The Final Arrangement

by Annie Adams

  “It seems like you guys were pretty busy all the time from all the arrangements I’ve seen at the mortuaries. Are there other employees that aren’t getting their checks?"

  “It’s just me and sometimes my daughter. Like I said, he was hardly ever around, so I did all the designs and once in a while my daughter would help.”

  “Wow, that seems like a lot of work for just one or two people. Didn’t you guys have like a whole funeral a day?”

  “Oh, honey! We had three and four funerals every day. Mostly just blankets, but every day I was doing three or four ‘em.” She incorrectly called the casket sprays blankets, but who was I to correct this over-flowing font of information? “He charged a pretty penny for those things too. My sister’s husband died and he let me have the employee discount, but there’s no way we would have paid full price. I mean go look at them picture books; they have the prices in ‘em. They start at six hundred dollars. For a half-casket size!”

  Six hundred dollars was extremely expensive for the minimum priced half-coach casket spray in our area. Mine started at two hundred dollars on the low end.

  “Them flowers cost that much and he’s late with my paychecks? Too many damn toys if you ask me. Have you seen that car he zipped around in? A Porsche for hell’s sakes. Fire engine red. He’s got a truck and a big yellow Hummer too. You tell me where he got the money for all that.”

  A yellow hummer? Like the one Linda's boyfriend drove away in? Was he involved with the Vulture? I put it on my mental checklist to find out more about lover boy.

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” I said. “So how are you going to get a paycheck if the guy that gives it to you is dead?”

  “Well I was gonna see if it was laying on his desk in there or wait for the mailman to come. He didn’t write them out himself, someone named L.D. Stanwyck always signed them.”

  “Who’s L.D. Stanwyck?”

  “Hell if I know, but they didn’t bounce.

  “So you don’t know what’s going to happen now that Derrick’s gone?”

  “No but I got the idea he was getting ready to split. I was thinkin’ of quittin’ soon. I did overhear him talking to an old man that’s been coming around here a lot lately. I think they were maybe talkin’ about him buying the business.”

  My ears perked up at that; exactly the news I did not want to hear.

  “You say he’s an older guy?”

  “Yeah, about seventy or so.”

  “Is he a florist?”

  “Well I think he owns a shop with his wife over in Plainville.”

  “Oh, you mean Irwin and LaDonna.”

  “Yeah, that’s him, Irwin. He’s a nice old man, but I don’t know what he’d be doing talking to Derrick. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Now I’ve always gotten a paycheck—eventually, but I wouldn’t ever trust Derrick in a business deal, not for a million bucks. Hey, didn’t you say you’re from a shop?”

  “Yes, I own a shop in Hillside.”

  “You know I should give you my number in case you’re ever hiring.” She reached for a piece of paper on the table and tore off the corner then pulled a pen from behind her ear and began writing. “I’ve got design experience.”

  “Thanks,” I replied as I took the paper from her hand. Unfortunately for her I had witnessed first hand her customer service skills and her design capabilities.

  “Speaking of phone numbers, you wouldn’t happen to have Irwin’s number around handy would you?” I asked.

  “Hell it’s probably on his desk in there somewhere. I’m gonna go out for a smoke. You can go in his office and look for it. If you see my paycheck sittin’ around come and get me, will ya?” She cackled herself into a coughing fit.

  “Sure thing. Oh, before you go outside, I was wondering if you might have an extra can of leaf shine that I could buy from you.” We had run out and were getting a new shipment of plants that needed to go to the hospital gift shop. They looked like they were coated in a gray film when they arrived at our shop because of the water spots from the sprinklers at the nursery. The leaf shine adds what we call perceived value to the plants. People think they’re a lot more valuable when they’re shiny and unnatural looking. If they have natural healthy leaves that have just been sprayed with needed water, people think they look like they are unhealthy and dying. The American culture’s screwed up perceptions of health and beauty are not limited just to people.

