Rita Hayworth's Shoes (4 page)

From the outside, the Aberdeen Funeral Home looked like your typical old-time funeral parlor—a “home” complete with a wraparound porch and cheery gingerbread. It had once been the home of the Aberdeen family, who had converted the downstairs into a funeral parlor, and for generations, it had hosted numerous mourned and mourners in the many “Rest and Reflection Chambers” that could be found in the sprawling Victorian space.

Except there were no Aberdeens here anymore. Gus Aberdeen, son of the third-generation owner of the facility, who was also named Gus, had never been able to muster much passion for the preservation and showcasing of the dead. So, the day his father passed away, Gus placed a call to The Bloomquist Group, the nation's leading purveyor of all things funerary, and asked them to make an offer on the business. Before the body of the elder Gus had itself been preserved and showcased, the younger Gus had accepted their offer.The day after his father's funeral, Gus and his wife and three kids packed up and headed to North Carolina.

Now, thanks to the “vision” of the Bloomquist Group, the Aberdeen Funeral Home was a bustling business, known to boast: “We Host the Most on this Coast!” In an effort to remain true to the home's original condition, actually a mandate of the local zoning board, the outside of the home had been left pretty much intact. The inside, however, was left to Bloomquist to do whatever they chose. And they became mad with the freedom of all of it.

Now gone was the sweet flowery wallpaper, the soothing pastels of matching walls and carpets. The Aberdeen of the twenty-first century, instead, featured special rooms themed to the passions and proclivities of the deceased, including among others, a Winter Wonderland Chamber, a Stadium Chamber, and the one in which survivors of one Dr. Fredreich H. Heimlich now gathered: The Graceland Chamber.

True to the spirit of the Memphis mansion of Elvis Presley, The Graceland Chamber featured floor to ceiling green shag carpeting, exotic plants, animal prints, and even a working waterfall on the far wall. The room wasn't an exact replica of the Jungle Room, however; the furnishings had been reorganized to suit the specialized needs of the space. So, while many of the pieces that appeared in Bloomquist's version of the room were close copies of those featured in the actual Jungle Room, Bloomquist's version also included rows of folding chairs lined up to face the casket, which rested low on a replica of the famed kidney-shaped stone table.

It was, in a word, hideous.

Yet not quite as hideous as Amy Miller's present mood as she sat in the third row of chairs, watching as mourners filed in and out. The wake was surprisingly crowded, yet not a single person had opted to occupy the two empty chairs on either side of Amy. She had never felt more alone.

But while alone, she wasn't unnoticed. Several cops, uniformed and plainclothes alike, scoped out the space—and one detective in particular kept glancing in her direction, twirling the ends of his handlebar moustache. She thought he was sizing her up for a motive. Every time she looked at him, he seemed to be looking at her. And once she was sure she saw him and a uniformed cop point at her while they whispered to one another. She didn't realize it was because her legs, usually carefully hidden, were really quite stunning in her short black skirt and black tights. She could only feel guilty as she looked away.

“Who knew the old coot was such an Elvis freak?”

“Jane,” Amy smiled for the first time that day. “You're here.”

“And what's with,” Jane pulled on her fingertips, “these?” She sat down next to Amy and lifted her giant bag on top of her lap.

“He's wearing the Band-Aids?”

“Yep,” she said, matter-of-factly and she looked around the room.

“I'm so happy you're here,” said Amy.

“Like I was going to miss Graceland?”

“Pretty incredible, isn't it.” Amy shook her head.

“It almost makes me want other people I know to start kicking it so I can get a look at some of these other rooms.” Jane turned to Amy. “Did you know they had a Paris Chamber?”

“I didn't, no.”

Jane sighed. “I've always wanted to see Paris,” she said, wistfully before turning her attention back to the crowd. “I can't believe this turnout. You always made Heimlich seem like such a pariah. But look at all these people.”

“Again. Who knew?”

At that moment, a child a little older than Zoë ran up to the coffin in the front of the room. Amy winced as the child leaned over the casket and squealed. “Oh, Poppy! Oh, no. What have they done to you!”

