“I don’t have attitudes,” Tim commented dryly. “At five o’clock, I was setting up for the wake of Harper McClellan, he’s the….”
“I know who Harper is, get to the rest of it,” Bemis ordered.
“Guests started showing up around six-thirty, and I was hosting the viewing until after ten o’clock. It was supposed to end at nine-thirty, but then his sister fainted and I…”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Then where did you go?”
“Home.”
“I’ll need a list of guests who were at the funeral,” Arlen muttered.
“I can get you the guest book.”
“Well, don’t just sit there, go get it,” the sheriff ordered, clearly upset about something.
Tim brought the book back and handed it to the sheriff.
“I’ll get it back to ya, I’m taking it into evidence.”
“Evidence? Evidence for what?”
“There was a young woman who died under suspicious circumstances last night, and we’re just chasing down any leads that we might find helpful,” Arlen hedged.
“You think someone at the funeral might have something to do with the crime?”
“Anything’s possible,” the sheriff stared hard at the mortician. “Tell me somethin’…do you take pictures of people before you work on ‘em?”
“Yes, I take before and after photos,” Tim nodded.
“You remember that car wreck victim last week, Lonnie Goins?”
“Yes, that was a challenge.”
“Dig up them pictures for me. I wanna see ‘em.”
“Okay, but why?” the mortician asked reasonably, going to a file cabinet.
“Cuz I said so, freak-show,” the sheriff raised an eyebrow.
Tim paused for a moment, giving Arlen a long look, but then turned to the file cabinet, opened a drawer, and extracted Lonnie’s file. He pulled the before and after photos out and handed them to the sheriff.
“Nope, gimme the whole thing,” Bemis held out his hand for the file.
“This information is confidential,” Tim hesitated.
“Do you really want me to open up an investigation of this place to gain access? That could shut you down for weeks, Eckels.”
Tim was growing really tired of being threatened by this insufferable man, so, in the interest of getting rid of the sheriff, he handed over the file.
“What all ya got in here?”
“Notes about what I had to do, a materials list, invoices for products ordered, special requests from the family, that sort of thing.”
Bemis laid the photos out with “befores” on the left, and “afters” on the right.
“How’d you get that gash to close up?” the sheriff asked, pointing to a raggedy laceration on the side of the corpse’s face.
“I had to trim away the uneven pieces of skin, fat and muscle tissue, then sew the two halves together, and use a putty mixture to cover the seam,” Tim explained, warming to the subject.
“That what this picture is, before you put the putty on?”
“Exactly. You can see why I can’t leave it that way.”
“Still pretty precise work though,” the sheriff remarked. “Whatcha use to do the cuttin’?”
“It…uh…depends. For the fatty tissue and muscle, I used a short-bladed set of shears, and for the uppermost layers of skin, I use a scalpel and tweezers, usually.”
“And this stuff don’t turn your stomach?”
“Uh, no sheriff, it’s my job.”
“It sure is, isn’t it? Business been good?”
“Very steady, yes.”
“Not tempted to go out and make more victims are ya?”
The questions sounded like a joke, but the sheriff’s face was entirely serious, leaving Tim confused.
“I don’t find that funny,” the mortician stated flatly.
“That’s cuz it ain’t funny. I’m gonna be watchin’ you, Eckels. You can be sure of that,” Arlen shoved the chair backward and stood up.
“Thank you?” Tim replied.
“Don’t get smart,” the sheriff warned.
“I wasn’t. If people are out there dying under suspicious circumstances, I’m glad that you’re going to be keeping an eye on me,” the morticians gaze didn’t waver for a second. “When can I come get the body?”
“After the coroner is done with it. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
“Have a nice day,” Tim blinked and pushed his thick glasses up his nose, going back to reading his article.
Arlen Bemis headed for the door, then turned back around, seeming to remember something.
“What size shoe do you wear?” he asked.
Tim stared at him blankly.
“Ten and a half, why?”
The sheriff shook his head.
“It figures, that’d be too easy,” he muttered, and left the office.
**
“How was your day?” Tim asked his wife during dinner.
Susannah had brought home leftovers from work, and they were dining on a spectacular dish made with duck and garlic and something green that tasted delicious.
“Not bad, the usual. You?” she tossed the conversational ball back into his court, more interested in her food than in her husband.
“The sheriff came by to talk to me today. He took my guest book.”
Susannah studied her plate like she was preparing for a test.
“Really? Why?” she took in a huge mouthful of duck.
“Apparently someone died under suspicious circumstances yesterday.”
“How awful. Do they think it had something to do with the dead guy at the funeral?”
Tim was silent for a moment.
“I never thought of that, actually. I don’t know why they would, the deceased passed due to natural causes. I didn’t see anything suspicious about him at all.”
“Do you generally look for suspicious things?” she finally looked up from her plate, fixing her gaze intently upon her husband.
“Every time,” he nodded.
“Why?” Susannah put her fork down and took a sip of iced tea.
“Because I tend to catch things that coroners and medical examiners usually miss. I’ve helped solve a few cases. The body always tells the story if you look hard enough.”
