The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(80)

Something had scared Sister Eileen out of her wits, Ilka sensed, and she either couldn’t or wouldn’t remember what.

She stuck her hands in her pockets and strode down toward Oh Dennis!. The next day, she decided, she would hand everything over to Artie. Except the things from her father’s room she was taking home with her. And he could do anything he wanted with it. He could get rid of the business and move into the house. He could set up a studio or get together with Dorothy and spin pottery with her and fire it in the crematory oven. Or he could doll up corpses to his heart’s content. Ilka didn’t give a damn.

She didn’t even notice if there was anyone in the restaurant when she went up to the counter and asked for a hundred dollars’ worth of coins. When the young guy asked if she wanted something to drink, she just shook her head, grabbed the coins, and walked to the one-armed bandit in back. She began stuffing the coins in the machine and soon disappeared into a world where nothing existed except the rush when she won.

Coin after coin fell in. Ilka didn’t move her left hand from the buttons on the bottom controlling which wheel should spin and which should be held back. She kept the wheels going, following the Native Americans, tents, horses, fruit, and stars when they showed up on the line in the middle of the glass. Most of the time the combinations didn’t pay out, but she was in a frenzy, caught up in surges of adrenaline.

A dark voice spoke next to her ear. “Would you like a beer?” Someone rubbed against her right arm resting on the machine just beside the coin slot. She smelled fresh air, light aftershave.

Without looking, Ilka shook her head.

“Wine, maybe?”

She shook her head again and noted that he didn’t move. Coins rattled into the cup when she won. He yelled out; then he said something—Ilka didn’t know what. She concentrated on sticking the coins back into the machine, and she shut out every sound, every person, the sense of even being there, and focused on the line behind the glass. Finally, he gave up and walked away.



Maybe an hour or two went by, maybe only half an hour; Ilka had no idea. She walked up to the counter and laid another hundred-dollar bill in front of the bartender. This time he didn’t ask if she wanted a drink; he brought the coins out to her and shoved them across the counter. They weighed a ton, but she hardly even noticed. Just returned to her machine.

The restaurant was almost empty now. An elderly couple sat by the window, and at the table in the rear next to the bathrooms sat a small man in a light blue windbreaker much too big for him. There were spareribs on his oval plate, French fries in a dish. Leftovers served by a cook who had taken pity on one of the town’s losers.

Ilka didn’t pay attention to these things either. She stared straight ahead and disappeared into her own world.





36



The next morning, Ilka had just made toast and a cup of coffee when her phone started ringing. Her head felt leaden, her soul numb; she’d given in to the thing that clouded her judgment and left her vulnerable, and she’d spent half the night cursing herself for it. What the hell had she been thinking? Now that she’d decided to throw in the towel and go home after her failed mission.

She’d put a sign in the front-door window. CLOSED. She hadn’t talked to Artie since he’d driven out to Dorothy Cane’s place the evening before. Maybe he was still out there, for all she knew. She didn’t even know when she’d gotten home herself. The guy behind the bar had followed her, but all she remembered was that it had been a long night. For him. She’d paid him to let her sit glued to the one-armed bandit, and she’d spent her last cent. Had tried to talk him into letting her use her credit card, but he’d refused.

She recognized the number. Artie. “Yes?”

“We have to go out and get Mike Gilbert. I’ll take a quick shower and I’ll be there.” He told her to find a roll of plastic and get the stretcher ready. The one they’d used to pick up Ed McKenna. “And we’ll need a body bag.”

“What happened? Where did they find him?”

“Up in the fishing cabin where Ashley died.”

Ilka dropped her phone while pulling a sweater over her head. “Hello!” she yelled, to make sure he was still there. “Does Shelby know?”

“I don’t know. All the police would say was that we should come get him.”

Ilka rushed down the stairs and into the garage to look for the roll of plastic they’d taken when they picked Mike Gilbert up in the morgue. It was on a shelf beside boxes of masks and plastic gloves. She grabbed a handful of both, along with two disposable white coats.



It was almost ten thirty when they drove out of the parking lot. Artie’s hair smelled clean and lay plastered to his head. Ilka had never understood older men with long hair, but she was getting used to it. He hadn’t said much since picking her up. He asked what she’d done last evening but didn’t seem particularly interested when she told him she’d lain around reading. And she didn’t ask about his night.

She had in fact planned to tell him right off about her decision to hand everything over to him. He could decide whether to continue her father’s funeral home or close it and pursue his dream. The alternative was that she simply lock up and call it quits. She wanted to get it over with, but that moment, in the car, didn’t seem like the right time.