  “We’ve got a whole case of ‘em in the plant room. You don’t have to pay for it. Hell, who am I going to tattle to?” The cackle continued with phlegm-induced interruptions caused by a lifetime of smokes. “Just find what you need. I’ll be outside.”

  I smiled and watched as she turned to go outside, her waist long, brown-streaked-with-gray braid swaying as she rolled from right foot to left. I had a pretty good idea this would be a long smoke break, so I figured I could look at a few things in the office. I had permission to be there, so what if I just happened to accidentally run into some sales figures or something like that?

  Derrick’s office desk was cluttered with papers, yellow envelopes and everything else one might find at a work desk. Nothing jumped out at me and said, “Look this is why I was murdered.” I didn’t see anything that looked like a paycheck, but I did see a three-fold glossy pamphlet with the title “Switch Grass, Bio-fuel of the Future.” I had heard of switch grass before, it was on the list of availability from one of my suppliers. I hadn’t known of its use as a bio-fuel, so I picked up the pamphlet out of curiosity. A picture of a grassy looking plant with a man standing next to it covered the front fold. The grass stood at least a foot taller than the man. I folded the pamphlet in half and put it in my back pocket for later. I didn’t think anyone would miss it. Nothing else on the desk stood out.

  It occurred to me that the police had probably already been through things here, since the owner of the desk had been found mysteriously dead.

  I walked over to a little room wedged between the design area and the bathroom. It was full of floor to ceiling shelves made of two by fours and plywood. Four and six inch potted houseplants dotted two of the shelves. Most of them were wilted for lack of water. One wall of shelves was completely full with wicker and split willow baskets in all different shapes and styles. A sink, probably never cleaned since the day it was installed, leaned on one wall and next to it, a small counter top where plants were arranged in the baskets. A plastic garbage can full of potting soil rested under the counter. The box next to it looked to be full of sphagnum moss.

  I looked all over the crowded little room, not finding the metal cans of leaf shine anywhere. Then I remembered she had said a case of it, meaning there was probably a cardboard box full of them somewhere. I noticed a cardboard box underneath the p-trap of the sink and reached down to open it. Because of the dim lighting in the tiny room, I couldn’t see the water damage to the box where it touched the sink pipe. I reached into a squishy, slimy, wet blob that smeared all over my fingers. Repulsed, my immediate reaction was to jerk my hand out. While gagging, I noticed my fingers were covered in dark green—almost black goo which was probably a product of decomposing plant and cardboard. I decided to be a little more cautious and reached again for the cardboard box. I pulled and slid it out from under the sink. As I did, something fell down and slapped the floor.

  I blindly reached under the sink, toward the direction of the sound until my fingers made contact with something on the floor. I pulled out a black three-ring binder full of paper and tabbed dividers. I wondered why anyone would keep a binder full of paper under the sink with the drips and moisture all over the place.

  Inside the binder I found a ledger labeled for February’s sales figures. Everything was hand-written. Each day of the month had its own column, and under each column was written a number. It was not uncommon to see $3,000 to $8,000 hand-written under each day.

  I turned the page and found a similar chart with the same titles and numbers, only, it was all typed; nothin
g was handwritten.

  I was looking at the official version of the February sales figures. To make sure it had the same date as the handwritten page, I compared the amounts in each column to the previous page. On the typed page, there were several days with no sales at all. In fact, on the days when sales should have said $4,000, it would say $500 or $250. Not a single column matched up between the two pages.

  Derrick had been keeping two sets of books. I wondered if the L.D. Stanwyck who had signed the paychecks for Derrick’s loquacious designer got to see the typed or the handwritten version of the business records.

  What kind of idiot keeps two different sets of financial books in the same binder? I wondered. The same idiot who found himself resting in a coffin in the mortuary. Maybe Derrick’s not-so-fancy bookkeeping had ended up getting him killed somehow.

  I turned to a page with the title “Extra Receivables***” written across the top. Three columns were titled April, May and June. Under each month was written $10,000. What kind of ten thousand dollar jobs is he getting?

