Dead Body Language (14 page)

I replaced the picture on the ornate shelf, thanked Risa Longo for her time, and promised to get back to her if I learned anything of interest or found her wedding picture. I walked back to my car more than a little confused.

Lacy Penzance must have made up the adoption story as a way of finding the Longo woman. A woman after my own heart. And she had apparently succeeded—except that Risa wasn’t her sister. So what was the real reason behind her search?

Lacy had paid Risa Longo a visit the night before she died. Something about Risa’s husband had upset her enough to cause her to become hysterical, push her way into the house, and steal the photograph.

What was it? A tie to some kind of archeological work he was doing? Did it have anything to do with Risa Longo herself? And why had Lacy requested secrecy concerning her search for Risa?

Whatever it was, I was certain it had something to do with her death. But what? I didn’t have a whole helluva lot of options.

Except one.

“B
usiness is business,” some businessman once said. I guess it’s the conservative version of “All’s fair in love and war.” And death, I might add.

At least, that seemed to be the way French McClusky saw things. He owned Memory Kingdom, a chain of mortuaries in the California Mother Lode. “The next generation of the final frontier,” he once called his investment when he stopped by to proof a series of ads for the
Eureka!
A Trekkie, too, no doubt.

French had chosen the fastest-growing retirement area in the state—the gold country—for his thriving funeral business. Shrewd and visionary, this was no Ichabod Crane look-alike in a black suit from an old Vincent Price horror film. French, who is half Asian, half Irish, was a descendant of one of the many hardworking Chinese who dug in the gold mines for a new life in the West.

His Chinese maternal grandfather had run a gambling den in the back parlors of the Chinese settlement, while his Irish father had managed the Pioneer Cemetery for years, until the owners put it on the market fifteen years ago.
That’s when French bought the first in a series of permanent rest stops, turning untended dirt into a gold mine.

French spared no expense in creating the latest in terminal services for the dear departed. Four years ago he introduced the first twenty-four-hour drive-up window service, allowing visitors to view the loved one on a widescreen TV. He offered tours of the mortuary to groups, by appointment. And I understood Halloween around the place was quite a thrill.

The Memory Kingdom funeral homes resembled cottages from a Disney film. Actually, French hired an ex-Disney architect to design the blueprints for all his buildings. I felt like I needed a Magic Kingdom Adventure Pass to enter the place.

My first stop was the Whiskey Slide branch of the Memory Kingdom chain to check out the source of the business card with Risa Longo’s name on it. Business was slow—there was only one saleperson available and he couldn’t tell me anything about Risa Longo, Lacy Penzance, or the mysterious business card. If I wanted to know more, I’d have to talk with French McClusky or Celeste Camborne at the Flat Skunk location. I hopped in my like-new Chevy and headed back down Highway 49.

The front door of the Flat Skunk funeral home opened to a spacious room filled with overstuffed antique furniture and elegant decorator pieces. Air-conditioned, with just the right amount of indirect lighting, the room featured four large walls painted to look like a full sky—all billowing clouds with silvery streams of sunbeams breaking through.

Along one side were two small offices with windows that looked out, not at the real sky, but at the fake one inside. French occupied the first office. The blinds covering his window were drawn shut. I could see Celeste in the second office through the open slits of her blinds. She was talking on the phone. Alerted somehow by my presence, she turned, peeked through the blinds and waved, then continued her conversation.

She appeared agitated and upset, frowning and gesticulating
at the invisible caller on the other end of the line. When she saw me her face flashed a momentary grin, but she quickly resumed her irritated expression. I filled the next few moments scanning the various works of art on the walls and looking over some brochures on the table near a brocade couch, then I sat down and watched Celeste.

She was facing the window now; I could see her lips moving between the slits in the blinds. She twisted a ring on her finger as she spoke, the phone receiver resting on her shoulder.

I couldn’t keep myself from trying to read her lips, in spite of the additional challenge. With the distance, bad lighting, and obstructions, all I could make out were a few words.

“… careful … shit … Sluice … fuck you … tonight … goddammit Wolf … funeral …”

At that point, catching my intense gaze, she waved again and closed the slits.

After a few more minutes she opened the door to her office and entered the foyer.

Celeste Camborne looked like a thirty-year-old fairy godmother in her silky pink dress and bouffant curls. She welcomed me with open arms, a big smile, and a coy tilt of her head.

“Connor Westphal!” Celeste said, clapping her hands together and moving her lips like Mick Jagger. Her demeanor had completely changed. She spoke mostly in exclamation points. “How wonderful to see you!”

“Hi, Celeste.”

She clasped my hand warmly between both of hers, while giving me one of those you-poor-dear looks. I’ve seen the look many times on the faces of certain hearing people, whose reactions to my deafness range from horror to pity. Celeste seemed to think of it as some terrible disease. But deafness is not a problem until someone like Celeste makes it one.

“Oh, Connor! It’s so good to see you. How are you doing, dear? Is everything all right?”

I didn’t know whether this kind of gooey,
condescending sympathy came naturally to Celeste or if she had been trained that way when she became a grief counselor. Even though I sort of liked Celeste, her patronizing attitude drove me batty. If she stuck that bottom lip out at me one more time I just might have to push it back in for her.

“I’m fine, Celeste.” I wanted to add, “There’s no cure yet but we’re still waiting for that ear transplant.” Instead I did what lately I found I did best. I began to lie.

“Uh, my great-aunt … Lulu, uh, well—I may be needing something in the way of, you know, this …” I swept my arm around and realized I was indicating furniture, not funeral accoutrements. “I thought I’d stop by and take a look at what you have to offer. God, this place reminds me of Fantasyland.”

Celeste nodded and her head of big hair shifted slightly. “Yes, it has a tremendously calming effect on most people. Death sometimes seems like a dream, don’t you think?”

