Come Little Children (10 page)

“Looks like a goddamn slaughterhouse—”

“Should never let you Vincents get involved—”

The voices crashed, waves in a cove against Camilla’s thin shale of self-defense, and she could feel the veins in her forehead pulsing with blood. She had been top of her graduating class at Mount Royal, but nothing in college could have prepared her for this.

“I’m sorry,” Camilla said, more bluntly than she meant to. “There’s nothing I can do. Does anyone need a…a Kleenex or something?”

“A Kleenex? Do we look like we need Kleenex?”

Camilla put her fingers on her temples and started massaging in small circles. She had a sudden realization—a sinking feeling—that she had
no idea
what to do.

“I’m sorry. I’ll say it again, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Good, you’ve done enough,” said the woman who was apparently Phyllis. “You were one of the ones who dragged her out anyway, weren’t you? It’s your fault she’s so battered that she’ll never rest in peace, hmm? Yes, I’d say you’ve done enough.”

The insult stung like a wasp bite. And that sting, combined with the insults from the embalming room and the weight of the last twenty-four sleepless, starving hours made Camilla open her mouth and let out an unexpected holler of her own.

“You have no idea—
no idea
—what we went through! We did everything we could to get her out carefully, and it’s not our fault when she’s been lying in water for three days because none of her
family
stops in to see her. It’s my job, I know, but at the end of the day, if she breaks in half and leaks all over her own house, it’s not my mother, so it’s not my problem.”

“CARLETON!”

Camilla, still panting from the sudden rush of anger, spun around and saw Moira and Laura—white as ghosts—standing in the hallway.

They faced each other, equally shocked.

It was Camilla who moved first. She dropped her chin to her chest and marched ahead, pushing past the Beaudrys and through the doorway, resigning wordlessly before granting anyone the satisfaction of saying “you’re fired.”

7

The Directors

C
amilla stormed down the hall, past the kitchen and the manor’s gilded elevator, for the winding staircase to the second floor. She ignored the relics and antiques that only the day before had held her wide-eyed attention, and the dining room where she had made a fool of herself at dinner.

“Camilla,” came a voice behind her. “Camilla, stop.”

She put a hand on the stairwell banister and paused, turning to see Laura following down the hall.

“The directors want to see you in the north parlor.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know.” Laura forced a smile, but it didn’t do much for the mood.

“My pink slip is probably hot off the printer.”

“Don’t say that. The Beaudrys were being unreasonable.”

“This
family
is unreasonable.”

“They take some warming up to. Trust me, I know.”

Camilla surveyed Laura again—the only Vincent who wasn’t technically a Vincent yet—and her eyes landed on her engagement ring. The family couldn’t be
completely
crazy if someone was considering marrying in.

“Moira looked ready to kill.” Camilla shook her head. “If she doesn’t decapitate me for her collection of skulls in the spare room, she’ll at least boot me without my bags. Worst case, I get a head start packing.”

“You don’t know that. Please, just go to the parlor. She said they’ll be there soon.”

The north parlor was a spacious room with a full view of the front yard. No one else was there when Camilla stepped in, thankfully. She needed time to get her bearings.

The mahogany wall panels came in from the rotunda and wrapped around the study. There was a large portrait of presumably long-gone ancestors hung above a fireplace, and eleven urns positioned neatly along the mantel—an eminent family shrine.

Camilla crossed the room to a baby grand piano in the corner. She sat on the bench and dusted off a few of the top keys, noting that this was the third piano she had come across in the house. Undeniably there would be one in the chapel too, which made for four pianos.
Dining room, viewing room, north parlor, chapel. Really? Four pianos?

She sat at the keyboard for just under an hour, barely moving. The only sound was the constant tick of the gold clock on top of the fireplace.

Finally, at four o’clock, a voice broke the silence: “Beautiful Steinway, no? 1892 rosewood. Mint form.”

Jasper strode into the parlor, adjusting the wiry glasses on his large beak.

“It’s the fourth one I’ve seen since I got here,” Camilla replied.

