“Did they leave a card?” Joyce asked.
Clara reached into the pocket of her white apron and produced a business card printed on cheap cardstock, the police department insignia stamped in the top left.
“They asked you or Mr. Morgan to call and set up a time to talk.”
Joyce snatched a piece of strudel and took a huge bite. The sugar icing mixed with the cherry filling, flavor exploding in her mouth.
She knew what to do now.
Joyce took another bite, finishing the entire piece and licking her fingers afterwards.
CHAPTER SIX LAURA
“What’s the name again?” the woman asked.
“Dermot Carine,” Laura repeated. It was the fifth time she’d called, but the first time someone picked up. A keyboard clattered in the background.
They wouldn’t let her see the body, let alone take it home, which was absurd because she was the closest to family Dermot had. He’d listed her as his emergency contact, which was why she got the call early Monday morning from the police.
Laura leaned against the thin windows in the trailer and looked out at the bare woods. It was finally cold enough outside today that the creek might freeze over.
“Oh, here it is. Do you have the name of the funeral home we’re sending him to?”
“Can’t I just come and pick him up?” Something heavy pressed on Laura’s chest, and she balled her fist and pushed into the center to try and relieve the pressure. Laura hadn’t been told anything about a funeral home.
“No, honey,” the woman explained patiently. “You can’t just come and take his body. He needs to go somewhere people know how to prepare him.” Laura wasn’t used to people being so kind to her. Except for Dermot.
Who was dead.
Laura heard a thump come from the bedroom. Terry must be up. She balanced the phone on her shoulder and plugged the coffee maker in. She’d put the grounds in last night, so it’d be ready in the morning.
“I’ve never been to a funeral home before,” Laura said. Two years ago, her sophomore chemistry teacher had a massive coronary in the teachers’ lounge and Dermot had offered to take her to the calling hours at the funeral home, but she’d said no. The idea of seeing Mr. Kimble when he wasn’t Mr. Kimble anymore made her queasy.
“I can give you a few names and numbers,” the woman at the morgue said. She paused. “If you can’t afford it, you can have him cremated. That’s a lot less expensive. Or if you can’t do that, the hospital will take care of things, but you won’t be able to bury him.”
Terry came into the main room of the trailer, shirtless and scratching at his crotch. “Where’s my coffee?”
“I’m on the phone,” Laura mouthed, but Terry ignored her and gave a huge yawn, moving past her to grab the creamer from the fridge.
He was like a scraggly dog, her brother. He’d been doing his twelve steps, staying off the booze and pills for the most part, but what Laura had discovered was that her brother was still an asshole even when he wasn’t drinking and getting high.
“Can I get those names?” Laura asked the woman, grabbing a pen and pad of paper courtesy of Courtyard Marriott. Sometimes she brought toilet paper or fresh towels home from work too. She’d stopped taking the mini shampoos when her friend, Rosie, almost got fired for doing the same thing.
There were three options she’d have to call before her shift at the hotel started.
The woman explained that the funeral home would handle transferring the body.
“So I won’t have to call here again?” Laura asked.
Terry flopped onto the faded navy sofa and turned on the television. It blared one of the local channels, which had a morning show on. Two women in soft pastels and matching glossy haircuts sat chatting at a table. And then Dermot’s face was smiling back at Laura from the screen. It was the picture they’d taken when they went hiking together at Blue Falls Creek.
“No, honey. You won’t.”
“Okay, thank you.” Laura hung up, slipped the phone into her back pocket, and stood at the back of the sofa watching as the morning show cut to another reporter holding a microphone in front of a building.
In front of the Marriott.
“The body of a young man was found dead in one of the hotel rooms at the Courtyard Marriott on Sunday. The police are saying little about the case, but it has been reported that the man’s name is Dermot Carine, a twenty-five-year-old social worker from Beacon Hill. Sources indicate foul play appears to be involved. We’ll be keeping you updated on this story as more information materializes.”
“Who the hell were you talking to? And either sit down or fry some eggs up for me. You’re making me nervous just standing back there.” Terry took a huge swig of coffee.
“They’re talking about Dermot.” Laura couldn’t believe she needed to explain this to her brother.
“Who the hell is Dermot?” Terry gave a thin smile.
“Stop it.” Laura’s instinct was to reach out and slap him, but she still had bruises from their last fight, and she didn’t have the time or the endurance to do it again.
“I’m glad he’s dead,” Terry said.
“Stop it.” Laura forced herself to walk away. She pulled the accordion door for the bathroom and flipped the lock. She made it to the toilet before the sob leaked out of her body.
Dermot was too young, too kind, too handsome to be dead. She’d just seen him Sunday morning, smiling over her at the diner in town where they liked to meet for lunch or sometimes just a milkshake.
Another image of Dermot popped into her mind, but Laura pushed that one away. She couldn’t handle that. Not now, not with Terry shouting at her like some wench and nothing to look forward to other than her cigarette break after cleaning up other people’s piss off toilet seats.
She’d call the funeral homes on her break from work today. Laura had a little money saved up in an account at the credit union Terry didn’t know about. She’d been stupid after their parents died and put Terry as joint account holder on her original savings and checking account, which he’d drained to buy booze and pot.
Laura couldn’t stand to think about Dermot’s body being burned up into ash. Or worse, burned up and mixed with other unclaimed dead people at the county morgue.
She let the sob come again, hard and fresh through her body. She’d had plenty of practice learning how to make her pain silent. The TV blared on in the living room, some happy jingle wrinkling the air in the trailer.
The reality landed on Laura for the first time. Dermot wasn’t just dead. He’d been murdered. Burying him wouldn’t be the end of it.
The police would be coming, asking questions. Sniffing around the trailer, judging her life.
She had to get her story straight.
Terry shouted from the living room. “What’s wrong? Do you have the shits? And where are those eggs?”
“Coming.” Dermot was supposed to be her ticket to a better life.
Laura flushed the toilet. The cheap mirror above the sink made her look old, her skin dishwater grey.
All of this was so incredibly awful, because Laura was fairly certain of one thing more than any other: Dermot Carine could hurt her more now that he was dead than he had when he was alive.
CHAPTER SEVEN TRINA
Trina poured herself a tumbler of vodka and slugged it down, the liquor a hot flash in her throat. Her phone sat in the container of rice on the counter. A satisfying sprinkle of grains tumbled over the counter as she pulled it out. She powered her phone on, the screen brightening after a few seconds of indecision.