A nightmare, I wanted to say. I smiled instead. She was already working her magic here in the kingdom.

As part of French’s ever-expanding plans for utopian death care, Celeste counseled bereaved loved ones into dissipating their grief, no doubt by buying outrageously expensive coffinware. She traveled from funeral home to funeral home as needed, to assist those who would benefit from her spiritual, psychological, and financial guidance.

“Well, I’m glad you caught me,” she said. “I’ve been preparing for Lacy’s funeral this afternoon. Would you like me to get you a Memorial Counselor? He can show you some of the special new products we’re carrying.”

I had to think fast. “Actually, I was hoping for a quick tour, if you have time. I was planning to do an article on Memory Kingdom for my newspaper. It’s such an institution.”

Celeste checked her watch. “French isn’t here. But I think I’ve got time for a quick one. We can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Maybe you’ll see something for your aunt Lulu while Memory Kingdom gets some publicity.”

Taking my arm, Celeste led me through a heavy drape where, tastefully arranged and decorated with dry floral arrangements, Laura Ashley pillows, and “Apple Pie” potpourri scents, were nearly a dozen coffins. They formed a large circle of raised, downy-soft beds in a variety of styles, fabrics, colors, and prices. Each sported a bronze name tag attached to puffy lining.

I pulled out my tape recorder and switched it on, then held it up to catch Celeste’s speech. “So this is the coffin room?” I said, trying not to get too close to a patriotic number in teak. The bronze plaque read: “The Presidential Suite.”

“It’s the Selection Room, hon. We call these caskets, not coffins,” she said, tilting her head as she spoke. “Terminology has changed quite a lot since the pine box days. We’re always striving to be politically correct—or rather, ‘death sensitive.’ ”

“Really,” I said, reflecting on the terminology for deafness, which has also changed over the years. What was once “deaf and dumb” and “deaf mute” became “aurally handicapped,” then “hearing impaired,” finally settling on “deaf.” Some even prefer Deaf. I expect “sound deficient” or “listening deprived” may be next.

“And French isn’t an undertaker anymore. He’s a Funeral Designer. The loved ones, as we like to call them, ride in coaches or professional cars, not hearses.” She actually shuddered when she said that last word. It was beginning to sound a little like
Brave New World
.

“Matthew, the man over there assisting the client with the ‘Executive Office’ casket? He’s not a cemetery salesman, he’s a Memorial Counselor. We like to think the bereaved overcome their grief more easily when we use less emotionally charged terms.”

I pointed to a bouquet of flowers. “Don’t tell me—a floral memory, right?”

“Close! A Floral Tribute.” She held her hand over one side of her mouth and huddled close.

“Want to know one of my favorites?” She smiled a naughty kind of smile, like she was about to say something
really shocking. “You know what they call cremated ashes now?”

I shook my head, mimicking her naughty smile.

“Cremains! ‘Cremation’ and ‘remains’ combined into ‘cremains.’ Isn’t that cute?”

Cute.

Taking my hand, Celeste led me out of the Selection Room and into the Reposing Room, where a current loved one was reposing on a brown velvet-covered mattress in a dark mahogany casket. The room smelled of fresh pine needles. Floral Tributes.

“Is Lacy here somewhere?” I looked around, trying to bring the conversation to the matter at hand.

“We’re getting there. But first, let me show you our selections. According to
Mortuary Management
, Americans spend more on funerals than on dentists, police protection, or even higher education. We want to offer our customers the best in quality and value—with innerspring mattresses, lead-coated steel caskets, and handmade fashions available in sixty color shades. Each casket is fully lined, with a Permaseal rubber gasket to prevent air seepage and, well, you know—to keep critters from getting in. And we only use Natur-Glo Products—the ultimate in cosmetic embalming.”

I always thought knowledge was a good thing. But there were some things you could know too much about.

We passed by a loved one who looked like he belonged in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. I felt myself drawn to look at him in a sort of peek-between-your-fingers kind of way.

The heavy layer of face makeup gave his skin a deeply tanned look, in contrast to his pale arms crossed and resting on his chest. Gold rings decorated each cold finger of both perfectly manicured hands. His lightly pinked mouth was drawn up in a mysterious smile, as if he were holding a humorous secret between his lips. One eye was closed and peaceful, the other looked as if it were trying to open, with a small slit between the lids.

And his hair was perfect.

“That’s Leonard Swec, president of the Elks Club.
You remember him? He died Sunday. Heart attack. The funeral’s tomorrow.”

“Is Lacy here, too?” I tried again.

“Come with me.”

I followed Celeste to the Calcination Room, where a “kindlier heat” would turn the loved ones into a kindlier ash. I’d offer a nice description of this room but I wasn’t doing a whole lot of intensive eyeballing. Suffice it to say, the cremain-maker was big, metallic, and hot.

“But aren’t people in mourning particularly vulnerable to guilt-buying at a time like this?” I said, trying to crack the facade a little.

“To tell you the truth, we’ve found—and
Mortuary Management
will back me up on this—the bereaved
need
to be steered toward those higher-priced caskets to assist in the guilt therapy. Yes, it’s true, they often can’t make those on-the-spot decisions as clearly as they might. But that’s why we’re here—to help them, by offering the best quality for their money. We have products and services for all budgets.”

I glanced around, then wished I hadn’t. I didn’t know which was worse—watching her lips describe the details of the inner sanctum or seeing something that would give me nightmares for years to come. I looked back at Celeste.

“… those who are on a lower or fixed income can get a reasonable casket and services for a nominal fee, around two thousand dollars. But most people want the best for their loved ones, with all the extras. Like a burial vault. Some cemeteries insist on them, in case the casket disintegrates and the whole thing caves in.” She shuddered. It was a pleasant mental picture.