by Debra Webb
Her fingers went instantly to his carotid artery.
Nothing.
Rowan snatched her cell from her bag and called 911. She requested an ambulance and the chief of police, then she laid the phone on the ground and reached into the car and pulled Burt from his seat. She grunted with the effort of stretching him out on the pavement. On her knees next to him, she pressed her ear to his chest. No heartbeat. She held her cheek close to his lips. No breath.
Rowan started CPR.
The voice from the speaker of her cell phone confirmed that the ambulance was en route. She informed the dispatcher that she’d started CPR.
Rowan continued the compressions, her eyes burning with emotion. Burt was her friend. She had been gone from Winchester for a very long time, and he had made her feel as if she’d never left. She did not want him to die. Other than Billy, he was the person she felt closest to.
The voice of logic reminded her that Burt was just two months shy of his eightieth birthday.
She ignored the voice and focused on the chest compressions. “Come on, Burt. Don’t you die on me.”
Facial color was still good. Skin was still warm. He couldn’t have been in this condition for long. Hope attempted to make an appearance. But it was short-lived. Even a few minutes could be too many.
Damn it!
The approaching sirens drove home the realization that this was all too real.
The paramedics hurried across the parking lot and took over her frantic efforts. Rowan pushed to her feet and backed away, her muscles feeling suddenly weak.
“Hey.”
She looked up, and Billy’s arms were suddenly around her. She leaned against his shoulder and fought the urge to weep.
Burt didn’t respond to the efforts of the paramedics. Dr. Harold Schneider, a local physician who had attended university with Burt, came to the scene and pronounced his old friend dead.
By the time the ambulance and Schneider were gone, Rowan felt drained. This was not the way she had expected this day to go. This was supposed to be a good day.
“I’ll have one of my officers take Burt’s car home,” Billy said. He reached into the driver’s side floorboard and retrieved Burt’s cell phone. As he did, the screen lit. “Looks like he was typing a text for you.” Billy glanced at Rowan.
She moved in next to him and looked at the screen. At the top was the text she had sent to him. He hadn’t opened it. Behind that was the text box into which he had been typing. She read the words.
I found something you need to see.
Rowan frowned. “Why didn’t he just call or...?”
Her words trailed off. Because he had died before he had the chance to finish.
“Maybe he planned on talking to you over breakfast,” Billy offered. “He may have recognized that he was having a heart attack and tried to send you a message.”
Rowan shook her head. “If you think you’re having a heart attack, why not call 911? Why waste precious seconds sending a text about something unrelated to your potentially impending demise?”
It didn’t make sense. Burt dealt with death all the time. He was too smart to do something so foolish.
“Can I keep his phone for a while?” She looked to Billy. “I’d like to go through his calls and messages just to be sure there isn’t something else in there I need to know about. I’ll be sure to get it to his sister when I’m finished.”
Billy shrugged and passed her the phone. “We have no reason to believe foul play was involved. Since I’m certain he wouldn’t mind, I don’t see why not.”
“Thanks.” The phone felt like a brick in her hand. As little as half an hour ago, Burt may have been holding it, typing those words to her. Her stomach twisted. What had he wanted to show her? Was it so important that he would put telling her above his own safety? If he hadn’t been aware he was dying, why try to send a text when they were about to have breakfast together? He was already at the diner, only steps from her.
This was the downside to having friends. Growing up in a funeral home, one would think she would have gotten used to death. But it was different when it was someone close. This was the part that you never got used to.
“I have to get back to the office,” Billy said, regret in his voice. “I can take you home first if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be okay.” Breakfast was out of the question. She couldn’t eat if her life depended upon it. After his wife passed, Burt had told Rowan many times that he wanted her to take care of his final arrangements when the time came. She would need to go back to the funeral home and pick up the hearse so that she could go to the hospital and take charge of his body. “I have to pick up Burt and take care of him. That’s what he wanted.”
Billy grimaced. “I figured. You’re sure you don’t need me to help?”
“Charlotte is working today. She’ll want to help.” Rowan managed a smile. “Thanks, anyway.”
She watched Billy drive away before she headed back through the narrow alley and to the front side of the diner where she’d parked her SUV. It had taken two months for Billy to stop being so overprotective. After what happened just before Halloween with Wanda Henegar and Sue Ellen Thackerson, he’d been determined to keep her under constant surveillance. Finally, she’d convinced him that she was okay to drive around town and to be at the funeral home alone. She was armed, her handgun was in her bag and she was vigilant about paying attention to her surroundings.
Rowan settled into the driver’s seat of her SUV and started the engine. After her father’s murder last year, she had expected to put helping to solve homicides behind her. She had come home to take over the funeral home. Preparing and burying the dead was the only relationship she had expected to have with death. But her father’s murderer, Julian Addington, had had other plans. He had haunted her life, even daring to show up in person. Rowan had shot him. Unfortunately he’d survived.
