But their decision to go to the nearest hospital saved Johnny’s life. At least so far. The medical care he got there made the difference. He was still in a coma, and his folks had him transferred to Fargo, but it was the hospital in Breckenridge, Minnesota—the twin city to Wahpeton, North Dakota—that saved him.
K.C. carefully draped a white sheet over the body on the embalming table—that’s how he had to think of this for the next couple hours—not Amber, not the daughter of his friend, not his son’s classmate, not one of the town’s favorite basketball players—he had to think of this as “the body,” and that was all.
He took a couple deep breaths, all professional now. He started the process to replace the blood in the body with a formaldehyde mixture. He opened the carotid artery and the jugular vein in the neck so he could pump the embalming fluid in the artery and the displaced blood would flow out the vein. It took over two hours for the body to be preserved and disinfected. Now it could be made presentable for the last viewing.
K.C. would do that later. Over the years, he’d perfected his skills so the person looked natural—asleep but peaceful. That’s what his dad had promised when he ran the home, and that’s what K.C. promised now.
He looked silly in the drugstore, inspecting the makeup jars and tubes, but he needed foundation makeup in every hue to match any skin. He was even more self-conscious when he bought up tubes of lipstick on sale that ran from pink to red. His nail polish selections all went to the pale side—clear, pink, beige. No one ever wanted red polish on the nails of their loved one.
He’d do the makeup tomorrow. Normally his mom would style the hair, but because this one was so young, K.C. hoped he could get the new beautician in town to do it. Just out of beauty school, she knew the latest styles. He’d never asked her before—some beauticians couldn’t handle doing the hair of a corpse—but he was going to ask now.
He finished cleaning up the Preparation Room. Its green linoleum floors shined and the white porcelain sink was spotless. He changed his shirt. Time to meet the family to plan out the final details.
As he walked out of the Preparation Room, “the body” became Amber again. The technical part of his job was done. Now the important part was starting—the part that made K.C. so trusted and respected. In the next couple days, his entire focus was to make this final journey as easy as possible on the family. Anyone could be trained to do what he’d just done in the Preparation Room. The real test of a mortician was how he could do this next part.
Nettie Schlener fell into K.C.’s arms as she walked through the front door of his funeral home. He held his longtime friend and classmate, whispering, “I’m so sorry.” Behind her came one of her brothers, her three sisters, and two of Amber’s cousins. While the family resemblance was strong in each face, even stronger were the red eyes and solemn, sunken cheeks of grief. K.C. noted the fury of revenge in the face of Dennis Hastreiter. The men were right to worry about Amber’s uncles.
K.C. led them into the office/conference room with its large wooden table and chairs for ten. He knew this family as well as his own, which helped him anticipate what they’d want and need at this terrible moment.
Father Singer was running a few minutes late—the priest always sat in on these sessions for the Catholics—and so K.C. began at the top of his checklist.
Date of birth: August 1, 1982.
Place of birth: Fargo, North Dakota
Social Security number: 502-67-3730
“Does someone want to write Amber’s biography for the obituary and the mass card?” K.C. asked. He knew it wouldn’t be Nettie, but probably one of her sisters would take charge.
“I could,” one of her cousins offered, looking to the other for support and help. But when the second cousin frantically shook her head “no,” K.C. jumped in. “Or I could take care of it with your help. I’d be honored to do it.” Nettie nodded to him and the cousins both looked relieved.
“What were Amber’s activities and accomplishments that you want everyone to know?” he gently asked so he could fill in the “life history.”
“Her basketball,” Nettie said. “She was captain of the team.” And then she dissolved into tears as her sisters rushed to comfort her.
Dennis cleared his throat to overtake his own emotions. “She’s on the poster that the booster club put up all over town. It’s a picture of her laying up for a shot.”
“We Love our Buccaneers,” one of the cousins said, as though K.C. didn’t know the poster that graced almost every business window—not his, of course, because that wouldn’t have been proper.
“Her 4-H work,” her Aunt Arlene offered. “She was doing a history project on the Bagg Bonanza Farm over by Mooreton. Getting old pictures, telling the story.”
Everyone turned their attention to Arlene, like this was the most important story she’d ever tell, and she got the hint to continue: “You know, hardly anybody knows about the Bonanza Farms—they were the largest farms in the world, right here in Dakota Territory in the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds. Some were two hundred thousand acres. They were the nation’s first corporate farms. The Bagg Farm is one of the few left. Amber told me she thought that’s why North Dakota outlawed corporate farms and said every farm has to be family owned. She thought the bonanza farms taught us that corporate farming isn’t the way to go.”
Everyone in the room hung on Arlene’s words. K.C. had seen this happen countless times before. Give a family something to think about, anything besides the fact that their hearts were broken and they could barely breathe.
One of the cousins—the one a year behind Amber—asked timidly, “Do you think it would be okay, Aunt Nettie, if I took that on as my own 4-H project and finished it in Amber’s honor?”
“That would be wonderful, darling. Amber would have loved that. Thank you.”
Another aunt suggested they mention that Amber was on the Honor Roll.
