“Oh, right. Marisol’s service.” She looked around the room as if a few tables might magically appear. “I’ll get some for you. Is two enough?”
“Perfect,” I said. I took another moment to look around while she hung up the waterproof apron she’d been wearing and straightened her hair. The space was clean, but it looked like Suzanne had either been about to work on something, or had just finished and was cleaning up. Given that she’d just been outside hosing down the hearse, it seemed more likely she was going to move on to her next chore. I noticed several jars sitting on one of the counters, although from where I stood, I couldn’t tell what was in them. Something shiny. Gold. Or maybe yellow. A section of one wall held several rows of large rectangular drawers. Television and movies had given me enough context to believe that they housed the bodies that came in. I knew that embalming was optional, but I’d also read that some funeral homes didn’t have coolers for bodies, so embalming became essential. You don’t need to embalm if you have the viewing within a few days, Billy and I had been told after our mother died.
I checked my watch. We only had an hour and Olaya had no place to put the rest of the baked goods from the bread shop, but Suzanne Alcott didn’t seem to be in a hurry. “I’m sure you’re busy. Can I help you get them?” I offered, wanting to light a fire under her.
She checked her watch again, then glanced at the round analog clock hanging on the wall above the door. “Today is a little crazy. Yours is the third service, so a lot of coordinating, and one of our part-time helpers called in sick, so we’re short-staffed.”
Death waits for no one, I thought. “You can just tell me where they are and I’ll get them.”
“No, I’ll show you.”
I smiled, just wanting to get out of this particular room in the funeral parlor and up to reception, where we could all ignore the harsher realities of the business and just deal with the grief.
I’d come in through the driveway entrance, but Suzanne led me through the interior door, closing it behind me after I passed through. We went up one flight of stairs to the main floor, but instead of pushing through the door at the landing, she turned and continued up the next flight. “Do the police know any more about what happened to Marisol?” she asked as she opened the door at the top of the stairs.
“I’m not really sure,” I answered truthfully. I didn’t know where Emmaline was with the investigation, I had yet to fill her in on my suspicions about Johnny, and I didn’t know if David had handed over the note he’d found, which supported that theory.
“They released the body to us, but I didn’t hear anything about the autopsy findings.” The row of windows visible from the back of the building outside were right in front of me. Light streamed into the attic space, eliminating the need for us to turn on the lights. The glow of the sunlight illuminated a fine layer of dust over the surfaces in the room. I spotted several portable tables. The legs were collapsed and they leaned up against one of the walls next to a stack of folded chairs. Two plain wooden caskets sat side by side under the windows. White shipping boxes were stacked in the back right corner, and other containers marked hazardous were piled up next to them, and in front of them was a wardrobe rack. Several dresses, one maxi length, the other two shorter, a beach cover up, a few men’s shirts, three or four men’s suit jackets, and a pewter-colored puffer jacket hung on it.
I grimaced. Clothing for corpses?
A stack of towels was neatly folded next to the wardrobe rack.
From the window, I could see the plastic-covered pallets of bricks outside. “When will your retaining wall be done?” I asked.
She followed my gaze. “It’s a work in progress. We decided to make it bigger, so we’ve had to start again. Or revamp it, anyway. No idea when it will be done.”
“Are those the tables?” I asked, pointing to them.
“Mmm-hmm. They’re pretty light. You can get one and I’ll get the other.”
She pulled one out, lifting it by the lip. She was right; it was lightweight, with a white plastic top and aluminum legs. I maneuvered it through the door and down the stairs, throwing open the door to the main floor and hauling it into the reception room. Suzanne followed with the other table. We set them up next to the one already laden with Yeast of Eden delectables.
“I have a few things to finish up. Need anything else at the moment?” Suzanne asked.
“I don’t think so. I’ll let you know if we do.”
“Text me if you do,” she said. She rattled off her number, which I entered into my phone and tucked it back into my pocket. She wandered out of the room as Olaya came in with another tray of sfogliatelle—the last one, from what I could tell. She set it down on the table and pointed to a clear plastic storage container. “The tablecloths. Please spread them on the tables, mija.”
I did as she said, spreading out the ivory cloths and flattening the wrinkles with my hands. I’d worked with Olaya long enough to know how she liked to set up her food displays. Adding interest to the table by adding height was key. I pulled a set of nested boxes and tins from the second storage container she’d hauled in, then artfully draped several other burlap cloths over them, adding long sprigs of white silk flowers and berries to soften the look.
“Perfecto,” Olaya proclaimed as she came back in carrying another tray of food. “Miguel entered right behind her, his arms wrapped around a large cardboard box. He set his load down, took Olaya’s from her and placed it on one of the tables, then wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a hug.
“Ready for today?” he asked after brushing his lips against my cheeks.
“As much as we can be,” I said.
He stepped back and started unloading the box he’d brought in, looking around. “We’re going to need another table. I have more food in the car.”
“There are more tables upstairs. I’ll ask if we can go get more.” I took my phone from my pocket and quickly composed a message to Suzanne, then got back to unloading.
“Okay?” Miguel asked ten minutes later as he came back in with his third box and Olaya and I had made two more trips to the van.
