Bride's Lament
When Cheryl Walcott received her license after completing her cosmetology courses at Madame Louise's Beauty Academy, she was eager to join the workforce. Although none of the five salons within a ten-mile radius of her home had an opening for a beautician, she was able to get a part-time job as a shampoo girl at Kim's Kuts and Kurls with the promise of a full-time position should an opening arise. Since she still lived with her parents, she could survive by working Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. However, she hoped to one day leave the nest and move into her own apartment. To do so, she would need at least forty hours of work a week in addition to tips.
On the first day on the job, a busy Friday in June, Cheryl woke early, donned her pale pink smock, ate a quick breakfast and drove to Kim's beauty shop. Thankfully, her decade-old Honda Accord was a reliable car with great gas mileage. She hoped it would last her at least another five years.
Kim and her four full-time hairdressers would be kept busy most of the day cutting, coloring and styling their customers' hair. However, before these women headed toward one of the five salon chairs, they had to first take a seat at one of the three sinks. Naturally, Cheryl could not shampoo and condition five people at the same time. Thus, there was bound to be one or two women who resented having to wait their turn.
Willa Alcock, the irritable nurse at the local middle school, kept glancing at her watch.
"Can you please hurry it up? I've got to take my car to the shop this morning," she grumbled.
"I'll be right with you," Cheryl said, smiling sweetly.
"I don't know why Kim can't hire another shampoo girl or at least one that can move faster."
Willa looked at her watch again and frowned as the second customer lowered her head into the sink. When the shampoo was squirted onto the third woman's hair, the nurse placed her arms across her chest and began tapping her foot. Finally, it was her turn at the sink, but her mood had not improved.
"It's about time!" she complained.
Stressed by the woman's attitude, Kim reached for the bottle of Paul Mitchell One with a shaking hand. When she squeezed it, a stream of creamy, white, coconut-scented liquid shot out of the top. Some of it landed on the nurse's cheek and upper lip.
"What's the matter with you?" Willa cried in anger. "Don't you even know how to handle a bottle of shampoo?"
"I'm sorry," Cheryl apologized, fighting back her tears.
Kim, who was all too familiar with the customer's rude behavior, stepped in and relieved her new employee of the unpleasant task.
"I'll wash Miss Alcock's hair," she offered. "Will you see to Mrs. Van Dusen?"
"Certainly," the shampoo girl said with relief.
Although the rest of the day went smoothly, and Cheryl did not have to deal with any more unpleasant women, there was no smile on her face when she returned home that evening.
"How did your first day on the job go?" her mother asked as the girl set the table for dinner.
"It was all right," she replied.
"You don't seem too happy."
"It wasn't exactly what I thought it would be. For one thing, my back is killing me from bending over the sink all day. And for another, I didn't make that much in tips. I was told to expect about three dollars per customer. Most only tipped one or two dollars, and there were a few who didn't tip me at all."
"I'm sure all that will change once you become full-time."
"Who knows when that will be!" Cheryl exclaimed pessimistically.
* * *
In the weeks that followed that unsatisfactory first day on the job, things improved but not by much. The always-impatient Willa Alcock, who came into the salon every Friday, was not the only difficult customer Cheryl had to deal with. Several condescending women treated her as though she were Cinderella and they were the evil stepmothers. This mistreatment was not because she was a mere shampoo girl or that she was not yet twenty-one years old. Except for Kim, who owned the business, all the employees were subjected to occasional verbal abuse.
According to Felice, a hairdresser who had worked for Kim for more than ten years, things were no different at other salons.
"No matter where you work, you get good customers and bad," the thirty-four-year-old single mom declared. "You have to learn to ignore them. That's what I do. If they see you get upset easily, they'll never let up."
Ever since accepting a part-time position, she read through the want ads every day, looking for a job that offered more hours. Finally, she saw an advertisement for a full-time beautician, preferably one who could apply makeup and give manicures.
"I can do that!" she said excitedly.
"What salon is it?" her mother inquired.
"I don't know. It says only to call the given number and ask for Jacob."
"I suppose it doesn't hurt to apply."