No. She was glad he had survived. She needed Julian alive. There were answers she still wanted. Perhaps that was why her shot had been so far off that day. As much as she wanted him to pay for all that he had done, she also wanted the whole truth. She was sick to death of the bits and pieces of her mother’s history. A million little pieces that Rowan couldn’t seem to cobble together in a way that made any kind of sense.
She stared at Burt’s cell phone, wishing it held the answers she needed, but of course it did not. Admittedly, she had learned a good deal since returning to Winchester. Her mother had been involved with Julian Addington, currently one of the most prolific serial killers in documented history. The depth of her involvement was unknown. If Anna Addington, Julian’s ex-wife, was to be believed, Julian had been obsessed with Norah, Rowan’s mother. After her death, he had become obsessed with Rowan—all that was left of her since his own daughter had murdered Rowan’s twin sister, Raven.
If all that wasn’t complicated enough, Norah DuPont appeared to have had many friends besides Julian who were killers. Like the one who had curated the faces and skin of his victims—all of whom turned out to be serial killers who were never caught. The FBI had had them labeled as inactive. Finding those faces had solved hundreds of cases.
There was even some circumstantial evidence that Rowan’s father, Edward, was involved on some level. Julian would have Rowan believe that Edward had killed Julian’s daughter, Alisha, after she murdered Raven. But Rowan refused to believe such nonsense. Her father had not been capable of murder. She would never believe otherwise.
But finding the truth she sought was not easy. Her parents were dead. Herman Carter, her father’s lifelong friend and assistant at the funeral home, was dead. He’d committed suicide after Rowan discovered his treachery—the black marketing of stolen body parts. It seemed the harder she searched for accurate information, the taller the brick walls and the murkier the pictures she discovered.
Her mot
her had been a loner—at least, that was what everyone had always thought. She’d traveled frequently doing research for her writing. Norah DuPont had been a self-proclaimed writer. She’d had no friends—at least, no real ones that Rowan had found. Her father’s one good friend was dead.
Rowan certainly couldn’t trust anything Julian told her.
As grateful as she was for the past few months of peace and quiet, the uneventful period also worried her. What was Julian up to? It was possible he was dead, she supposed. The consensus of most involved with the investigation was that she had only winged him. But he had not been spotted since she shot him in May of last year. She had heard from him a couple of times but nothing since last fall.
If he was alive, he was no doubt readying for some sort of strike. Lining up all his ducks, as they say. But last October another facet had been added to this strange situation. A man whose name she did not know had appeared to help her out of a deadly situation. He had claimed her mother sent him to protect her.
But her mother was dead. Had been for almost twenty-eight years.
Rowan shook her head. Just when she thought she had cleared up one aspect of this insanity, two more things cropped up, adding additional questions and leading her in a whole new and bizarre direction.
She stared at Burt’s phone. Touched the Home key to awaken the screen. Luckily he had no pass code. She checked his text messages and his call log. She even reviewed his emails. Nothing except veterinary and coroner talk. Conferences. New cutting-edge drug therapies.
Nothing about her or her family or Julian.
“What in the world did you need to show me, Burt?”
A sharp rap on her window made her practically jump out of her skin. Her heart in her throat, she lifted her gaze to the figure hovering only inches from the glass.
Lance Kirby.
She dragged in a breath as she powered down her window. Somehow she produced a smile for the persistent man. “Sorry. I was a thousand miles away.”
Actually, she’d only been a few, but he had no need to know that.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He reached through the window, squeezed her shoulder, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I heard about Burt.” He jerked his head toward the diner. “It’s a shame. A real shame.”
Rowan nodded. “It is. He’ll be missed.”
Kirby launched into a list of all the ways he would be happy to help in whatever way she needed. Rowan finally found an opening in his monologue and explained that she had to go pick up Burt.
Kirby managed a strained smile and said he understood. He stepped back and stood on the sidewalk watching as she drove away.
She probably should feel bad for blowing him off, but she didn’t.
The only thing on her mind right now was taking care of Burt.
Two
Burt had been a tall man. A little better than six feet. Like many, he had put on some extra weight as he grew older; his thicker abdomen warned of how much he had loved sweets. Charlotte had helped Rowan handle moving the body. Now Burt was undressed and positioned on the mortuary table, his head stationed on the head block.
His longtime friend and personal physician, Harold Schneider, had come by and examined the body. With Burt’s recently diagnosed heart condition, a sudden heart attack was common. Dr. Schneider took care of the necessary paperwork for the death certificate. Since there was no indication of foul play and in light of Burt’s advanced age and recent medical history, there was no need for an autopsy.
His body had been washed, disinfected and moisturized. Rigor mortis had invaded his limbs. Rowan had massaged them to help loosen up the muscles. Lividity had set in along the backs of his arms and his torso but more prominently in his buttocks and the backs of the thighs, since he had been in a seated position when his heart first stopped beating. Moving him so quickly after death had shifted the lividity to some degree, but the discoloration remained in the initially affected areas.
