by Melhoff, D.
“The directors want to see you in the north parlor.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.” Laura forced a smile, but it didn’t do much for the mood.
“My pink slip is probably hot off the printer.”
“Don’t say that. The Beaudrys were being unreasonable.”
“This family is unreasonable.”
“They take some warming up to. Trust me, I know.”
Camilla surveyed Laura again—the only Vincent who wasn’t technically a Vincent yet—and her eyes landed on her engagement ring. The family couldn’t be completely crazy if someone was considering marrying in.
“Moira looked ready to kill.” Camilla shook her head. “If she doesn’t decapitate me for her collection of skulls in the spare room, she’ll at least boot me without my bags. Worst case, I get a head start packing.”
“You don’t know that. Please, just go to the parlor. She said they’ll be there soon.”
The north parlor was a spacious room with a full view of the front yard. No one else was there when Camilla stepped in, thankfully. She needed time to get her bearings.
The mahogany wall panels came in from the rotunda and wrapped around the study. There was a large portrait of presumably long-gone ancestors hung above a fireplace, and eleven urns positioned neatly along the mantel—an eminent family shrine.
Camilla crossed the room to a baby grand piano in the corner. She sat on the bench and dusted off a few of the top keys, noting that this was the third piano she had come across in the house. Undeniably there would be one in the chapel too, which made for four pianos. Dining room, viewing room, north parlor, chapel. Really? Four pianos?
She sat at the keyboard for just under an hour, barely moving. The only sound was the constant tick of the gold clock on top of the fireplace.
Finally, at four o’clock, a voice broke the silence: “Beautiful Steinway, no? 1892 rosewood. Mint form.”
Jasper strode into the parlor, adjusting the wiry glasses on his large beak.
“It’s the fourth one I’ve seen since I got here,” Camilla replied.
“Yes, well, a house can never have too many pianos,” he said matter-of-factly. “This one’s my favorite though,” he added with a whisper, as if he didn’t want the other pianos hearing.
“If you ask me”—a voice came grunting from the hallway—“they take up too much room.” Brutus entered and slumped into one of the leatherback chairs, his fat hips bulging through the gaps in the armrests.
“And if you ask me,” Jasper said, dusting the mantel with a spidery finger, “you take up too much room.”
Brutus opened his mouth to argue, but the clack, clack, clack of heels on hardwood cut him off. Moira appeared in the doorway, her cold countenance and stiff posture back in place. She stepped inside and slid the doors closed behind her, sealing all four of them in the same room with no exit.
“I want to underline,” Moira began, avoiding eye contact with everyone, “that if it were up to me, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.”
“However,” Jasper took over, “as it does happen, democracy works on majority.”
“Am I being fired?” Camilla asked in a simple, even tone. She sounded considerably calmer than the hour before. Maybe that was their strategy—cool my heels for an hour first, then talk.
“How much do you know about our family history?” Jasper asked, avoiding her question.
Camilla shook her head, and the older man motioned at the portrait above the mantelpiece. “These were Nolan’s first settlers. Among them, the four Vincent men who came from Britain to build this house on this very plot. If you look closely at great-grandfather’s hand, you’ll see he’s holding the original deed. No doubt why he’s smiling so widely.” Jasper tapped the frame and smiled. “This moment marks the proudest point in Vincent history, as the family were finally landowners. Gold rushes came and went, as did generations of the family”—he motioned at the line of urns on the mantel—”but there has always been, and will always be, that same sense of togetherness as when the home was tilled and built over a hundred and fifty years ago by Vincent hands.”
“If we’re starting a hundred and fifty years back,” Brutus said, wiggling out of his chair, “I’m getting a Guinness. Call me when you catch up.”
“Sit, Brutus,” Moira said. She turned all of her attention on Camilla. “The truth is, our family and our work are paramount. Blood is thicker than water, which is thicker than the ink your contract is signed in. So when you go around hacking up garments and verbally abusing our clients, you’re worth less than the worms in our garden. Understand?”
