by R. L. Perry
She was waiting for me in my office wearing a new lavender dress and a pair of pearl earrings. “You want to know something, Mary,” Rose said as I entered the office. “It’s so cold outside, I think my husband might be feeling the brass monkeys down in Florida.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s why we drink coffee.”
“Amen,” Rose answered, handing me a steaming mug with cream.
“I’m operating on little sleep,” I admitted. “So coffee will have to be my guardian today.”
“We’ll make it,” Rose said. “I’ve got everything ready except the body. That’s your department.”
I sat down at my desk, placed the sample kit next to the telephone, and sipped coffee until I began to feel the day washing over me like a tide. I completed Phil Carrington’s death certificate—the same as Sheila’s. But I kept Blanch’s forensic notes close at hand, wondering how Listeria and mercury were connected in the cold and snow of winter.
“Did I ever tell you about the time your father had to call the police?” Rose asked as she handed me a packet of sugar.
“No!”
“It was right here. In this office. An irate husband whose wife had run away with a travelling salesman. Vacuum cleaners, I think. She had been killed out there on the road somewhere, died down south, near Louisville. They were not yet divorced and your father got into a spat with the jilted husband regarding the casket. I guess hubby didn’t want to pay.”
“What happened? How did it turn out?”
“Well, the man flew away in a huff, angry as a hornet. Said he would bury his cheating bride on the farm in a cardboard box. Demanded the body . . . or else. So your father called the police.”
“They came?”
“Oh, yes. Went out to the farm. Calmed down Mister McGregor. And after an oink oink here and an oink oink there he came through with the payment and a proper burial. It was during Christmas, too.”
“Dad could be stubborn.”
“Yes. And that’s also how your family came to have Christmas ham that year.”
I laughed. “The man paid in livestock?”
“Sure did,” Rose said. “One pig and half a side of beef. Might have been a few chickens thrown in there, too!”
“You’re making this up.”
“Cross my heart,” Rose said, smiling broadly as she took a long sip from her mug.
“Well, let’s hope we can do better with the Carringtons,” I said. “While I’m driving Milt to the cemetery later this morning I’ll make sure the company comes through with a check.”
“Make sure it’s a check . . . not a chick,” Rose said. She laughed, and then added, “Of course, they might feel compelled to pay with ice. Word is they had the corner on the market.”
“It’s the largest ice company in Indy,” I told her. “But I wish I could thaw the horizon, see things more clearly.”
“Maybe that lawyer . . . Milt . . . can help.”
“I’m counting on it,” I said. “But at the rate things are going, I might have to light a fire to get some answers.”
Rose raised her eyebrows and nodded. Like me, she didn’t want to let things go. She was always thinking about her next steps.
I finished my first cup of coffee, eyes opened and energy fresh, and then bounded into the embalming room to put the final touches on Phil Carrington. I stepped back, admired the work I had done the day before, freshened the makeup on the face and brushed the hair. I could not allow myself to bridge the distance of time—nor to ponder how, just a few hours before, I had shaken Phil Carrington’s hand when he was still alive, a hand that now lay lifeless inside the casket, a damp and colorless thing.
I completed my work, then rolled the casket, atop the gurney, into the chapel for viewing. Rose helped me to arrange the flower stands and, as a precursor to beauty, noted that some would soon arrive from the florists. “I hope the company sends roses,” she said.
I nodded in agreement, grateful that she was back in a place of helpfulness. In some ways, it seemed as if Rose had never left. She was like a bridge from the present to the past.
As we finished our work in the chapel my attention returned to the samples I’d taken from the Carringtons house earlier in the morning. I slipped back into the office while Rose was checking the bathrooms and retrieved the kit. I met Rose at the front door. “I need you to do me a favor,” I told her.
“Of course.”
“I’ve got some samples here that I need you to take to the forensic lab. I’ll call Blanch and make sure someone is at the lab when you arrive. Can you please drive over there and drop off the kit?”
Rose took the case and studied it for a moment. “I can do that.”
I helped her with her coat, bundled her against the cold. She had parked near the front door and, as she stepped out into the frigid air and the darkness, my “be careful” followed after her like a gentle wind. I stood at the door, watched her as she drove away into the silent streets, the tail lights of her car dissipating in the dark. I dialed the lab phone number, left a message on Blanch’s voicemail when she didn’t pick up. Then, sensing a brief lull in the oncoming morning, I returned to the office for my second cup of coffee.
The phone rang. It was David.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m afraid I won’t make Carrington’s funeral this morning,” he continued. “But I might want to meet later today.”
“Call me later then,” I said. “Especially if you’ve learned anything about the ice business. I can use all the help I can get.”
“Will do,” David said. “Stay warm.”
Although the sunrise had not yet decorated the eastern sky with pink fingers and scarlet lace, I did feel that a new day had begun . . . or, perhaps, that the previous twenty-four hours and never quite departed. Either way, I knew that Phil Carrington’s funeral was going to take me into some cold places . . . and still in December. I hoped Rose would return before guests began arriving. But I enjoyed, however brief, the silence before the gathering.
