Stiff Competition
Burt Summersby had often heard his father say that nothing was certain in life except death and taxes. That old adage—along with "God works in mysterious ways" (his mother's response to life's adversities)—became the Golden Rule of his youth. It was only natural then that when it came time for Burt to enter the workforce, he decided to pursue a career that would offer him long range security. Never the biggest fan of mathematics, he decided becoming a tax consultant or an accountant was out of the question. That left death, the other certainty in life. As gruesome as it sounds, he chose to earn his living profiting from other people's deaths.
After graduating from Puritan Falls High School, he enrolled in college and got his degree in mortuary science. For the next ten months, Burt interned at D'Agostino's Funeral Parlor and honed his skills to the point where Vito D'Agostino offered him a permanent job. However, the young mortician did not want to be a salaried employee. His goal was to eventually own a fine funeral home of his own, and since Mr. D'Agostino had three sons and two daughters, all of whom were expected to work for the family business when they grew up, Burt had no hope of advancement.
The decision to leave Puritan Falls was a difficult one. He had been born and raised in that quaint little village. His roots were deep in its sandy soil, going all the way back to the early eighteenth century. But Burt had to think of his future, and opportunities in the vicinity of his home were limited.
With the help of a motivated real estate agent and given the depressed housing market, the young mortician was able to purchase a large Victorian home in Vermont.
"This is perfect!" he exclaimed after the realtor took him on a tour of the interior.
Although the home was marketed as a "handyman's dream," Burt was not put off by the amount of work the building needed. Thankfully, most of it was cosmetic in nature.
"If the place wasn't a fixer-upper, I would never be able to afford it," he told his parents when he showed them photographs of his new home.
His father was skeptical.
"You don't know much about carpentry, plumbing or electrical work," he pointed out, fearing his son would fall victim to a money pit.
"I didn't know anything about embalming or burying either, but I learned. Besides, it's not only the size of the house that drew me in. It's what realtors always say, 'Location, location, location.' This is a developing area of Vermont, and the nearest funeral home is more than twenty miles away. I'll have no competition."
"For now, anyway," his father pointed out. "But you can't depend on the future. After all, nothing's certain except death and taxes."
"Yes, Dad, and it's certain that every one of the people who pay taxes in that area will eventually die. And when they do, Summersby's Funeral Home will be there to assist the mourners in their time of bereavement."
* * *
For the next ten years, Burt Summersby prospered beyond his expectations. His business was so good, in fact, that he earned enough money to completely renovate the old house inside and out.
As he entered his second decade as proprietor of a funeral home, however, he noticed his income was slowly declining. Thanks to advancements in medicine, the population, in general, was living to a more advanced age. Organ transplants saved lives of people who would normally have died. Even some who were beyond hope were being kept alive on life support, prolonging the inevitable.
With fewer funerals, the mortician had to raise prices in order to keep up with his bills. This helped but not as much as he had hoped. His customers, too, were feeling the pinch of the recession. They reacted to his higher prices by having fewer showings, ordering less expensive caskets and funeral urns and cutting back on the other services he offered. Burt was amazed that families were willing to let grandma lay in her casket without having her hair set in order to save a few dollars.
Still, Summersby's Funeral Home managed to bring in enough money to cover its expenses and yield a modest profit. The owner held on, hoping the economy would improve, additional people would move into the area and more relatives would pull the plug on family members who were being kept alive by machines.
"Thank God I'm a man with simple tastes," he told the elderly housekeeper who cleaned both the funeral parlor and his apartment above.
"Thank God you didn't marry that young woman from Boston, you mean. With business the way it's been lately, you wouldn't even be able to keep her in shoes!"
"Maybe I should just swallow my pride, return to Massachusetts and take a job at D'Agostino's. They've no shortage of business."
"Working for someone else does have its advantages: a steady income being one of the most important."
As pleasant as it had been to work with the D'Agostino family, Burt preferred being his own boss. If and when his business failed, then he would return to Puritan Falls. Until that time, he would keep the Summersby Funeral Home open, even if only one economy-rate funeral was held there a week.
