Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  “No way,” Michael said, and cupped her chin in his hand. He gently lifted her head so she faced him. “We’re going, beautiful,” he said softly. “And I’m bringing surprises.”

  Within minutes of collecting shoes, costume bags, and ballerina, Janet had Ellie buckled in the back seat of the Caravan with a coloring book and crayons and was backing out of the garage. She glanced across the street toward the funeral home and noticed three cars parked in the lot. She hoped Chad had been right about the Rasmussen viewing being small. If a large crowd did show up, or if they got another death call before Michael had the chance to leave for the recital, he would feel obligated to stay.

  Not that she’d blame him. Janet knew it was part of the job. A tough, sometimes thankless job. She’d discovered that firsthand eight years ago, shortly after they were married. Not long after their honeymoon, Janet offered to work at the funeral home. She wanted to understand more about the industry that consumed her new husband and thought, having earned a management degree from LSU, that she might be able to contribute something to the family business. So she’d filled in as an additional hostess when the need arose, filed death certificates, and had even driven the hearse a few times. It didn’t take Janet long to figure out, however, that it took a special temperament and talent to work in funeral service, and she didn’t have either. Though she felt purpose when helping grieving families, she couldn’t handle being surrounded by death and sadness every day. Such a concentration of both in one place seemed to suck the life out of her. That’s when she decided to open a flower shop near the funeral home. From there, she could still help the bereaved but also brides and new moms. Janet needed that balance of light with dark.

  Michael, on the other hand, appeared to maintain a healthy internal balance despite what he dealt with each day. His good-hearted, optimistic nature rarely allowed him to remain depressed or sullen for too long, even in the direst of circumstances. The last three years had certainly proven that. He’d spent two of those three years in hell and this last year pulling his way past the second rung of purgatory. He was due a break and some time off.

  Unfortunately, one of Michael’s favorite getaways was his family’s cabin, which was located in Carlton, Louisiana, four hours north of home. He tried to schedule time off every July, specifically the last weekend of the month, when Carlton held its annual summer fair. Ellie loved going for the carnival rides and looked forward to the trip each year. Janet enjoyed the fair as well, but she secretly hated the cabin. The place was old, surrounded by woods, and held ancient memories that always made her feel like an outsider.

  “Mama, I can’t find yellow.”

  Pulled from her reverie, Janet glimpsed into the rearview mirror to make sure Ellie hadn’t unbuckled her seat belt to search for the missing crayon. She hadn’t.

  “Use blue,” Janet said.

  “I can’t make the kitty’s face blue!”

  “Then use brown.” Janet checked the mirror again. It puzzled her how quickly Ellie had snapped out of her melancholy once they’d left the funeral home. They were no sooner out the side door than she was back to her chatty, bouncy self. So far Ellie hadn’t brought up another question about death, and Janet didn’t press the issue. She had enough to handle with her unnamed worry still chugging along at a decent rate.

  “What color was Mary’s little lamb?” Ellie asked as Janet took a right on Union Street.

  “What, hon—oh, damn!”

  “Mama, you said the D word!”

  Janet winced. “Sorry.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re almost out of gas.” Janet looked at her wristwatch to verify the time illuminated on the dashboard clock. She only had an hour to find leotards and get Ellie to the auditorium. She glanced down again at the fuel gauge, which sat flat against E.

  “Miss Vicky won’t care if we’re late,” Ellie said. “She’s a good dancing teacher. When Lexie’s late, she doesn’t get mad at her.”

  There was a convenience store with fuel a block and a half away. Janet kept her fingers crossed they’d make it that far. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, honey.” She looked back at Ellie with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I just don’t like being late.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  The engine coughed, and the Caravan shuddered, then jerked forward.

  “Oh, Jesus, please,” Janet begged. The store was only half a block away now.

  “You praying, Mama?”

  “Yes, Mama’s praying.”

  “’Cause you don’t want Jesus to make you run out of gas?”