“Doesn’t it seem like the sheriff here might resent you finding something that the county guy missed though?”
Tim nodded.
“So, maybe you shouldn’t do that anymore. You know, just to get along with everyone,” she suggested, drawing vertical lines in the condensation on her glass.
“I can’t help it, and I don’t want to stop searching. I owe it to them,” Tim said quietly, chewing his bite of duck thoroughly.
“Owe what? And to whom?” his wife challenged, giving him pause.
“The truth, to the deceased. Why are you upset about this?” he blinked at her.
“I just…want us to fit in here. I mean, let’s be real, we’re a couple of odd ducks, we can’t exactly afford to have high profile people looking at us funny, you know?” her tone softened.
“People have always looked at me funny.”
“Yeah, me too. But can’t you just keep your “stories” to yourself?”
“If someone did some horrible thing to you, would you want the one person who knew about it to stay quiet?”
“Sometimes that’s what has to happen in polite society.”
“I’m not polite,” Tim tossed his fork onto his plate, unable to eat another bite.
“So I noticed,” Susannah muttered, itching to get down to her workshop.
CHAPTER 24
* * *
Raining Cats and Dogs
“Susannah, I need to talk to you,” Tim announced at the breakfast table.
His wife poked the yolk of her egg, taking little satisfaction in seeing the yellow pool oozing toward her potatoes.
“Well, I’m here,” she replied, pulling off a chunk of biscuit and dipping it into the
goo.
“Have you said anything to anyone about…Rosa’s dog?”
“I told Tanner,” she popped the biscuit in her mouth and followed it with a swig of strong black coffee.
“We agreed that it was a one-time thing to help your friend and that that would be the end of it,” his mouth worked in frustration. “Who is Tanner?”
“Tanner works with me at the restaurant. He’s a new prep cook,” she speared a cube of potato.
“Why did you think that it would be okay to tell your new prep cook about…Rosa’s dog?” Tim was as astounded as he’d ever been. If things kept going along like this, he might actually raise his voice.
“Don’t worry, it’s okay. He works with that jerk of a vet, Dr. Dobbins, and sees how he lets animals suffer.”
“I never knew that you were an animal lover,” Tim said carefully, eyes narrowed.
“What are you trying to say, Timothy?” she challenged.
“Dr. Dobbins said that he’d run into you at the restaurant. He came by to visit me, and I didn’t like it. I can’t help but wonder how and why you’ve interacted with him at all, and why that would lead you to confide in your new coworker.”
“He’s just a kid, don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about Doctor Strange either. The only reason that I talked to him is because he enjoyed one of the dishes that I prepared, and they made me go out in the dining room so that he could thank me.”
Tim thought for a moment, staring at her.
“That must’ve been awkward.”
“Yeah, it really was. I gotta go. Stop worrying so much about everything, it’ll give you wrinkles,” she got up from the table and ran a hand over his cheek. “And you’ve got such nice skin, that would be a shame.”
**
Tim was beyond frustrated, and intended to voice a very strong opinion to his wife after work. He’d had two cat owners and a dog owner stop by, inquiring about his “services.” He’d turned them away, after much persuasion, but the last one had threatened to expose him if he didn’t help her out. Just like Elmo’s owner had. They all said the same thing, they’d found out about him from the young man at the vet clinic, and they knew that Tim had assisted other pet owners.
He sat at his desk, brooding. While he was no animal lover, he had a respect for life that was nearly as deep as his respect for the dead, and the thought of exterminating household pets nauseated him. He wondered how his wife could’ve had such bad judgment. Why on earth would she have told her coworker what had happened? Perhaps there was something to the hairs on her clothing, perhaps she was having an affair, although he realistically didn’t see how that would be possible. For the most part, Susannah hated people. It would be entirely out of character for her to willingly engage in intimacy with someone other than her designated intimacy partner.
While it was true that their relationship was merely cordial most of the time, she’d made it quite clear that she was devoted to him and their relationship, no matter how unconventional it might be. There had been occasions lately where she’d seemed sexually aggressive with him, usually after spending a great deal of time in the basement doing her artwork. He’d made a point to never disturb her when she was down there, but perhaps he should try to learn more about her by watching her create.
Tim found it odd that Susannah would create art, because visual appeal seemed to be something that didn’t really interest her in other areas of life. She wore no makeup, and had a plain haircut. Her clothes were utilitarian, and she didn’t decorate the house, but she’d disappear into the basement for hours to work on her projects. If art was so important to her, he should probably make more of an effort to understand her creativity. He’d visit her tonight if she went into her workshop. Maybe he could gain some insight into why she was having conversations with Tanner rather than him.
**
“I’m going down to the basement for a while, don’t wait up,” Susannah said, clearing her dinner dishes from the table. “It’s your turn to load the dishwasher,” she reminded him pleasantly enough.
“Okay,” he nodded, still enjoying his food. She’d made an outstanding lasagna, with garlic bread and a green salad, and despite the fact that he was already full, he kept eating, secure in the knowledge that there was a full bottle of antacids in his night stand.