“Our crest is our honor.” Jasper nodded. “Others have tried desecrating it over the years, oh yes, but that’s all the reason we must stay united. Do you have anything to say?”
Camilla was bad at keeping eye contact, and this scenario was no exception. She looked at the floor and tried summoning the right words.
“I’m sorry,” she said childishly. “I guess, uh, I guess I’d say that I know this home means a lot to you. But I hope you understand this job means a lot to me too. I want to stay. I just need to adjust to the nontextbook stuff. I’ll work harder, I promise.”
“Cutting the dress coat I understand,” Jasper said, “it’s a common shortcut. What I’m more concerned about is the way you reacted to the Beaudrys. Laura and Moira say you were particularly austere. Why?”
“They were in my face. They insulted our job when we did the best we could.”
“And that was a good reason to lash out?”
“It was the truth.”
“Mm.”
“I think we’ve heard enough,” Moira said. “It’s time to vote.”
“Vote?” Camilla asked. “On what?”
“On whether or not we’re kicking you out,” Brutus snorted.
“Like I said,” Moira continued, “if it were up to me, you’d already be gone. But there are three votes. All in favor of dismissing Ms. Carleton?”
Moira raised her hand instantly. Jasper was still appraising Camilla through his spectacles.
“Have you ever lost someone?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes,” she answered, thinking of the last conversation with her mother.
“How did you grieve?”
Camilla looked out of the parlor window at the tall, gurgling fountain. She thought about it for a good ten seconds while watching the water sparkle and glitter in the August sun. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I guess the person is gone, but there wasn’t a lot left to lose.”
Jasper nodded as if he suddenly understood something.
“All right,” Brutus piped up. “Let’s get this over with. I vote she stays. More hands on deck, the less crazy it is for the rest of us.”
“Fine.” Moira pursed her lips. “All in favor of keeping Camilla Carleton on staff?”
Brutus raised a fatty arm. Jasper raised his hand too.
“Done,” Brutus said. “The girl stays.”
“So she does.” Moira nodded. “For now.” She turned to the parlor doors and slid them open again, clacking off into the vestibule. Brutus bounced up and waddled away behind her, most likely going straight for his afternoon Guinness.
Jasper was still looking up at the family portrait above the mantelpiece, examining every brushstroke.
“Thank you,” Camilla said.
The old director didn’t respond immediately. Finally he turned around and glided toward the exit.
“A funeral worker who hasn’t grieved,” he said, hovering in the doorway, “is like a priest who hasn’t prayed. Confession and atonement are two of the minister’s main tools; empathy and sympathy are ours. Hopefully this place helps you find them.”
And with that Jasper walked out, leaving Camilla alone at the silent Steinway.
8
Top of the World
Camilla climbed the estate’s twisting staircase, her feet as heavy as her spirits. The banisters seem
ed to stretch on and on, inch after inch, as if the house itself was dragging her out, wearing her down one iron-weighted step at a time.
At the top of the flight was the hallway that led straight to the viewing room. As she made her way through it, she passed a string of closed doors behind which were nothing but offices and records rooms. So far she had learned that this part of the house was still “front stage”—an area accessible to clients—and the chances of someone entering the wrong door while looking for a bathroom or an exit were fairly likely, hence contents had to be kept appropriate and unalarming.
If they’re hiding something, it won’t be here. In the hall by the embalming room, maybe, or in the shed with the barred windows, but not here.
She stopped walking.
Quit it, Camilla. They’re not hiding anything. Quit it, quit it, quit it. Focus on your job and make sure there aren’t any more slip-ups.
She took another step forward when something caught her eye. The mahogany paneling along the right wall ended a few feet ahead of her, transitioning to a long pane of glass that stretched from the baseboards to the ceiling. It was a frosted window that peered in on the funeral home’s showroom.