  “Uh-huh.” Janet let the van coast into the store’s parking lot and pulled alongside the nearest fuel island. Exhaling loudly with relief, she switched off the engine and fumbled through her purse for her Visa card. Once she found it, she turned to Ellie. “Stay put, all right? I won’t be but a minute.”

  “Okay, but I want to help pump the gas,” Ellie said. She tossed her crayons on the seat and tugged at the seat belt.

  “Not this time,” Janet said, already out of van. “Next time maybe. Just finish the kitty for me.”

  Her daughter’s face crumpled.

  “You know,” Janet said. “I’ll bet Miss Vicky would love a picture of a cat. Maybe she would even let you do a show-n-tell, like in your kindergarten class.”

  Ellie’s face brightened. “What about I get a real kitty? Then I could bring it for a real show-n-tell. Jason brung his turtle—”

  “Brought his turtle,” Janet said as she lowered the driver’s side passenger window, then closed her door.

  “Brought his turtle to school, and everybody got to touch it. I want to bring . . .”

  Sticking her credit card into the payment slot of the fuel pump, Janet nodded and said absently, “Um-hmm. We’ll see.” She unscrewed the fuel cap on the van, shoved the nozzle into the metal hole, then checked her watch again.

  “Then Casey brung her . . . brought her Beanie Babies after that. Her Beanies had clothes. Can I get one with clothes, Mama? I want to get the . . .”

  “They sure can talk, huh?”

  Surprised by the male voice, Janet snapped a look over her shoulder. A man stood on the opposite side of the fuel island, thrusting a nozzle into a bright red Suburban. She hadn’t heard his vehicle pull up alongside them.

  Smiling politely, Janet nodded. “They sure do.” She looked back at the total registering on the pump display. Not even five dollars yet. Today she had to pick the slowest pump!

  She turned her head as though to study the hood of her van and caught a peripheral glimpse of the man moving closer to her. Janet squeezed the nozzle harder, trying to coax the fuel through faster. The guy didn’t look dangerous. A bit over middle age with a V-shaped patch of white hair on top of his head and crooked, overlapping teeth. His sunglasses made it hard for Janet to see his eyes. Dressed in gray slacks and a gray and white striped shirt, he looked more like an office worker than trouble.

  “You’re Savoy’s old lady, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Something about the old slang and the way his mouth worked around the words made Janet move closer to the van. “Excuse me?”

  “Wilson Savoy’s boy, Michael? The one who runs the funeral home now. You’re his old lady, right?”

  “Yes . . . Michael’s my husband,” she said, trying to remain calm and polite. “How do you know him?”

  The man laughed like someone holding a delicious secret. He stepped up to the Caravan. “Don’t know him so much as his old man. Wilson and me go way back. Business associates, you know? The name’s L. Vidrine by the way, but you can call me Lester. Anyways, I hear he’s back in town. Thought I’d pay him a visit.” He sidled up to her, and his approach carried an abhorrent sense of intimacy.

  “I see.” Janet removed the nozzle and screwed on the fuel cap. Stay calm. She glanced around the parking lot, looking for potential backup. Two kids were investigating something under the hood of a Jeep Cherokee at t
he front of the store, and a frail old man in a blue tunic sprayed down the concrete with a water hose. He didn’t look strong enough to wrestle his way out of a spider’s web.

  “So—so how do you know me?” Janet asked.

  “I seen you in the funeral home a few years ago. Went there to collect—I mean, pick up some stuff from the old man, and you were there. He’s the one told me you were his daughter-in-law.”

  “Oh.” It was all Janet could think to say.

  “Yeah, I’m good with faces like that. Never forget one. I would’ve recognized you anywhere.”

  She attempted a smile, but the effort fell flat.

  “So you seen him?” he asked. “Know where he is?”

  Janet resisted licking her dry lips. “Who? Michael?”

  “No, his old man. Wilson.”

  She shook her head.

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  The man looked away and snorted. “Figures.” He took a step back. “Hey, cute kid.”

  Janet’s breath caught as the stranger leaned over to peer into the open window at her daughter.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked Ellie.

