Grave Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  “Oh, yeah. It was big news. So, Calhoun died before he could testify?”

  “Yes. Cassie’s working that angle. Maybe you could mention it to your source.”

  “I will. The more suspects the better.”

  “Unless you’re trying to solve the case.”

  He laughed. “But it’s not my case. I’ll be in touch.”

  While Susan talked to Melissa Bigham, I fed George Eliot and made a pretense of walking around the outside of the cabin searching for God knew what. I knew Susan didn’t want me hearing her describe her relationship with Calhoun to a reporter. When I came back in, she was still on the phone. Her soft voice broke into laughter a few times, and I began to relax. The overdone London broil, salad, and wine were on the table when she finished.

  “Melissa’s going to do everything she can to get her story in before deadline,” said Susan. “She’s a sharp woman.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I lifted my wineglass. “Then where were we? Ah, yes, to us.”

  We finished dinner and took our wine to the fire, and then the fire to our bed. Life held promise.

  That promise was kept in the morning edition of The Gainesboro Vista. Melissa Bigham’s story carried the headline A RUSH TO JUDGMENT. She refuted Cliff Barringer’s assertions piece by piece, using the information Susan provided and mixing her rebuttal with descriptions of Susan’s work at the hospital and her fine standing in the community. Melissa tied in the fact that Calhoun had died before appearing as a prosecution witness in a high-profile trial, and she broke the news about him fleeing a mobster in New York.

  Susan left for her hospital duties in good humor. I decided to delay going to the funeral home till later in the morning. Wayne was in, and our only scheduled visitation was for Claude McBee the next night.

  Not only had Melissa Bigham made her deadline, but the story had been picked up in time by the Associated Press to hit the wires. Tommy Lee called to say he’d read it in the Asheville Citizen and the Charlotte Observer. At nine o’clock, Darden Claiborne’s office issued a statement that Susan Miller was not currently a suspect and any reports to the contrary were erroneous.

  An hour later I was nibbling on a day-old doughnut when Cassie Miller telephoned.

  “Which do you want first?” she asked. “The good news or the bad news.”

  “The bad.”

  “Damn, I should have said bad news, bad news, good news.” She sounded chipper for someone who had just been yanked from a major story.”

  “Don’t play with me, Cassie.”

  “I heard from my old associate producer at CBS. The guy Sammy tried to screw over in New York got iced seven and a half years ago.”

  “Seven and a half?”

  “That’s right. Means he’d already been dead six months.”

  “How’s your friend know this?”

  “Have you seen the movie Married to the Mob?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s just say if the Sopranos ever have a Christmas episode my pal Jerry will be the honest guy who can ask the blessing without being struck by lightning. His wife’s the daughter of a don.”

  “No one else was after Sammy?”

  “No. The beef with Sammy was small potatoes, if I can mix my food groups. It’s called organized crime for a reason. They keep their hotheads under control. We aren’t talking about a street gang that wastes some dude for looking at them funny.”

  I took a deep breath. The New York angle had been a long shot.

  “I know you’re disappointed,” said Cassie, “but there was always the problem with the gun. A New York shooter would have brought his own hardware and not used my brother’s old twenty-five for the job.”

  “What about the crooked contractors?”

  “That’s the other bad news. Barringer won’t give me his file. I’d like to work that myself, but he said it’s part of the story. He’ll whine to Darius if he thinks I’m horning in. And there might be another problem.”

  “What?” I wondered when we were ever going to get to the good news.

  “That local contractor who went to jail, Duncan Atkins. Guess who was his accountant?”

  “Not Susan’s father?”

  “Bingo. Walt had been cleared of any wrongdoing, but now you have his gun as the weapon that killed the witness against his client. People may draw some unpleasant conclusions.”

  “Barringer’s running with that?”

  She chuckled. “That’s the good news. Nelson Darius took Cliff Barringer to task for overstating unsubstantiated conclusions last night about Susan. Cliff’s not about to risk a libel suit with some preposterous claim that my brother was a hit man for Duncan Atkins. He’d be the laughingstock of Asheville.”

