Dying to Call You (27 page)

“Taking notes is a good idea,” Vito said. “Sets a good example for the other telemarketers. Makes ’em take me more serious-like.” His smile showed sixty-four teeth.

Helen nodded. She still didn’t have her voice back. She fled the room, the purloined papers in her hand.

Helen went home at lunch break and fed Thumbs the leftover Cantonese chicken with water chestnuts. Her cat ate around the water chestnuts just like she did. Helen made herself a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, but couldn’t finish it. Her encounter with Vito had ruined her appetite. The terror diet, she thought, an effective new weight-loss program.

She tried to take a nap, but she was too charged with adrenaline. She knocked on Phil’s door to give him the stolen list, but he wasn’t home. She slid the list under his door with the phantom employees starred.

Three hours before she had to be at work. Helen paced restlessly, wondering what to do. Then she had an inspiration.

The wife of Damian Putnam, the horny plastic surgeon at the Mowbrys’ party, was the CEO for a funeral-home chain.

Helen had seen her picture in the society story.

What was that woman’s name?

Patricia Wellneck, that was it. The funeral home chain was called The Wellneck Group. Helen had heard their ads on the radio, with a professionally lugubrious announcer intoning: “The Wellneck Group. We’re here when you need us.”

Helen needed Patricia now.

She checked the phone book. The Wellneck headquarters were in Lauderdale, a half-hour bus ride away. Helen put on a black pantsuit. The bus pulled up to the stop as she arrived, a good omen. Even better, the bus stopped right in front of the pink stucco funeral home.

Florida funeral parlors looked about like the ones in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis, with one major difference: they were preternaturally sunny. No matter how thick the curtains, a Florida funeral home was flooded with sunshine.

In the softer St. Louis light, you could say, “He looks so natural” with a straight face. But the relentless Florida sun was the enemy of the mortician’s art. It cruelly revealed the corpse’s makeup, the sprayed hair, the too-stiff stiff. Helen thought that was why there were more closed-casket funerals down here.

The casket in Slumber Room A was mercifully shut. It was pinkish bronze with a red carnation cover, like a flower blanket on a Kentucky Derby winner. Helen thought the red carnations clashed with the casket color, but it was fairly tasteful for Florida.

She tiptoed past Slumber Rooms B and C, both empty, and found the office. A young woman in a somber navy suit said, “May I help you?”

Her soft, solemn voice made Helen want to clutch a tissue.

“I’d like to see Patricia Wellneck about some pre-need arrangements.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But if I don’t make them now, I’ll never have the courage again,” Helen said.

Ms. Solemn Suit knew better than to let a live one get away. “I’ll see if she’s available.”

Patricia Wellneck was back in two minutes. She photographed better than she looked in person. She was so thin, she looked like one of her coffin candidates. Her yellow-blond hair was upswept, and in the harsh light of day, facelift scars were visible behind her ears. She also had an eye-job slant. Her husband had been whittling on her, Helen thought.

“Now, how may I help you?” Patricia gave a death’s-head smile.

“I’m looking into some pre-need arrangements,” Helen said. “For myself. I want to buy a coffin.”

“And your name is?”

What’s my name? Helen thought. Patricia’s skeletal smile made her panic. I can’t use my real name. Who do I want to be in this place?

“Rob,” Helen blurted her ex-husband’s name.

“Yes, Ms. Robb. You are wise to make your choice now.

We have a full line of caskets. Many younger people, like yourself, prefer our theme line.”

“Theme caskets,” Helen said. She flashed back to those awful corporate theme parties from her former life, where unhappy servers had to wear lederhosen for unfestive Oktoberfests and cowboy hats for dreary chuck wagon cookouts.

Patricia pulled out a catalogue. “These,” she said, “are dignified but distinctive.”

She showed Helen a casket covered with Monet’s water lilies. It looked like a giant jewelry box. “This is from our Eternal Masters series. It makes a comforting statement for your family. This is a quiet reflection of a full life.”

Helen looked at the water lilies and thought of groundwater seeping around her body. Florida flooded a lot.

“Uh, no thanks,” she said.

“If you are religious, we have many beautiful expressions of faith. Like this one.”

Helen saw a sky-blue casket covered with flying seagulls.