Cheryl took out her iPhone and called the number. A woman answered after three rings.
"Somerdale Funeral Home."
"Sorry. I must have the wrong number," Cheryl said.
"No problem."
She tried calling again and got the same result.
"There must be a typo in the newspaper," she said after apologizing again to the woman. "I was told to call this number about a job and ask for Jacob."
"That's not a typo. Jacob placed an ad in the paper for a beautician. The one who works here is going to have a baby, and she wants to become a stay-at-home mom."
"You employ a beautician at a funeral home?"
"Yes. We want the dearly departed to look their best for their viewing. That means a nice hairstyle, makeup and manicure. Are you interested in applying for the position? If you are, I can set up an interview for you."
"I ... I'm not sure," Cheryl stammered. "I thought the job was at a salon."
"Well, why don't you come in and talk to Jacob? No one is going to put pressure on you to take the job if you don't want it."
"All right. I suppose so."
"Good. Do you have any time tomorrow to stop by?"
Since the following day was a Thursday and she still only worked Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, she was free to meet with Jacob.
I can't believe I'm even considering such a job, she thought as she slipped her cell phone back into her purse. I can't imagine putting makeup on a dead person!
* * *
Somerdale Funeral Home was housed in what was once a privately owned home that looked like it had been transported from the pages of Gone with the Wind. Cheryl could easily imagine Scarlett O'Hara entertaining a bevy of beaus on the wide veranda. The interior, tastefully decorated with antique furniture, was every bit as impressive as the exterior. The soft music that played throughout the lobby and viewing rooms created an atmosphere that was serene and calming rather than sad or depressing.
"You must be Miss Walcott," a pleasant, middle-aged woman in a chic black dress said. "I'm Anita Ruffing. Mr. Haverset's assistant. We spoke briefly on the phone yesterday."
"Nice to meet you."
"Jacob is expecting you. Come on, I'll show you to his office. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea? Soda?"
"Coffee would be nice."
"Cream and sugar?"
"Yes, please."
Jacob, who represented the third generation of Haversets to own the funeral home, was not at all what Cheryl had expected. Roughly thirty years of age, he had movie-star looks, a ready smile and a keen sense of humor. Of course, he projected a more somber presence when dealing with grieving family members and other mourners.
The interview went well. But although the salary offered was three times what she earned at the beauty salon, she was hesitant to accept the job.
"We also offer a full benefits package," Jacob announced, hoping to tempt her further. "Health, dental and vision insurance, a 401(k) program, yearly raises, five personal days and two weeks of vacation time, which will increase over time."
"You're making it hard for me to decline," she laughed.
"I understand your reluctance. Not everybody can take being around dead people every day. I do hope you'll consider our offer, though. Why don't you try it for a week or so? If you're not happy, you can leave with no hard feelings."
While finishing her coffee, Cheryl weighed the pros and cons of the job. There was one advantage to working at the funeral parlor that Jacob did not mention. Her "customers" would not complain. After several minutes, she put the cup back on the saucer and smiled.
"I'm not scheduled at the salon until Friday, so I can be here Monday through Thursday next week. If I don't get nightmares during those four days and you're satisfied with my work, then I'll take the job."
"Great!" Jacob declared. "Let me take you downstairs and show you where you'll work. If you need any supplies, you can tell Anita on the way out, and she'll order them for you."
Unlike Kim's Kuts and Kurls, there were no salon chairs or mirrors. There was a flat steel table with wheels, which Cheryl assumed was where the corpses were placed. On one wall, a large glass case held dozens of wigs and toupées in various styles and hair colors. On another wall was a wooden shelf filled with foundations, blushes, eyeshadows, eyeliners, mascara and appropriate brushes and applicators.
"This place looks more like a Hollywood makeup artist's workspace than a beauty salon."
"Sometimes, you'll need to use more ... concealing products," Jacob said sheepishly, reluctant to discuss the more unpleasant aspects of the job.
"What do you mean?"
"Not everyone who is brought in here dies a peaceful death. Some of the bodies you'll have to work on will have bruises and lacerations. Others may have visible signs of illness. Of course, if the damage is too bad, I usually suggest a closed casket to the loved ones."
