Before the meeting ended, Suzanne and I took care of the few remaining details of her sister’s funeral arrangements. She let Quilla pick out an urn for the ashes. I showed her the four styles I kept on hand starting with the cheapest — a plastic receptacle that looked more like an ice cube basket that went for a hundred dollars, to the most expensive — a stainless steel vase in an Egyptian design which went for a thousand. Quilla settled on the latter.
Suzanne wrote out a brief obituary which I would place in the newspaper. Quilla insisted on checking it over and adding one piece of information: that the cause of death was murder. They decided that viewing would be from seven-to-nine and that there would be no religious service the morning of the funeral. A Minister from Suzanne’s church would come to the cemetery, say a few words and lead the mourners in prayer. We discussed flowers and agreed that a floral spray of red roses would be draped atop the coffin. I would take Brandy Parker’s remains to the crematorium, then the next day interment would take place at noon.
I walked Suzanne to her car after the meeting. Quilla tagged along, staying a few yards off to the side. “Any problems, please don’t hesitate to call. That’s what I’m here for.”
Suzanne nodded. To Quilla she said, “How will you get home?”
“I’ll drop her off.” I moved closer to Suzanne. “She’s in mourning. Her hostility is normal. Really.”
“This is how she is all the time,” Suzanne said as she got into her car. “Thank you for your help.” She glanced coolly at Quilla and drove off.
I turned to Quilla. She was watching her mother head out of the parking lot. “Bitch,” she muttered softly.
“All set?” I asked, trying to project a pleasant tone.
“Yeah. Are we gonna take the hearse?”
Her question threw me. “I hadn’t planned on it.” Usually I take my own car for trips like this.”
“I always wanted to ride in one.” She tilted her head to the left a bit. “Would it be okay?”
“Sure,” I said, figuring that if it would make her happy, the drive to the cemetery might be more tolerable.
Having this odd-looking, opinionated, hostile teenager riding shotgun made me feel old, out of touch. She held her Blackberry in her right hand. I didn’t have much contact with kids. About the only times I’ve been around them was when one died in a car wreck or from suicide or over-dosing on drugs. And the only times I’d actually talk to a teenager was when they’d be waiting on me in a store.
The idea of spending time with this girl was unsettling, mostly because I wasn’t sure if it would be sixty-or-so minutes of awkward silence or meaningless chatter about pop culture which I knew little about. Neither of us said anything for about a minute. Although I didn’t enjoy long silences I could handle them and I was glib enough to make conversation if I sensed that the quiet became too uncomfortable for whomever I was with. I was about to remark on Quilla’s desire to ride in the hearse when she spoke. “You don’t look like an undertaker.”
“What do undertakers look like?” I asked.
“Creepy. Bony faces. Either so skinny they look like corpses themselves or fat with big bulging eyes like that J. Edgar Hoover guy. But you look different. Like you should be an English teacher or a clerk in an old bookshop.”
“I guess that’s a compliment. Thanks.”
“You always been an undertaker?”
“Yes. And for the record, “undertaker” isn’t what we like to be called. We prefer Funeral Director or mortician.”
“I don’t blame you. Undertaker’s a nasty word. “What made you decide to become one?”
It was a question I’d been asked dozens of times. I’d developed a stock answer because the real reason was too personal. “It seemed like a good way to help people,” was innocuous enough to satisfy most. I looked at Quilla and was about to deliver my stock answer to her question, but her face reflected such a sincere and genuine interest I felt compelled to tell her the truth. To give her background, I explained how my father had died and my mother and I moved to Dankworth to stay with my Aunt.
“Lew Henderson was my Aunt’s friend. He gave me the job as a favor because we needed extra income. I tried to get conventional part-time jobs like most kids do, but there was nothing. Then Lew came through. And it was off the books, so we didn’t have to worry about taxes.”
“I like illegal things. My friend Viper works off the books at his Uncle’s heating and cooling company.”
“What kind of name is Viper?”
“A nickname. He likes snakes. Or he used to when he was a kid. His real name’s Lester. But he hates it, so we call him Viper. Wasn’t it creepy being around caskets and bodies?”
“I wasn’t around them. I did odd jobs. Ran errands for the owner and the embalmer. At first I wasn’t sure if I would feel comfortable being in a Funeral Home. And my mother had some concern that, what with my father having just died, I might have some psychological problems about working in a place that would be such a constant reminder to me of death. But, as I said, I never went near the bodies.”
“How’d you decide to be an under… Funeral Director?”
“My father died in a plane crash. I never got to see him in the coffin for a last good-bye. The Funeral Home who handled the burial was incompetent. I found out later that my Dad died of smoke inhalation. He was burned, but not disfigured or unfit for viewing. If a good restoration person had taken care of him, I could’ve seen him one final time.”
“What’s a restoration person?”
