this. You know yourself how much work it takes to turn around a funeral home in debt.”

The moment she said it, she knew how rotten it sounded to bring her mother’s struggles into this. But at least it would help her mother understand why everything was taking so long. Ilka had begged her to take care of the photo shoots until she could find a solution. She still hoped Niels from North Sealand Photography could take the jobs. If he’d ever answer her.

Her confrontations with the suppliers who had bailed out on Jensen Funeral Home had pissed her off. It was okay for people to drop a customer when they got tired of unpaid bills. But she wasn’t going to stand for suppliers not giving her a chance to right the ship. And she wouldn’t accept that the problems could have been avoided if Sister Eileen had made the calls. They were damn well going to do business with her! She stood up to answer the phone out in the reception area.

“We’ve booked a business meeting today at twelve thirty,” said a man whose name Ilka didn’t catch. “Two consultants will be there, and the meeting will last one hour, so please bring along the books for the last two years.”

She set her coffee down. The carefree morning mood had evaporated the second she heard his brusque voice. At first, she wasn’t sure that Artie had been able to hold the IRS off.

“Excuse me, who are you again?”

“We spoke last week. We informed you of our interest in taking over Jensen Funeral Home. And now I understand there are no longer any other transfer agreements standing in the way. We’re prepared to reach an agreement quickly to take control of your family’s business.”

Ilka had pulled Sister Eileen’s chair out and was sitting on its arm. She remembered the call, but back then the voice had been ingratiating and as smooth as melted chocolate. Now he sounded ice-cold and arrogant. “There is no ‘your family.’ It’s ‘my’ business, and I’ve decided to run it myself, so I’m not interested in your proposal. Jensen Funeral Home is not for sale. Thank you anyway.”

She was shaken when she hung up. Not so much because the call had sounded more like a demand than a polite business inquiry, but because something in the man’s tone made her skin crawl.

Sitting briefly in thought, she shook her head. If she’d had any doubts about the wisdom of taking up the challenge and righting the ship, they were gone now. The decision had been made.

Something else stirred underneath her anger about the call. Sitting there at Sister Eileen’s desk, she realized she’d just made the first clear decision of her career. It may have been spur of the moment; it was definitely a rash decision. And it was stubbornness, not ambition, that had motivated her to become a funeral home director. But she didn’t give a damn, because she was going to show them.

The phone on the nun’s desk rang again. Ilka stood up to return to her breakfast; if it was that man again, he would have to wait until the sister was back. But then she changed her mind and picked up. “This funeral home is not for sale, and it will not in the future be for sale either. And any business meeting has to be approved by me.”

“Excuse me,” a woman said warily. “Is this Ilka Jensen? I was referred to this number when I called her cell phone.”

“Yes, this is Ilka.”

The woman began speaking in Danish. “I’m calling from Linde School in Virum. We’re very dissatisfied with the photographer you sent. It’s disgraceful that the photographs are taking so long.”

Ilka was startled. She’d never worked for that school before, and she had the feeling the school secretary was just warming up.

“The woman you sent only managed to get through two classes today. I’ve never seen anything like it. You can’t expect students to have the patience to be steered around so much. This isn’t about details and shadows; you should know that. We’re talking about school photos here. And they missed far too many classes!”

Ilka tried to get a word in, but the woman ignored her. “This is about giving students a memory of their time in school, of their schoolmates throughout the years. We’re not paying for all the extra time being used. Choosing you was obviously a mistake. And it’s going to be difficult to give you a good review on Trustpilot.”

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