Cheryl closed her eyes and tried not to imagine working on the victim of a serious car accident.
What am I getting myself into? she wondered. Oh, well! It's only for four days. I don't have to stay here forever.
* * *
On Monday morning, Cheryl took a deep breath to steel her nerves and walked into the funeral home. Anita Ruffing greeted her at the door.
"There's coffee and donuts in the lunchroom," the assistant announced with a welcoming smile.
"Maybe a little later. I'm too nervous to eat right now."
"Leery of working on a dead person?"
Cheryl nodded.
"So was I at first. I was only here a week when Jacob asked me to help dress a corpse. My hands shook so much, I couldn't button her blouse. Then I told myself she wasn't dead; she was only sleeping. I still tell myself that. I like to think of the deceased as enjoying a well-deserved eternal rest. Try it. It might work for you, too."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Come on, I'll walk you downstairs."
When Cheryl walked into her workroom, she saw the body of an elderly woman lying on the steel table. Thankfully, she had died peacefully in her sleep, so her face was not marred by a prolonged illness.
She's only sleeping, the beautician told herself.
"Are you okay?" Anita asked. "Would you like me to stay here with you for a while?"
"N-no. I'll be all right."
"Just yell if you need me."
Once Anita was gone, Cheryl stood above the late Minnie Leech and stared down at her face. Soon the initial fear melted away. With her eyes closed, the old woman really did look as though she were sleeping.
"I'll do your hair and nails first. Then your makeup."
Talking to the dead woman helped allay her anxiety even more.
"What's this?" she wondered, seeing a large manilla envelope at her workstation.
Inside was an eight-by-ten color photograph of the deceased. A yellow Post-it note indicated that Mrs. Leech always wore her hair in the curly bob shown in the photo. The picture also served as a guide to the amount and type of makeup the woman wore.
"This makes my job easier," she said and took the electric rollers off the shelf.
As she worked, she kept up a one-way conversation with the former high school math teacher.
"How are you doing?" Jacob asked when he paid her a visit shortly after eleven o'clock.
"I'm almost done," Cheryl replied. "I just want to put some lipstick on her."
"You did a great job," the mortician declared after seeing Minnie's face and hair.
"Thank you. I wasn't sure at first if I could handle this work, but I followed Anita's advice, and it seemed to help."
"Oh? What advice is that?"
"I tell myself that the people aren't dead; they're only sleeping."
"I never thought of it that way," he laughed. "But then my father was a mortician as was his father before him. I've been around the dead all my life, so I've never been uneasy around them."
"There!" Cheryl exclaimed, putting the lid on the tube of lipstick. "I'm done."
"After lunch, I'll move her upstairs and lay her in her casket."
"Is it lunchtime already?" she asked, looking at her watch.
"I thought we'd have an early lunch today. Anita and I want to take you out."
"Isn't a welcome-to-the-family lunch a little premature? I haven't decided to take the job yet."
"Then think of it as a bribe to induce you to stay."
By the time Thursday came around, Cheryl had made her decision. Taking into account the generous salary and benefits package plus the fact that she no longer had to deal with difficult salon patrons, she accepted Jacob's offer.
* * *
"Did you bake this?" Jacob asked when he saw the lemon poppyseed Bundt cake in the lunchroom.
"Yes, I did," Cheryl replied. "I thought it would be a pleasant change from donuts."
"It certainly is! I see I did the right thing hiring you."
The cosmetologist finished the last of her coffee and rinsed her cup out in the sink.
"Speaking of which, I better get to work. I understand there will be two viewings today."
When Cheryl walked into her workroom, she was surprised to see a young woman on one of the steel tables. Up until that point, she had worked on much older people. The youngest of her subjects had been sixty-two whereas the woman on the table looked to be in her early twenties.
The person on the second table was eighty-four-year-old Melrose Bacon. She decided to work on him first since men took less time than women. At her workstation, she found the usual large envelopes that contained photographs and instructions from the families. Since chemotherapy had caused the man's baldness, she decided to use a gray toupée to restore him to his pre-cancer look.