“The one who makes people who’ve been ravaged by illness or accidents look presentable in the coffin. So, to answer your question, after working at Henderson’s for almost a year, and after coming to terms with how I never got to see him for a last look… I decided that no one should have to be put in that position. I decided to become a restoration man.”
Quilla moved away and looked at me with surprise. “Is that what you do?”
“No. As I was working at Henderson’s and learning the trade, I realized that I had a better skill. I was good with people. Lew, my boss, said that my talents would be wasted working on bodies, so he groomed me to deal with the public.”
“Cool! I’m not good with people. Except my friends. Do you ever have sex in the coffins?”
“What?” I was taken off guard and embarrassed, but I laughed at her audacity.
“I always wondered that. I mean, have any of your girlfriends ever wanted to do it in a coffin?”
“You ask too many questions for your own good.”
“Know what else about you that’s bizarre? Your name. I saw it on a sign when my mother and I came into your office. Dillard. I mean, I’ve got friends with strange names, but Dillard? I never met anyone called that.”
“My father and grandfather were named Dillard. But the nickname all three of us wound up using was Del. Your name isn’t all that normal either.”
“It’s a made up name. When I was little I liked koala bears. Couldn’t get enough of koala bears. Only I couldn’t pronounce koala. I’d say ‘quilla’ bear. Aunt Brandy started calling me Quilla and then so did everybody.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Anita. Lame, right? I’m gonna legally change it to Quilla in three years, when I hit eighteen. That’s what Aunt Brandy was gonna do. Her real name was Susan, but everybody called her Brandy because when she was a little girl she liked Brandy snaps, but she hated her real name because it was too close to my mother’s. I mean, Suzanne and Susan. What kind of parents would name two daughters so similarly?”
“You must have really loved your Aunt,” I said gently.
A wistful expression crossed Quilla’s face. “She was just so cool.”
“If I heard your mother correctly, you were only six when Brandy disappeared.” She nodded yes. “You two must have crammed a lot together for you to remember her so fondly. Most kids who lose a loved one that young forget.”
“I probably would’ve it if wasn’t for her stuff.”
“Her stuff?”
“My mother was gonna throw all of Aunt Brandy’s things away, after about six months from the time she disappeared. But I begged my Mom to let me keep my Aunt’s private stuff in a big trunk that she had.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Things she had in her jewelry box. Some books. A diary. I mean, not a diary like some wimpy chick from the Fifties would have. Aunt Brandy was too hip for that. She used regular spiral notebooks, nothing fancy. I mean, she didn’t, like, treasure them. They still have smudges on it from coffee and food stains. She put her feelings and thoughts and junk like that in it. I started reading them and found out that I felt exactly like she did on almost everything. I got to know my Aunt from reading what she wrote more than from the time we spent together. And she had pictures from her trips. She’d just take off and disappear for a couple weeks. That’s why people assumed she ran away. Everybody knew she hated it here. And that she loved to travel. It sort of made sense that she would just pick up and leave. But… ”
“What’s that but about?”
“I have this theory. When you love somebody truly, you have a sixth sense about why they do things. It’s like, you know them so well you know how they think?”
Without realizing it, I must have nodded my head in agreement because Quilla said, “So you loved somebody like that too?”
“Someone a long time ago. In high school.”
“You and your high school sweetheart loved each other that way?”
“It was entirely one way.”
“You loved her and she thought you were doggie-do?”
“Wasn’t that bad. She just didn’t connect with me the way I connected with her. To this day, I haven’t felt that connection with anyone. To her I was just a summer fling.”
“I know the feeling. I was summer-flinged last year. What was her name?”
“Alyssa.”
“What happened to her?”
“She left town. Broke up with me and took off.”
The conversation was starting to upset me. I didn’t want to talk about Alyssa. I never talked about her anymore. I tried not to even let myself think about her. Despite the fact that I hadn’t seen her in nearly fifteen years, I still missed her, thought about her.
“You still feel the same way about her?”
“Could we talk about something else?”
“I’m pushing your buttons, aren’t I?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I do that to people a lot. You must’ve really had it bad for her.”
“First love. It was a long time ago.” I paused for a moment. “I believe we were talking about how your love for your Aunt made you realize something.”
“Oh, yeah. I knew she wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye to me. Maybe not to anyone else. But she would have said something to my face. And she wouldn’t have left her notebooks. They were important to her to take them with her or destroy them.” She raised her right index finger to her left eye, then her right eye, wiping tears from both. “And if she didn’t say good-bye to me she would’ve had a good reason, probably because I’d cry and whine, but she would definitely have sent me a letter once she got where she was going. I used to think that even if she’d been kidnapped she would have found a way to let me know that she was alright, but… ”
Her voice trailed off. “When she was alive I used to wish that Aunt Brandy was my mother. When she was gone, I wished that she was my friend. I miss her. I mean one day she was here and the next day… ” She snapped her fingers. “Gone. Nothing. Six years old and I knew somebody killed her. For the last nine years I’ve been waiting for her body to be discovered — here or ten thousand miles away. I hoped they’d find her in another town so somebody competent would be in charge of solving the case instead of an A-hole like Perry Cobb.”
