Read Online Always Kiss the Corpse by Sandy Frances Duncan - Free Book Online Page B

took charge.”
    â€œYour sense of him—?”
    â€œA man who’s used to being in charge. Everything had to be done his way. Instantly.”
    â€œAnd who else?”
    Martin stared at the ceiling as if searching for a film of the Vasiliadis viewing. “A young woman with items dangling from her ears and her nose. The ear ones were apparent because she had a very short crewcut. Which was dyed green.” He faced Noel again. “I don’t remember the name, but I’ll recognize it. She had large handwriting.”
    Noel nodded. No negative reaction, no reaction of any sort, from Claude Martin. “Go on.”
    â€œAlso a large man, he said very little. I’ve seen him around. I think he’s a physician.”
    The tiniest hint of disgust, or superiority, in Martin’s tone. “Anything else about him?”
    â€œWell, let me try. You’re taxing my memory.”
    Again the flat lips tried to twitch up. Was Martin simply incapable of smiling? Some frozen muscle? Noel chuckled for both of them.
    â€œHe seemed taken by a fetching young woman, maybe thirty years old, dark hair. But she was clearly with—and I do mean with, if you take my meaning—another woman, shorter.”
    â€œHmm,” said Noel.
    Martin sat in silence. “That’s all I can remember, I’m afraid.”
    A knock at the door. It opened. On a forty-five-degree angle, a head and smile thrust themselves through the opening. “Guest book?”
    â€œThank you.”
    She handed the book across the desk to Martin, beamed her smile at Noel, and left.
    â€œCould you match the names with those people you’ve been describing?”
    Claude Martin glanced at the names. “I welcomed them, that’s all.” He handed the guest book, open, to Noel.
    Noel read: Rudy Longelli, Cora Lipton-Norton, Andrei Vasiliadis, Brady Adam, Ursula Bunche, Dr. Stockman Jones. “Only six people here?” He copied the names into his notebook.
    â€œMore. And the mother, and the two who came with her. Clearly the others didn’t sign in. It was early, of course. Four or five people came after the family left. There was to be a funeral in Seattle, the uncle told me.”
    â€œMaybe there still will be. If it’s decided the body you have here is Sandro’s.”
    â€œ Had , Mr. Franklin. When the mother denied it, we shipped it back to the morgue.”
    Noel blinked. “Where’s the morgue?”
    â€œThe hospital.” Martin shook his head. “I’ve thought about what happened, you know. The mother’s reaction. Maybe I’m to blame.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI may have made the body look, uhhm—too good. I take pride in my work. But sometimes the result is too perfect.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œIn my profession one must establish the essence of the departed. One must—recreate.”
    In Martin’s voice a sudden tinge of—was it awe?
    Recreate: what Brentwood Gardens had done to Brendan. At the head of the aisle, the coffin, its lid open. Brendan’s body. His black turtleneck, gray flannels, gray running shoes, as he’d wanted. A waxen face, his hands bare. Noel had reached out to touch Brendan’s right hand, a so-familiar gesture. A cold right hand, inflexible. Noel didn’t want to touch Brendan, yet couldn’t not. Noel didn’t want to kiss Brendan. On the forehead. One last time. But he did. Against his lips, rubber cooler than the room. Not Brendan.
    â€œOne tries,” Martin said. “To return to the departed whatever it was that made him a quintessential individual. No one else could look this way. In life, we see in others only a piece of what they are. One piece, you understand. I try to bring back the whole person.”
    A weird kind of humility in Martin’s voice. Noel nodded again.
    â€œI’ve done my best work with automobile accidents. Sometimes the