  Another question popped into my mind. It hadn’t been too difficult to find this little black book. You’d think with a murder investigation, the police would have searched the place. Maybe that’s why the desk had been so messy. Perhaps the cops had already been there and found something they were looking for.

  The front door bell sounded, startling me. I looked out of the little room to see if the designer had come back in yet. She wasn’t there. I moved over to the office, so I could look through the one-way glass that made it so you could watch the front of the store without leaving the office or being seen. A tall man with a mustache walked in. He wore dress slacks and a shirt and tie, and a badge with black leather backing hung from his belt. I decided it probably would not bode well for me to be found by the police in a dead man’s office. Especially a dead man I had been arguing with at the scene of his forthcoming murder, of which I might be a suspect.

  I tucked the ledger into the back waistband of my pants and said an internal thank you for the one-way glass. Then I made my way as quietly as I could to the back door which had been left open by Derrick’s employee. I hadn’t ever asked her name, and now was not the time for pleasantries. I started to jog once I hit the pavement outside and when I reached the woman smoking around the back corner I gave her a heads up.

  “Thanks for your help, I have one more question. Haven’t the police been here?”

  She snorted and shook her head. “Hell, some asshole detective called and said he would be here, but he never showed.”

  So I wasn’t the only one to experience the pleasure of talking with the asshole detective. I didn’t want to have to repeat the experience if that’s who had just walked in.

  “Thanks again, I’ve got to get going now, but I thought I’d tell you there is a customer in the store. Oh, and maybe you’ll forget that I was ever here.” I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and put it in her hand. She could buy at least a couple more packs of Camels with it.

  “Give me a call,” she croaked then looked down at her palm. “Now how did this get here?” She looked at me and winked before she snuffed her cigarette out with her foot.

  I peeked around the front corner of Derrick’s shop, and after making sure the guy from the police was otherwise engaged, I got into the car and got the heck out of there.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The blacktop in the parking lot of Rosie’s Posies tugged at my shoes with every step. The chatter of traffic came out muffled under the oppressive rays of the afternoon sun and my face felt like it was close to sliding off. I noticed my van wasn’t in the back parking space. I walked in to find Allie alone in the shop, tying extra bows to put in planters or vases in the future. Like me, she had been taught by Aunt Rosie that idle hands are the tools of the devil, and that slow times in the shop were the times to be productive, not to take a break.

  “Hey, where’s Cindy?” I said.

  “She left about an hour ago.”

  “Wow. Good thing you remember how to do everything.”

  “Well, enough to get by,” she laughed. “I would’ve called you if I ran into any trouble.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here. Cindy does pretty well, but the minute she doesn’t have an arrangement to make, her behind finds the nearest seat. After a while I get sick of telling her to stand up.”

  “It’s just habit for me to stand and work. I guess that’s what Aunt Rosie taught. Before Brad made me quit my job at the jewelry store, I would always hear my coworkers complain about having to be on their feet so much, but I never minded it.”

  “A designer on her feet is worth two on her seat,” I repeated from memory.

  “Where did you come up with that? I don’t remember Aunt Rosie ever saying it.”

  “Actually, it was LaDonna Shaw. She owns a shop in Plainville; I’ve run into her a few times at the wholesaler’s and at design shows. Her ears must be burning. It’s the second time today her name has come up. Anyway, where’s Nick?”

  “Let’s see. Cindy called to ask if he would bring her a drink on the way back, and he said it would be a while because he was in Roy, so she left.”

  “Roy! What’s he doing in Roy? The delivery slip on the board says the hospital in Ogden. He’s thirty miles west of where he should be.” My anger boiled up so easily lately. Was it completely due to Nick? Or were there contributing factors such as Cindy, the mortuary, Derrick or maybe the poo arsonist? Unfortunately for Nick, he was the Chairman of the Board in the Piss Quincy Off conglomerate. I’d had it with him.