I liked the fact that she disliked Perry, but I wondered why. I also felt a strange compulsion to defend him, if for no other reason than to give Quilla some hope.
“Why so negative about Perry Cobb?” I asked.
“Because he hates me.”
“How can he hate you? How does he even know you?”
“I had some problems last year,” she said sheepishly. “With drinking. And drugs. A couple of friends and I stole a car. We got caught DWI. It was stupid. Cobb kept us in jail overnight. Since then, he gives us grief at every turn.”
I hated defending Perry, but in this instance I had to. “Do you blame him? You could’ve hurt somebody. Maybe killed somebody. Maybe yourself.”
“I know. But he was mean to us. Made it seem like we were less than human. The only cop I ever met who was worth anything is Greg.”
“You know Greg Hoxey?”
“He’s my friend. He’s different from the other cops.”
“What’s different about Greg?” I was curious as to how she happened to be on a first name basis with Greg.
“He used to be like us in high school. Into heavy metal, hair down to his ass and liked to get wasted. Greg is cool.”
Greg Hoxey cool? I said to myself. I was beginning to question her powers of observation.
“He’s like this really excellent older brother who gives you money and won’t tell your parents that you’re sneaking out. I wish he was in charge of the investigation. Greg would try. Cobb’s not gonna do squat.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he hates people like me and my Aunt was like me and I’m like her and in Cobb’s eyes we’re nothing but sluts who hang with crazed druggies.”
“How do you know he thinks that?”
“Are you really that naive?” she sneered. “Maybe you’ve been around so many dead bodies you’re out of touch.”
“With what?”
“The real world.”
She might be right, I said to myself.
“I’ll be honest with you, Quilla. There’s no love lost between Perry Cobb and me, so you won’t see me defending him. But I think you’re wrong about him not caring about finding the killer.”
“Why?” she sneered.
“Because he never had a murder case before and solving it will be a tremendous ego trip for him. He’ll be doing everything in his power, pulling out all the stops because he’s insecure enough to know that people will be watching him. As Chief of Police he has to be elected. No one has ever run against him because it’s a nowhere job in a nowhere town that pays next to nothing. But it’s all he’s got. And if there’s someone crazy enough to want to be Police Chief, maybe even Greg Hoxey, if Perry doesn’t find your Aunt’s killer, it might be just the thing that prompts somebody to take Perry on.”
“Just because he wants to solve the case doesn’t mean he has the brains to do it.”
“The police here have all the latest technology at their disposal.”
“We’ll see,” she said sheepishly, then took a long, deep breath. “Are we almost there? I’m getting nervous about this. I’ve only been in a cemetery twice. When my grandparents died.”
“Ten minutes.”
She leaned her head against the window and stared out. She yawned. She seemed so alone in her grief. It was a feeling I’d known well.
It was bad enough when my father died, but I felt an even deeper sense of anguish when I was eighteen and Alyssa went away. I felt as if she had died. Because we’d broken up three weeks before she left Dankworth I’d been pining for her, unable to sleep, driving past her parents’ house hoping to get a glimpse of her. I didn’t even know she’d gone until Chester Cobb phoned me to ask if I’d seen her. Her mother had filed a missing person report and mentioned that I’d been dating her.
But then three days after she was reported missing a note from Alyssa had come in the mail with a New York City postmark to her parents. She apologized for leaving without saying good-bye, said that she needed to be alone and that she would be in touch. A note, also postmarked New York City, came to me too.
Dear Del,
I had to get away. Take care of yourself.
Maybe some day you’ll see me again.
Alyssa
The most confusing thing about the note was that I got it. I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. Six months later I received a postcard from her postmarked in Chicago with another brief message. While I think of Alyssa often, I seldom think of the note and postcard. Though I kept them, and even valued them, as if they were love letters, I never look at them because an overwhelming feeling of confusion overtakes me. I still don’t know why she sent them to me. In my more romantic notions, I pretend that she really did love me back. In my practical moods I convince myself that she sent them to me out of pity.
As Quilla gazed out the window in a numbed silence, I spent the remainder of the drive pondering something she had said. Specifically, would Perry be taking this murder seriously? I hadn’t spoken to him about it since the day the body was found. Despite my guess that whoever was the killer knew something about cemeteries, I felt Perry would probably have nothing to go on until the victim’s identity was discovered. But now that he knew, I wasn’t sure what steps he would take to start an investigation.
As I approached the main entrance to Elm Grove cemetery I decided that I would transfer the empathy I was feeling for Quilla into something constructive. First chance I had, which would probably be later in the day, I would approach Perry and ask him what, if anything, was being done about the Brandy Parker murder.