The Unknown Beloved(115)

“Yeah . . . well. You see too much. And Eliot has a big mouth.”

She laughed. “Go to her, brother. Go to her, pick her up in your arms. Take on the burden of love. And don’t ever let her go.”

“It would not be a burden to love her,” he argued, needing the last word since Molly had let him have so few.

“Of course it would. It is a burden to love anyone. And it is a burden to be loved. Stop running from it, my boy. Go back to Cleveland. Go back to your Dani. Be a burden to her. I beg you. And ask her to be yours.” She winked. “And now, if you don’t mind, I think one of my burdens just pulled in the driveway, and I am going to dish up his dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”





28


The refrigeration at the morgue was on the fritz. Mr. Raus had all the bodies moved to other facilities or prepared for burial and transported to cemeteries while repairmen sweated in the storage locker, trying to bring the system into working order. On Friday it was working at full capacity, pouring cold air into the storage locker, and Dani documented and dressed ten bodies for burial on Saturday, but by Monday it was back to running in fits and starts, and Mr. Raus was at his wit’s end. He and Mrs. Raus left for a convention in Detroit with a warning to Dani that the Mead facility would not be receiving any more of the city’s indigent dead until they returned and any necessary repairs had been made.

Mr. Raus asked if she would check the facility Tuesday evening to make certain that no new cases had been delivered.

“I don’t want bodies sitting in a faulty fridge for the next week.”

Dani was grateful for a brief respite from the work, but worried about the stipend they’d come to rely on. She walked to the morgue, tugging her wagon behind her, more out of habit than necessity. Even with no bodies to tend to, there was still work to be done, and possibly laundry to bring home. But after finding the cold locker empty—and not very cold—with no new dead to be cared for, she made a thorough reassessment of the clothing she kept on hand and added a series of updates in her ledger. By 7:00 p.m., she was ready to leave.

A light rapping at the main door had her frowning up at the clock.

Seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening was too late for a delivery, but maybe Mr. Raus had scheduled a repairman to come while she was there and had forgotten to warn her in all the hubbub.

She approached the door wearily. She wanted to go home. But the rapping became scraping in the lock, and she realized whoever was entering had a key.

“Mr. Raus?” she called.

“No. No. Not Mr. Raus, Miss Kos,” a voice answered, jovial. “It’s just me.”

A man stepped inside the facility and hung his straw hat and a white suitcoat on a peg beside the door. It was too hot for anything but shirtsleeves, and he began to roll his as if he was well-accustomed to the work of the morgue.

“I don’t think we’ve ever met before, Miss Kos,” he continued, not even looking up at her as he washed and dried his hands.

“There are no dead to attend to, sir,” she said, uncertain. “Mr. Raus made other arrangements this week while he’s out of town. Did he not tell you?”

“No. No. He didn’t tell me. Mr. Raus and I have not talked in years, though I used to help him here and in his mortuary in ’33. I’m sure he is not even aware that I have access to this building. Undertaker’s privilege.” He winked and began pulling on a pair of gloves. “The security is really quite sloppy. He’s clearly not worried about his clients.” He chuckled.

She could not remember his name, but she recognized him. He’d been one of the doctors at Dr. Peterka’s practice for a while. He’d sat with the others some mornings in the lounge, but she couldn’t remember ever speaking to him.

He was heavier than he’d been years before, but the puffiness in his face and the ruddiness in his cheeks indicated a fondness for alcohol that had probably contributed to his weight. His faded red hair waved back from a large forehead, and the round spectacles that sat on his prominent nose illuminated the blue of his eyes.

“Forgive me, Doctor. I don’t remember your name,” she said, retreating several steps. He didn’t seem inclined to leave even though there were no undertakings to perform.

“You don’t?” He tipped his head at her in amazement. “But I have known your name for so long. And I was sure your friend would have reminded you.”

“My friend?”

“Your boarder. Such a fascinating man. I heard him talking about you. With Eliot Ness. I thought he might stay in Cleveland. But men like that don’t stay, do they?”

“My boarder?” she asked, her voice faint, and dread pooled at her feet.

“Mike. Michael Malone. He called you Dani. But I prefer Daniela. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. You look like your mother. Aneta Kos and I were friends, you know, when we were young. Edward Peterka introduced us. But she left Cleveland, didn’t she? Got swept off her feet. And she never came back. I was sorry to hear of her passing. But that was years ago.”

“Can I help you with something, Doctor?” He was too close to the door. She would not be able to get past him. Her mind scrambled for options, should she need them.

“I don’t know, Daniela.” He paused, studying her, one gloved hand cupping his chin, one wrapped around his middle. “I have something for you. And a confession of sorts.”