She looked for the telltale white splotches left by seagulls, but apparently that didn’t happen in heaven. Two curlicued words announced, “Going Home.”

Helen thought of herself stuck in her mother’s home for all eternity and shuddered.

“There’s also this one with Raphael’s angels on the casket.” The two cherubs, who looked like winged juvenile delinquents to Helen, stared out from the coffin lid. Helen had also seen them on umbrellas, cocktail napkins and candles. She felt like a gift-shop special.

“Pretty,” she said. “But I don’t think I’m the angelic type.”

Patricia was not discouraged. “If you have a profession, she said, “we have many choices to honor it. This model is for firefighters.”

The bright red casket was covered with fire trucks, which Helen liked a lot. But she thought the flames were asking for trouble.

“Veterans prefer this model,” Patricia said, showing Helen a coffin with the Stars and Stripes, an abandoned rifle, and an empty helmet. What a way to go: at war, with a permanent reminder of defeat.

“Very patriotic,” Helen said. “But the only place I ever served was a Greek diner. I was a waitress. I had to fight off the owner, so maybe I qualify as a combat veteran.”

Patricia didn’t laugh.

“Did you attend college?”

“University of Missouri at Columbia.”

“Then perhaps you’d like a college scene or your school colors on your casket.”

Mizzou had never cared two hoots about Helen until she started making a hundred thou a year. Then the alumni association dunned her for contributions until she finally wrote “deceased” on their begging envelopes. Now the university could follow her to the grave. She would never be free.

“Do I need ivy on my tombstone?” Helen said.

“I see you have a sense of humor,” Patricia said. “This model might be the one for you. It packs you for the trip home, so to speak.”

The casket was a giant brown package stamped with “Express Delivery” and “Return to Sender.” Great. She could be an eternal joke.

“Elvis fans would like it, too,” Helen said. “But I’m more of a Clapton fan.” Or a fan of a Clapton fan. Helen knew where she’d wind up if she had a black coffin emblazoned with “Clapton Is God”—some place even hotter than Florida.

“These are certainly unusual,” Helen said. “But perhaps I’m more of a traditionalist than I thought.”

“We have many traditional styles. Some have the newest features, like memento drawers. That’s if you want to send something special with your loved one: a photo, medals, letters. We’ve had wedding photos, jewelry, children’s drawings and many other meaningful keepsakes.”

She showed Helen a bronze casket with a flat pullout section at the bottom, like a pencil drawer on a desk. Helen had slipped a six-pack of Falstaff beer into her grandfather’s coffin, along with a bottle opener and a bag of Rold Gold pretzels. The drawer didn’t look big enough for her kind of memento.

“I have an odd request,” Helen said.

“We will do our best to accommodate your wishes.” Patricia smiled her skeleton grin.

“Could I have the coffin delivered to my home? Before I’m dead.”

Patricia didn’t bat an eyelash. Maybe she couldn’t with her tight eye job.

“Well, yes, you could,” she said. “The casket company does not like to deliver to private residences. You’d have to order it from us and have it delivered here at the funeral home. Then you’d pick it up from here with your own truck.

Are you interested in one of these models?”

“I was thinking of something in wood,” Helen said.

“Pecan, pine, cherry or walnut?”

“Ebony,” Helen said.

“Fine woods such as ebony are very expensive,” Patricia said.

“I bet they are,” Helen said. “But I saw one at a party and really liked it.”

Patricia turned white as a satin lining. Her surgery scars glowed red with rage. She rose like a zombie from a new grave.

“I don’t believe I can help you after all,” she said. “My assistant will show you out.”

“I believe you can, Ms. Wellneck. Tell me about the Six Feet Unders. Drop-dead sexy, aren’t they? Especially in coffin clothes. Did they buy them here?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Patricia stepped around her desk and clamped her hand on Helen’s arm. It was cold as ice, but steel-strong. Patricia could have been a South Beach bouncer. She’d spent years dealing with the overwrought at wakes and funerals. She knew how to subdue someone while making it look as if she was helping the person out of the room.

Helen struggled to get free, and Patricia changed her grip.

Pain shot up Helen’s arm. Patricia dragged Helen out of her office.

