While we performed this rather ghoulish task (to some, not me; I in jest left all my worldly goods to Sushi), Tilda took the photo Tiffany had brought, and slipped out of the room.
When the death doula came back, she collected our papers.
‘Now,’ Tilda said, ‘we’ll proceed to another room that I’ve prepared … There are restrooms along the way.’
I don’t know why she looked at me when she said that! Do I have an animated pink cartoon bladder following me around, like in that commercial?
But just to be safe, I did duck into the Ladies’, just in case nature might be lurking, ready to call. Before you head into the desert, it’s wise to stop at LAST CHANCE GAS, and not just for fuel.
When I’d caught up to the others, they had gathered in front of a closed door labeled CREMATORIUM. Tiffany, who suddenly moved next to me, whispered, ‘I need to talk to you.’ She had a hand on her stomach – probably nervous about what was to come.
‘Don’t be afraid, dear,’ I said reassuringly, ‘to face your inner feelings.’
‘No. Not about this.’ She frowned. She didn’t seem irritated – more … tormented.
‘We’ll go out for coffee and have a nice long chat, afterward,’ I suggested.
Tiffany nodded.
Good. If Tilda’s process proved traumatizing or even uplifting to Tiffany, I might well get more out of the young woman. I wasn’t really here to learn about how to deal with anybody’s death but her late mother’s, after all.
Tilda was saying, ‘This is a sacred room, and shall be treated as such. There’s nothing “funny” about it to spread around on social media.’ She was looking at the two young college-aged girls, who cast their eyes downward.
‘All right,’ Tilda said. ‘Inside, there are seven stations. Please find yours, which is identified with your photo, and wait for further instruction.’
We entered solemnly, as if going into a chapel.
The large room was blindingly white with touches of gleaming stainless steel. (I’d been inside this chamber before, while acting as sheriff, to stop the cremation of a man I suspected had been murdered, halting the procedure just before the body entered the furnace.) (Antiques Fire Sale.)
At the back was a roller belt that would move the deceased inextricably along in a plain wooden coffin of inferior wood (why burn the good stuff?) and into the hot chamber’s wide mouth with its fangs of flames. But, at the moment, the belt was silent, the hungry mouth closed, temporarily satiated.
(Note from Editor to Vivian: Madam, perhaps you’d like to soften the above paragraph, which some might consider quite disturbing.)
(Vivian to Editor: With all due respect, our readers are quite used to being disturbed. But you must admit – isn’t that MasterClass paying off?)
Spread out on the tiled floor were seven of these plain coffins, each accompanied by a small squat table that held our photos, along with a single long-stemmed white calla lily, and a small aromatic candle, flickering.
No one balked. We moved to our places – Tiffany’s coffin was next to mine – and waited as instructed.
‘Enter your casket and lie down,’ Tilda said.
We did. The wooden bottom was hard, but there was a little satin pillow on which to lay our weary heads. Wouldn’t have minded one of those for at home in bed to prop the ol’ noggin up while reading!
As Tilda began to float among us like a friendly apparition, soft music began to play ‘Clair de Lune’ by Debussy. (If you’re not familiar with the classic, take a break and listen to it on the Net, so you can get the proper soundtrack going in your head. I’ll wait.)
‘Breathe slowly in and out,’ our doula directed. ‘Clear any thoughts from your mind. Use this time for personal reflection, to forgive yourself for past mistakes, to forgive others for theirs, and to contemplate my earlier words to create a better, more fulfilling life going forward.’
Tilda continued her ethereal movements.
‘I’m now going to close each casket for ten minutes,’ she announced, adding, ‘If, at any time you become uncomfortable, the lid can easily be opened by yourself … but please remain reclined within.’
Suddenly I was in darkness, except for a few shafts of light entering through several small holes. I found it quite pleasant, actually, the air filling with the scent of the candles, music wafting in.
What was it Tiffany wanted to tell me? I wondered.
