Page 48 of Mourner for Hire
My focus snaps out of anger and flips to shock. “No way.”
Eli stares at me pointedly. I may or may not have told him about that night.
“What do you mean, still?” Connor asks.
“Nothing,” I say, my gaze trained on Eli. He reads my demand to remain sworn to secrecy and nods. “Connor, what did you say the name of the man whose funeral she’s going to is?”
“Benjamin Bright. Why?”
“No reason,” I answer, standing from the booth and turning toward Connor. “Stay away from Vada, Connor.”
I leave without waiting for his response. I have a bar to open and a funeral to attend on Friday.
It doesn’t take longto find Benjamin’s funeral. It’s located in Tigard, a suburb of Portland. When I pull up to the cemetery the next day, an unwelcome sense of déjà vu hit me like a punch to the face.
I look at each car and wonder why they’re here. Is Benjamin their father? Brother? Friend? A co-worker they don’t like but had to come to save face? Or perhaps he was loved—a saint among gargoyles.
Then I see Dr. Death’s—I mean, Vada’s car. She’s parked next to the exit, probably for an easy escape like the coward she is.
I put on my baseball cap before exiting, which is a stupid touch, but I don’t want her to see me. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m just here to see. To understand. How the fuck does this woman make a living of ripping dead people off?
Forty-five minutes later, the funeral must be close to finished. I still haven’t spotted her. Not in the crowd and not inside the funeral parlor.
“Can I help you?” the funeral home receptionist with bluehair and a black pantsuit asks as I pretend to peruse the pamphlets about coffin styles.
I clear my throat. “I’m thinking of buying a plot,” I answer quickly.
“Ahh, yes. Well, that might require an appointment with the cemetery sales counselor. She’s not in. I can get you a card with her info.”
“That’d be great. Thank you.”
Moments later, I’m leaving the funeral home with a card and a feeling of defeat. Then I spot her. She’s dressed in a black dress, black tights, heels, and a pearl necklace. She looks like Audrey Hepburn with a funeral veil covering the side of her face, her dimple showing beneath the mesh of the veil.
What a drama queen.
She isn’t at the funeral. At least, not completely. She’s standing under an old oak tree to the left. In the line of sight of all the guests, but far enough away that her presence is confusing.
I watch the heads turn in her direction, and I realize, her presence isn’t confusing. It’s mysterious.
I put myself in the shoes of every person attending the funeral of Benjamin Bright.
Who is she?
Why is she here?
Does she know Benjamin?
She appears to be crying, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
Did she love him?
Why did she love him?
How did she know him?
It plays out like a movie. An archaic depiction of how love and grief and mystery play out.
The woman in the front row—clearly the wife—finally spots her. Her shoulders cinch back, spine stiffening. Her eyes are covered in glasses, but even I can spot the question in her expression.
