Damaged (Maggie O'Dell #8)

After months of listening to Joe Black talk—actually there was more insinuation than talk—about the impressive network, the major connections to doctors and medical equipment companies, and all the “big money” there was waiting to be made, Scott had jumped at the chance when Black finally invited him to be a major player. And Scott had already been paid handsomely for the storage fees. It was Joe who told him how to contract with the county to handle indigents. That little tip would bring in five hundred dollars a shot, just for accepting and processing the bodies. Plus, Joe Black was going to pay him another five hundred each. Scott didn’t have to lift a finger.

It was a win-win situation. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. And it came at just the right time. Trish had long ago overspent their budget on the house they were building. He hadn’t told her that he decided to forgo buying hurricane insurance for it. How was he supposed to afford it when they were still paying renter’s insurance on their condo plus the insurance on the funeral home? Now it was too late. He couldn’t buy insurance after the first of June, when hurricane season started. This one sure as hell better take a turn and stay far away. Then he reminded himself that it wasn’t even in the Gulf.

Some days he truly felt like a transplant down here in Florida. Just last week someone at one of his memorial services called him “a Yankee” and jokingly told him, “But maybe you won’t become a ‘damn Yankee.’”

“What’s a damn Yankee?” Scott wanted to know.

“One that stays.”

Days like this, Scott wondered why he hadn’t insisted they live in Michigan. He’d been lured by those emerald-green waters and sandy beaches. And Trish in a bikini, though she hardly ever wore one now that they were married, even though they lived right on the bay.

Scott drove around the one-story funeral home that looked remarkably like an oversize ranch house. Every time he pulled into the parking lot he felt a swell of pride. It was all his … his and the bank’s: three viewing rooms, chapel, visitors’ lounge, and corner office. The embalming room and storage facility were in a separate building that connected to the back of the funeral home via an air-conditioned walkway.

He’d added the twenty-five-foot walkway. It was crazy going even that short distance in a suit and tie and getting sweaty from the humidity or drenched from a downpour. He insisted on presenting a clean, crisply pressed appearance. Likewise, his entire place was kept meticulously.

The public areas—the viewing rooms and visitors’ lounge—were vacuumed daily, stocked with fresh flowers, furniture aligned at straight angles with ample room for foot traffic as well as coffin traffic. Even the back area that included the embalming room and walk-in refrigerator was spotless. The stainless-steel tables and shelves gleamed. The white linoleum floors and porcelain basins always had a glossy finish. The state inspectors constantly praised Scott and told him they wished all the places they had to inspect looked this good.

Now as he pulled up to the back door his eyes darted around, looking for a vehicle. Joe Black had been driving something different every time they’d met. Scott figured he must use various leased cars or perhaps rentals. Last night Joe had walked up the beach so Scott hadn’t even seen what he was driving. But there wasn’t a vehicle anywhere in sight. Could he have finished already? Or maybe he hadn’t started yet.

Scott disarmed the alarm system and had his key in the door when he heard something rattling against the back of the building. He stopped and leaned around the corner. A rusted old shopping cart had been wedged between the trunk of a magnolia tree and his Dumpster.

Damn! He hated people snooping around his property, leaving trash. It cost money to empty that frickin’ Dumpster.

He was shaking his head, still cursing under his breath, when he went inside. He immediately reset the alarm.

Scott understood that there were specific reasons why he had become a mortician. He didn’t really like working with people. Sure, he had to advise and guide the bereaved, but it was easier to work with people when they were at their most vulnerable. They automatically looked to him as the expert. There was a built-in respect that came with the job title.

He actually didn’t mind working with dead people. Trish insisted that much of what he did was creepy and gross: the makeup, hairstyling, and clothes. Sometimes he had to paint the skin or sew up leaking orifices. And there were the plastic lenses he inserted beneath the eyelids to keep the eyes from popping open in the middle of a memorial.

Even the blood didn’t bother him. You drained it out and replaced it with embalming fluid. Oh sure, you couldn’t avoid blood leaking out sometimes, but it never sprayed or splattered like it did from a live, pumping heart. And yet, despite all the awkward and messy jobs Scott had done, nothing had prepared him for what he saw.

He backed up and stayed in the doorway, his hand pressed against the wall, needing it to steady himself.