* * *
Over the next several years, Burt's prospects improved. Not only did a gourmet food and gift company with nearly a thousand employees open a factory and warehouse in the area, but also a three-hundred-unit townhouse development was erected. Most promising of all was a senior citizens home with more than seventy residents. More people meant more funerals.
With his improved financial status, the mortician felt comfortable enough to take a wife—not the high-maintenance beauty from Boston who needed a closet just for her footwear but a sensible woman from Rutland who clipped coupons and comparison-shopped at the grocery store. When Felicia informed him that he was going to be a father, Burt was overjoyed. He imagined his son—or daughter—following in his footsteps. He hoped that someday he, like Vito D'Agostino, would be the head of a large family-run business.
Once her husband had absorbed the news of his future parenthood, Felicia, being the sensible wife that he loved, brought up a practical subject.
"You know, honey, with a baby on the way, this apartment is going to be very crowded."
Burt saw the logic in her statement. While there were originally three bedrooms in the house, a wall had been removed between two of them to create a master suite. The remaining bedroom was not much larger than the average walk-in closet.
"Maybe we ought to contact the realtor and see if there are any suitable houses on the market," he suggested.
"Actually," Felicia said, smiling mischievously, "I found just the place for us. They're holding an open house on Saturday."
"I have a viewing in the morning and two in the evening, but my afternoon is free."
"Good! Wait until you see the place. You'll love it!"
* * *
After the Saturday morning viewing came to an end, Burt stood at the door of the funeral parlor, shaking the hands of the mourners and offering his condolences to the family. Once the last of the visitors had left, he turned off the lights, locked the door and went upstairs to his second-floor apartment.
He surprised his wife by taking her to lunch before heading over to the open house. The two were seated at a table, waiting for the server to take their order, when Burt saw a lone man walk into the restaurant and request a table for one.
"What are you looking at?" Felicia asked when she saw her husband put on his glasses to examine something across the room.
"That man over there; he looks like Batman."
"What?" his wife asked and turned her head to see what her husband was talking about.
"See, don't you think he looks like the actor who plays Batman? What was his name? Chris something or other."
"You're right; he does look like Christian Bale," she agreed and quickly turned away so that the stranger would not think her rude.
Burt, on the other hand, had a friendly smile and a brief nod of his head. As a mortician, he believed in always being sociable. After all, he never knew if a person he passed on the street might one day be a customer. The Christian Bale lookalike smiled in return and gave a half-hearted wave of his hand before lowering his head to read the menu.
"I never saw him in town," Burt commented as he contemplated whether to order a gorgonzola burger or a chef's salad.
"Maybe he's just passing through," his wife replied, fighting the urge to turn and look at the stranger again. "Or maybe he's on the trail of the Joker or some other dastardly villain."
Burt chuckled—a mere courtesy laugh—and then promptly put the single diner out of his mind as he listened to his wife extol the many virtues of the home she wanted them to buy. Finally, after finishing his burger—which won out over the salad—he and his wife left the restaurant and drove to the open house.
"Doesn't this place have tremendous curb appeal?" Felicia asked, clearly enamored with the two-story federal style home.
"It does look impressive from the outside," her husband agreed. "Let's hope it's just as remarkable on the inside."
The realtor greeted the couple at the door and invited them inside.
"You're free to look around," she said. "If you have any questions, I'll be more than happy to answer them. Here's a fact sheet on the property."
Burt's eyes were immediately drawn to the price. It was high, but still within their budget. That is, as long as his cash flow remained at its current level.
The mortician and his wife were on the second floor, examining the size of the closet in the master bedroom, when they heard footsteps approaching.
Assuming it was the realtor, Burt called over his shoulder, "What do the property taxes on a place like this run?"
"I don't know," a deep, masculine voice replied, "but I imagine they're quite high."
Burt turned around, and the stranger smiled and said, "What a coincidence. You're the couple from the restaurant."
"The name's Burt Summersby," the mortician said, extending his hand to the stranger. "And this is my wife, Felicia."
"Oliver Nettles," the stranger replied, as the two men shook hands. "It's nice to meet you. Are you interested in this house?"
"Yes," Felicia said. "We're expecting what I hope will be the first of three children, and we need a bigger place. What about you?"
"I'm looking for somewhere local to live because I want to open a business in town."