She pressed her nose against the glass and instantly backed away, cursing herself for making a smudge. She grabbed the edge of her sleeve and attacked the mark in circles, but it multiplied into two, three, four more streaks. “You just survived Armageddon,” she grunted, “don’t get fired for smudging a window.”
“Sorry,” a voice called behind her. “That’s it. You’re fired.”
Camilla pressed firmly on the window and wiped all the smudges away, revealing Peter’s face in the reflection.
“It was that bad?” he asked.
“Your mother’s a dreadnought.”
Peter reached forward and put a hand on Camilla’s shoulder. “I know.”
The two of them looked at each other in the reflection, and Peter broke into laughter. Camilla swatted lazily in the air. “Stop it. It’s not funny.”
“Me? You’re the one hanging by a thread. If pissing my family off was a sport, you’d have placed bronze, silver, and gold by now.”
“That’s the first time someone’s called me athletic.”
Peter kept laughing and walked into the showroom. Camilla paused to watch his silhouette move behind the frosted glass, a ghostly outline coming in and out of focus, floating like an ethereal shadow puppet.
“I can see you too,” he called. “Come in.”
Camilla dragged her feet to the doorway and poked her head inside.
The room was long and narrow. Organized. Pristine. Rows of shelving stretched along the walls, displaying urns with little tags posted neatly underneath. Six-inch brass urn, $250. Solid Rosewood with 12-karat trim, $539. Pearl-white enamel body with nickel finish and threaded lid, $675. There were coffins as well: long, sturdy caskets in various styles and price brackets, their lids propped open to present the opulent fabrics blooming inside.
Peter was standing by a table in the middle of the room. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” Camilla said, still sounding flat. “Best showroom I’ve seen.” Technically, it was the only showroom she had seen.
“Really?” Peter’s eyes lit up. “Be honest. Take a better look and tell me what you think.”
“All right.” Camilla crossed to the right-hand wall and surveyed a row of urns. The styles changed on every shelf, from glass vases to marble jars to wooden boxes. She paused at a set of walnut chests and felt along the sides. There were intricate vignettes carved into the wood depicting a scene of miniature animals boarding a boat.
“Noah’s ark?”
“Yeah. The one beside it’s Bethlehem, then Mount Calvary. They’re not all biblical, though. The next one’s got castles.”
“The detail is remarkable,” Camilla said, perking up a little. She moved to a casket that was carved to look like the canopy of a rainforest. The one below it had men in top hats spinning women in long, elegant ball gowns. “Where do you get these?”
“I make them.”
Camilla turned and surveyed Peter anew. Never in a million years would she have guessed that he was a gifted woodworker. “They’re beautiful. And that’s what I actually think.”
“Thanks. Pick one.”
“What?”
“Pick a box.”
Camilla cocked an eyebrow, and Peter cocked one back.
She turned to the wall again and perused the selections like a shopper hunting for the right pair of shoes. She reached up with two hands and took down a chest with carvings of female aristocrats laced in corsets and carrying parasols.
“Good,” Peter said. He picked up an urn that was resting beside him. “Now follow me.”
“What? Where? I’m—I’m not…”
“What?”
“I’m exhausted. I need sleep.”
“It’s eight o’clock.”
“I’m not feeling fantastic right now.”
“I know. Now stop making excuses and follow me.”
The Vincents’ crematorium was a small antechamber attached to their embalming room. As Camilla stepped inside, a cold draft blew through and sent goose bumps rippling up her arms. She looked around at the cement walls and noticed there wasn’t a single window.
“Your oven vent is open,” she said when Peter entered the room.
“Maddock’s airing it out.”
Fair enough, she thought. “How’s he related to you again?”
“That’s a good question,” Peter said, placing his urn on a workbench and moving to the giant brick oven. “Our family adopted him before Luke and I were born. It’s a sad story, actually. His mother was in a car accident when she was still pregnant, but the paramedics arrived in time to save the baby. Uncle Jasper had known her quite well, I think, so he stepped in before the orphanage did. Everybody at home agreed to the adoption, but I’m pretty sure my uncle signed the papers, so technically that makes Maddy my cousin. Only cousin, actually.”
