The Vanishing Girls
Callie Browning
Also Available
Paradise Scandal Series
The Girl with the Hazel Eyes
Copyright
The Vanishing Girls
Copyright 2021 © by Callie Browning
ISBN: 978-976-8306-00-5
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, decompiled, transmitted, downloaded, reverse-engineered or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express permission of the author, her estate or duly appointed agents.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
FIRST EDITION
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and some events is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
Sections of this book make reference to the lives of the incredible women who have influenced me. I stand on the shoulders of giants and for that I am eternally grateful.
CONTENTS
Trigger warnings
Violence against women.
Misogynistic language.
Blood.
Chapter 1
The Light in the Dark
WANTED:
Office Assistant for growing business in Bridgetown.
Must be comfortable around blood & entrails.
Must own a car.
Able to work flexible hours.
Apply in person to 444 Buckworth Street, Bridgetown.
Holden looked at the ad again and wondered where he had gone wrong. Not a single applicant who turned up had fit the criteria. One thought Holden was a butcher; she didn’t mind quartering loins of pork but drew the line at cutting up humans. Another lady insisted she could manage flexible hours as long as she could come after 9 a.m. and leave at 2 p.m. since she had school-aged children but no car. Holden ran his finger over the crinkled newspaper and re-read each word four times. Finally, satisfied that the fault didn’t lay with him, he wiped his ink-smudged hands on his crisp white handkerchief.
He reclined in his rickety chair, his back to the world as he sighed at the ceiling. Behind him, a large window covered by sun-bleached industrial blinds overlooked Buckworth Street. It was one of the busiest roads in the city, lined with all manner of reputable businesses like supermarkets, welders, and accountants. But at dusk, when flickering street lamps cast a polka-dotted line of light along the sidewalks, the street reduced itself to seedier trades. The steady cha-ching of cash registers turned into the steady click-click of high heels as ladies of the night bustled past, followed by the shameful shuffling of their clients’ shoes. These ladies gathered at a grimy alcove next to the pharmacy just up the road. Holden had heard of their existence but had never encountered them.
Restless, he wandered to the room at the back of the building where he kept the corpses. He stared at the space, his mind awhirl with thoughts as the smell of formaldehyde made him wrinkle his nose. Despite being only thirty years old, his life already felt hard-lived. His desperation was so pronounced that he feared it would ooze from his very pores. All of the action happened at the front of the building where the bills were piling up, but the situation at the back was a stark contrast because the work wasn’t. The mahogany clock on the wall chimed seven times, each peal a hollow sound that echoed off the white tiled floor. Surely no good could come from worrying about things he couldn’t fix at this hour. He fastened the door and returned to his desk.
Holden packed his attaché case with files and took his time turning off the lights. He was securing the last window at the front of the building when he heard a quick rap on the door. Peering between the vertical blinds, Holden saw nothing. He shrugged and picked up his case. No sooner than he stepped outside, he heard a voice.
“I thought you’d never open this door,” said the person silhouetted by the streetlight behind her. She was shorter than he was, and shapely, with a crown of poofy hair atop her head.
Startled, he squinted at the silhouette. “Who are you?”
“Eileen. I’m applying for the job you advertised,” she said, stepping into the light. Her dark skirt was short, and her blouse was fashionable, even if it was too low-cut to be entirely respectable. Surely, she too had not read the description correctly.
Holden rolled his eyes. “Ma’am, are you sure you’re at the right place?”
Eileen grinned and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Blood, guts, my own car, flexible hours? If that’s the opening, then yes, I’m at the right place.”
She flicked the photocopied ad that was stuck to the door and eyed him warily. “Maybe I should talk to your boss instead.”
Holden bristled, his pressure rising at the inference. “I am the boss.”
“Hmm…you can’t blame me for thinking otherwise,” she said, tapping her lips. “You’re trying to intimidate instead of interview, which runs counter to the whole ‘you’re in charge’ thing.”
He clenched his jaw. “This job wouldn’t be a good fit. You’re too…” he waved his hands vaguely, unsure how to say “unsuitable” without sounding arrogant.
He caught the subtle shift of her posture, the steely resolution that took hold and told him that she was sturdier than he thought. “I’m a hard worker, I’m honest and you could do a lot worse than me."
She was right. Clearly, she was the only one who understood what was required. Holden wanted to turn her away, but so far he couldn’t think of a reason to do so other than she was far and away the most beautiful of all the applicants. His reservations about good-looking assistants came from his father, who always told him to hire men or women who weren’t too easy on the eyes. “Son, there are two things a businessman doesn’t need: debt and distractions. The latter leads to the former, so hire accordingly.”
“Miss, it’s a bit late, and I don’t know if this position would be right for you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Once you don’t pay me with marbles, it’s right for me.”