  And I’d told Tommy Lee to have Bridges check out the possibility the contractors had Sammy killed. I’d only managed to make things worse.

  “That may be the silver lining in this whole screwed-up affair,” said Cassie. “Give Barringer the rope and he’ll hang himself. Gotta go.”

  She hung up. Probably had a to-do list written halfway up her arm.

  I spent my time in the funeral home office assembling the paperwork for my trip to Atlanta. The detailed ledgers, financial statements, and inventory lists took my mind off Sammy Calhoun, and before I knew it, the winter sun disappeared behind the ridges. I declined Mom’s offer of dinner and decided to eat at home. Susan was spending the evening with her father, reassuring him that she wasn’t on her way to the gas chamber.

  I turned in early. Tomorrow’s meeting was set for ten, and I needed to leave by six to time my arrival after the Atlanta rush hour.

  At seven the next morning, I joined I-85 at Greenville, South Carolina. The mountains and most of the snow were in my rearview mirror and traffic whipped along at ten miles over the speed limit. Obey the posted sign and you wound up on the grill of an eighteen-wheeler.

  My hope of avoiding commuter congestion vanished as I neared the major interchange of I-85 and I-285. Ted Sandiford had given me directions to Hoffman Enterprises that didn’t take into account that the expressway would be a high-speed, bumper-to-bumper parking lot. His corporate headquarters lay in an office park along the I-285 beltway, and I nearly crashed into a piling trying to maneuver across three lanes in time for the I-285 ramp.

  If the interstate loops were the arteries around the heart of Atlanta, then a cardiologist would pronounce the patient dead of clogged vessels. Given the manners of the drivers, an intestinal blockage was a more appropriate analogy—the city and its commuters could benefit from a giant enema.

  I found the building housing Hoffman Enterprises without further mishap. It was one of a series of long, pink granite monstrosities that were separated from each other by black asphalt and green lawn trim. If you added handles to the rectangular edifice, it would look like a casket.

  I walked in, black attaché case in hand, and announced myself to the receptionist in their lobby. Her smartly tailored business attire told me casual Fridays had not infiltrated the Hoffman corporate culture, and I was glad I had chosen a funereal charcoal suit for the occasion. The woman had my name on a list of expected visitors and asked me to make myself comfortable while she buzzed Mr. Sandiford.

  I amused myself by examining the wall of photographs and the plaques of commendation for the Hoffman Family of Fine Funeral Homes. I guess the title phrase had been designed to create the sense of a single-family funeral home like Clayton and Clayton, even though the business was run out of this corporate machine. I tried to envision my name added to the brass plates of Funeral Director of the Year. Maybe they had an Embalmer of the Month Club with the coveted award of a reserved parking space.

  “Barry. You made it.”

  I turned to see a man with a bad brown toupee coming toward me from a side door. His tan face was split by a broad smile of capped teeth. He was without a suit coat, and his white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. Casual Friday after
all. He pumped my hand like he was extracting a pail of water.

  “Welcome to Hoffman. You folks digging out up there?”

  “Things are getting back to normal.”

  “Good, good.” He grabbed me by the elbow and steered me like Uncle Wayne guiding the bereaved to the graveside.

  We passed through the door and into a wide hallway. Ted Sandiford wasn’t what I expected. In my mind, I had created him in the mold of NEWSCHANNEL-8’s owner Nelson Darius. But the Hoffman executive was closer to a guy you’d meet at a neighborhood bar than a country club banquet. Sandiford softened the contrived image portrayed by the soulless display of the Family of Fine Funeral Homes.

  We entered a well appointed conference room, and the friendly bird dog pointed me to a leather chair at a large elliptical oak table.

  “Did you bring the paperwork?” he asked and eased into the chair beside me.

  I opened my attaché case and handed him four file folders bound together by two rubber bands.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Let me take these to our acquisitions analyst. Then if he has any questions, we can get them after lunch. When do you have to head back?”