“Yes, well, a house can never have too many pianos,” he said matter-of-factly. “This one’s my favorite though,” he added with a whisper, as if he didn’t want the other pianos hearing.

“If you ask me”—a voice came grunting from the hallway—“they take up too much room.” Brutus entered and slumped into one of the leatherback chairs, his fat hips bulging through the gaps in the armrests.

“And if you ask me,” Jasper said, dusting the mantel with a spidery finger, “
you
take up too much room.”

Brutus opened his mouth to argue, but the
clack, clack, clack
of heels on hardwood cut him off. Moira appeared in the doorway, her cold countenance and stiff posture back in place. She stepped inside and slid the doors closed behind her, sealing all four of them in the same room with no exit.

“I want to underline,” Moira began, avoiding eye contact with everyone, “that if it were up to me, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.”

“However,” Jasper took over, “as it
does
happen, democracy works on majority.”

“Am I being fired?” Camilla asked in a simple, even tone. She sounded considerably calmer than the hour before.
Maybe that was their strategy—cool my heels for an hour first, then talk
.

“How much do you know about our family history?” Jasper asked, avoiding her question.

Camilla shook her head, and the older man motioned at the portrait above the mantelpiece. “These were Nolan’s first settlers. Among them, the four Vincent men who came from Britain to build this house on this very plot. If you look closely at great-grandfather’s hand, you’ll see he’s holding the original deed. No doubt why he’s smiling so widely.” Jasper tapped the
frame and smiled. “This moment marks the proudest point in Vincent history, as the family were finally landowners. Gold rushes came and went, as did generations of the family”—he motioned at the line of urns on the mantel—”but there has always been,
and will always be
, that same sense of togetherness as when the home was tilled and built over a hundred and fifty years ago by Vincent hands.”

“If we’re starting a hundred and fifty years back,” Brutus said, wiggling out of his chair, “I’m getting a Guinness. Call me when you catch up.”

“Sit, Brutus,” Moira said. She turned all of her attention on Camilla. “The truth is, our family and our work are paramount. Blood is thicker than water, which is thicker than the ink your contract is signed in. So when you go around hacking up garments and verbally abusing our clients, you’re worth less than the worms in our garden. Understand?”

“Our crest is our honor.” Jasper nodded. “Others have tried desecrating it over the years, oh yes, but that’s all the reason we must stay united. Do you have anything to say?”

Camilla was bad at keeping eye contact, and this scenario was no exception. She looked at the floor and tried summoning the right words.

“I’m sorry,” she said childishly. “I guess, uh, I guess I’d say that I know this home means a lot to you. But I hope you understand this job means a lot to me too. I want to stay. I just need to adjust to the nontextbook stuff. I’ll work harder, I promise.”

“Cutting the dress coat I understand,” Jasper said, “it’s a common shortcut. What I’m more concerned about is the way you reacted to the Beaudrys. Laura and Moira say you were particularly austere. Why?”

“They were in my face. They insulted our job when we did the best we could.”

“And that was a good reason to lash out?”

“It was the truth.”

“Mm.”

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Moira said. “It’s time to vote.”

“Vote?” Camilla asked. “On what?”

“On whether or not we’re kicking you out,” Brutus snorted.

“Like I said,” Moira continued, “if it were up to me, you’d already be gone. But there are three votes. All in favor of dismissing Ms. Carleton?”

Moira raised her hand instantly. Jasper was still appraising Camilla through his spectacles.

“Have you ever lost someone?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes,” she answered, thinking of the last conversation with her mother.

“How did you grieve?”

Camilla looked out of the parlor window at the tall, gurgling fountain. She thought about it for a good ten seconds while watching the water sparkle and glitter in the August sun. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I guess the person is gone, but there wasn’t a lot left to lose.”

Jasper nodded as if he suddenly understood something.

“All right,” Brutus piped up. “Let’s get this over with. I vote she stays. More hands on deck, the less crazy it is for the rest of us.”

“Fine.” Moira pursed her lips. “All in favor of keeping Camilla Carleton on staff?”

Brutus raised a fatty arm. Jasper raised his hand too.