"This one looks natural," she declared after securing the hairpiece to the scalp with an adhesive.
After using liquid makeup to add some color to his face, neck and hands, Cheryl stood back and eyed her work.
"You look exactly like you did in the photo—except your eyes are closed, of course."
Finished with Melrose, the cosmetologist returned to her workstation and opened the second envelope. The photograph of a radiant young woman brought tears to her eyes.
"She was so young," she said softly. "And so beautiful."
Thank you.
Frightened, Cheryl dropped the photo onto the floor.
"Who said that?" she demanded to know.
I did. I thanked you for the compliment.
The voice appeared to be coming from the woman's corpse, but the lips never moved and the eyes remained closed.
"Of course, her lips didn't move! She's dead!"
I can't talk out loud because my mouth is filled with cotton gauze and my lips are sutured shut. And I can't open my eyes because the undertaker glued my eyelids shut over those plastic eye caps.
Fear for her sanity replaced Cheryl's initial disbelief.
"What's wrong with me?" she cried. "Have I gone insane?"
No. You were talking to that old man just a few minutes ago. If you think speaking to the dead is normal behavior, why would receiving a response be any less likely?
Although she had never believed in them, Cheryl was aware that since man's earliest days, some people claimed to be able to penetrate the veil and speak with the dead. People often paid psychics, mediums, clairvoyants and the like to communicate with their late loved ones. But weren't such people con artists and hustlers?
Put your mind at ease, the disembodied voice assured her. You're not crazy.
"Are you a g-ghost?"
I don't exactly know what I am. Does it matter?
"No. It's just that I've worked here for eight months, and you're the first corpse to speak to me."
Maybe the others had nothing to say.
"And you do?"
Yes. I want to set the record straight. My death was no accident; I was murdered.
Since Cheryl was unaware of the circumstances surrounding the young woman's demise, she was about to question her further. However, Anita entered the room, carrying an exquisite wedding gown.
"Can I borrow your scissors? I need to cut this dress down."
"Why on earth would you want to do that?" the cosmetologist asked.
"The family wants her buried in this. Since she'll only be visible from the waist up, there's no need for all this extra fabric."
"They want her buried in her wedding dress?"
"Yes. Odd, considering it was the cause of her death."
"What do you mean?"
"Haven't you heard the tragic story? Kendall Billington-Farwell—that's the deceased's name—died on her wedding day. The reception was being held at Claremont Castle, a very exclusive wedding venue. She was upstairs in one of the bedrooms, reapplying her makeup and fixing her hair when the band began to play. That was the cue for her to make her entrance. However, as she descended the grand staircase, her foot got caught in the hem of her gown and she fell. The poor thing broke her neck."
Cheryl waited for Kendall to contradict the assistant's account; however, the previously talkative corpse was suddenly silent.
It was not until after Anita removed yards of white silk taffeta and lace from what had once been a stunning and expensive designer gown and left the room that the dead woman continued her lament.
I didn't trip. I was pushed.
"Who pushed you?"
I don't know. I was looking ahead, about to descend the carpeted steps when I felt someone's hands on my upper back. The next thing I knew I was tumbling down the stairs. By the time I reached the bottom, I was dead. I never saw my murderer.
"That's a shame," Cheryl said, believing such a statement was inadequate to describe the poor bride's heartbreaking end. "But why are you telling me this?"
Because I want you to find my killer.
"Me? How do you propose I do that? I'm not a detective. Why don't you speak to the police?"
I'm unable to converse with everyone. Since my untimely demise, you're the only one who I've been able to communicate with. You must be some sort of psychic.
Looking back, Cheryl recalled several instances in her life when she instinctively knew what someone was about to say. Could that mean she did, in fact, possess such a gift?
"That may well be, but, like I said, I'm not a detective. I'm not equipped in any way to solve a crime."
I'll help you. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can ferret out the identity of the man or woman who shoved me.