Peter reached through the retort door and pulled out the sliding hopper, a retractable plank used to charge caskets into the shaft at the right time and temperature, and picked up a small cardboard box that was resting on top. “Hello, Ms. Beaudry.”
“As happy as cremains usually make me,” Camilla said, “I can’t say this is helping.”
“It’ll take two seconds,” Peter replied as he carried the ashes to the workbench.
While he emptied the human soot into the urn, Camilla sauntered over to the oven and examined the blood-red bricks in the edifice.
“You know,” she said, “if I crawled in, you could flip the switch and it would solve a lot of problems. Your mom would approve.”
“Funny,” Peter said, tapping the last of Ms. Beaudry—the chronic chain smoker—into her eternal ashtray. “I used to crawl in there when me and Luke played hide-and-seek. God that was, like, fifteen, almost twenty years ago.”
“Really?”
“Really. And the doofus never caught me. I tied a rope to the roof and hung it down the chimney so when I heard him coming I’d be able to crawl away.”
Camilla stuck her head in the smoke shaft and stared up at the tall, dizzying darkness of the crematorium. “That’s at least fifty feet to the ceiling.”
“Yeah, and the rope got greasy after a few months. I doubt it’s even there anymore.”
“If your mom knew—”
“She would have murdered me. But dad would’ve thought it was genius.”
A little different from my own dad, Camilla snickered. He used to call her a genius too, but only facetiously. Hey, genius, grab me a beer. Go wash the trailer, genius. Yeah, genius, change your clothes, you look like a fucking Christmas elf.
From the crematorium, Peter led them back to the outer hallway, then down another stark corridor until they reached a heavy steel door.
“The freezer,” Peter said, pointing. “Holds close to thirty on the racks.”
&n
bsp; He opened a closet beside the freezer room and set Ms. Beaudry’s urn inside. Camilla heard the closet jimmy shut again, but she wasn’t paying attention to Peter anymore; she was busy examining another door, a plain, splintered surface with an old iron keyhole.
“Where does that go?” she asked.
“The basement. It’s gutted.”
Camilla’s hand hovered over the doorknob. She wanted to open it—wanted to keep exploring every corner of the house—but she couldn’t think of a good enough excuse, so her hand dropped away.
“One more stop,” Peter said, taking off again. “Keep bringing that chest.”
He led them back through the hallway—past the freezer, past the garage’s loading zone and the embalming room—to a door that swung open on the kitchen.
Camilla wasn’t expecting the kitchen to be on the other side of that wall. Before she could even blink, her eyes plunged to the back exit, expecting to see the wet six-year-old boy standing in the doorframe…
But the room was empty.
“Carrots or no carrots?”
“What?” Camilla turned to see Peter pulling open the fridge.
“Carrots it is. Bring the box.”
Camilla carried her chest to the kitchen island and set it down. Peter took off the lid and started loading it up with food from the refrigerator: a bag of carrots, half a baguette, a bowl of cucumber salad, a few prewrapped sandwiches, and a couple of butter tarts.
“Where’d all this come from?” Camilla asked incredulously, remembering the bare refrigerator from the night before.
“I had a hunch mom would be too busy to make dinner tonight, so I put something together.”
“A salad and two sandwiches are going to feed everyone?”
“No,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I was thinking it, uh, it could just be us.”
Right, Camilla thought, there it is. The moment a guy says something about what he’s thinking without actually saying it. Now I feel stupid.
“Sure.” She felt herself blush as bright as her hair color.
“I also thought you could use another break from the house.” Peter picked up the chest of food and moved past the oak cabinet—the one that Camilla knew kept the mysterious stack of towels—toward the back exit. “Even if it’s only a stone’s throw away.”