Read Online Sea Change (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 1) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
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garden, presided over by ironically the town’s newest true denizen—Margot—
––now how much trouble could it be to look after the two of them?––but more of those reveries later.
For here, canopied, red carpeted, was either a new, beautiful, expensive, and truly sumptuous restaurant—
––Check the small scrunched up note page with the address on it—
What does it say? 228 Toulouse?
Or a Funeral Home.
And it was, indeed, the latter.
McWilliams Funeral Home.
She began to make her way up the steps, and had climbed three of them when the door opened and the corpse emerged. He was certainly just that, was he not? Helping her out with the viewing by coming out to meet her in person.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning,” she answered, wondering about the etiquette of greeting the dead.
“It’s going to be a lovely day, isn’t it?” inquired the cadaver.
“It certainly is,” she answered, not adding, ‘for those of us who are alive.’
“You must be Ms. Bannister, from Bay St. Lucy?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome.”
Oh my God he’s extending his hand.
She took it.
It was not warm, exactly, but then, the hand being dead, it lacked the strength to lock onto her and carry her to a charnel house.
And then, now that she was closer to the man, she could discern definite non-necromantic tendencies. He was, to begin with, better dressed than most corpses. He was thinner and seemed in worse health.
“I’m Charles McWilliams. Please come in.”
She did so, subconsciously wishing for a table beneath the window, and wishing that the soft, monochromatic organ music which seemed to seep from the walls could be played, at least between certain stipulated hours, at Wal-Mart.
“Have there been many people in to—to view?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You are the first.”
He led her through several rooms, making her feel as though she was touring an automobile showroom. Elegant, gray and velvet vehicles reflected quiet lighting and––their lids open and their handles shining––promised the most comfortable ride imaginable.
As well as, she could not help musing, superb mileage.
Stop that, Nina, she told herself.
Arthur Robinson had a small room to himself.
She walked to the casket, having noticed that the funeral director, once beside her, had now dropped off, and now, hands folded appropriately, was standing just inside the door of the room.
There were several large sprays of flowers. Purple flowers, gold flower, and, of course, white lilies.
She leaned over.
The thing that had been ‘he’ was dressed appropriately for the occasion, charcoal gray suit with red tie. He had not been a small man. She could imagine the gaunt face as having once been young-looking, before being ravaged by whatever had attacked it, as well as the rest of Arthur Robinson.
“Was he ill long?” she found herself asking.
“Yes, Ma’am. For quite some time, I believe.”
“Well,” she said, looking down at the figure beneath her, “it’s over now.”
“Yes,” came the answer, from behind her (somewhat to her relief) and not below her.
There was nothing else to do.
She could have prayed, but she found herself doing that less frequently now than earlier in her life—she did not know why.
She could have done something appropriate, but there seemed nothing appropriate to do; she was merely reading the day’s obituaries, but doing so in 3-D.
And so, having “paid her respects,” and wondering how many other phrases the culture stored and used frequently that also had no meaning whatsoever, she turned and left.
There were nods. Quiet condolences. A glance or two at families huddled together in other rooms. The sound of sobbing.
And, finally, she was on the street again.
She took a deep breath.
That was done.
It had needed doing, at least by someone from Bay St Lucy. And she was that person, and she had done the right thing.
Now—a check on
––now how much trouble could it be to look after the two of them?––but more of those reveries later.
For here, canopied, red carpeted, was either a new, beautiful, expensive, and truly sumptuous restaurant—
––Check the small scrunched up note page with the address on it—
What does it say? 228 Toulouse?
Or a Funeral Home.
And it was, indeed, the latter.
McWilliams Funeral Home.
She began to make her way up the steps, and had climbed three of them when the door opened and the corpse emerged. He was certainly just that, was he not? Helping her out with the viewing by coming out to meet her in person.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning,” she answered, wondering about the etiquette of greeting the dead.
“It’s going to be a lovely day, isn’t it?” inquired the cadaver.
“It certainly is,” she answered, not adding, ‘for those of us who are alive.’
“You must be Ms. Bannister, from Bay St. Lucy?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome.”
Oh my God he’s extending his hand.
She took it.
It was not warm, exactly, but then, the hand being dead, it lacked the strength to lock onto her and carry her to a charnel house.
And then, now that she was closer to the man, she could discern definite non-necromantic tendencies. He was, to begin with, better dressed than most corpses. He was thinner and seemed in worse health.
“I’m Charles McWilliams. Please come in.”
She did so, subconsciously wishing for a table beneath the window, and wishing that the soft, monochromatic organ music which seemed to seep from the walls could be played, at least between certain stipulated hours, at Wal-Mart.
“Have there been many people in to—to view?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You are the first.”
He led her through several rooms, making her feel as though she was touring an automobile showroom. Elegant, gray and velvet vehicles reflected quiet lighting and––their lids open and their handles shining––promised the most comfortable ride imaginable.
As well as, she could not help musing, superb mileage.
Stop that, Nina, she told herself.
Arthur Robinson had a small room to himself.
She walked to the casket, having noticed that the funeral director, once beside her, had now dropped off, and now, hands folded appropriately, was standing just inside the door of the room.
There were several large sprays of flowers. Purple flowers, gold flower, and, of course, white lilies.
She leaned over.
The thing that had been ‘he’ was dressed appropriately for the occasion, charcoal gray suit with red tie. He had not been a small man. She could imagine the gaunt face as having once been young-looking, before being ravaged by whatever had attacked it, as well as the rest of Arthur Robinson.
“Was he ill long?” she found herself asking.
“Yes, Ma’am. For quite some time, I believe.”
“Well,” she said, looking down at the figure beneath her, “it’s over now.”
“Yes,” came the answer, from behind her (somewhat to her relief) and not below her.
There was nothing else to do.
She could have prayed, but she found herself doing that less frequently now than earlier in her life—she did not know why.
She could have done something appropriate, but there seemed nothing appropriate to do; she was merely reading the day’s obituaries, but doing so in 3-D.
And so, having “paid her respects,” and wondering how many other phrases the culture stored and used frequently that also had no meaning whatsoever, she turned and left.
There were nods. Quiet condolences. A glance or two at families huddled together in other rooms. The sound of sobbing.
And, finally, she was on the street again.
She took a deep breath.
That was done.
It had needed doing, at least by someone from Bay St Lucy. And she was that person, and she had done the right thing.
Now—a check on
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