I am embarrassed to say that I’m afraid I fell asleep. The experience was surprisingly restful. I was awoken by the voice of God, gently whispering, ‘Vivian …’
And God was a woman!
Actually, it was just Tilda.
‘Please wake up, Vivian,’ the voice above the coffin lid said quietly. ‘You’re snoring. It’s disturbing the process for everyone else.’
But then she was gone, although soon something else, someone else, disturbed the process far more than had my gentle sawing of logs.
Muffled screams!
Coming from quite near me!
Throwing open my lid, I determined the cries of distress were coming from Tiffany’s coffin, and I clambered out of mine – as quickly as a person with two hip replacements and bad knees can clamber, anyway.
By the time I got there the screams had stopped.
I threw open her lid.
Her face wore a frozen look of terror, mouth open, but no longer functioning, eyes wide, but not seeing.
As if she’d been frightened to death.
Vivian’s Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
When deciding upon the method of disposing of an estate, tag sales are becoming more popular than auctions. Tag sales are usually held over a three-day period, giving buyers more flexibility to attend, as compared to an auction set on a certain day with undetermined prices on the items. The last auction I went to, I waited around all day only to be out-bid for a genuine autographed photo of Clark Gable.
SEVEN
Carry On Doctor
Brandy back at the helm of the U.S.S. Borne, just in time to guide the ship off the shoals.
Confused by all these characters? Me too. So here’s a list of everyone you’ve met so far, in order of their appearance, who will continue to be viable:
Mother
Me
Sushi
Dumpster Dan
Tony Cassato, Serenity Chief of Police
Rocky, Tony’s dog (and love of Sushi’s life)
Ned Dunn, funeral home owner/director
Ruth Hassler, Tiffany’s deceased mother
Renny, Cinders’ bar owner
Nona, tupla (and her imaginary friend Zelda)
Skylar James, owner of The Trading Post antique shop
Angela James, grade-school teacher, Skylar’s wife
Humphrey Westcott, the Old Curiosity Shop manager
MI5 Agent Hasty
Tiffany Wallace
Jared Wallace, Tiffany’s husband
Michael Hughes, tag sale firm proprietor
Colette Dumont, Iowa City antiques dealer
And an honorable mention goes to Trash ‘n’ Treasures assistant Joe Lange, who you’ll never really meet.
Banish all others from your mind. Tilda Tompkins, for example, is not a suspect. And Mother didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it, and Sushi didn’t do it – you’re not reading Agatha Christie here!
Remember that old expression, you can’t tell the players without a scorecard? Well, now you have a scorecard. Never mind the players on the bench, and pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
(Mother to Brandy: You are mixing metaphors again, dear. Really, you must enroll in that creative writing MasterClass!)
And stay alert. You’ll be on your own from here on out. (But, to assist you, I will add an asterisk to the names of new non-essential characters.)
Look at it this way. When you’re playing a round of Clue, you better have all the game pieces at hand.
At around three in the afternoon, I was behind the counter at th
e shop, which was otherwise unoccupied except for Sushi, when a call came in on my cell.
Mother.
‘Dear,’ she said. ‘There’s been a little snafu at Tilda’s class.’
‘What class?’
‘“Appreciating Life Through Death,” which I attended this afternoon. Do keep up, dear.’
‘… OK.’
‘Don’t you pay attention to anything I tell you?’
‘What?’
A sound somewhere between a grunt and growl came from the phone. ‘Keep in mind what Charlie Chan once said, young lady – “willful child soon find self out of will.”’
‘He said no such thing. Where are you, anyway?’
‘The hospital.’
I straightened. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Well, my hammer toes are throbbing, and thank you for asking, but otherwise I’m fine, dear. It’s Tiffany Wallace who has an issue.’
‘What kind of issue?’
‘She’s fighting for her life after the paramedics managed to revive her.’
Now she had my eyes popping. ‘What happened?’
‘Not exactly sure. Perhaps a panic attack got out of hand and turned into a heart attack. Not everyone reacts well to being put in a coffin.’