"That's great," Burt said with a sincere smile. "It's always good to have more people coming into the area."
"Of course, I have to see about those taxes first. After all, until my business is established, I'll be financially strapped."
"Ah, yes, the taxes!" Burt laughed. "My parents were always fond of saying nothing in life was certain except death and taxes."
"Isn't that the truth," Oliver agreed.
"By the way, what type of business are you in?" Burt inquired.
"Let me guess," Felicia laughed. "You're a crime fighter, a caped crusader."
Oliver's temporarily puzzled look turned to a blushing grin when he got the joke.
"No, I'm not Batman."
"But you do bear a strong resemblance to Christian Bale," she insisted. "Surely, other people must have told you so."
"All the time, but occasionally I hear that I look like Josh Brolin, and my elderly neighbor swears I'm the spitting image of Eric Bana—but I honestly believe she looks at me through the wrong portion of her trifocals."
"So if you don't catch villains, what do you do?"
"This is the part of the conversation that usually makes people feel uncomfortable, but I'll just have to come out and say it. I'm an undertaker, and I plan on opening a funeral parlor here in your lovely little town."
The look on the Summersbys' faces surprised Oliver. They seemed to take learning of his occupation worse than anyone he had ever met.
* * *
With competition from Oliver Nettles, Burt's sales plummeted; and as more and more people became acquainted with the new funeral director, they fell even lower. It was quite disconcerting to note how many bereaved widows preferred putting their late husbands in the hands of a handsome, eligible bachelor to trusting them to a capable married father and well-respected member of the community.
In two years' time, the Summersbys' finances were in such dire straits that they were forced to sell their federal style home and move back into the two-bedroom living quarters above the funeral parlor.
When Felicia discovered she was pregnant with her second child, Burt knew he had to do something to increase his income.
"Maybe I should try to find a job," Felicia offered. "A second income would help."
"None of the jobs around here pay well," Burt argued, "and after you deduct the cost of a babysitter, you won't have much left. Besides, I've been thinking. Maybe we ought to relocate someplace out west or down south."
"So far from our families? Our parents will never get to see their grandchildren except at Christmas and Thanksgiving."
"Maybe Maine then or the western half of Massachusetts, some little area where we won't have competition. Who am I kidding? With my luck, we'll get established and Superman will move into town and tell me he's an undertaker."
"Stop it!" Felicia admonished her husband. "This negative attitude won't do us any good."
Although there were no viewings scheduled, Burt walked downstairs to his office. Due to the lack of business, he had to let his secretary go, so he sat at his desk hoping the phone would ring. As he waited, he went through the pile of mail Felicia had placed in his inbox.
In the pile of bills and advertisements was a copy of a magazine targeting people employed in the mortuary trade. A letter inserted between the cover and the first page informed him that it was the last issue he would receive since he had neglected to renew his subscription.
As he thumbed through the pages, he was amused by an article on extreme funerals.
What will they think of next? he wondered as he looked at a photograph of a cheerleader, in a pair of short-shorts and belly shirt, shaking her pompoms in front of a deceased sports fan, who surely would have ogled her curves if he were still in the land of the living.
As he turned the pages, Burt discovered just how wacky some funerals could be: pallbearers dressed as clowns, a Harley Davidson hearse and caskets in odd shapes that included a beer can, a cigarette, a man's shoe, a ballet slipper, a giant chicken and a pineapple. There were even special coffins for KISS fans and Star Trek devotees.
Thinking his wife could use a good laugh, he went upstairs with the magazine.
"You've got to see these pictures," he said. "Look at this. Some guy in Seattle hired a stripper to perform at his father's funeral. And here, a mourner rented an ice cream truck to serve treats at the graveside service."
"Who would do such a thing?"
"I like this one," Burt continued, turning the page. "Here's a man laid out sitting upright in his yellow Lamborghini."
"What is that?" Felicia asked, pointing to a photograph on the opposite page. "Is someone having their viewing on the set of The Price is Right?"
"No, it's a Las Vegas-themed funeral, complete with giant-sized slot machine, pair of dice and poker hand."
"That's something that happened in Vegas that definitely should have stayed in Vegas."
"It's disgraceful!" Burt declared. "A deceased person ought to be treated with some dignity and respect with a nice, quiet viewing in a peaceful setting."