“Done,” Brutus said. “The girl stays.”

“So she does.” Moira nodded. “For now.” She turned to the parlor doors and slid them open again, clacking off into the vestibule. Brutus bounced up and waddled away behind her, most likely going straight for his afternoon Guinness.

Jasper was still looking up at the family portrait above the mantelpiece, examining every brushstroke.

“Thank you,” Camilla said.

The old director didn’t respond immediately. Finally he turned around and glided toward the exit.

“A funeral worker who hasn’t grieved,” he said, hovering in the doorway, “is like a priest who hasn’t prayed. Confession and atonement are two of the minister’s main tools; empathy and sympathy are ours. Hopefully this place helps you find them.”

And with that Jasper walked out, leaving Camilla alone at the silent Steinway.

8

Top of the World

C
amilla climbed the estate’s twisting staircase, her feet as heavy as her spirits. The banisters seemed to stretch on and on, inch after inch, as if the house itself was dragging her out, wearing her down one iron-weighted step at a time.

At the top of the flight was the hallway that led straight to the viewing room. As she made her way through it, she passed a string of closed doors behind which were nothing but offices and records rooms. So far she had learned that this part of the house was still “front stage”—an area accessible to clients—and the chances of someone entering the wrong door while looking for a bathroom or an exit were fairly likely, hence contents had to be kept appropriate and unalarming.

If they’re hiding something, it won’t be here. In the hall by the embalming room, maybe, or in the shed with the barred windows, but not here
.

She stopped walking.

Quit it, Camilla. They’re not hiding anything. Quit it, quit it, quit it. Focus on your job and make sure there aren’t any more slip-ups
.

She took another step forward when something caught her eye. The mahogany paneling along the right wall ended a few feet ahead of her, transitioning to a long pane of glass that
stretched from the baseboards to the ceiling. It was a frosted window that peered in on the funeral home’s showroom.

She pressed her nose against the glass and instantly backed away, cursing herself for making a smudge. She grabbed the edge of her sleeve and attacked the mark in circles, but it multiplied into two, three, four more streaks. “You just survived Armageddon,” she grunted, “don’t get fired for smudging a window.”

“Sorry,” a voice called behind her. “That’s it. You’re fired.”

Camilla pressed firmly on the window and wiped all the smudges away, revealing Peter’s face in the reflection.

“It was that bad?” he asked.

“Your mother’s a dreadnought.”

Peter reached forward and put a hand on Camilla’s shoulder. “I know.”

The two of them looked at each other in the reflection, and Peter broke into laughter. Camilla swatted lazily in the air. “Stop it. It’s not funny.”

“Me? You’re the one hanging by a thread. If pissing my family off was a sport, you’d have placed bronze, silver,
and
gold by now.”

“That’s the first time someone’s called me athletic.”

Peter kept laughing and walked into the showroom. Camilla paused to watch his silhouette move behind the frosted glass, a ghostly outline coming in and out of focus, floating like an ethereal shadow puppet.

“I can see you too,” he called. “Come in.”

Camilla dragged her feet to the doorway and poked her head inside.

The room was long and narrow. Organized. Pristine. Rows of shelving stretched along the walls, displaying urns with little
tags posted neatly underneath.
Six-inch brass urn, $250
.
Solid Rosewood with 12-karat trim, $539
.
Pearl-white enamel body with nickel finish and threaded lid, $675
. There were coffins as well: long, sturdy caskets in various styles and price brackets, their lids propped open to present the opulent fabrics blooming inside.

Peter was standing by a table in the middle of the room. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” Camilla said, still sounding flat. “Best showroom I’ve seen.” Technically, it was the only showroom she had seen.

“Really?” Peter’s eyes lit up. “Be honest. Take a better look and tell me what you think.”

“All right.” Camilla crossed to the right-hand wall and surveyed a row of urns. The styles changed on every shelf, from glass vases to marble jars to wooden boxes. She paused at a set of walnut chests and felt along the sides. There were intricate vignettes carved into the wood depicting a scene of miniature animals boarding a boat.

“Noah’s ark?”