* * *
Since Kendall Billington-Farwell's viewing was not until two o'clock, Cheryl had plenty of time to work her magic. Although the family requested she be buried in her wedding dress, they did not ask that the veil be put on her head. That gave the cosmetologist free rein to choose a hairstyle for the dead woman.
When Jacob entered the workroom to collect Mr. Bacon, whose viewing was scheduled an hour earlier, he found his newest employee putting rollers in the dead bride's hair.
"Are you curling her hair?" he asked. "In the photograph the family sent, she wore it straight."
"She's going to be wearing her bridal gown. I think having her hair in curls would be more appropriate."
"You're the hairstylist," Jacob said with his usual smile. "I leave it to your discretion."
Once alone with the corpse, Cherly continued the conversation.
"Do you have any idea who might want to kill you?" she asked.
Sadly, there are a few likely candidates. The first and most likely is Warren Siebold, my former fiancé. We met in college and were engaged in our junior year. But when I met Trevor Farwell, I called the engagement off. Warren didn't take it very well—to put it mildly.
"Was he angry enough to kill you?"
It's possible. Then there's Ainsley, my half-brother. Our father is a very wealthy man who was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Ainsley and I are his only heirs. According to the terms of the will, if one of us should predecease him, his or her half of the fortune will go to the remaining heir. Sadly, Father's condition has recently worsened. His doctors have given him less than two months to live. If Ainsley hoped to inherit it all, he had to act fast. We can assume he saw an opportunity and took it.
"So, we have two suspects: Warren Siebold and Ainsley Billington."
Three.
Kendall's "voice" betrayed a deep melancholy that her still, wax-like face did not echo.
"Who's the third?"
Trevor.
"Your husband? Why would he want to kill you?"
For my money. Why else? Since we were married before I took my fatal dive down the stairs, a clever lawyer might build a strong case for him to inherit my portion of Father's estate.
"But your father didn't have long to live. If her husband wanted to kill you for your fortune, why not just wait a couple of months until your father died and the money was yours?"
If he did that, he would surely be seen as the most likely suspect. However, by killing me on our wedding day, he garnered sympathy from everyone. He'd be the poor groom who lost his beloved after only a few hours of marriage.
"Okay. Three suspects. Do you know where each of them was when you fell?"
I didn't fall; I was pushed.
"Yes, yes. But where were the suspects?"
Trevor and Ainsley, who was a groomsman, were both upstairs in the lounge, drinking champagne.
"And Warren? Was he even invited to the wedding?"
No, but his family owned Claremont Castle, so he could easily have gained access to the place.
As the two women discussed the events that led up to Kendall's death, Cheryl took great care in applying the makeup to the dead woman's face. She then gave her a manicure and reached for a bottle of nail polish.
Ugh! I hate that color! Don't you have a different shade of pink?
"One of the reasons I took this job was so that I didn't have to deal with complaining customers," the cosmetologist laughed.
Sorry, but I'll have to spend the rest of eternity in a casket. The least I can do is have a nice color of enamel on my fingernails.
* * *
To accommodate the large number of mourners expected to attend, Kendall Billington-Farwell's family requested three days of viewing. On the first two days, viewings would be held from two to four and from seven to nine. On the third day, the final viewing was scheduled at ten o'clock, followed by the funeral in St. Timothy's church and then a brief graveside service at the cemetery.
Once Cheryl put the finishing touches on Kendall's hairdo, she went to the lunchroom to eat the sandwich and apple she had packed in her brown paper bag that morning. Since no more corpses were waiting for her attention that day she could have gone home early. However, Anita had asked for her help in putting the wedding gown on the late bride.
"Peanut butter and jelly?" the assistant laughed when she sat down at the table with her Cobb salad. "I haven't had one of those since I was in middle school."
"I love peanut butter," the cosmetologist confessed. "Peanut butter ice cream, cake, cookies, fudge, milkshakes and especially Reese's peanut butter cups. Mmmm! Just the thought of them makes my mouth water! Honestly, I can take a spoon and eat it right out of the jar."
The two women chatted amiably as they ate, but at 12:30, Anita looked at her watch and tossed the empty salad container into the trash.
