The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(75)

As Ilka saw it, she had only one option left. Determined now, she jumped out of the car and trotted across the parking lot to find Artie. His car was still there; he couldn’t have gone home, she thought. But the hearse was gone, and she found a note on the desk: “We’ve got a pickup. I’ll try to be back before Shelby and the family arrive.”

Ilka had forgotten all about them. It was almost four thirty, and she hadn’t opened up the chapel or prepared the music.

She rushed in and switched on the light. The room was cool; the curtains had been left closed. Ilka wasn’t familiar with the stereo system, but she pressed the CD button. Soft Muzak streamed out of the hidden speakers. She found a box of matches and walked over to the candles to be placed around Mike Gilbert’s open coffin. Even though the rear section was closed off, the room seemed much too big and impersonal. They should have a room even smaller, Ilka thought. Then she shook that idea off; it wasn’t her problem, or at least it wouldn’t be.

A car drove in. She went outside to give Artie a hand.

“That was quick,” she said, as he got out of the hearse to open the garage door.

“It was just down at the nursing home. She died yesterday; it was expected. The family was there today to say their good-byes.”

“When do we meet with them? Are they coming here, or do we go to them?”

“No meeting necessary. They’ve said their good-byes; they just want to know when to pick up the urn.”

Ilka stared. “So we won’t be involved? Except for the pickup?”

“And the cremation.”

Here we go again, she thought. She started to walk over for the casket carriage, but Artie stopped her. “She’s there on the stretcher; there’s no coffin.”

Ilka gave up and simply waited. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Isn’t this just something to get over with?”

Artie looked in the back of the hearse at the body covered by a white sheet. “Irene was only thirty-four years old. She was born with a mental handicap, and it’s been years since she recognized her parents. She’s been in the nursing home the last fourteen years. She was too much for the family to take care of at home.”

“That’s so terribly sad.” She walked over to the hearse. “Shouldn’t we put her in a coffin? We can’t have her lying there like that.”

Artie looked at her. “Incredible how much you remind me of your dad.”

Ilka pointed over toward one of the coffins by the wall. “Can’t we use one of those?”

“Yeah, why not? Irene might as well get some use out of it before the Oldhams take over and clean everything out.”

Ilka stopped. It took a moment for him to realize something was wrong. “What?” asked Artie.

“The deal is off. Phyllis tore the transfer agreement up and shredded it.”

Artie started laughing. “She’ll come around; she’s just trying to show you who’s boss.”

“No, she won’t. She just sold Golden Slumbers to the American Funeral Group.”

Though he was thirty feet away, she saw his face fall. “She didn’t!”

Ilka nodded. “They’re taking over immediately. We won’t be selling. Unless we sell to them.”

He swiped at his forehead, as if he needed to clear his mind. He shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it, even though they were in the garage.

“Shelby’s coming in ten minutes,” he said. “You better go in and get ready for her. I’ll get Mike’s coffin. We’ll take care of Irene later.”

Ilka nodded and went back into the house. She unlocked the front door so the family didn’t have to use the back entrance, as Shelby had been doing. A door slammed and something rolled across the floor; then she watched Artie maneuver the catafalque through the doorway. She went out to start the coffee, fill a bowl with chocolates, and find a new box of Kleenex.

The doorbell rang, and Ilka walked out to let them in. Shelby entered with her arm around her daughter, who was using a cane. She’d been allowed to leave All Saints Hospital to say good-bye to her brother. Emma was frail, almost translucent. She wore a black cape over her much-too-loose clothing and a scarf over her bald head. A gust of wind could almost scoop her up and carry her away. Ilka knew she was on her second round of chemotherapy; the tumor in her brain was still too big for an operation that Shelby wasn’t even sure she could pay for. It seemed unbearable to Ilka, so different than in Denmark, where it wasn’t a question of money, but of whether a treatment was good enough.

Shelby was also dressed in black. She seemed more poised than before. “The only one missing is Tommy,” she said, with a long-suffering annoyance in her voice she surely wasn’t aware of. “He’s always late.”

“Let’s sit down while we wait,” Ilka said. She picked up a small stack of laminated photos of Mike, on which the date of his birth and death were printed. Sister Eileen had been a bit unsure of whether or not it was appropriate, since this wasn’t a real funeral service, but Ilka had thought it was a good idea, that the family would appreciate something to remember him by.

She had already given up trying to figure out whether or not something was appropriate; American burials were so different from the ones back in Denmark. Her main impression was that nothing could be too much over here when it came to commemorating deceased loved ones.