The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(66)
“Do they want anything in the coffin with him?” Artie asked.
She shook her head. “Not that I know of, but maybe they’ll bring something along at the viewing.”
“When are they coming, do you know?”
“Five o’clock. His father is coming too; he’s driving up here, so they couldn’t make it earlier.”
Artie nodded. “Do they need anything for the funeral service, or maybe that’s been arranged already with the sister?”
“There won’t be a service. They just want to sit with him and say good-bye.”
“Okay. Make sure the stereo system is ready so there’s music in the background. Otherwise it can be really hard for the relatives to take the silence.”
Ilka nodded.
They rolled Mike’s coffin in and parked him beside McKenna and his dog, who were to be flown out Wednesday or Thursday; the details weren’t taken care of yet—they were waiting on the final papers.
“Ready?” Artie grabbed the casket carriage with Mrs. Norton’s coffin. “I’ll clean up when we get back.”
Ilka wanted to take a quick shower, but Artie was already on his way to the hearse. He asked her to find Mrs. Norton’s death certificate in the office while he loaded the coffin.
“And bring the urn with you,” he said.
“Is there a specific urn, or should I just pick one out?”
Artie let go of the carriage, obviously annoyed. No, she couldn’t just pick one out. “Which urn did they pay for? It’s on the order sheet. That’s not ready?”
She looked at him in confusion and asked if this was something she should have taken care of.
“It’s something Paul always did, anyway.”
Ilka was about to defend herself, but instead she straightened up. “Starting today, that will change. From now on, the person driving the body to the crematorium will also take care of the urn.” She stared at him until he gave her a nod.
Ilka turned and left the room. She almost slammed the door, but she thought better of it. After a moment, she walked into the garage. Artie was over on the other side, opening the rear door of the hearse.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll go in and find the papers.”
Artie turned to her. They stood for a moment, letting their anger seep away. Then he offered to help find the urn if she would look to see which model Mrs. Norton had ordered.
Now that they’d cleared the air, Ilka scolded herself. She was going to have to make this work.
In the office, she brought out the folder on Mrs. Norton’s funeral. A clay urn had been ordered and paid for, nothing fancy. Just a common model to be put in the grave where her husband already lay.
Before going over to the storage room to find the urn, she noticed two men in dark suits about to get out of an expensive car. They walked across the parking lot toward the front entrance. She stepped back just inside the door, out of sight. There was something purposeful about them, the way they walked silently, straight to the door.
Curious now, also a bit nervous, she moved closer to the reception area. The doorbell rang, and Sister Eileen said something Ilka didn’t pick up. A dark, masculine voice replied. She stayed in the foyer and listened. It seemed that the American Funeral Group hadn’t accepted her refusal to meet with them. Or else they were extremely hard of hearing. Which she doubted. Either way, she was annoyed.
She walked up to them and introduced herself. “Like I already said earlier today, this business is not for sale.” She didn’t want to sound directly rude. Just almost.
Instead of backing off, however, one of the men simply walked farther inside and looked around, as if he’d been invited to take a tour of the house. It was a conscious provocation, obviously, and insolent, which worried Ilka. The sister sat behind her desk, her eyes lowered, while the other dark-suited man stood to the side like a silent threat.
“I want you to leave, now,” Ilka said. She walked over and opened the door. As she held it open, she caught Sister Eileen’s eye; she looked guarded, uncertain, sitting there slumped in her chair. Ilka briefly thought about getting Artie, but instead she again told them to leave.
“I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with,” said the smaller of the two men, the stocky one standing beside the desk. His hands were stuck deep into his pockets, as they had been since the two men had walked in.
“Dealing with? I don’t plan on dealing with anyone. I’m just telling you my father’s funeral home business is not for sale. Not now, anyway. Which I told you on the phone this morning.”
“But it’ll be up for sale later?” he said.
Ilka immediately regretted her choice of words, but she was losing patience. “There’s no reason for you to think that. Right now it’s not for sale.”
There was something in his eye that stopped her from being more forceful. Don’t burn your bridges, a small voice in the back of her head was telling her; these people could prove to be useful. But they couldn’t just barge in this way, and besides, it was none of their business whether or not the funeral home would be for sale in the future.
“We knew your father,” the taller man said, walking over to her. “We also know about his problems. What I think is, you’re making a big mistake, not listening to our organization’s offer.”