"I don't know. Look at how some people behave at an Irish wake."
"Maybe I ought to offer live music and beer on tap then."
It was a ridiculous comment, meant only as a joke; however, it planted a seed in Burt Summersby's fertile imagination.
* * *
Three days later a thirty-six-year-old widow came to the funeral parlor to arrange for a service for her wealthy, elderly husband. After Burt outlined his fee schedule for the viewing room rental, embalming and transportation both from the morgue and to the cemetery, he took her to the showroom to pick out a coffin.
The woman looked at his assortment and frowned.
"Is this all you have?" she asked. "I was hoping you had something different, but you've got basically the same selection as Oliver Nettles does."
"You went there first?"
"Yes, but he didn't have what I wanted either."
"What is it you want?" Burt asked.
"Well, Harry—that's my late husband—he was a big baseball fan. No offense, but he would never have been comfortable in one of your viewing rooms with its stuffy Victorian furniture. He was happiest sitting in Fenway Park, watching a game, drinking beer and eating hot dogs."
"You know," Burt said, desperate not to lose a potential customer, "I believe there is a company in Chicago that sells cremation urns and caskets featuring different sports team logos. I could look into this, if you'd like."
"Would you?" the widow asked, her face radiating with excitement. "I'd really appreciate it. And don't worry about the price. I don't mind paying more to send poor Harry off in a way that would have made him happy in life."
"I'll see what I can do."
* * *
When the mourners walked into the main viewing room of Summersby's Funeral Home, they were stunned to see the transformation that had taken place. The formal sofas and folding chairs had been temporarily removed, replaced with several clusters of baseball stadium seats in front of the room and wooden bleachers in the back. On the wall behind the casket was a wide-angle paper mural of Fenway Park's infield and the famed Green Monster. Along the adjacent two walls were posters of Red Sox players and Harry's personal collection of team pennants, dating all the way back to 1947. Flanking the Red Sox casket were lockers similar to those in Fenway's locker room. The deceased himself was dressed in a Red Sox uniform complete with ball cap. Surrounding the satin pillow beneath Harry's head were a can of beer, a box of peanuts, a baseball glove and the deceased's prized autographed Carlton Fisk rookie card.
"Oh, Mr. Summersby!" the widow cried—in gratitude, not sorrow. "How my Harry would have loved all that you've done! I can't thank you enough."
"There's no need for gratitude. I'm glad to be of assistance to you in your time of bereavement."
In truth, the fact that she paid five times what his deluxe funeral package normally cost was thanks enough.
* * *
Word of the unusual funeral spread quickly through the state of Vermont and beyond. Soon the widow of a New England Patriots fan requested a football-themed viewing. A widower from Bangor wanted a Barbie funeral for his late wife, who had a passion for collecting the iconic fashion doll. Once again, business began to pick up, and due to the high cost of these elaborate affairs, Burt's profits increased at an even greater rate.
The expense of staging each individualized funeral was far less than most people believed. For instance, the stadium seats, lockers, six-foot-tall pony tail Barbie and the Patriots goalpost were all rented from a theatrical supply company. Many of the smaller accessories were purchased at flea markets, yard sales and on eBay. Even when Burt was called upon to arrange a Gone with the Wind funeral, he paid a student from the local college drama club to paint a backdrop of Tara. A costume rental store provided Confederate uniforms and Southern belle gowns for the dearly departed's family, and Felicia, who was in the eighth month of her second pregnancy, sewed a costume similar to Scarlett's green portiere gown for the deceased woman.
After a write-up appeared in Yankee Magazine, Summersby's Funeral Home became so well known in the Northeast region of the country that wealthy people came from as far away as New York and New Jersey to have Burt organize a personalized memorial service for their loved ones.
It was while the mortician was planning a Titanic funeral that he received an unexpected visitor: Oliver Nettles. Although several years had passed since the two men met at the open house, Oliver had not changed. He still looked like a movie star.
"I'm surprised to see you here," Burt said.
"I wanted to congratulate you on your success," Oliver explained. "Your rather unconventional practices have paid off."
"Sometimes you have to change with the times. Quiet, dignified funerals are out of vogue now."