I looked at the phone.
It said to me, ‘Perhaps you’d better come to the ER, dear. All will be revealed.’
She clicked off, and I suppose I could have called her back, but instead I just shut down the computer, brought in the flags, scooped up Sushi, set the alarm, and headed out.
In the hospital parking lot, I left the little furball in the car (window cracked), then at the ER was directed by a nurse to one of the small private waiting rooms reserved for families of serious cases.
I went quickly in only to find Tony poised between Mother and Jared, the chief bodily blocking Tiffany’s husband, whose verbal attacks were threatening to become physical.
‘This is your fault!’ Jared was yelling at Mother. ‘If Tiffany hadn’t gone to that stupid class, she wouldn’t be in a coma right now!’
‘Take it easy, Mr Wallace,’ Tony said evenly. ‘As I understand it, your wife took that class on her own accord.’
‘But it was her idea,’ the distressed man responded, waggling an accusatory finger past the chief at Mother, who stood placidly with arms folded. ‘I’m going to sue her, and that screwball woman who ran the class!’
Rarely did Mother share a sentence with another individual and not be the one labeled a screwball.
A doctor I recognized as Param Singh appeared in the doorway; he’d taken care of me in the ER last fall after Mother accidently Tased me while she was testing out a new gizmo. (Antiques Frame.)
‘Mr Wallace,’ Dr Singh said gently, approaching the man, ‘perhaps we should talk alone.’
Jared took a step back. ‘She’s … she’s gone, isn’t she? Dead.’
A somber Singh nodded. ‘I’m sorry … we did everything we could.’
Tiffany’s husband sank into a nearby chair. He hunkered over, staring at the floor, knees apart, folded hands hanging.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Just … just yesterday we were shopping for a boat … looking forward to spending this summer out on the river …’
The doctor said, ‘Mr Wallace, I’m going to have to order an autopsy.’
Jared looked up at him sharply. ‘What?’
‘An autopsy.’
‘Why? Tiffany had a heart attack, didn’t she?’ Jared shot Mother a murderous glance. ‘After being shut inside a coffin!’
‘There’s no indication of a heart attack,’ Singh told him, ‘although that remains a possibility. In any case, sir, we are legally required to determine the cause of death.’
Jared got to his feet, eyes blazing. ‘Tiffany’s gone! What the hell difference does it make what killed her!’
‘A great deal,’ Singh said quietly. ‘To the state board, and to myself, as the attending physician when she was brought in.’
‘Well,’ Jared said indignantly, ‘I won’t give you my permission.’
‘Actually I don’t need your permission, Mr Wallace,’ the doctor replied. ‘I’m merely informing you that an autopsy will be performed.’
Tony turned to the doctor. ‘A word?’
Singh nodded, and the two professionals stepped out of the little room and shut us in.
Again Mother and I looked at each other. A forced autopsy meant only one thing: Tiffany’s death had been deemed officially suspicious. Her nod to me was barely perceptible, but it said: We are in this.
And we were.
Jared sat down again, then said to no one in particular, ‘I just can’t bear the thought of Tiff being … being cut up like that.’
Mother pulled another chair over next to him. ‘Dear? May I give you some advice?’
I steeled myself. Mother had what some would see as a cold-blooded view of people dying, but I knew she took nothing more seriously than murder. Her duty, as she saw it, was to the deceased, for whom syrupy sorrow did nothing at all. And to the grieving by providing closure.
But she could come across as tactless. You probably have already noticed that.
Jared swiveled toward her, sneering. ‘And why would I take advice from you?’
‘Because doing so is in your best interest.’
Something in Mother’s voice must have caused him to take her seriously.
‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘When the doctor returns,’ she said, ‘you should freely offer to sign the autopsy form.’
Jared looked at her like she was crazy – she got that a lot, actually. He spread his hands. ‘You heard the man – he’s going to do it anyway, so what difference does it make?’
‘A great deal,’ Mother replied, adding, ‘where your defense is concerned.’