  “I need to be on the road by two-thirty. We’ve got a visitation tonight.”

  “Did you include it?”

  His question stumped me. “Include what?”

  “The upcoming funeral. It will help with the projections.”

  I reached for the files. “No. I didn’t think about it.”

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll stick a note on this.” Sandiford got up. “Want a cup of coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  He started for the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. We’ve got a little promotional video you might find interesting.” As he left the room, he flipped a toggle switch on the wall.

  The lights dimmed and a whirring noise harkened the descent of a screen from a slot in the ceiling. A video projector mounted above my head flickered to life, and the mellow voice of a Hal Holbrook soundalike spoke the words, “The Hoffman Family of Fine Funeral Homes.”

  For the next five minutes, I was seduced by the lush score and happy faces depicting the joys of working and dying in the bosom of Hoffman Enterprises. The producers approached their message as if it was some kind of eternal timeshare instead of a burial service. I could see them adding a shot of Freddy, Uncle Wayne, and me welcoming our grieving clients as they entered our sanctuary from life’s storm. Uncle Wayne would give everyone a copy of GRIT Magazine.

  The slick presentation was a long way from our advertising efforts—hand fans distributed to the mountain churches with “When It’s Time To Come Home…” under a picture of Jesus retrieving the lost sheep. Maybe Hoffman could hire an animal trainer and add that to the remake.

  The music and picture faded. As the lights came up, Ted Sandiford asked, “What do you think?”

  “Where do you show this?” I was a guest and remembered my manners.

  He laughed. “As few places as possible. It’s a fifteen-thousand-dollar stroke for the stockholders. Makes them feel good about their investment. Hope it didn’t scare you off.”

  “It’s just that Gainesboro’s a pretty simple community.”

  “I know,” he said. “Hand fans. They were big in Irondale, Alabama.” He used his home town as a starting point to outline the acquisition process. It was a more detailed version of our phone conversation, but with added emphasis on the business policies of Hoffman.

  “We have the economy of scale in buying equipment and supplies,” he explained, “and we’re vertically integrated.”

  “Our clients are all horizontal.”

  “That’s corporate-speak to mean our funeral homes are both profit centers and markets for our products. Hoffman owns significant shares in the companies whose products we buy. We try to pay ourselves at every level of the industry.”

  I broached the subject that most concerned me. “What are your staffing plans—short term and long term?”

  “A fair question, particularly since you’re a multigenerational business. Like I said, we’ll want a contract with you. Initially I don’t see any changes. Your uncle will probably retire soon anyway, and you have a part-timer.”

  “Freddy Mott,” I said, anxious to make him more than a personnel slot. “He’s been with us over ten years.”

  “A smart way to run,” agreed Sandiford. “Pay help as needed. Any staff additions or replacements will then come from our intern pool.”

  “Intern pool?”

  “Hoffman has relationships with mortuary science colleges across the country.”

  “Like summer jobs?”

  “Year-round job training,” he said. “They get course credit for working at one of our operations for a semester. Everybody benefits.”

  Especially Hoffman. Free or near free labor. But, it was real-world experience and I couldn’t fault the practice.

  At eleven, we were joined by an employee from a funeral home in Marietta, outside of Atlanta. She went through illustrations of how the central business office made administration so much easier. I was vulnerable to her dog-and-pony show after spending two weeks preparing year-end reports.

  The Vice President of Operations treated us to lunch at a restaurant whose menu was pricier than any evening dinner in Gainesboro. He wanted to know the ratio of indigenous family funerals to those of relocated newcomers, both in terms of number and the average expense per funeral. Those were statistics I’d never dreamed of compiling.

  When we returned to the conference room, I found my folders neatly stacked on the table. Beside them lay a sealed manila envelope.

  “You don’t need these files?” I asked Sandiford.