Holden frowned, his irritation growing. “You won’t take to such a gruesome profession as this.”
"And what profession would that be?”
Holden straightened his shoulders; he knew now was the time to hammer home the reality. “Cutting up dead people, injecting them with chemicals and overseeing their burials.”
Eileen shrugged. “Sounds like how I spent last weekend. When can I start?”
Holden squinted at her; he wasn’t sure if she was joking or depraved. Her smile, even in the dim light, was mischievous. Holden thought back on the long day he had. The countless interviews that led nowhere. The stack of bills. The worrisome call from the bank.
He pressed his fingers to his temple. Undoubtedly, hiring Eileen wouldn’t be the worst thing he ever did. He sighed and stretched out his hand toward her. She grinned and shook his in return.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, Eileen drove onto the gravel lot behind the building and parked next to the detached garage that housed the hearse.
In the bright light of the morning, there was no hiding that the funeral parlour could benefit from some paint and repairs. It was a sorry little affair tucked under the canopy of an old mahogany tree on the fringes of Bridgetown. Hemmed in by a bakery on the west and a hair salon on the east, shifting winds wafted the smell of jam puffs and chemical relaxers across the parlour’s car park.
A steady stream of cars drove by as Eileen sniffed the mingling scents and savoured the morning’s rays on her face. It was almost June and that was the only time of day when the sun didn’t have the concentrated warmth of a malfunctioning appliance. Overhead, the funeral home’s sign creaked eerily in the slipstream of a passing lorry, adding to the uneasy feeling that gnawed away at Eileen’s gut. “Working at a mortuary is better than being unemployed,” she whispered as she pulled her handbag higher on her shoulder. But even that stab at positivity couldn’t whisk away the fear that settled inside her.
Eileen had lied. She was anything but at ease around blood and entrails. Working at a funeral parlour wasn’t her childhood dream job, but it was 1985; any job was a dream job as long as you were getting paid. The global downturn of 1979 had trickled to the island’s shores and left an unemployment rate in the high double-digits. Every job, especially low-skilled posts, was highly coveted. Which meant that holding on to fear was not an option.
Eileen walked up to the door of the faded peach building and stepped inside, marvelling at the fact that no-one had thought to change the wall colour as long as she’d known the building to be there.
What she didn’t know was that the founder, Holden Davis Senior, was a savvy businessman who adhered to the teachings of P.T. Barnum with zealous fervour. In the 1950s, Holden Senior painted the building a vivid shade of peach which was unheard of at the time. When a sign was erected declaring the fruit-coloured fiasco to be Davis & Son’s Funeral Parlour, there was public curiosity, but during a press interview, Holden Senior quoted Barnum and said, “No one ever made a difference by being like everyone else.” Newspapers ran front-page stories and editorials for weeks declaring the building to be a “blasphemous eye-sore” and a “sure sign of moral decay”.
That was all it took. Between the central location just a hop and skip away from the bus stand, the garish colour and low pricing, the poor and huddled masses came en masse for their burial arrangements. Somehow Holden Senior had created a strategy heretofore unseen in the funeral world: the volume pricing model. Business boomed, and he went to his grave certain that his offspring would carry on his legacy.
Now, just a few years after his death, times had shifted, and the funeral parlour wasn’t as relevant as it had been.
* * *
THE BELL JANGLED and Holden looked up to see Eileen open the front door with a bright smile on her face as she said, “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” he stood up and abandoned his tea, feeling as though the small room had gotten that much tinier once she had entered it. The front office was an open-plan space with two desks, two chairs and a small filing cabinet partially hidden behind a room divider. He saw her stare at the piles of paper on the cabinet, heard her wordless question as to why the desk was so dusty.
Holden cleared his throat and gestured to the workspace opposite his. “You can set your things down here. Well,” he clasped his hands and stepped from behind his desk. “I wasn’t able to elucidate on this last night given our brief meeting, but this is a family-owned business which prides itself on delivering high quality at low prices. The staff is small. There’s Clifford Chase, who drives the hearse and does some of the preparation; his son, David, helps out part-time with collections. Otherwise, it’s just me.” He steepled his fingers. “Holden Davis Junior,” he said as though it was an afterthought.
“I need someone to drive me to meetings and grief visits, answer the phone, do the filing and generally keep this place from crumbling around my ears.”
The placid smile on her face unnerved him. “Does that sound like something you can do?”
“Yup.”
“Good.” He straightened the lapels on his charcoal suit. “Be aware that death waits for no-one, not even us. Funerals can be competitive so whoever gets to the scene first has the best chance of getting the client, so you must be able to ferry me around at a moment’s notice. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Fine,” Holden cleared his throat. “Now, there’s the matter of wages.” He extracted a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and offered it to Eileen. “I’m not sure what your previous package looked like…”
Eileen held back a smile. Many black women in the 1980s didn’t have packages unless they were wrapped in brown paper and smelled like lamb. Wages were just enough that they didn’t have to choose between feeding themselves and a beloved cat.
