Although Macy’s culinary expertise was limited to grilled foods and particularly adventurous salads with quinoa and pomegranate seeds, Liz doubted her friend could screw up caprese skewers too badly. In her limited experience, overuse of exclamation marks was rarely a barometer of competence in the kitchen.
Thatcher Funeral Home was located in the heart of Key Lake. The tree-lined streets were wide, the houses old and, for the most part, lovingly restored. The funeral home was one of the largest, an impressive Victorian with crenellated trim and lush hanging baskets that made it appear almost storybookish. From the front, the only indicator that the home was anything other than a particularly exquisite family residence was a tasteful brass plaque by the front door. Of course, in the back, the yard had been turned into a small paved parking lot and an oversized garage had been attached to the house. It accommodated the hearse and, Liz assumed, the rooms where they prepped the bodies. It gave her a little chill, both the thought of the burial preparation process and the parking lot in the middle of such a lovely neighborhood. Clearly the city council had been asleep at the wheel when that building permit had been approved.
Liz avoided the lot and parked on the street in front of the funeral home. There were no other cars around, and, shouldering her purse, Liz congratulated herself on beating the rush as she hurried up the front walkway. She let herself in the carved antique door with a thin-lipped smile of satisfaction.
Thatcher’s had handled Jack Sr.’s funeral, but Liz hadn’t stepped foot over the threshold since the day she saw her husband’s lifeless face for the very last time. And she hadn’t paused to consider how it might make her feel. Consequently, she wasn’t at all prepared for the barrage of memories.
The entryway was close and warm, the heady aroma of lily-scented candles overpowering. Heavy rugs muffled sound and a crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, though the fixture wasn’t even turned on—the light was refracted from the high transom window above the front door. The prisms winked and danced so furiously Liz had the impression of being thrown underwater. She squinted at the onslaught, her throat constricting as if she were drowning.
Liz had stood in this exact spot while Christopher Thatcher (not the original Chris Thatcher, but his thirtysomething grandson who was as wobbly chinned and pasty white as a corpse himself) explained the finer details of the family visitation process. The funeral would happen at the church, but the viewing was here, in a large room that took up most of the main floor of the converted house. “People will file in through this door,” Christopher had told her. And she hadn’t heard much else. Stand, sit. You will be there. The body will be here. I’ll put tissue boxes on every available surface should you need them.
I need you to blow out those damn candles, Liz had thought, rather ungraciously. It smells like a funeral home in here. And, I need a stiff drink.
Rum. She would have sold her soul for a tumbler of good, dark rum in that moment. On the rocks. Please, oh please, the rum that Jack Sr. had spent a small fortune on one year when they were in Jamaica. A teardrop bottle of liquor as thick and rich as caramel. She could almost feel the burn of it sliding down her throat.
It was so unlike Liz to crave something like that, to long for it, that she tucked her hand through her son’s arm. Jack Jr. mistook her gesture as sorrow and patted her hand clumsily, a moan catching in his own throat. No, no, she wanted to say. You have it all wrong. But she didn’t say anything at all. How could she begin to explain the way she felt for her husband? The pretty layers that peeled back to reveal something dark and rotting beneath? They had lived a good, solid, respectable life. But that didn’t mean that she loved him. That she would mourn his loss. And yet.
Good God in heaven. What was she doing here?
Liz swayed a bit in the foyer, her heels missing the rug and clicking on the restored wood floors as evidence of her presence. She could feel the door handle at her back, and she steadied herself, taking the crystal knob carefully in her fingertips. If she turned it softly, if she tiptoed, it might be like she had never come at all. No one would ever have to know.
“Mrs. Sanford?”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Swallowed a sigh. A sob? “Christopher Thatcher,” Liz said, pulling herself up to her full height and extending her hand to the funeral director who had appeared from somewhere deep inside the house.
Christopher stepped from the shadow of the hallway and took just her fingers, touching them lightly as if in another era he might have raised them to his lips. Liz hated limp handshakes. “It’s a pleasure to see you,” he said. But it was obvious to Liz that he was more surprised than pleased.
“I suppose I’m a bit early, aren’t I?” Liz checked the delicate face of the watch on her left wrist. It was a quarter to three. Fashionably late wasn’t a thing in her books. If you wanted to be fashionable, you were punctual. Early, even. Liz had always considered herself a trendsetter. “I can wait,” she assured him. “Or maybe if I could just have a moment with Tiffany? I’ll be gone before a crowd starts to gather.”
“Tiffany? I’m not sure . . .” Christopher fumbled, glancing over his shoulder as if an answer might emerge from the hallway behind him.
In that moment, Liz realized several things. First, and most important, that the funeral director was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Not a black suit and tie. The candles weren’t lit. The door to the chapel where the viewings were held was bolted shut with an antique latch and catch, and there wasn’t even a sliver of light seeping from the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door.
“I have the wrong day,” she whispered, mortified. “The visitation for Lorelei Barnes isn’t today, is it?”
“Oh!” Understanding settled on Christopher’s sallow face. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sanford. It was an error on the community events sheet. Our secretary does all the scheduling and she didn’t realize . . . I didn’t think it would be a problem. I mean, I didn’t think anyone would notice.” He blushed as he heard the words come out of his mouth, an unattractive pink that put Liz in mind of Silly Putty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Lorelei was a lovely person,” Liz said, offended for a woman she barely knew. “I’m sure everyone noticed.”
“Yes, of course—”
“When exactly is her visitation? I, for one, will be here with bells on.” Too late, Liz grasped just how stupid that sounded. Bells on? For a funeral visitation?
But she didn’t have time to be embarrassed. Christopher was still waffling.
“Well?”
“There isn’t a visitation for Lorelei,” he finally managed.
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t want one.”
“When is the funeral?”
Christopher’s chin sagged even farther toward his chest. “No funeral either. She was cremated several days ago.”
Liz wasn’t sure why she felt so indignant, but she battled an almost overwhelming urge to slap Christopher Thatcher’s droopy face. “That’s ridiculous. Is that what Lorelei wanted? What about Tiffany?”