“Buying a casket can be an emotional experience,” Patricia said. “Perhaps you would like to rest a moment in our family comfort room. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”

She steered Helen toward a gloomy green-curtained area with a dark door. Helen knew if she went through that door, she’d come out feet first. She took her size-eleven shoe and stomped down hard on Patricia’s foot.

“Bitch,” Patricia said and relaxed her grip for a split second.

Helen pulled free and ran. Out the door and down the hall.

Past the empty slumber rooms. Past the bronze casket, where dying carnations covered a dead man. Through the double front doors and into the hot Florida sun.

Chapter 25

Helen shivered in the blazing sun.

It was ninety degrees. The sidewalk sparkled and shimmered in the heat. But she felt bone-cold after being strong-armed by the coffin pusher, Patricia Wellneck.

I imagined that scene, Helen told herself. I was never in any danger. Patricia Wellneck is a respected funeral director.

She thought I was upset because I’d been looking at coffins.

She offered me a comfortable chair and a cup of tea.

But the bruises on Helen’s arm were already turning purple.

After she ran out the front door, Helen hid behind an SUV in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, waiting to see if Patricia Wellneck would come after her. No one left the funeral home. But three people arrived in somber black. Patricia had funeral business, Helen decided. And she figured I got the message.

Helen didn’t feel safe catching a bus in front of the funeral home. She ran half a mile before she waited at a bus stop.

That left her panting and out of breath, but it didn’t warm her.

Now Helen was pacing anxiously, peering down the sunhazed street, praying her bus would come soon.

The street was deserted. No one was following her. The land was flat as a kitchen counter. There wasn’t a bush to hide behind. She should feel safe. But she didn’t.

Get a grip. Quit behaving like a wimp. Patricia doesn’t even know your name.

But Helen knew where that ebony coffin came from. She wondered if Patricia and her horny husband were connected with the boiler room. Were the Mowbrys laundering cold cash from her funeral homes—or sawbucks from her sawbones spouse? Did they know about the murdered Debbie?

Were they in on her murder?

No, she decided. Patricia would never leave a body unburied.

Helen should feel triumphant. She’d found an important connection. Instead she was uneasy. Casket shopping would give anyone the shivers, she decided. Fashionable caskets were even creepier, as if death were a
Vanity Fair
feature.

Eternally cool.

At last, she heard the screeching rumble of bus brakes.

Helen climbed on, sat down and sighed with relief, glad to be on her way. It was only three o’clock. Two more hours before she went to work at the boiler room. She wondered how much more trouble she could get into.

Might as well call Savannah. Helen had a lot to tell her.

The bus let off Helen in front of a convenience store. She went in to buy a large coffee, determined to throw off the graveyard chill.

“You don’t want to drink the stuff in that pot. It’s turned to sludge,” the woman behind the counter said. She was a scrawny fifty and moved like her feet hurt.

“It’s OK.” Helen poured herself a big cup of something drained from a crankcase. “I’m not going to drink it.” She carried it to the cash register, wincing when she saw a bucket of “love roses” next to the beef jerky.

“I’m not charging you for that stuff,” the footsore woman said. “I was going throw it out. Just don’t tell anyone you got it here.”

Helen thanked her and stood outside the store, holding the hot foam cup. She wondered how the woman stayed so nice in these depressing surroundings. The parking lot was littered with trash, spilled drinks and fluids she didn’t want to examine.

When her fingers were warmed enough so she could punch the buttons, Helen walked over to the pay phone. It was encrusted with chewing gum blobs like fake jewels. She dialed Savannah’s number.

“We need to meet.”

“I can’t. Too busy,” Savannah said. She’d even speeded up her drawl. “See you at the Floridian after we both get off work tonight.”

She hung up before Helen could answer.

Savannah didn’t show up at the Floridian until nearly eleven p.m., which gave Helen plenty of time to contemplate the cheap champagne breakfast for two on the menu, and wonder if she’d ever have anyone to share it with. She sucked up coffee till she was jittery as her old junkie seatmate, Nick.

Finally, Savannah arrived, trailing apologies and excuses.

She wore the same seat-sprung jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. She looked thinner. Her face was more lined, as if it had been freeze-dried. Her eyes were tired. Her sister’s death was taking its toll.