Amy buried her face in her hands. “Oh, my God. I killed him. Oh, God. I'm so cursed.”

Jane embraced her shaken pal. “You didn't kill him, Amy. He was old.”

“
They
think I did it,” Amy whispered as she subtly nodded to the officers across the room. Jane whipped her head around dramatically, apparently not getting the hint, and nearly shouted. “Who? What? You mean those
cops
over there,” she pointed with her thumb. The detective with the handlebar moustache smiled at Jane and she smiled back.

“Just like I killed my parents,” Amy gasped.

Jane turned back around to face Amy and shook her head. “First of all, you did not kill your parents.”

“I encouraged them to take that trip.”

“You mentioned it might be cool if they checked out the rain forests of Brazil. You did not make them go. And you did not—”

“Still.”

They sat in silence, watching the child as he continued to rant. “Oh, Grandfather! Oh, how could this happen! How could this
be
?” he shook his small head in despair as he beat his own chest with tiny clenched fists. “Just as we were starting to put our differences aside.”

The child began to cry as a woman around Jane's age took him into her arms. She led the boy away from the casket and they glowered at Amy as they passed.

“Not your fault,” insisted Jane. “Not your folks and,” she nodded toward the coffin, “not this one, either.”

“Tell that to that child.”

At that very moment, Zoë appeared. “Dead people are weird,” she said, not taking her eyes off the coffin, where Heimlich's Band-Aid wrapped fingers “clutched” a book of Shakespearean sonnets and a
Blue Hawaii
DVD. “But living people are even weirder,” she said, and darted off after the little boy.

Amy was astonished. “You brought her to a wake?
Really
?”

“She's going to have to face it sometime,” said Jane. “Better it be someone she doesn't know up there.”

Amy gave Jane a blank stare, which Jane didn't notice. Jane was too busy beaming at Zoë, who was now embracing the hysterical boy. Zoë pulled away from the boy, producing a Smurf figurine from behind his ear! The little boy delighted in the magic trick and began laughing wildly. Jane took it all in, beaming with pride, and finally turned back to Amy. “What?” she said.

Amy shook her head and went back to sulking and Jane said, “I guess I better go make sure Zoë doesn't take him outside and show him the trick of the vanishing pants again.” And then Jane was gone, but quickly replaced.

Amy hadn't noticed that a man had been watching her since she'd come in and now that man was standing over her. “It's amazing, isn't it?” the man said, cheerfully, in a deep, thick baritone. Amy didn't look up.

But if she had looked up, she would have seen right then and there that these inappropriately cheery words actually came from a gigantic hulk of a man, who also happened to be completely bald. Not just on bald on the top of his head, mind you. He had no hair
anywhere
. Neither eyebrows nor eyelashes. Nary a whisker on chin or cheek. She may even have noticed that there was no hair in his nose, his ears, on even on his arms or legs. But she wasn't paying attention.

So maybe if she had been paying attention, his next words—spoken as he helped himself to the seat that Jane had vacated—may have shocked her just a little bit, “How some people's passing is surprisingly easy to take.”

The giant bald man looked at Amy for a reaction and she didn't react. So he sat a few moments and looked around. He looked at Heimlich. Then he looked down at his watch, and then back again at Amy.

“So how does it feel to have killed a man?” he asked, in as matter-of-fact a tone as someone might wonder about the performance of a sports team or the recent weather.

That got her. She turned her head to retort and then let out a large gasp at the sight of him. As stunned as she was by what she saw, however, her anger at what he'd said won out over shock. “I beg your pardon?” He let out a deep, throaty laugh. “Aren't you the assistant?” he taunted. “The one who slipped him the tainted biscotti?”

“For your information,” she began, but he didn't let her finish, cutting her short again with that laugh of his.

“I know, I know,” he said. “Detective Franks is an old friend of mine,” he smiled, nodding at the detective. Franks, noticing them looking at him, crossed his arms over his chest, shook his head and turned away. “He said the old guy choked—that he had some kind of nut allergy, but it was actually chomping the thing down without chewing that got him.”