  “We’ve made copies. I’m sorry. I should have cleared that with you.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. I picked up the nine-by-twelve envelope. It was about an inch thick. “What’s this?”

  “Some general information for you to review this weekend. The products we use, our stock-option plan, 401-k benefits, health coverage, the usual personnel packet.”

  “What happens next?”

  “I expect I’ll be in touch the first of the week.” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly two. Unless you’ve got questions, I’m good to let you head back. Can’t have you late for the visitation.”

  Sandiford walked me to my jeep. The vehicle was coated in muck and salt from the road.

  “Guess you need four-wheel drive.”

  “Yes. We’ve got families living alongside logging roads.”

  “Approval should be no problem.”

  “Approval?”

  “Normally we buy our funeral directors a Cadillac or Lincoln. We can make it a luxury SUV. Then you can have whatever you want for a personal car. Me, I’d love a convertible in the mountains.”

  I thought about Sandiford’s hairpiece blowing off as he tooled around a hairpin curve.

  As I hit the first ascent beyond Greenville, I thought about Susan and me driving through Pisgah Forest in a red Miata convertible. I reached out, patted the manila envelope beside me, and wondered what Hoffman Enterprises gave their Funeral Director of the Year.

  Chapter 11

  Although it was only six when I returned to Gainesboro, the short-lived December sun had long left the sky. The street lights in front of the funeral home, laced with the green and red Christmas decorations the town hung every year, cast enough light to show puddles of water dotting the sidewalk. These remnants of melted snow threatened to become hazards as the night temperature plummeted.

  Icy spots would also form in patches on the backcountry roads traveled by the McBee family and friends. Uncle Wayne and I needed to use diplomacy to end the visitation early so mourners could beat the hard freeze home.

  I found Mom and my uncle in what we euphemistically called the Slumber Room. Mom mixed some of our stock greenery with the few floral arrangements delivered earlier, and Wayne bent over the casket, making last-minute adjustments
to Claude’s final wardrobe.

  “How was your trip?” asked Mom.

  “Good. Hoffman is a big operation. They know how to put the business in funeral business.”

  “They make an offer?” asked Wayne.

  “They bought me lunch. I guess that’s a good sign. We’re supposed to hear something the first of the week.”

  “Did you like them?”

  “Ted Sandiford seems like a regular guy. The others are corporate types. Not enough personality to like or dislike.”

  “Corporate types,” repeated my uncle, with the same inflection the Tucker brothers used for “No-Reb Caleb” and “Turncoat Turner.” Uncle Wayne wouldn’t be in the promotional video.

  “What can I do to help?” I asked.

  “We’re in good shape,” said Mom. “Did you eat? There’s meatloaf I can reheat.”

  “I stopped at Bojangle’s in Hendersonville. Wayne, if you don’t need me in here, I’ll spread rock salt on the walk. Don’t want to be sued for any broken hips.”

  “Fine. First, take a look, would you?” He stepped back from the body. “Family’s coming at six-thirty for their private viewing.”

  I studied the old gentleman resting peacefully in the silver-gray casket. He wore a brown tweed sport coat his daughter had chosen and a string-tie now only in style for bluegrass fiddle players. A green sweater vest was sandwiched between his coat and western cut, pearl-buttoned white shirt.

  “They’ve got him bundled up,” I said.

  Wayne chuckled. “That was his daughter Darlene’s idea. She brought it this afternoon. Said he was always cold at the nursing home.”

  “He looks good.”

  “I darkened his moustache. Took a few years off him.”

  A family’s reaction to a loved one in a casket is impossible to predict. We liked to get a favorite recent photograph as a guide, but that wasn’t always possible. Wayne was particularly sensitive to moustaches since he had once shaved the stubble of a man who had been sick for a week before he died. When the widow peered into the casket, she fainted. Wayne had inadvertently shaved off her husband’s moustache, and the shock of seeing the strange face knocked the poor woman off her feet. Smelling salts for the wife and spirit gum and hair trimmings for the husband saved my uncle from disaster.