Read Online Good Mourning by Elizabeth Meyer - Free Book Online Page B

curtsy­ing and actually learning to be charming. Her whole life was filled with silly rituals like this, and she was constantly being taken care of: First, an army of nannies and chauffeurs and maids (oh my!) watched over her while herparents went to parties dressed in furs. After that, it was a husband. When he died of a heart attack, there was another husband she somehow lined up for the role. I have no idea how Elaine managed to land so many men, but I will say this: the woman wasn’t about to let one guy’s failed organ hold her back from winters in Palm Beach and summers cruising on the Queen Elizabeth II .
    I hid my phone back in my pocket and picked up Crawford’s line, which had been ringing off the hook all morning. What is it with today? I thought, holding the receiver up to my ear.
    â€œCrawford Funeral Home. How may I direct your call?” I said.
    â€œYes. Hello,” said a nervous-sounding man on the other end of the line. “Tony, please. My mother was brought in this morning. I have a favor to ask.”
    Tony was gone for the morning, and I knew he wouldn’t be back for hours. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I said. “Tony’s not available at the moment. I’m his . . . uh . . . how can I help you?”
    â€œI need . . . my sister and I . . . we need . . . Can you tell me that my mother’s brain is in her head?”
    Come again? I thought.
    â€œHer name—it’s Annie. Can you check for me? I need to know absolutely for certain that it’s in there.”
    â€œNot a problem, sir. Let me check in on this and call you back in just a few minutes,” I said.
    â€œI’ll hold.”
    I raced down to the embalming room to find Bill.
    â€œLiz!” he said. “You see the game last night? What were our boys doing out there? We’ve got to work on defense or we don’t have a shot in hell at—”
    â€œWe can’t talk Giants right now,” I said, a little out of breath from running so fast. (My crazy work schedule wasn’t leaving much time for my usual morning jogs in Central Park.) “There’s a guy on the phone, and he says we need to make sure that his mom’s brain is still in her head. Does that make any sense?”
    â€œWhat’s her name?” said Bill.
    â€œAnnie something,” I said. “She came in this morning.”
    Bill picked up a piece of paper and scanned it. “Yup, here’s her paperwork,” he said.
    I walked over to see what he was holding. It looked like an autopsy report, and there was a list of all organs still inside of the body, right there: liver, lungs, brain . . .
    â€œBingo!” said Bill.
    Before I could thank him, I was running back up to the front desk. “Hello? Are you still there?”
    â€œStill here,” said the man. “So is everything where it should be?”
    â€œYes, the autopsy report says that the brain is—”
    â€œNo, no, no. Not the autopsy report. I need somebody to tell me for certain that the brain is there. It’s very important.”
    â€œWell, the report says—”
    â€œYou’re not listening to me. I need you to physically see the brain.”
    Am I hearing this right? I thought. “Of course, sir,” I said. “It may take a moment to accomplish what you’re asking. Would you like me to call you ba—”
    â€œI’ll hold,” he said.
    Bill was working on another body when I raced back into the embalming room. “I don’t know what to do,” I told him. “He wants us to see the brain.”
    Bill sighed. “It’s on the fucking sheet.”
    â€œI know, I know it’s on the sheet. But he said it’s important. Maybe she was, like, murdered, or something.” Just as I said it, something clicked in my brain: Annie. Murder. No fucking way , I thought.