“Oh…” she said, and she looked at him again. Terrifying as he appeared, he had nice eyes and this relaxed her a bit. Until he spoke again.

“Don't you find it even a little hilarious that a guy called Heimlich choked to death?” he teased.

Amy felt anger rise up in her, then mysteriously disintegrate into humor. She couldn't help but let a smile escape. “I guess it's kind of ironic, yes.”

“It's ridiculous. I mean, talked about predestination,” he said.

“'Abandon all hope',” she mused.

“'All ye who enter here,'” he smiled. “I didn't take you for a Dante person.”

“What did you take me for?”

He looked at her, pretending to size her up. He smiled. “Dunno. The Brontës maybe?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe all the black. It's kind of gothic,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

“It's a wake.”

“So it is,” he said, and pursed his lips.

Amy shook her head, although she was not as annoyed as she felt she should be as she folded her arms across her chest and sighed. “Honestly.”

The man did not leave. Instead, he drummed his fingers on his lap and started humming, of all things.

“Are you humming?” she asked, aghast. “Is that Duran Duran?”

“Just a little levity. I'm sure he doesn't mind,” he nodded to the coffin. “Although I guess Elvis would be more appropriate.” He smiled at her. “You're a fan, then?”

She shot him an incredulous look. “Just how
old
do you think I am,” she replied. “Just because I recognize a song doesn't mean—”

“Hey, Duran Duran is timeless. Liking Duran Duran does
not
make you old.”

She warmed. “You're right,” she said. “I may not be as old as you but I do love Duran Duran,” she looked off into the distance. “Wow. I haven't listened to them in years.”

“Now, wait a minute. Just how
old
do you think
I
am?” he asked, slightly scandalized. “And why in God's name have you been off the Double Dees?”

“Dunno,” she said, sizing him up to answer his first question. She made what she thought was a generous estimate. “Maybe forty-eight, give or take?” she shrugged.

“I'm thirty-seven, actually,” he said.

She casually shrugged her shoulders and went on to address his next question, ignoring any damage she may have done. “My fiancé listened to a lot of garage bands and I—”

He now slumped in his chair. “And you're engaged.”

“It's not that simple actually.”

“Well,” he said, ignoring her. “Cutting you off from the Taylors and Rhodes and LeBon and filling the void with that abysmal amateur crap,” he smirked. “Sounds like a fun guy, truly.”

“I don't think you should be judging—”

“Why?” he asked sharply, then catching himself. “He's here?” He looked around.

Before Amy had a chance to answer, Hannah swept over. “Excuse me,” she said, her eyes fixed on the large, bald creature. “I need to talk to my friend.”

“Sorry,” Amy smiled at the man. “I'll be back.” And she surprised herself by meaning it.

Hannah led Amy outside the Jungle Room, her eyes still fixed on the man. “Who's Uncle Fester over there?”

“Dunno,” said Amy. “He seems nice enough,” Amy said, turning around. “He just started talking to me.”

“You really know how to attract them, don't you?” Hannah said, her eyes still on the man, who now waved back at her. She looked away, but her eyes returned to him quickly. “Listen, bad news.”

“What?”

“Liz and David are back from the Islands and rumor has it they're headed here.”

“Oh.”

“Are you going to stay?”

Amy wasn't sure. “I don't know,” she said. “I mean, if I leave, it will look like I still care. But if I stay…”

Just then, Jane approached. “What are you guys talking about?” she asked, then, following Hannah's line of vision, “And who's Uncle Fester?”

“David's coming,” said Amy, choking on the words.

“Oh, my God!” Jane grabbed Amy by the shoulders. “Can you see him? Are you ready?”

“I don't think so,” Amy said, glancing back into the Graceland. “I'm not sure.” The others followed Amy's gaze, just in time to watch Zoë approach the large bald man. They observed in stunned silence as tiny Zoë chatted with him and laughed, and then as both he and Zoë looked toward the doorway. Zoë shook her head, shook his hand, and walked toward them.