Susannah grabbed a sweater, and headed for the basement. He watched her go, chewing thoughtfully, and decided to join her after he finished the dishes. When he opened the dishwasher, he discovered that his wife hadn’t put away the clean dishes from yesterday, so he had to do that before he could load it up again. He put the dishes and leftover food away, scraped the scraps into the disposal and neatly arranged the plates, utensils and glasses in the dishwasher. Wiping his hands on a towel afterwards, he pushed his glasses up his nose, donned a hooded sweatshirt to ward off the chill, and opened the basement door, hearing nothing. The light was on, so he figured that Susannah must be in one of the back rooms, and trotted down the stairs, ready to see and understand the world of her art.
“Suze?” he called out. No answer.
She wasn’t in the main room, so he checked the room where she kept her tree. He noticed that there were more leaves on it, and of different colors and textures, but she wasn’t in the tree room either. There was a hum from her dehydrator in the corner, and when he peeked inside, he could see small pieces of material that looked like leather drying inside. He opened a cupboard over her workbench and saw various materials that she obviously used in her art. Jars of what looked like ashes, clumps of stuff that looked like she’d shaved the hair from a child’s doll, and various oddly shaped bleached out twigs. It was semi dark in the tree room, and he wondered how she worked in there without proper lighting.
Tim left the tree room and saw his wife entering the basement from the storm door which led to the outside.
“What are you doing down here?” she asked, seeming startled.
“I came down to watch you work, but you weren’t here,” he looked at her pointedly. “What’s that?” he asked, gesturing to a black plastic bag in her hand.
“Leaves,” she said quickly. “I wanted to add some color to my work, so I collected a bunch of colorful leaves.”
“I would’ve gone with you if you had asked me to,” he said gently.
“You would’ve…been bored,” she shrugged, looking away.
“Not if you talked to me,” her husband cocked his head, wondering why Susannah was acting so strangely.
“Well, I appreciate it, but I’d really like to be alone right now, if you don’t mind,” she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I don’t mind. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He went upstairs and got ready for bed, watching TV in his pajamas until his eyes wouldn’t stay open any longer. Susannah was still in the basement, and hadn’t come up to invite him to join her, so he assumed that she was enjoying her solitude and went to bed. Alone. Again.
**
The phone on Tim’s desk rang the moment that he unlocked the front door of the mortuary and he sprinted across the foyer and into his office to answer it.
“Eckels Mortuary,” he said, out of breath.
Sheriff Bemis’s voice was definitely not the first thing that he wanted to hear.
“Get your meat wagon down to the morgue. We got a body for ya, and you better do a damn good job on this one,” Arlen growled.
“I always do a good job,” Tim remarked mildly.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Get down there and make the pickup, smartass. The family will be in later today to make the arrangements, but you can get started on doing whatever weirdness you do.”
“No, actually I need to know the wishes of the family and have their consent before I proceed.”
“Not in Pellman you don’t, boy.”
Tim sighed, knowing that it was pointless to argue with the belligerent sheriff.
“I’ll be right there,” he promised.
**
Tim la
id the black bag that was pitifully light onto his table, and unzipped it, reeling at what he saw. The girl’s soft, wavy, red hair was the same color and texture of the mass of material that he’d seen in his wife’s cupboard in the basement. Or was it? How could it be? It couldn’t be…it was just a strange coincidence. He was jumping at shadows and that was not like him. Taking a deep breath, and patting down the hair on the back of his neck, he unzipped the bag the rest of the way.
The girl’s eyelids were missing, so he’d have to construct new ones, which wasn’t as difficult as it sounded, but attaching new eyebrows and eyelashes would be tedious. Clearly this was the victim that the sheriff had come to see him about, because so far, things were looking very suspicious. He started his examination as he always did, by taking photos, from head to toe. The challenge this corpse presented with her lack of eyelashes and eyebrows might just win him space in Mortuary Monthly if he did a spectacular job.
When Tim got down to the girl’s feet, he slowly lowered the camera and leaned over for a closer look. On the top of the girl’s foot, there was a patch of skin missing. A patch of skin that was in the exact shape of…a leaf. Overcome as his system flooded with terror, Tim ran to the nearest industrial sink and spewed his breakfast into the drain. He wasn’t grossed out, not by a long shot, it took far more than a missing patch of skin to make Timothy Eckels turn green. He’d never thrown up after seeing a body, even when the body had been that of his beloved Gram. No, what made the mortician sick was the dead certainty that he was married to a monster who made art from human flesh.
Abigail Sorenson wasn’t the first, he realized with dread. He’d run into at least two other victims with similar patches of skin, and hair and various other body parts missing. Could his mild-mannered mate actually be a serial killer? A wave of revulsion swept through Tim, and he held onto the sink as his body shuddered and shook. The mortician had the utmost respect for remains, but utter disdain for those who created them before their time. Body preparation was an art form, but killing bodies to make art was just simply…murder. Cold, hard, merciless murder.
The Quiet Type Page 12