No matter that both rigor and lividity were present, Rowan checked his corneas, finding them cloudy, and then his carotid pulse, which was no longer present. This final examination before beginning the no-turning-back steps was a part of the process she never ignored. Her father had told her a few startling stories passed down from his father and grandfather about undertakers making incisions for the pump lines only to discover the heart was still beating, sending blood spewing. Better to take every precaution first.
After making the necessary incisions in the preferred arteries, she inserted the tubes for draining the body fluids and replacing them with the preserving chemicals used in the embalming process. The process required approximately forty-five minutes.
The sound of the pump churning filled the room. The sound was as familiar as her own heartbeat. This moment was certainly the end of an era. First, her father had died, then Herman and now Burt. The three had been in the business of taking care of the dead in this town for half a century or more.
With a sigh, Rowan removed her gloves, mask and apron. She set them aside for when she returned and went upstairs to find Charlotte. There hadn’t been time to talk after she arrived back at the funeral home with Burt. As sadly as this morning had started, Rowan wanted to move forward with her plan.
She found Charlotte in her office already laying out the design for Burt’s memorial pamphlet. Rowan paused behind her chair and studied the image on the screen.
“That’s a great photo of Burt.” He looked like the jolly man everyone had known him to be. “The layout is nice. Burt would be honored.”
“Thank you. I wanted to do this in a way that I knew he would like. I found the photo in all those pics we took at the dinner you hosted at Christmas.”
Rowan smiled at the memory. Burt’s wife had died only a month before, and his sister was on a holiday cruise that had been planned for nearly a year. Rowan had insisted Burt come to her dinner. She had invited her staff, including the cleaning team. By the day of the party, it had turned into such a large gathering she’d held it in the lobby instead of in her kitchen in the living quarters.
“That was a great party,” Rowan said, mostly to herself.
“It sure was,” Charlotte agreed. She glanced over her shoulder. “You know you’ll have to do that every year from now on.”
Not in a million years would she have ever thought she would be hosting parties in this funeral home. But Charlotte was right. It needed to become a tradition. Their work was so somber, infusing happiness wherever possible was important. Rowan took a breath. It was time she started a number of new traditions. This was her home, her business now. She was no longer just the undertaker’s daughter; she was the undertaker. There were many things she could do.
Rowan pulled up a chair. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Charlotte spun her chair to face Rowan. Worry darkened her expression. “Of course. Is everything okay?”
Rowan nodded. “Other than Burt’s sudden death, yes, everything is great.”
That voice, the one that whispered to her far too frequently, reminding her that the other shoe could drop at any moment, nagged at her, but Rowan ignored it.
“I’m the last DuPont,” Rowan announced. “There’s no one else.”
Charlotte gave her a look over the top of her computer glasses. “You and Billy are getting married and having babies. There will be plenty of DuPont-Brannigans.”
Rowan laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “I appreciate your optimism, Charlotte, but I hit the big four-oh recently. I’m not holding my breath. Besides, there has been no proposal from the other half of your equation.” She cocked her head and studied her assistant. “Unless you know something I don’t.”
Frankly, Rowan wasn’t sure she was ready for that step for numerous reasons. She and Billy had been best friends for so long the idea of
doing anything that might damage that relationship was terrifying. She’d struggled with that fear when they decided to take their relationship to the next level. The idea of getting married—a lifetime commitment—was truly frightening. What kind of wife would she be? Good grief, what kind of mother would she be when she had only Norah for an example?
Charlotte held up her hands. “I do not know anything. I’m just saying.”
Rowan waved her off. “Anyway, I’m having my attorney draw up a contract.”
A frown marred the other woman’s face.
“I’m giving you a promotion along with a substantial raise.” She named the figure, and Charlotte’s jaw dropped. Before she could voice a protest, Rowan went on. “I’m also going to add a bonus of 5 percent interest in the funeral home starting this year and 1 percent each year of service moving forward—as long as the profit margins remain stable or rising.”
“Oh no. You can’t do that! The very idea is far too generous, Rowan. The salary increase alone is more than enough.”
“Trust me,” Rowan argued, “this is a better deal for me than for you.”
The younger woman pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m so flattered and grateful. I don’t know what to say.” She blinked against the emotion shining in her eyes. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I love working with you, and I love the job.” She laughed. “I know it sounds strange, but I enjoy working with the dead and their families. I feel like it’s very important work.”
Rowan smiled. “This is why you’re a perfect partner.”
Charlotte swiped at her eyes, her lips trembling with the effort of holding a smile in place. “Thank you.”
“When the attorney has the agreement drafted, we’ll have him bring it here for signature and then we’ll have another party.” Rowan stood. “I should go check on Burt.”
Charlotte thanked her again before she could get out the door. The reaction was what Rowan had hoped for and certainly bolstered her low mood. She headed back along the hall and down the stairs to the basement and on to the mortuary room. There was an elevator for transporting gurneys and coffins from floor to floor, but she only used it when she was moving a client.