I checked my phone. The status remained delivered, rather than read. That could be because she had her phone set up that way, or because she hadn’t seen it. I shook my head, but followed that with a little shrug. “I know where the attic is. We can just go get them.”
He followed me back to the hallway, through the closed door, and up the hidden stairs to the storage room. “How many more?” I asked him, pointing to the five tables left leaning against the wall.
“At least three. Maybe four.” He lifted the first easily, handing it to me. “This one is smaller. It can be for beverages.”
I’d been so wrapped up in the details surrounding Marisol’s death that I hadn’t even thought about that detail. I let the table lean against my legs. “Do we have drinks?”
“Coffee, iced tea, and water,” he said, lifting another table.
I led the way back down the stairs and through to the reception room. We popped open the legs of the tables, setting them up. “Let’s get two more, just in case,” he said, and we retreated back to the attic.
This time, once inside the dusty room, he stopped to look around the space. “This is where we brought my dad,” he said, his voice subdued. Then he smiled wryly. “Not the attic, I mean, but Vista Ridge. Seems so long ago.”
“Are you glad you came back home?” I asked. His father’s death is what brought him back to Santa Sofia. He’d taken over the family business, leaving behind his military career, but he’d never said how he felt about that.
“Not glad he died, obviously, but happy that you and I found each other again.” His gaze settled on the wardrobe rack and one eyebrow arched. “Clothing for the deceased?”
“That’s my best guess,” I said.
He strode to it, sliding the hangers over as he looked at each piece. He stopped at one of the men’s suit jackets. It was dark gray with pinstripes. I was
no expert, but it looked to me to be nice, falling somewhere in the mid-range area of a suit-quality distribution scale. He looked at the front, then slid the hanger over to peer at the back. As he slid it off, I noticed the coordinating slacks hanging over the base of the hanger. Miguel’s brows knitted together.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping next to him to look more closely.
He flipped open the lapel to look at the label. It read Van Heusen, 42 regular. “This is just like the one we buried my dad in,” he said.
“Black pinstriped suits all look the same,” I said, wanting to dismiss the similarity. I didn’t want painful memories to be dredged up for him.
“Yeah, and forty-two regular is a pretty common size. It just reminds me of him.”
I didn’t know if it was a common size or not, but something about the seriousness of Miguel’s expression gave me pause. “Are you thinking this was his?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away, instead draping the suit over his arm so he could slide his hand into the interior pocket. He froze for a second before withdrawing his hand. He took what he’d found with his other hand, gripping it between his fingers and closing his eyes for a beat.
I touched his arm, squeezing lightly. “Miguel, what is it?”
He responded by unfolding the paper and holding the sheets out to me. “They’re pictures Laura’s kids drew for him before he died. He wanted to take them with him so I put them in his coat pocket before I brought the suit here.”
One of the drawings was more sophisticated than the other, but both were sweet and filled with love. They each featured an older man, who had to be Miguel’s father, holding the hand of a child. One of them had a rainbow framing the two figures, while the other said: I love you, Abuelo.
I looked from the drawings to Miguel. “But if these are here, then—”
“This is my dad’s jacket,” he finished.
I absorbed that sentence. “So he wasn’t buried in it?” I said slowly.
“Apparently not.” He was silent for a beat before adding, “But we had an open casket and he was wearing it, I’m sure of it.”
There had to be a logical explanation. “Maybe Laura or your mom wanted him buried in a different suit,” I suggested. “Did they know about the drawings? If they didn’t, then they wouldn’t have known—”
“Laura knew.”
There went that theory. “Call her,” I said.
He looked at me for barely a second before taking his cell phone from his pocket, pressing his thumb against the home button to unlock it, and swiping to dial his sister. Thirty seconds later, he pulled the phone away from his ear. I could hear her voicemail greeting. He didn’t leave a message, instead pressing the off button.
He pocketed the drawings before putting the coat back in place on the wardrobe rack. He scanned the rest of the attic, but came back to the clothing. His jaw tensed, evidence that he was clearly bothered by the revelation, but he moved across the room and picked up one of the remaining folded tables. He handed it to me, taking another and stepping back so I could leave first. We walked back to the reception room silently, careful not to bang the walls of the stairwell as we went.
We each went about our work, lost in our own thoughts. In my estimation, there were only two logical explanations for Mr. Baptista’s suit to be upstairs at Vista Ridge: One, someone had brought a different suit for him to be buried in; or two, someone else had removed that suit for some unknown reason. What I couldn’t figure out was why anyone would do that, only to leave it hanging up on the rack. Option one seemed much more likely.
The next fifteen minutes were spent finishing setting up the tables with the food. I took my Canon from my camera bag again and walked around the buffet tables, taking a series of pictures. Afterward, I moved to the front of the room. While we’d been setting up, Sergio and Ruben, as well as Ruben’s wife, had brought in more flowers and photographs of Marisol, displaying them at the front. So far, there’d been no sign of David, Lisette, or Laura, but I knew they’d be here.
Benjamin Alcott popped his head into the reception room to check on us, back from wherever he’d been. “Is there anything else you need?” he asked. He was very accommodating, I thought again. The perfect mortician.
