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I was going to have to figure this out on my own, or I would be spending the rest of my life behind bars.
*
Chapter Two
Imogen
“That was hell.”
I locked the front door and sagged against the cold, hard wood. “That’s because kids shouldn’t die. They’re too young with their whole life in front of them for some idiot to drive drunk and run them down on the sidewalk.”
“Amen, sister.” Dorothy reached up and pulled hairpins from her bun until her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. “If I’ve ever thought life isn’t fair, today cemented that.”
Dorothy and I had spent the past five days planning a nine-year-olds funeral, and today was the viewing and burial.
Death was hard, but when it was the death of a child, it killed a little bit of Dorothy and me.
“I think they left some food behind for us if you’re hungry,” Dorothy sighed. “We can drown our sadness in ham sandwiches and watered-down lemonade.”
I nodded and followed Dorothy to the kitchen. “Please tell me there are some of those salted caramel bars left. I spotted a few of the guests eating them.” I kicked off my shoes and flopped down on the bench in front of the table.
Dorothy pushed a covered plate toward me and sat down. “You know, when there is a funeral that the ladies of St. Mary’s provide the food for, they leave us a little bit of everything. The lemonade might be questionable, but the desserts are always amazing.”
I moved the napkin off my plate, and a small smile spread across my lips. “I think this might be the only perk to being a mortician.” I popped a piece of cheese into my mouth even though I really wanted to dive into the salted caramel bars right away.
“Well, there definitely aren’t a lot of perks besides the paycheck.”
I scoffed. “And that isn’t even that good when you think about all we have to go through, Dorothy.”
“But yet we’re both still here because we don’t do it for the money,” she chided.
I tipped my head to the side. “So then, why are we here?”
Dorothy tsked. “We’re here because we care about people.”
“I think you mean we’re both a little whacked in the head.”
Dorothy pointed at me. “You are not wrong.” She shrugged off her cardigan, revealing each arm's full sleeve of tattoos. “I really wish we could get some cool boss in here who won’t freak out at my tattoos,” she muttered.
“Amen, sister. You have to wear sleeves all of the time, and I need to wear pants when I’m on the clock. I swear Mr. Brooks caught sight of my foot tattoo when I set up the viewing earlier today and was going to make me put socks on.”
“That would have been very stylish,” Dorothy laughed.
“I keep hoping Mr. Brooks will move into the twenty-first century, but I don’t think that will happen anytime soon.”
“We’ve both worked here for ten years, Imogen. If it hasn’t happened yet, I don’t think it’s going to happen. Mr. Brooks is going to have to die for us to be able to let our tattoos see the light of day.”
“He might turn over in his grave when that happens.”
Mr. Brooks owned Brooks Mortuary and Cremation and was well past his prime. He made appearances at each funeral but only lasted for about twenty minutes before he needed to head home and take a four-hour nap.
Being eighty-nine would do that to a person.
“Have you seen his plans for his funeral?” Dorothy asked. She leaned forward and laid her hand on the table. “He wants the viewing to be in his office, where he will be propped up in his chair.”
“No,” I gasped.
Dorothy nodded. “Girl, yes. You are going to have your hands full getting his stiff body to sit in that chair.”