"Don't I know it! My business has fallen off drastically."
"Are you thinking of relocating to a place with less competition?"
Oliver laughed.
"Not me. I've decided if I can't beat you, I'll join you."
"Are you suggesting we become partners?"
"No. I'm going to beat you at your own game. You see, I thrive on competition, going all the way back to the days when I first played football in junior high. I just wanted to give you fair warning that I intend to put you out of business. Now, let's shake hands, and may the better man win."
Burt stared down at Oliver's hand but refused to touch it. Running a mortuary was not a game to him; it was his livelihood.
* * *
Thus, began a period of fierce competition between the two funeral homes, with each mortician trying to outdo the other to have more sensational, extravagant memorial services. Both men also sought the aid of advertising, their names and faces frequently appearing on billboards, in local magazines ads and even on television commercials. In such cases, Oliver's Hollywood-style good looks gave him a distinct advantage. While Burt's business again experienced a drop, he was at least able to earn enough to keep up the mortgage on his new house and support his growing family.
Never having played sports in school, Burt never felt the desire to gain total victory over an opponent. This was a new and heady experience for him. Beating Oliver was no longer a question of earning a steady income; it had become a matter of pride. He wanted to run that smug, handsome undertaker out of town. Despite the efforts of both men, however, business at the two competing funeral homes was roughly equal. Furthermore, the stalemate threatened to continue until a stranger arrived in town to tip the scales in Burt's favor.
Vern Kearney was a stonecutter like his father and grandfather before him. Despite looking and sounding like Tony Soprano, he was a true artist, creating funerary masterpieces in marble, granite, sandstone and slate. One day, the craftsman drove to Vermont from his home in New Jersey to propose a business deal with the mortician.
"These headstones are beautiful," Burt told Vern after examining the stonecutter's portfolio. "But what brings you up here to see me?"
"My family used to make a good living carving headstones, so did I when I first took over the business. But these days fewer and fewer people are going in the ground. They're being cremated instead. To make a long story short, I was hoping you and I could become partners."
"You want to become a mortician?"
"No, no. I'm happy doing what I do. But I was thinking I would sell my house and business in New Jersey and buy a large parcel of land here in Vermont. You and I can turn it into a cemetery, and not just any cemetery. I once had a woman ask me to carve a giant Snoopy for her son's grave. Unfortunately, the church cemetery had rules. They felt a Snoopy monument was undignified, so the woman had to settle with a regular headstone with a small engraving of Snoopy above her son's name. When I read in the Sunday paper about your unusual funerals, I got the idea we could have a cemetery without rules. If someone wants to bury their kid with a Snoopy monument, they can. I figured if a guy could have a Star Wars funeral, why not a Darth Vader headstone?"
"I see your point. However, I'm a funeral director; I don't sell burial plots."
"But you should," Vern argued. "Why settle for being a mom and pop operation? Think like old Sam Walton, and offer one-stop shopping. A grieving relative should be able to leave all the unpleasant details in our hands. We, in turn, will offer a complete package deal: from picking up the body at the morgue to putting it in the ground, and everything in between. Just think about the potential here: cosmetic services, a memorial website, thank you cards sent out to the mourners. Hell, we could even provide floral arrangements, catered meals after the services and a small shop where people could purchase appropriate mourning clothes."
"You seem to have thought of everything," Burt laughed.
"You bet. I can see you and me as being the Walmart of the funeral industry."
And where will that leave Oliver Nettles? Burt wondered with growing excitement. He'll be F.W. Woolworth's, once the largest department store chain in the world, now just a memory.
* * *
In an effort to take the "grave" out of graveyards, the landscape architect designed the new cemetery in distinctly different sections—similar to a modern theme park. The first section to be opened was a Japanese garden, complete with a waterfall, coy pond, a red sori bashi bridge, granite Shinto lanterns and a pagoda. A former U.S. senator from New York, became the first person interred in the picturesque setting. He was laid to rest beneath a tasteful memorial marker placed between two full-size geisha girls carved in marble.
The bill for the viewings, funeral, cemetery plot and all ancillary services amounted to more than the average cost of a home in that portion of Vermont. According to the terms of his agreement with Vern Kearney, the two men split the profits equally. Both thought the arrangement fair since Vern had provided the cash investment for the land, and Burt's existing business and established reputation drew in the customers.