“…but I believe this to be fair. And I’ll reimburse you for travel.”
She pursed her lips. “It won’t make me a Rockefeller, but it’s fair,” she replied before she took it and tucked it into her bra.
Holden raised an eyebrow, thought better of replying and gestured to the stacks behind her. “Start with the filing; then we’ll get to the other things. I’m stepping out now, but I’ll be back soon.”
She stacked the papers into a pile before pulling a small brush and cloth out of her handbag to dust the typewriter and wipe the desk. Holden furrowed his brow, wondering why she carried her own cleaning supplies but said nothing.
He had opened the door to leave when he heard her say, “Last night you made it seem like I’d be embalming corpses by the dozen. Or was that to frighten me?” He stopped in his tracks as he gauged her question. She had looked up, but her hand kept a steady rhythm as she cleaned. Her eyes were alight with mirth.
Holden pursed his lips. “Well…corpses are in no hurry, so we needn’t rush. These stuffy papers are bothering my sinuses.” The bell on the door jingled as Holden pulled it closed, keeping time with his footsteps as he stomped off.
* * *
“GOD, HE’S UPTIGHT,” she muttered. Her new employer was broad-shouldered and clean-cut, his tailored suits not yet shiny from years of being overstarched like some elderly business men she’d come across before. He had dark brown skin, striking features and beautiful teeth. Eileen suspected he’d be handsome if he’d smile and pull the stick out of his ass once in a while. She sighed as she properly took in her surroundings for the first time.
The office and its contents were old fashioned and had the washed-out pallor of a black and white film that had been colourized. Holden’s desk was clinically neat; only a black leather book and two pens rested on the polished wood. “Looks about right,” she observed. Eileen’s desk wasn’t so fortunate. A wall of receipts and letters stared back at her from every square inch of the desktop. Eileen realized with a sinking stomach that Holden didn’t plan to train her. She was a woman, after all, so he assumed she understood office procedures. The truth was that she had started cleaning to buy time.
She turned to the grey filing cabinet next to the desk and pulled open the drawers. Her forehead crumpled. There were two files: Bills and Funerals. The shabby folders had faded from butter yellow to a grimy off-white and were stuffed to the gills with unsorted receipts and invoices. Clearly, her predecessors didn’t understand office procedures either. She sighed and sat down to work.
By the time lunch rolled around, she had labelled twenty-seven manila folders and filed away half of a stack of paper, hoping that she was doing it right. As she worked, she kept hearing the muffled sound of furniture being moved around in the room behind her. Figuring that no harm could come from giving herself a tour of the place, Eileen pushed herself away from the desk. Behind Holden’s station was a yellow door where the kitchenette/lunchroom resided. Closer to her desk were two doors; a frosted glass one with gold lettering declaring it to be the Prep Room and a varnished oak door on the right. She thought it wise to leave the Prep Room for another day; she wasn’t sure what surprises she’
d find in there. She pushed the door to the right.
The large square space was cold and ringed with stacks of wooden folding chairs that leaned against the chestnut wainscoting. A man who resembled a daddy-long-legs was humming We’ve Only Just Begun as he polished the panelled walls with something in a yellow jar that smelled like citrus. He looked like a dark-skinned hippie with his tie-dyed shirt and zealously patterned pants.
“Good morning. I’m Eileen. Are you Clifford?”
He spun around, flecks of polish flying from the rag onto the wainscoting. “Ah, yes, yes. De boss man tell me a new girl starting.” He wiped his hands down the front of his pants as he studied her for a moment; the orange streaks blended into the pattern seamlessly. You prettier than the last two though,” Clifford said, as though it was important she knew that.
Eileen blushed and laughed. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
He scratched his face, leaving a shiny stain beneath his handlebar moustache. “I did a little concerned, to be honest. I even tell he to get glasses because I thought he couldn’t see that they didn’t doing a good job either.” He squinted at Eileen as though trying to find competence etched in the lines of her face. He nodded, satisfied. “You more serious than them.”
Eileen grinned, her eyes afire with amusement. Clifford had a knack for saying things in a way that wasn’t offensive, each sentence sounding like an observation that only just crossed his mind. She liked him.
She extended a hand to Clifford. “Nice to meet you.” She glanced at the jar by his feet. “That smells nice.”
He beamed, his face alight with pride. “Yeah, I does make it myself. I learn this at my grandfather knee, Lord rest his soul. Davis Senior put he in the ground and I polish up the casket myself with this same oil right here.”
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