by Morgana Best
“My bottom is on fire!” I screamed.
“Were you drinking? I bet you were drinking.”
“I wasn’t drinking,” I said, both sets of cheeks—face and bottom—burning.
“Hmm,” Dylan replied.
“Help me!”
“You need Aloe Vera,” he said. “Yes. Aloe Vera will help take the sting out of stinging nettle.”
“Where do I find Aloe Vera around here?”
“It’s in a lot of skincare,” Dylan replied. “Not that I would ever use skincare. Vanity is one of the seven deadly sins, you know?”
“Fine. Yes. Vanity. Okay. But I need Aloe Vera!” It was then I remembered Celia used expensive skincare cream loaded with Aloe Vera and that the skincare had not been destroyed in the fire.
I turned away from Dylan and bolted towards the campsite. I had to find Celia. I had to rub her expensive skincare cream all over my burning bottom or else I would surely die.
“Laurel, whatever’s the matter, dear?” Ian asked as I burst into their Kumbaya circle.
“Where’s Celia?”
“She is doing her skincare routine,” Ian said. “Personally, I believe a skincare routine is vain, but it’s not up to me to judge her vanity.”
I pointed my finger in his face. “Yada yada yada. Where is she?”
“Laurel, are you okay?” Eliza asked.
“Who cares! Where is Celia? I need to find Celia. Why is no one helping me find that old witch?” I cried.
Ian shrugged. “I think she’s by the river, dear.”
I shouldered past him like a rugby player and sprinted for the river. How did I let this happen? How did I let myself fall bottom first into a patch of stinging nettle? Was I cursed? Did my ancestors loot an ancient tomb? Did my great-great-great grandfather break the heart of a hermit who lives in a garden before he died of tuberculosis, and she cursed his descendants? Surely my life could not be this awful for absolutely no reason? Wasn’t there someone I could hold accountable?
Of course, I could have held myself accountable, but where is the fun in that?
The stinging grew progressively worse as I ran through the bushes. It was rocky, and there was no path, and I think I heard bats in the trees above me. I mean, I could definitely smell bats in the trees above me. I wondered if I could scare one and let it bite me, just so I could die of some bat related disease. Dead people don’t have to worry about stealing skincare to save themselves from death by stinging.
“Celia?” I yelled as I crashed into the river. The cool water did nothing to help, so I dragged myself onto the shore and looked around through my tears. I spotted Celia in no time. She was sitting on a rock, her feet dipped into the water, humming as she rubbed the skincare cream on her face. She looked so peaceful. So happy. And I was about to ruin everything.
“Celia, I need to use your skincare product,” I shrieked, charging over to her rock. “Please. I can explain later. It’s an emergency.”
“Laurel?” Celia said. She looked as though she could not believe her eyes.
Without a word, I yanked the skincare jar out of her hands and pushed her into the river. I didn’t mean to push her into the river, really. I just couldn’t take the chance she would snatch the jar out back of my hands before I had a chance to soothe my stinging bottom.
“Laurel?”
It turned out Ian, Dylan, Eliza, and the other church camp members had all followed me down to the river. Yes, they looked completely shocked that I had pushed Celia into the water, but they looked even more shocked when I pulled my knickers down and slathered the Parisian skincare cream all over my bare bottom. Ah. Parisians. They really do know what they are doing when it comes to beauty, if not food. I mean snails? Frogs? No, thank you. But within a second of rubbing their expensive cream all over my throbbing skin, the stinging stopped and I was free from the pain. . . and also my dignity.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Celia yelled as Dylan helped her out of the river.
“I’ve been drinking,” I lied.
Dylan clapped his hands together. “I knew it!”
Chapter 12
Now that the stinging had entirely subsided, I was horribly embarrassed I had flashed all the camp members. I traipsed behind them through the lightly falling rain as we made our way back to the campsite.
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” Ian announced when we arrived at the camp. “Luckily, the costumes were stacked under a tree and were not burnt.”
“What costumes?” I asked.
“Didn’t you know?” Ian said. “Every year at church camp we do a nativity scene.”
“But it’s not Christmas,” I protested.
Ian ignored me. “And in good news, we found that the cans of baked beans weren’t ruined by the fire. Let’s all have a big feast before the play.”
I didn’t really care what they did. I was just happy that my bottom was no longer causing me excruciating agony. I was even able to sit on it.
Soon we were sitting around the campfire, the rain drizzling lightly but not enough to put out the flames, and Ian was opening cans of baked beans with a can opener covered in soot from the flames but still in working order. He handed everybody a can and a spoon. The cutlery had likewise survived the fire.
I sat and happily munched on baked beans while Ian chatted to everybody about the play.
“I don’t know what we can do for the scenery now since it’s all burnt.” He shot me a pointed look.
“Can’t we improvise?” I asked.
I thought Ian would protest, but he clasped his hands together with glee. “Excellent! We just need to make a manger and we can do that with branches and bushes, and we can gather bracken fern fronds. Yes, I’m sure there’s plenty of raw material in the bushes.”