"Let's get that dress on the bride," she said. "I've got to be available at one o'clock when Mr. Bacon's viewing begins."
With the bottom of the wedding gown cut off, the dress was the length of a tunic top. Still, the long lace sleeves had to fit over Kendall's arms. Rather than put the blouse-sized dress over her head and button it up as the designer had intended, Anita took a pair of scissors and cut it open at the back.
"That should make our job easier," she explained. "Like putting on a hospital gown. You place her right arm in the sleeve, and I'll do her left."
In less than ten minutes, the corpse was dressed and ready to be put on display.
"There! You can go home now," the assistant said.
"First, I want to touch up her makeup. I think I missed a few spots on her neck."
Once Anita was on her way to the viewing room where Melrose Bacon's family and friends would soon gather, Cheryl leaned over Kendall's casket.
I can't believe how that woman destroyed my gown! Does she have any idea how much it cost me—or rather how much it cost my father?
"She had to do it so that we could fit it on you."
Oh, great! I get to spend the hereafter in a rag of a dress!
"Come on. How bad can it be? It's a designer gown, not a Kmart blue light special."
That's easy for you to say. You're not stuck in a coffin with only half a dress.
"Forget about what you're wearing. We have only three days to figure out who killed you."
You're right. Here's what I want you to do. Get some kind of a recording device and place the microphone in my folded hands.
"You can't be serious! You want me to bug your corpse?"
When my killer confesses, we need proof to give to the police.
"What makes you think he—whoever he is—will confess?"
Leave that to me. It seems that being dead, I have one or two little tricks up my sleeve. I can telepathically suggest an action to the living. Hurry up. Go get that recorder.
Cheryl drove to the electronics store, half a mile from Somerdale Funeral Home. Surprisingly, wireless microphones compatible with her iPhone were relatively inexpensive. She purchased the smallest one she could afford and returned to the funeral parlor.
"I thought you left already," Anita said when the cosmetologist walked in the door.
"I forgot something," she lied.
Thankfully, several of Mr. Bacon's former coworkers arrived at that moment, and the assistant focused her attention on them. Cheryl snuck into the largest of the viewing rooms where Kendall Billington-Farwell's casket was placed amid a profusion of floral arrangements.
Have you got it?
"Yes."
Cheryl removed the microphone from its packaging and slipped it between the dead woman's hands. Then she tested out the recording app to make sure it worked.
"We're all set."
Good. Now stick around. If you see any of the three suspects approach the casket, turn on the recorder.
"But I have no reason to be here."
Make up some excuse. After all, I can't very well do it myself.
Thankfully, the room was so crowded with mourners that no one noticed the timid young woman sitting in the back row of chairs, silently staring at the people who approached the casket.
As was customary, Jacob Haverset provided a kneeling bench for those who wanted to kneel and say a prayer. Warren Siebold, whom Cheryl recognized from Kendall's description, was the first suspect to pay his respects. He knelt down, bowed his head and prayed.
"Amen," he said softly and then raised his head to gaze at his former fiancée's face one last time. "I can't believe you're gone. I've loved you for so long—even after you broke my heart. Whether you were married to me or to Trevor, the world was a much brighter place with you in it."
Having confessed his love, Warren stood up and walked away.
Next, Kendall's parents approached their dead daughter. The dying father, sorrow etching his already sickly features, leaned on his wife for support.
"A parent shouldn't have to bury his child," he cried. "I thought I was the one who would go first."
Cheryl got a tissue out of her handbag and wiped away her tears. She did not envy Jacob or Anita having to be surrounded by death and grief day in and day out.
After the grief-stricken parents found seats in the first row, the stepbrother took their place in front of the casket. Unlike Warren, he neither kneeled nor prayed. However, his anguish was just as evident.
"Hey, Sis," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "What a hell of a thing to happen, huh? I know we weren't as close as we should have been. Maybe if we had the same mother, things might have been different. But I loved you, and I'm going to miss you. You know I'm an agnostic, but if there is a heaven, I'm sure the gates will be wide open for you."