Jared frowned. ‘What defense?’
‘Unless I’m wrong – and I seldom am in such matters – when the autopsy report comes back, Chief Cassato will be looking at you as the main person of interest, if not the prime suspect.’
‘Suspect in what?’ he asked acidly, not understanding.
‘Why, the killing of your wife, of course.’
Jared’s eyes widened, any defiance in his manner evaporating. ‘She was … murdered?’
Mother nodded. ‘That’s a conclusion to which the doctor and, I venture to say, our chief of police have already come. Why else would an autopsy be required? Your signature on the form will look better for you in court.’
His reply came out a pitiful squawk: ‘But … but I didn’t kill her!’
Mother shrugged. ‘Perhaps not, Mr Wallace. But someone certainly did. And the spouse is the first person police look at. And often the last.’
The door opened, the physician returning alone.
Jared jumped to his feet. ‘Doctor! I’ve decided to authorize the autopsy. I’ll make no effort to fight it. I want to do everything I can to help determine the cause of Tiffany’s death.’
‘Wise decision, Mr Wallace,’ Singh said, and crooked a finger. ‘Come with me.’
They left.
‘We’re in it,’ I said to Mother.
She smiled. ‘To win it!’
Well, at least she waited for the murdered woman’s husband to leave before letting tactlessness take over.
In the parking lot, we caught up with Tony as he was about to get into his unmarked car.
Mother, out of breath, asked, ‘Well?’
He turned to her wearing the kind of face you usually see carved on a totem pole. ‘Well what?’
‘Let’s not waste each other’s time,’ she replied congenially. ‘I’ll have a copy of that autopsy report two minutes after it’s filed with the coroner.’
Tony’s steel-gray eyes went to me.
I nodded, shrugged. ‘She’s got a mole in his office.’
His sigh began at his toes. ‘Oh … kay, Vivian. What do you want to know exactly?’
‘What as
sumptions are you and the doctor making? What does Dr Singh think is the cause of Tiffany’s death?’
This second sigh only started at his chest. ‘Probably poison.’
‘I thought so!’ Mother exclaimed gleefully. Her brow furrowed. ‘But we had no refreshments during Tilda’s class. I suppose it’s possible Tiffany might have had a lozenge or piece of candy tucked away in a pocket – none of us girls took our purses into the coffins.’
I wondered if that last sentence had ever been spoken by a human before in the history of mankind.
The chief said, ‘She might have been dosed with something slow-acting.’
‘Ahhh,’ Mother said slowly. ‘I did see her clutching her stomach, but merely attributed that to nerves.’
She turned away from Tony to me. ‘You weren’t there, dear, but plenty of possible suspects presented themselves at the tag sale this morning, and Tiffany had been drinking coffee from a particular cup.’ She began ticking off her fingers. ‘Husband Jared, of course, who would inherit all their money. Skylar James, who may have been having an affair with Tiffany. And even Colette Dumont, who – judging by the unimpressive goods on hand – had no discernible reason to be there, and—’
I cleared my throat, and Mother caught herself, finally, clamping her jabber jaws.
‘Thank you, Vivian, for the information,’ Tony said with a tiny smile.
Mother practically begged, ‘I’m obviously cooperating with you – give me something in return!’
The chief was opening his car door. ‘Such as?’
‘Where was Jared when he got word of this?’
Tony shrugged. ‘The late Ruth Hassler’s residence, cleaning up after the sale.’ Climbing in behind the wheel, he said over his shoulder, ‘Michael Hughes confirms that Jared was there right up to being called to the hospital.’
He started the engine, nodded to me, and we stepped aside as the car backed out. We stood watching him drive away.
‘You could’ve found that out easily,’ I said. ‘Kind of a wasted question, if you thought Tony owed you something in return.’
‘That’s all I could think of to ask,’ she grumbled. ‘He had me at a disadvantage! Once I start counting clues on my fingers, I’m off to the races.’
Antiques Carry On Page 10