“Who’s going to play the donkey’s behind this year?” Celia asked.
Ian tapped his chin. “Oh that’s right, Cyril couldn’t come this year. I know, what about you, Dylan?”
“The donkey’s behind?” Dylan repeated thoughtfully.
“Yes, we have a donkey costume. I always play the front of the donkey and we need someone to play the behind of the donkey.”
“I guess I’d be happy to be a donkey’s bottom.” Dylan’s face lit up in a wide smile, which turned to a grimace. He clutched his stomach. “I don’t feel so well. Maybe I licked too much tree moss.”
He handed Ian his can of baked beans. “You can have mine.”
Ian held up both hands in front of him to protest. “I couldn’t possibly take your food, Dylan.”
“Please do. I simply can’t look at baked beans.”
“Oh well, if you insist.” Ian snatched the can of baked beans from Dylan and scoffed the contents in double-click time.
“When will you be doing the church play?” I asked Ian.
“No time like the present,” he said. “We have nothing else to do.”
“Okay.”
Eliza stood up. “First of all, we should collect everything we need for the props. Laurel, who will you play?”
“A spectator?” I said hopefully.
She looked doubtful but then said, “I suppose we could do with one more spectator. Besides, we have everybody: the baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the three wise men, and the donkey.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Celia loomed over me. “We don’t have any sheep. Maybe Laurel could be a sheep.”
“We don’t have a sheep costume,” Ian protested.
Celia shot me a malevolent look. “I’m sure we could find something.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I know, what about dandelions? Laurel can crouch on her hands and knees without moving, and we can pile dandelion stalks on her. The white, fluffy dandelion heads will give the impression of wool.”
I made to protest, but then thought I had better hold my tongue. After all, I had plastered her expensive French face cream on my bottom, so I owed her one. If she wanted revenge, then so be it. I just hoped she wasn’t t
he murderer and would try to poison me. I made a mental note not to eat any cans of baked beans that hadn’t been opened directly in front of me.
Soon I found myself back amongst the eucalyptus trees, this time pulling down small branches. There was plenty of stinging nettle around the bottom of the trees, but now I knew what it looked like, and I wasn’t going to go anywhere near it. I returned to the camp and set down my pile of eucalyptus leaves alongside the collection of wattles, bottlebrushes, and wide strips of bark from stringybark trees.
Ian soon busied himself making a framework, or a backdrop as he called it, for the play. I didn’t think it looked particularly sturdy, but I wasn’t about to comment.
Before long, the church play was underway. Ian and Dylan had somehow poured themselves into the donkey costume. I was on my hands and knees, in place as the representative sheep. I was doing my best not to sneeze at the cascading dandelions and also doing my best not to laugh at Ian and Dylan in the donkey costume.
As they approached the backdrop, I saw Eliza, who was playing Mary, walking with them. I figured she couldn’t actually hop on the makeshift donkey because she would have done them some damage. I supposed she was improvising.
Every few seconds, an explosive sound emanated from the donkey. Each time, the sound coincided with Eliza stepping away from the donkey and a scream coming from within the costume. As they approached, I realised what the sound was. Ian had eaten more cans of baked beans than anybody else, and Dylan was on the receiving end of it, no pun intended.
They finally reached the big backdrop and Eliza, who had stuffed branches under her clothes to make herself look pregnant, staggered over to Joseph, who was already sitting in the manger. I thought that wasn’t quite how the story went and I couldn’t see an innkeeper, but I kept my opinions to myself.
Joseph, who was played by a man I hadn’t met, made a long and particularly boring speech. When it mercifully came to an end, Mary aka Eliza sat down in a pile of stringybark next to the manger.
The donkey edged closer. The explosive sound came again. It was followed by another little yell, but this time Dylan must have made to stand up because the donkey’s back arched, and the costume fell into two pieces. Both men lurched wildly into the backdrop as the costume fell down around Dylan’s legs. Ian was face down in the mud and Dylan was lying on top of him. I abandoned my position as a sheep and went over to help them up.
“Well I never; well I never,” Ian said over and over again. “Such an abomination! How ungodly.”
“What’s ungodly?” Celia said. I was glad she was as confused as I was.
Ian trembled. “Leviticus chapter eighteen, verse twenty-two, ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind.’”
“Um, I’m sure it wasn’t referring to what just happened here,” I told him.
Ian’s face scrunched in confusion. “Whatever do you mean?”
Just then, I heard my mother’s voice. “Ian is right, Laurel. How dare you question him!”
I spun around. Dylan was standing there, his hands on his hips, looking for all the world like my mother. Well, he still looked like himself, but his mannerisms were those of my mother.
Everybody hurried over to him. “What’s wrong, Dylan?” Eliza asked, giving him a little shake.
“Why are you calling me Dylan?” Mum’s voice said.
Chapter 13
Angus Trent was sitting opposite me in my office, discussing his father’s funeral. I had the gig because I owned the only funeral home in town, and Angus had made sure to tell me that was the reason. I had never met his father, but from what I’d heard, he was an unpleasant man, and I am certain Angus was equally unpleasant.