Snow. Sub-zero temperatures. And more than enough ice.
Yes, it was shaping up to be quite a December to remember.
But we were ready.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I was not surprised this time by the thin crowd, with many of the same faces in attendance at Phil Carrington’s funeral. The beautiful woman in black had returned, as had the elderly couple and the minions sporting thermal overalls. The young man was still wearing his jacket with the company logo and when the service began, the tiny crowd—though perhaps thinner by a dozen—was rigid in the rows, eyes focused front and center. Milt, however, did an adequate job with little preparation time, and I could hear hints of legalese in his voice as he strode through the company history and regaled the tiny entourage with exploits of new production units and an expanded fleet of delivery trucks. “Two years ago the company grossed fifty million dollars and we’ve never looked back,” he said. “Phil Carrington was proud of his accomplishments. And he wanted to give everyone who worked for him a piece of the pie. We can believe that.”
The morning, tinged with light shining periodically through silver-gray clouds, seemed left-over from another time. Rose stood beside me at the back of the chapel pondering, like me, the final outcomes.
Milt rounded out his eulogy with some brief observations about the Carringtons, their marriage, their penchant for travel, their simple lifestyle. A few people nodded. Most seemed numb to the morning, as if Phil Carrington’s death were an imposition, an intrusion into their work-a-day lives. But this was always the truth. Death did not arrive by schedule, when calendars were clear.
Near the end of Milt’s talk, he moved to a laptop computer and pressed a key. A brief video came up on the television monitor I’d hooked up for him. He adjusted the sound and the small crowd seemed to enjoy the video history that Milt had produced—mostly still photos that he had set in motion with music underneath.
“He’s not bad for a lawyer,” Rose whispere
d in my ear as Milt brought the proceedings to a close.
“He’s not a courtroom lawyer,” I reminded her. “He’s strictly back room nuts and bolts, contracts and balance sheets.”
“Well,” Rose added, “he’s one tall drink of water . . . and he needs to get some sun.”
It was true. Milt’s complexion was a pasty mixture of Minnesota farm boy and cookie dough—a younger version of Corey in the forensic lab. Nevertheless, up front he cut a commandeering figure, less the authority. Listening to him as he stood behind the lectern, I could sense the denouement of his talk and I crept to the back of the chapel, into the sound room, and turned off the P.A. system. Milt was already greeting folks near the casket, most of them employees at the ice company.
I met Milt at the coat racks and then led a few of the men down the corridor, back into the chapel, and helped them roll the casket through the side door and load it into the hearse. When I closed the door on Phil Carrington, I sensed a new chapter was beginning as we turned our attentions on the cemetery.
Milt joined me in the front seat of the hearse as we prepared to lead the small procession of pallbearers to the cemetery yet again. Lance had been kind enough to send an off-duty officer to lead us through the few stop lights and intersections as we pulled out of the parking lot and headed east.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Milt said as we inched our way along the icy boulevard.
I had always appreciated the drive to the cemetery. It usually afforded me an opportunity to talk to the clergy, to become better acquainted. In fact, clergy and funeral directors were kindred spirits, and many clergy let down their guard with funeral directors once they had completed the services. There were many, both pastors and priests, and of all varieties and persuasions, whom I respected immensely and trusted implicitly.
But it was becoming more common to make these cemetery rides with family members and friends, as many people no longer had affiliation with a church community. I wondered how Milt would respond to my talk. When I didn’t answer right away, he asked a question: “Have you ever had back-to-back funerals for husband and wife before?”
“I have,” I told him. And it was true. “But usually it’s older couples—people who have been married for decades. It’s not uncommon, when one dies, that the other person becomes ill, or simply gives up. I’ve known a number of older married couples where the persons simply died within days, or just a few weeks, from each other. But I have to say . . . this is a first with such a tragic outcome.”
“I wondered,” Milt said, brushing a bit of lint from his suit lapel and tugging at his seat belt. He was staring out the side window as we passed through the first intersection, his right hand poised on the door handle.
“You’re likely to be very busy at the ice factory now,” I said. “You mentioned that the Carringtons’ deaths presented something of a challenge, to say the least.”
Milt nodded without speaking. He seemed to be choosing his words, guarding his information. But understandably.
I was also guarding my information, but I knew I couldn’t allow for a standstill. Like playing chicken, somebody would eventually have to flinch. So I pressed on as we drove through the second intersection, only the pallbearers following behind.
“What do you think will happen to the business now?” I asked.
Milt sniffed and rubbed under his nose. “I’m no expert on these matters,” he said. “I just hope we don’t end up in probate.”
“No will?”
“There’s a will,” Milt offered slowly, his words precise and guarded. After another moment, he added hesitantly, “But there are other issues that complicate the matter of the business. I’m sure you understand.”
I didn’t want to frighten Milt or cause him to retreat. He seemed like a decent sort, even willing to give me bits and pieces of information if I asked nicely. And on another level, perhaps a reality dictated by isolation or seclusion within the company, he seemed on the verge of wanting to talk more about the outcomes. He may have even felt a sense of obligation or immense stress, now that the owners had seemingly placed the future into his hands. Or perhaps that was the problem, in itself.