Ten minutes later, after several more mourners gazed down at Kendall's serene face, the young widower finally found the courage to draw near to his late wife. Tears slid down his cheeks when he beheld her lovely countenance.
"It's true what they say," he whispered. "You look like you're sleeping. It seems you're going to wake up any moment. But you'll never open your eyes again."
Trevor fell silent, unable to continue for several minutes.
"I don't know how I'm going to get along without you. You were my entire world."
He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand and stood up. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
Cheryl, having recorded the words of all three suspects, left the funeral home and drove home. On the way to her small apartment, she stopped at her favorite deli and bought an Italian sub and a pint of Ben & Jerry's peanut butter cup ice cream. She would resort to eating comfort food and binge-watching The Crown on Netflix to take her mind off the events of the day.
* * *
Cheryl woke up early the following morning and drove to work after only a single cup of coffee and a slice of buttered toast for breakfast. She arrived thirty minutes early to find the funeral home as quiet as a tomb. Jacob was in the embalming room, cleansing the body of a ninety-year-old man with germicidal soap. Anita had stopped at the bakery for bagels on the way in.
The cosmetologist took the opportunity to slip into the large viewing room and speak to Kendall.
"Well?" she asked. "What do you think?"
It wasn't any of them!
"Are you sure?"
Yes.
"Maybe your death was an accident then. You could have tripped on your gown just like the police concluded and only imagined you felt hands on your back."
No! I was pushed.
"Do you have any more suspects?"
None that I can think of.
"They're going to bury you in two days. What happens if we haven't solved your murder by then?"
I suppose, given this unfinished business, I'll be a restless spirit. Maybe I'll haunt you.
"Oh, please don't!" Cheryl exclaimed.
I was only joking. As much as I appreciate your help, I don't want to spend eternity watching you set hair or put makeup on stiffs.
"Need I remind you that you, yourself, are a stiff?"
Like I could forget!
"All kidding aside, what do we do now?"
I'll have to force every person draws near to my casket to come clean.
"We can't record everyone. I doubt I have that much free storage space on my phone. I've got a lot of photos, games and apps on it. I've even got a few movies downloaded."
Then I'll try to find the culprit first. Once we know his identity, you can help get the proof.
Hearing Anita's Subaru pull into the employee parking area, Cheryl hurried out of the viewing room. The assistant found her in the lunchroom where she was pouring herself a second cup of coffee before heading down to her workroom to beautify the three corpses who were to be laid out later that day.
* * *
Kendall was discouraged. For two hours that afternoon, she telepathically persuaded friends, family, neighbors and coworkers to reveal their true feelings about her. Despite their somber faces and words of condolence to the parents and widower, not everyone had good things to reveal about the dead woman. For instance, her mother-in-law considered Kendall nowhere good enough for her son. Her secretary believed she was impossibly demanding. The wedding planner was even more frank; she thought the late bride was a first-class bitch. Still, none of them had the level of hostility it took to murder someone.
What if I don't find my killer? the dead woman wondered. I don't want to be a ghost forever. How boring that would be!
The evening viewing was just as disappointing as the earlier one. A steady procession of mourners walked past Kendall's casket. Some sincerely grieved her passing; others were only there for the sake of appearances.
"Any progress?" Cheryl asked the following morning when she passed by the viewing room on her way to the lunchroom for coffee.
No. Damn it!
"I'm sorry," the cosmetologist said, knowing that there was to be only a one-hour viewing at ten before the body would be whisked off to St. Timothy's for the funeral.
It's not your fault. You didn't push me down those stairs.
Since nearly all of her friends and family had visited the previous two days, there were only about a dozen people in attendance for the final viewing. Among them were her parents, Trevor, Ainsley and Madison Ludlam, her best friend and maid of honor at her wedding.
Although she had attended the evening viewings on the previous two days, Madison had never walked up to the casket and paid her respects. She decided to do so this time. Clad in a black dress purchased at JCPenney and a pair of high heels from a Nine West outlet store, she kneeled on the bench and lowered her head. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, but she did not shed a single tear. It was all pretense.