“What about her acting?” the youngest cousin asked, remembering when she had played a munchkin to Amber’s Dorothy in the children’s play last summer. Amber had been in every play since she was in the third grade. She was one of the crabs in Blackbeard the Pirate, a mouse in The Pied Piper, the genie in Aladdin, and ended her acting career as the lead in The Wizard of Oz.
“That summer program is the best thing that happens to this town,” Aunt Mary Ann said, and everyone knew she was right. Northville wasn’t the kind of town that had money for arts programs. Its public library had such a tiny budget it barely held on, and if it weren’t for donated books, there wouldn’t be a library at all. So the Missoula Children’s Theater program was a godsend. For one week every summer, two actors in a red truck full of costumes, makeup, lights, sets and scripts drove into town to put on a play with local kids. The town provided their lodging and food, the talent, a stage, and an accompanist. Local businesses coughed up donations.
“She loved those plays,” Nettie said. “Be sure to mention that.”
Father Singer finally arrived, carrying his black leather appointment book as though he couldn’t remember the only thing on his plate for the next couple days. He’d already been out to Nettie’s house to pray with the family, so it was the business of the funeral he was here to schedule.
“The mass will be at ten a.m. on Wednesday,” he announced, as though this were news. He’d moved these masses back an hour when he came to the parish ten years ago, and everyone was grateful. By ten a.m., chores are long done and there was a chance to get in some serious field work. Any earlier cut into the heart of the farm day. A lot more men had been able to make funerals since Father Singer instituted the civilized hour.
“Have you settled on the pallbearers?” K.C. offered that the Class of 2000 all wanted to walk Amber’s casket down the long, central aisle of St. Vincent’s. Nettie closed her eyes as she nodded yes.
Nettie named an old friend she wan
ted to be the soloist and Father assured her the church choir would be on hand and reminded her that the Judith Circle was in charge of the funeral dinner.
“That’s Aunt Gertie’s circle,” Nettie said, and everyone assumed their elderly aunt would pass on this one so she could sit in the front rows with the rest of the family. Not a soul in town would expect Gertie Bach to do her circle duties for the funeral of her great-niece. But Nettie knew there were others who would step up.
“Visitation.” Father had only to say that one word to bring new tears around the table. The first thing they’d face in the ritual of saying goodbye was the visitation the night before the funeral. Visitation. Such a friendly, caring word of courtesy. Yet one that brought with it so much pain. This would be the first time any of them would see Amber—the family’s private “viewing” was scheduled for two hours before the doors opened to everyone else. Then they’d sit there, as their friends and neighbors filed pass the casket, and take the words of solace that were offered. Again and again, they’d say the same “thank you” to the same words of sorrow, because how many words are there to express this kind of grief?
“We could do it here, but K.C. can only seat two hundred twenty in his chapel,” Father continued. “I would expect far more.” He paused, to let everyone think a second. Father started to say, “We could do it at the church, of course…” when the youngest cousin offered, “Amber would want it at the school. In the gym. Where she played. She’d want her friends to see what can happen.”
You could hear Nettie’s breath suck in. Everyone looked at the girl—Dennis at his oldest daughter—as she lowered her eyes like she’d just said something awful.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Nettie repeated, her head thrown back to look beyond the ceiling. “Let them see what happens when they do stupid things. Let them see! You agree, Richard, don’t you? It’s a wonderful idea. These children think they’re going to live forever and they can do anything and it will be okay, and they’ve got to learn. This will help teach them, Richard, won’t it?”
Dennis, K.C., and Father Singer stared at Nettie like she was a loon, speaking out loud to her late husband. The women and girls in the room looked at the floor.
“I failed her,” Nettie proclaimed, as sure as a revival tent preacher. “I failed our daughter. Please forgive me, oh Richard, please forgive me. I should have never let her go out with that goddamned Johnny Roth. I tried to stop her but I should have forbidden it. I should have put my foot down. You would have. You must hate me for failing our girl. I’m sorry, Richard. I’m so sorry. I failed you so badly. And now I won’t join you. We won’t get our everlasting life together in heaven. I’ll burn in hell when my time comes.”
Arlene jumped up and enveloped her sister in her arms and soothed, “Don’t Nettie, don’t.”
Mary Ann put her hand in front of her mouth and whispered to her brother, “She does this all the time. She’s always talking to him—her dead husband. Sometimes she acts like he’s talking back.”
Dennis was bug-eyed, his face a mixture of fear and embarrassment.
Father Singer saw a woman outside her mind—the kind the church purged—but he knew it wasn’t the devil that had hold of his parishioner. It was grief. Unbearable, intolerable grief.
In all his years, K.C. had never witnessed anything this creepy.
Then it was over. Nettie lowered her gaze and hugged her sister back and calmly said, “Where were we?” Around the room people cleared their throats and resettled themselves in their chairs and pretended nothing had happened.
“Do I smell cinnamon? I swear I smell cinnamon.”
Mary Ann gave Dennis a look of, “Yeah, that too.”