I considered my own information . . . and what I hoped to learn from Blanch later in the day. As we passed through the intersection, I offered one final thought before we entered the gates of the cemetery. “It may be important for you to know that the Carringtons may have had enemies.”
Milt looked askance, his eyes darting toward the horizon. He was nervous, but also eager to offer his final words at the committal, which may have explained his mannerisms. He was gathering up his tiny entourage of notes, folding them into his hand. “It’s a decent-sized company,” Milt said at last. “I don’t think everyone agreed on the decisions at times. It’s tough to be owners, to make policies that impact other families.”
“I get it,” I said as I edged the hearse onto the cleared asphalt cemetery road and followed the grounds-keeping lead car toward the green tent that was erected over the Carringtons’ plot. I eased the hearse to a stop and then asked, “Is there anything you need for the committal?”
“No,” Milt said. “But thanks. I just have a few words and a poem I’m going to read.”
“I like poetry,” I said.
“To an Athlete Dying Young,” Milt said. “A.E. Houseman.”
“I know it,” I told him. “That will do.”
We exited the hearse and walked to the back, waited for the pallbearers to line up so I could give them instructions on how to carry Phil Carrington’s casket across the snow-covered ground. Milt and I followed along behind, guarding our steps, until we reached a tiny dot of ground that the cemetery hands had cleared near the tombstone. Then I stood to the side as Milt offered a few words and then read the poem.
Although people generally didn’t stay too long at a cemetery, I was surprised by the haste of the retreat—the six pallbearers all returning to the cars post-haste, and then out. “I’ll drive you back to the funeral home,” I told Milt. “Just let me hand off my paperwork to the grounds-keeper.”
Milt waited until I returned to the hearse, and then, after we once again took our respective places, asked me a quick question as we drove toward the exit. He seemed more relaxed, even eager to talk. “You mentioned earlier . . . or seemed to think that the Carringtons may have had enemies. What made you say that?”
He seemed concerned—apologetic even. And I could sense in Milt’s voice that he was trying to follow his own trail. But then, I thought, that’s what lawyers are trained to do.
“I might have additional information,” I said, “once I get a secondary forensic report back from the lab later today.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Milt said.
“Could be. I can see that I might be putting you on the spot. But I think it would be important to the company.”
“When will you get the report?” Milt asked.
“I can drive over to the lab as soon as I drop you off at the funeral home,” I said. “My secretary, Rose, is inside if you need anything.”
“No thanks. I’ll just drive back to the ice factory. There’s some paperwork I’ve got to pick up there today.”
I was back on the road, headed for the home stretch. No police escort this time. But we hit all of the green lights and I was feeling a bit lucky. Soon after I rounded the final turn and steered the hearse toward the parking lot, I asked, “Would you mind if I called? I could meet you at the ice factory once I get the information.”
Milt scratched his angular chin. “That would do,” he said.
As I dropped Milt off at the front entrance of the funeral home, I waved goodbye and turned in the snow, my sights—and my headlights—now set for the forensic lab. I considered calling David, but decided to wait. I noticed that the snowplows had been through, dropping salt onto the roads, melting the little histories of tire tracks and sudden turns, the vestiges of worn treads and studs worn to the nubs. But the snow on the grou
nd wasn’t melting and I noted that the freeze continued. The footprints outside the Carrington house were still there, I reasoned. And they led somewhere. To somebody.
All I had to do was follow them to their conclusion.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The forensic lab, less Corey’s meticulous oversight and organization, was becoming a loose configuration of rolling carts and stainless steel trays loaded with beakers and tubes. His annual foray to the sunny shores of Florida was not only proving to be a bumpy ride for the lab, but also for me—and I longed for his return. Still, Blanch was doing the job in between cigarette breaks, and when I walked into the lab for another go round with Phil Carrington’s analysis, she was ready with some heavy artillery and a barrage of details.
And since there wasn’t a body on a gurney this go-round, we didn’t talk in the morgue lab, but in the offices. Blanch’s cubicle, two down from Corey’s, was a rainbow tide of colors. Pinned to a small bulletin board over her desk, assortments of tear sheets from forensic journals, along with family photos and a couple of neatly-clipped Peanuts comic strips, formed a messy diatribe of printed material. Her small desk was littered with papers and, on each corner, glass ashtrays betrayed vestiges of clandestine drags from secret cigarettes, the filters crushed in a hurry—and a couple of outlines of Blanch’s go-to lipstick.
I sat in a swivel chair opposite the desk, my back to the cubicle pressed against a blue swath of crepe paper—a hold out from a recent birthday party, along with a half deflated red balloon.
Blanch, her voice gravelly and deep, seemed eager to discuss the latest trends in forensic science. For a few minutes she regaled me with the new DNA procurement procedures, walked me through changes in the methodology and outcomes. “The thing is,” she said, “we don’t have any way to determine foul play based on DNA evidence. All we have are two bodies, the Listeria, the glints of rock that contain the mercury. It’s all very neat and orderly, or it could be random . . . but that’s something we’ll have to work on or hold in check for later.”