  I stomped over to the phone and punched in the number to his cell phone. It felt as if my hand might crush the handset.

  “HELLO,” he shouted over the blaring music in the background.

  “Nick! This is your boss! Where are you?”

  I heard a curse then the background music stopped.

  “Well?”

  “What?” He replied as if my angry tone was uncalled for.

  “Where are you right now in my van?”

  “I’m about ten minutes away.”

  “You make sure and get here without a new scratch on my car. Do you understand me?” I think my eyes were glowing red.

  I wanted to slam the receiver down but couldn’t afford a new phone, so I just mimed the behavior several times before I could hang it up softly.

  “Um, Quincy?” Allie said, “I’m sorry to add to your stress but there’s something I think I should to tell you before I forget. Cindy asked me an interesting question today.”

  “Oh yeah, what was that?”

  “I don’t know how to go about this so I’ll just blurt it out. Cindy asked me if you’re gay.”

  “Wh…hat?”

  “Yeah. Just a little bit of a surprise. I didn’t know what to tell her.”

  “Why not? It’s a simple answer, yes or no. What did you tell her?”

  “I said no. I asked her where she got that idea. She said that her older brother went to school with Randall, and they still keep in touch. He said you were a lesbian, and that you had lied to him about it the whole time you were married.”

  “Wow.” I wish I could have said he’d sunk to a new low, but this was pretty run of the mill for my ex-husband. “Of course, the only explanation for a woman leaving Randall would be because she’s gay. I’m sure it’s never occurred to him that his suggestion means that being with him made me prefer women.”

  Allie giggled but covered her mouth as if she shouldn’t have allowed herself to laugh.

  “’Hey everyone,’” I mocked my ex-husbands voice, “’I drove my ex-wife to lesbianism, but I’m too stupid to realize I’m makin’ fun of myself.’ Randall is a moron. I don’t have time to waste on worrying what he says about me. Anyone who hears him should consider the validity of the source.”

  “Quincy, this isn’t funny. Randall knows a lot of people. If he’s telling this stuff to old high school buddies, I can’t imagine all the rest of the people he’s blabbing to.
Maybe you should make it a little more obvious that you’re not—you know.”

  “How did you want me to go about making it more obvious? ‘Hi, I’m Quincy; I’m not gay, nice to meet you.’ Is that it? Maybe I could get the title heterosexual printed on my business cards. Allie, I’ve got nothing to prove. The people who are important to me know who I am.”

  “I know, I know, you don’t have anything to prove. But since you do happen to not be gay, it wouldn’t hurt for people to know that.”

  This argument was going down a familiar path. I hadn’t decided if it was the influence of church or mother or both, but appearances and the impressions of others meant a lot more than they should to people in my town, especially people like my family.

  “Well anyway," Allie said, "it doesn’t matter, but since you’re straight, single and pretty, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to open your eyes and notice the very handsome, also not gay police officer who seems to be so interested in you.” She batted her eyes.

  “Thanks for the compliments but I’ve got plenty of other things to worry about right now, including needing to find a new delivery driver.”

  “Don’t change the subject! All you do is work and then when you go home you think about work some more. It would be good for you to get out a little. I’m not saying you have to get married again. I’m just saying you could stand to socialize a little more. And since you just happen to have one of the most gorgeous guys on the planet interested in you, I’m thinking you should probably snatch him up before you drive him off.”

  I knew Allie just wanted me to be happy, but I couldn’t afford to invest in a relationship. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  “Allie, I don’t have time for a boyfriend. Besides, getting back to reality, what am I going to do about Nick?”

  “First of all, lame excuse. You have time; you just don’t want to think you have time.” She peered at me, hands stuck on her hips. “Secondly, you don’t have to have a boyfriend. Go hang out a few times. And about Nick, before you attack when he walks in the door, get his story first. It doesn’t look to me like you’ve got a spare driver hanging around anywhere.”