K.C. got his composure back and moved on. He laid on the table a variety of memorial cards that would be custom-ordered for Amber and handed out at the visitation and the funeral. Nettie turned to her nieces, looking for their guidance, and they chose one with the picture of a pink rose entwined in a rosary over the words “In Loving Memory.”
“Amber loved pink roses,” the cousins said, as Nettie ran her hand over the picture.
“Yes, she did. They were her favorite.” Nettie already knew the funeral spray with “Beloved Daughter” on the white sash would be pink roses.
Nettie chose a consoling poem entitled “Safely Home” to go with a picture of Amber. She read it out loud. “I am home in heaven, dear ones; Oh, so happy and so bright! There is perfect joy and beauty in this everlasting light.”
Nettie wanted the obituary to appear in the local paper, the Wahpeton paper, and the Fargo Forum. K.C. said he’d take care of that.
Father had all he needed and got up to leave. He didn’t have to ask the touchy question about cremation—the church was finally allowing it—because he knew Nettie didn’t approve of it. He was grateful for that, because he didn’t either. But he allowed funeral masses for the cremated, even if his predecessor hadn’t. He gave everyone a blessing.
K.C. knew the hardest part was about to begin. He softly said, “Nettie, let me show you the caskets.” She looked at him like he had two heads, as though she wasn’t here planning a funeral at all, but maybe just stopped in, and then the reality of the day came back to her and the tears poured out of her eyes again.
It took a few moments for her to compose herself. Her brother even suggested that he and their sisters could do this part, but Nettie said she was going to pick it out herself. The cousins decided they’d already seen enough, heard enough, and they begged off going back into the casket showroom.
“I think I have the perfect thing,” K.C. offered, as he led Nettie past his top-of-the-line solid bronze casket—$7,425—and stopped at the lavender casket with silver hardware from Batesville that went for $1,860. It was lined with a light-pink crepe velvet.
Nettie almost collapsed as she looked at the casket that would hold her daughter. Dennis rushed forward to hold her up, as she covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed. Her sisters weren’t doing any better, and if he wasn’t using both hands to hold up his sister, Dennis would have been wiping away his own tears.
Sister Arlene had a strange thought as she stood there, looking at the steel box gussied up to look elegant. She and her sisters loved to go shopping and would look at every single thing before making their selection—money was always dear and not to be squandered on the wrong choice. But here they were, about to spend more than they’d ever spent on anything except a refrigerator, and comparison shopping was the farthest thing from their minds.
“It’s perfect,” Nettie finally said. “The pink lining…” And she could say no more.
“Yes, perfect,” Mary Ann said. Arlene repeated, “Perfect.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” Everyone was so grateful for K.C. Nettie and her sisters rushed to leave, anxious to get out of the showroom.
Dennis lingered, whispering to himself, “This shouldn’t be happening. This isn’t right.”
K.C. was the only one who noticed Dennis’ face, his eyes glued to the lavender casket.
They weren’t the eyes of a man who agreed with his sisters that this was the perfect casket.
They weren’t the eyes of a man who was relieved this day was finally coming to an end.
They weren’t the eyes of an uncle grieving his niece.
They were the eyes of a man who wanted to kill somebody.
K.C. recognized those eyes. They were the eyes he saw when he looked in a mirror.
Chapter Four
Saturday, October 16—Sunday, October 17, 1999
Joya Bonner always loved Saturday mornings.
Unhurried, wake-up snuggles—sometimes sex—and intimate conversation possible only between a couple lying together. She loved these moments with Rob. They’d tell each other stories and share embarrassing moments. They’d laugh at themselves. They’d brag a little. They’d coo at one anoth
er. She was sure these mornings were the mortar of their relationship.
Today was different.
Rehashing last night’s revelations, they talked of strategies. How she’d tell her hard-nosed editor and keep him in check. How he’d tell his whip-cracking chief and make him agree. Both knew they were walking a thin line with their bosses, but there was no turning back.
Rob’s arm around her shoulders got tighter and he pulled her closer.
“You’ve got to be very careful, Joya.” Rob sounded so serious—his cop/cop voice, like when he announced “you have the right to remain silent…” It was a voice of power and certainty, like a cloak of safety for her to wear around her shoulders.
“Really. Because it’s not a game when you mess with the Mafia. They’re dangerous. Those boys have their own rules—you’ve already had one reporter blown up in this town. What does that tell you about how they look at you guys? Sometimes I think they’d rather go after you than us. So promise me you’ll be careful.”
Joya wrapped herself in her boyfriend’s concern and promised to be careful. Not wanting to sound too girly, she added for the sake of her ego, “But don’t worry, honey. I’ve faced bad guys before.”
“Not like this, Joya. Not like this.”
He hugged her tight and kissed her hairline and whispered, “Please, please take this seriously and be careful.” That wasn’t a cop’s voice at all. That was the voice of a man truly worried that a woman he loved was in danger.
“I will, darling, I will.” She wasn’t fooling.
It was time for them both to get on with the day. He was taking his kids to breakfast and then the zoo, where an elephant painted pictures holding a brush in her trunk. Joya never asked about the rest of the weekend, knowing there would be times when Rob and his ex would be doing something with the kids and she didn’t want to know about that.
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