  “Colorin’ a kitty for my teacher,” Ellie said. She held up her coloring book to show her progress.

  “That’s a nifty cat,” he said. He cocked his head to one side, and his eyes locked on Janet.

  “What’s your name?” Ellie asked. “My name’s Ellie, and I’m five. How old are you? Do you have a little girl?”

  “Honey, finish your picture,” Janet said, returning the nozzle to the dispenser. She had one eye on her daughter and the other on the stranger. The nozzle slipped out of its cradle and fell to the concrete. She didn’t bother to retrieve it.

  The stranger leaned against the side of the Caravan so his back was to Ellie. He edged closer to Janet and said in a mild, conversational tone, “You’re sure a good-looking thing. With all that dark hair and everything, enough to send a man to his knees.”

  Janet felt her face harden. “Get away from my car.”

  The man held his hands out in front of him as though in surrender. “Just wanted to pay a compliment. You can’t blame a guy for trying, right?” He moved closer to her. “No harm, no foul, right?”

  “Get away from me or I’ll yell for help.”

  “Help from what, lady? I ain’t done nothing.”

  “Mama?”

  Janet glared at him. She heard Ellie call her again but was afraid if she took her eyes off the guy, she’d miss a move, a twitch that might warn her of—what?—an attack?

  “Mama?”

  The man grinned and backed away. He turned to Ellie and wagged an index finger. “Take it easy, kiddo.”

  Janet saw worry and confusion swim through her daughter’s eyes as the man moved toward the pumps. He leaned against one of them and grinned at her again. Janet hurried into the van, locked the doors, and raised the back window.

  “Was that a bad man, Mama? Are you mad at him?”

  Cursing under her breath, Janet started the van and tore out of the parking lot.

  “Huh, Mama? Was he?”

  Tires squealed as Janet turned right, barely slowing for a stop sign. Worse than the lecherous come-on from the man at the store was the knowledge he’d left with her. Michael’s father, Wilson, was back in town. And if ever there was a reason for her to intuit trouble, he was it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata played softly overhead as Michael inspected Mr. Rasmussen’s burial suit. His apprentice stood nearby, chewing on a fingernail.

  “So how’d I do?” Chad asked.

  Michael straightened Rasmussen’s tie, plucked a speck of fuzz out of his hair, then leaned over the coffin to check the nostrils for stray nose hairs. “Not bad. Just watch the shirtsleeves. An inch past the jacket sleeves always looks best.” He tugged lightly on the shirt’s cuffs. “See what I mean?”

  Chad nodded solemnly. “Christ, you’d think after eight months of working with you I’d remember.”

  “Inch and a half’s actually better,” a man’s voice said behind them.

  Michael and Chad turned in unison.

  “Could never get my boy to do it right, though,” the man said with a sardonic grin.

  Michael blinked as if someone had just thrown a handful of sand in his eyes. “Dad?” The person standing just inside the viewing room barely resembled the man Michael had last seen three years ago. Back then his father had been a formidable figure, even at sixty-three years old. Six-foot two, one hundred eighty pounds, only a touch of gray in his sandy brown hair near the temples. This man looked like a freeze-dried version of the original. Dressed in a faded black suit, he stood stoop-shouldered and penny-nail thin. He hobbled toward Michael.

  “Been a while,” Wilson Savoy said, his voice a smoker’s croup. He held out a knotted, shaking hand when he reached his son.

  Michael shook it reluctantly, conscious of the heat rolling up the sides of his neck. “Yes, it has,” he said, still staring at his father’s flour-white hair. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Time, the supposed healer, had chosen to keep a selection of memories stored away until this moment. Now, like hell-bent kamikazes, they flew to the forefront of his mind where they crashed, burned, then immediately resurrected.

  Much to his relief, Chad stuck out an enthusiastic hand, which Wilson barely grazed. “Mr. Savoy, nice to finally meet you. I’m Chad Thibodeaux, the apprentice.” Chad flashed him a smile.