"They're going to bury you today," she said beneath her breath, yielding to the dead bride's telepathic urging. "I'm glad. My only regret is that you died too easily. I wish you had suffered awhile first."
Kendall was stunned. Madison was the last person she expected to have been her killer.
"You had everything your entire life. Looks, brains, money, a loving father and mother ...."
Madison raised her head, and although Kendall could not actually see her maid of honor's face, she sensed the hatred that was there.
"You took Warren from me. And as if that wasn't bad enough, you stole Trevor away, too. I hope you rot in hell, you monster!"
Having unknowingly bared her soul and revealed her true feelings to the body in the casket, she crossed herself as though she were ending a prayer and rose to her feet.
"Goodbye, dear friend," she said loud enough so that everyone could hear her.
* * *
At eleven o'clock, Kendall's parents, half-brother and widower looked upon their loved one's face for the last time. After they left the funeral home and got into the waiting limousines, Jacob and Anita closed the lid on the dead bride's casket.
Wait! I have to talk to Cheryl, her mind cried out but neither of them heard her.
The casket was loaded into the hearse and driven to St. Timothy's. The pallbearers, Trevor Farwell, Ainsley Billington and four others, carried it into the church, unaware that inside, the deceased was desperately seeking help in unmasking her killer.
It's Madison Ludlam! her brain screamed repeatedly.
After the funeral service, the casket was again placed in the back of the hearse, and it was transported to the cemetery.
Cheryl, where are you? I need you!
There was no answer. The cosmetologist was in her workroom at the funeral parlor setting the hair of a ninety-six-year-old woman who had the misfortune to outlive all three of her children.
This is it! Kendall realized when the hearse came to a stop. The priest is going to say a few words, and then they'll put me in the ground.
Suddenly, she found herself outside her body. Although her corpse, clad in what remained of her designer wedding dress, was still in the casket, her spirit was free. Furthermore, she could see! As she marveled at her liberation and restoration of her eyesight, the first limousine pulled up and her parents emerged from the vehicle.
Daddy!
He looked as though he were on death's door. No doubt, he would join her soon.
After the limos were empty and her close family members were seated in folding chairs placed beside the grave, the remainder of the mourners arrived. Madison drove up in her rusted 2012 Ford Fiesta. The homicidal maid of honor had a hard time walking across the grass in her high heels. With great difficulty, she made it to the graveside where she was handed a long-stemmed rose and was directed to take one of the chairs in back of the immediate family. However, as she walked past the open grave, she heard the disembodied voice of her former best friend.
There you are! You venomous murderer!
"Kendall!" she screamed in horror.
Eager to escape the bride's vengeful ghost, she turned to run. Her heel sunk into the soft ground, and she turned her ankle. Madison tottered briefly and then fell into the open grave, breaking her neck in the process.
* * *
After finishing her coffee and peanut butter brownie, Cheryl descended the stairs to her workroom. There were three bodies on steel tables. The first was a seventy-nine-year-old retired orthodontist. The second was a forty-two-year-old police officer who was killed in the line of duty. The third was a twenty-six-year-old woman.
"You look familiar," the cosmetologist said. "I know I've seen you somewhere."
You sure did.
"Kendall? Is that you?"
How many other ghosts do you know?
"I can't see you."
Of course, you can't. My body is six feet underground.
"So, you're going to haunt me from now on. Is that it?" No. I just came to say goodbye. I'm off to the next plane of existence. "But don't you have unfinished business to see to first?"
It's all been taken care of. My killer is lying in front of you.
"This is the person who pushed you down the stairs?"
The one and only. Believe it or not, she was my best friend and the maid of honor at my wedding.
"But why did she do it?"
She was envious of everything I had—the best education money could buy, a successful career, a loving family, a devoted husband—so she killed me.
"Death, as they say, is the great equalizer. Now both of you are in the same boat. You each have a casket and six feet of ground above you."
Equalizer, my ass! I was buried in a gold-plated casket with a life-size marble statue above my grave.
Cheryl laughed. Apparently, even in death, Kendall Billington-Farwell was treated to only the best.
Salem took a correspondence course in cosmetology. As you can see, he failed miserably.