He yawned widely and grunted before shooting me a sheepish look. “Jetlag.”
I rubbed my forehead. “And you say the police have agreed to release your father’s body?”
He nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s right. They said they have no further use for it. Ms Bay, my father and I weren’t close. I lived in Europe and didn’t see much of him. All that aside, I would like him to have a nice funeral.”
“That’s what we’re in the business of here, nice funerals,” I said automatically. I opened my mouth to say something else, but he cut me off.
“The man at the morgue told me you do themed funerals.”
I eyed him warily. “That’s right, what did you have in mind?”
“Can you come up with an idea for a garden themed funeral?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well you see, the clients come to me with their ideas, and I just see to it that their ideas are carried out. I myself don’t come up with the ideas.”
He glared at me and then flung his hands to the ceiling. “But surely you must have an idea for a garden themed funeral? What if everybody comes dressed as vegetables, or plants in general?”
I stared him down. “It’s entirely up to you how you would like your guests to dress, because you would need to request that of them,” I said in a firm voice. “However, I can make sure the chapel is decorated with plenty of plants. I heard your father was very fond of corn so maybe I could place corn around, that sort of thing.” I didn’t feel the least creative.
I thought he was going to object so added, “Will Pastor Green be officiating? Your father was involved with the church garden club.”
“That’s a good idea. I hadn’t even thought about it. Could you ask him for me?”
I nodded. “Sure, I’d be happy to do that. Pastor Green is also quite happy to dress up for the themed funerals. I could ask him to come as a vegetable, and you could ask all the guests to come as vegetables. There is a very good costume shop in town. And when would you like the funeral to be held?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I repeated.
He narrowed his eyes. “Is that too soon?”
“No, so long as we can have your father brought over here in time for the cosmetician. I’ll make some calls and arrange it.”
“Thank you. I’m in a hurry to get back to Europe as soon as I can.”
“Won’t you have to stay here and sort out your father’s estate?” I asked him.
He looked startled, like a kangaroo caught in the headlights. “Oh yes. It should be straightforward, at least the initial aspect, but I can’t leave the country permanently until probate is through. That will take months. I’ll stay here and sort out the things in my father’s house first, then fly back to Europe, and then fly back here again when probate has been granted.”
“Okay then. I’ll leave you to sort out the order of the service with Pastor Green …”
Angus cut me off. “Look, I don’t know how to say this without coming across as cold, but my father and I had quite a horrible relationship. He was verbally abusive to me as a child, to be frank. I left for Europe as soon as I was old enough and had the money to leave. We’ve barely spoken for years and not until recently. I had kept in touch with him more over the last year or two to try to reconcile, just to do the right thing.”
Alarm bells went off in my head. If Angus didn’t have a rock solid alibi, I would think he had tried to rekindle the relationship with his father as part of his plan to murder him and inherit everything.
I silently berated myself for being so cynical. The police had checked into Angus’s alibi. It must have been just a coincidence he had rekindled things in time to be the sole heir, and maybe even if he hadn’t made amends, his father would have left him everything anyway.
I looked up to see Angus staring at me. “Ms Bay?”
“I’m sorry, I was thinking about your father. Did you say something?”
“Yes, I’ve never organised a funeral before. What do I need to do next? I’m afraid you will have to guide me through everything.”
“The first thing you need to do is choose a casket.” I slid some glossy brochures across to him and a price list as well. “There you go. There’s a huge range there, and the prices are on this page.” I tapped my hand on the b
lack and white page. “There are some nice, relatively new caskets too. They’re environmentally friendly and made of cardboard.”
His eyes lit up. “Cardboard! Yes. I’ll have one of those.”
“But they’re not cheap,” I warned him. It was apparent to me he had chosen cardboard because he thought it was a cheap option. I pressed on. “They’re quite beautiful. Some of them come with lovely designs on them, or you could have whatever you like on them. For example, because your father liked plants so much you could have a design with plants.” I suddenly stopped and tapped my head. “Oh, how silly of me. These take two weeks to make, but if you wanted a ready-made one, it would take longer. As the service is tomorrow, you need something that is already in town.”
His face fell. “And you don’t sell any?”
“Only this range here.” I pulled a brochure out from a drawer and showed him the range.
“That’s quite a bargain price,” he said after staring at the brochure for a lengthy interval. “I’ll have this one here. It’s the cheapest, but it doesn’t actually look cheap. I don’t want any gold or brass additions like plaques or crosses or anything.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Will it be an open or a closed casket?”
“Closed,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to see my father, and I doubt anyone else does. Is it cheaper?”
Now I was confused. “Is what cheaper? Is a closed casket service cheaper than an open casket service? No, they’re the same price. The cosmetician doesn’t charge any extra for an open casket.”
He seemed to be thinking that over. I added, “Is there anything you would like buried with him? And what clothes would you like him buried in? Did he have a favourite suit or anything like that?”
“No, bury him in whatever you like. What else do I have to do? I’ve chosen the coffin and you’re going to speak to the pastor. Can you speak to the morgue and get them to bring his body here?”