  “Thought as much,” Wilson said. He motioned toward the coffin. “You do the casketing, Mr. Thibodeaux?”

  “Yes, sir. But please call me Ch—”

  “Head’s too low, Mr. Thibodeaux. Body needs to be angled slightly. You’ve got him looking like a sardine in there.”

  Chad’s smile collapsed, and he took a step back.

  “The body’s fine,” Michael said, glaring at his father.

  “Too low,” Wilson countered.

  “Any higher and he’d roll out.”

  Michael’s blood pressure rose exponentially as he waited through the ensuing silence. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Chad inching his way out of the room.

  Eventually, Wilson lowered his eyes. “Is that all you have to say after three years?”

  Michael struggled to keep a groan locked between his lips. Three years? Was that all his father thought they had to catch up on? Make amends for? Thirty-six was more like it. Every year since his son’s birth. What number of words could possibly accumulate in a person’s head and heart over that period of time? Millions? Trillions? Possibly none. Some heartaches simply had no vocabulary.

  With a thrust of his chin, Michael motioned his father to the door. “We’re expecting a family any minute. I think this is better discussed in my office.”

  Wilson looked up sharply. “Just answer me.”

  Michael clenched his teeth. “I said in my office.” He stormed out ahead of his father, and as Michael made his way down the hall, he tried to block out the sound of shuffling steps attempting to keep up behind him.

  When they were behind closed doors, Michael took a seat behind his desk and waited while his father studied the urn display against the wall.

  “No need for us to start off on the wrong foot,” Wilson said, finally settling into a chair at the small conference table.

  Michael noticed a slight bobbing of his father’s head. Parkinson’s? He shook the thought away. “Why are you here?”

  “Is that any way to talk to your father?”

  “Okay. Why are you here, father?”

  Wilson pursed his lips, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and after a few fumbled attempts pulled out a cigarette and an old Zippo. After flipping the lighter open, his right thumb quivered over the flint wheel, then missed it altogether. “Damn thing must be broken.”

  As though on autopilot, Michael got up from behind his desk and went to his father. He took th
e lighter from him. “No smoking in here,” he said, then lit the Zippo.

  Wilson puffed his cigarette to life and signaled for Michael to sit beside him. “I’ve got a business proposition for you,” he said. “Figured it’s time we get stuff straight. I’m not getting any younger you know.”

  Michael stared at him in disbelief. A business proposition? Didn’t the man possess even a thread of common decency? What about an apology? Some explanation for his desertion? Couldn’t he even share one goddamn reason why he’d left his son alone to face lawyers and bill collectors and near bankruptcy?Michael knew, however, that if his father were to say those things, he’d have to ask for DNA testing to confirm Wilson’s identity.

  “I—” Michael began.

  “Not now,” Wilson said. He got up and tapped his ashes into the empty wastebasket near Michael’s desk. “You’ve got a service about to start, and I don’t want you running out when we’re only half through the conversation.”

  “I’m not handling it,” Michael said reluctantly. “Chad is. So say whatever it is you need to say.”

  “You’re letting an apprentice take care of a family? Dumb move. He’s a baby.”

  Michael bristled. “He’s twenty-eight and competent, and why the hell does it matter to you? You didn’t give two shits about this place when you cleaned out the bank accounts and disappeared.”

  “I did give two shits, really,” Wilson said, returning to his seat. “Something came up that needed my attention, that’s all.”

  “Yeah? What was it? Number ten coming in in the seventh?”

  “I’m not messing with the horses anymore, Michael. Gave that up a while back.”

  “So what’s it now? Dogs?” Michael stood up, grabbed the wastebasket, and handed it to Wilson. “Put the damn cigarette out. You’re smelling up the place.”

  “Then why’d you light it?” Wilson sucked on his cigarette twice more before extinguishing it. “No dogs, no horses.Actually, I had another business venture that—”

  A knock at the door gave Michael just the reason he needed to cut his father off. He didn’t want to hear the excuses.