Miguel’s face was tense and he turned away. His father’s suit hanging upstairs weighed on his mind, but until he spoke to Laura and his mother, I knew he wouldn’t say a word about it.
I answered for all of us. “I think we’re good for now, thanks.”
“Don’t hesitate to let me know if I can help in any way. I’ll be greeting guests as they arrive,” he said, bowing out of the room.
By the time we were done, the service was minutes from starting and people were starting to gather in the funeral home’s lobby with its muted mauve walls and neutral chairs and sideboards. The somberness of the occasion permeated every muffled comment and subdued voice. I grabbed the outfit I’d brought in with me in a small duffel bag on one of the trips to and from the van, and slipped into the bathroom to change. The cap-sleeved black dress hit at my knees. I slipped into the nude suede booties I’d brought, added a simple necklace, and after combing my fingers through my hair, I pinned it up in a messy bun on the back of my head.
With my jeans, top, and sneakers tucked back into the small duffel, I headed back to the van, set it on the floor of the passenger side, checked to be sure we hadn’t left anything behind, and went back into the funeral home. I flung open the door, wanting to hurry back and help with any last-minute details—and ran smack into Suzanne Alcott.
She jumped back, centimeters shy of being hit by the door. She caught it with her hand as she uttered a surprised, “Oh!”
I stopped short. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were—”
She held up her hand and my apology died on my lips. “It’s fine. No harm, no foul. I just saw your text. Sorry I missed it.”
This time I waved away her apology. “No problem. We got what we needed.”
She didn’t ask how we managed, and I didn’t offer.
“Everything looks great,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs, but Benjamin is here if you need anything.”
I thanked her and then she disappeared through to the stairwell and headed downstairs while I wove through the growing crowd of mourners. The double doors to the reception room were now open and people were milling about. They comforted each other, offered quiet theories about what led to Marisol’s death, and slowly made their way to the chairs.
Benjamin Alcott had moved from the entry hall into the room. He greeted people, looking appropriately solemn, his hands folded together in front of him. He led people to their seats, which were slowly filling up.
I saw Mrs. Branford amble toward the front, cane in hand. She used it to get down the center aisle of the room without difficulty. One of my eyebrows lifted in surprise. Gone was her usual velour lounge suit and orthopedic shoes. She’d pulled out all the stops for her former student, wearing navy pants and a matching cardigan, a button-up blouse underneath, and a narrow hand-knitted scarf she’d decorated with a funky clay pendant. She walked right up to Mr. Alcott, who stood by Marisol’s photograph, and shook his hand. She leaned one arm on the podium for support, her cane in front of her as they spoke. The funeral director never broke character, maintaining his ceremonious persona, giving her his attention, yet keeping an eye on what was going on around the room at the same time.
I started toward the front to help her find a place to sit, but Mr. Alcott beat me to it. He gently led her by the elbow to the end chair in the second row. I changed direction, going instead to where Miguel stood next to Olaya at one of the food tables. They spoke quietly, both looking pensive. “No David yet,” he said as I approached them. “My mother saw him at the restaurant this morning, but no sign of him since.”
I scanned the room, although not for any particularly good reason. If Miguel said he wasn’t here, then he wasn’t. “You’ve called him,” I said, more statem
ent than question, because I knew that he would have done that first thing.
“Straight to voicemail.”
Olaya had started busily adjusting some of the breads on the table next to her. She looked up at us. Since I’d spent the morning with her I’d filled her in on Mrs. Branford’s poker game the night before, as well as David’s visit with us at The Library. “Did he go to the sheriff with the letter?” she asked now.
That was a good question. I hadn’t talked to Emmaline, so I didn’t know.
“I haven’t seen Lisette, either.” Miguel checked his watch, which prompted me to do the same. We had five minutes. “I’ll go check out front,” he said. “You check out back, okay?”
I nodded, squeezed his hand, and walked toward the now very familiar back entrance while Miguel went in the opposite direction. From the doorway, I scanned the parking lot. I didn’t see Lisette.
The lot was full of cars, so I left the building to walk up and down the rows in case she was sitting in her car, lost in her guilt and grief. I walked past the partially completed brick wall and driveway leading down, turning to look just in case Lisette had made her way down there for some privacy or to escape. The hearse that had been there earlier was gone, a white van, a lot like the one Olaya drove for the bread shop, in its place.
Suzanne and a tall, lanky man stood talking by the open doors, but no Lisette. “Hello!” I called, raising my arm.
They turned, shading their eyes as they looked up the driveway at me. Suzanne responded. “Do you need something?”
“I’m looking for Lisette Morales,” I said, then added, “and David Ruiz. The service is about to start.”
“Haven’t seen anyone come this way,” she said as the man got into the van and started it up.
He rolled down the window. “Me, neither,” he said as Suzanne closed the back doors. He looked back at her. “See you bright and early—or should I say dark and early?” he said, and laughed at his own mystifying joke.
She waved at him as he drove up the driveway. I followed the van with my eyes as it drove through the parking lot. A silver sedan passed it coming into the lot. Finally, Lisette!
Flour in the Attic Page 16