Meanwhile, Oliver Nettles was seen as David pitted against Goliath. Not even his Christian Bale/Josh Brolin/Eric Bana looks prevented him from losing nearly all of his business to his competitor. Two days after Burt Summersby and Vern Kearney opened the second section of their cemetery, their only competition, Nettles Funeral Parlor, closed its doors for good, and a FOR SALE sign appeared on the undertaker's house. Apparently, he had left for greener pastures. He did not reappear in Vermont until sixteen months later.
Everyone at Consolidated Funerary Services—the business was no longer called Summersby's Funeral Home—was busy preparing for the viewing of a former television star who chose to be buried in Vermont rather than in one of the more publicized Hollywood cemeteries. The departed was a lifelong comic book collector and wanted to go out in superhero style. Life-size mannequins of Superman, Spiderman, Captain America, Iron Man and Wolverine surrounded his Batmobile-fashioned casket, and despite the dead man's considerable bulk, his body was squeezed into a XXXL Batman costume.
On the morning of the first scheduled viewing, while part-time employees were positioning floral arrangements around the pseudo bat cave, Vern Kearney was in his workshop laboring over Catwoman, one of the four carved villains that were to be placed on the corners of the star's cemetery plot. Once he was finished, he would begin work on the Joker, the Riddler and the Penguin.
The artisan, who was busy chiseling away at the stone, did not hear the door open.
"Is that the Julie Newmar, Lee Meriwether, Eartha Kitt, Michelle Pfeiffer, Halle Berry or Anne Hathaway Catwoman?"
Vern turned at the sound of the voice and was surprised to see Oliver Nettles standing in the doorway with an arrogant smirk on his handsome face.
"Michelle Pfeiffer. Like Hitchcock, I have a thing for blondes."
"I prefer redheads myself."
"Look, I'm extremely busy. Is there something you want?"
"You and Burt Summersby have got a booming business here. I can't say the same for myself. Since closing up shop, I've been doing some travelling. I spent quite a bit of time in your home state of New Jersey, as a matter of fact."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I came across an interesting bit of news while I was there. You must have heard the story since you were still living in the Garden State at the time it happened. It seems this mobster from Jersey City had a pretty young wife who foolishly took a lover. Naturally, her husband learned of the affair, and as usually happens, the lover turned up dead, beaten to death and left where the unfaithful wife was sure to find his body."
"Get to the point, Nettles. I haven't got all day."
"The husband had an airtight alibi, so it was clear he didn't murder the man himself, but the police were certain he hired someone to do his dirty work. As of yet, they've been unable to learn the identity of the actual killer. There were no fingerprints or DNA at the scene, nothing but some flakes of granite found on the body. Odd, since there was no granite anywhere in the vicinity."
Vern's eyes blazed, but he remained silent and kept his temper in check.
"I understand you left New Jersey because your business was on the decline. This is no doubt true—at least in part. You weren't selling nearly as many headstones as your father did, but you still made enough to cover your expenses and turn a nice profit. Now, I'm no financial wizard, but I estimate between the sale of your business and your house, you must have made about six hundred thousand. Yet, you came up to Vermont and bought almost nine hundred acres of land and a house for you and your family. Frankly, I'm curious about where you suddenly got so much cash."
"Not that I owe you any explanation, but my wife and I had savings, money we'd inherited from our parents."
"No you don't owe me an explanation, but the Jersey City police may not feel the same way. If someone were to suggest they compare the marble dust found on the body with that on the ground around your former studio .... Look, I don't have to spell it out for you, do I?"
"I suppose you came here hoping to get money out of me, but how do I know you'll keep your mouth shut if I pay you? You could come back in six months or a year and demand more. It could go on and on."
"No, it's not money I want. You keep your money; I'm sure you earned it."
"What do you want then?"
"Most men would have left this town, opened a business elsewhere and started over, but not me. I don't like losing; I never have. I'm a terrible loser. So, you're going to help get Burt Summersby out of this business and go into a partnership with me."
"And how am I supposed to do that?"
"I'm sure you'll find a way. You seem like the resourceful type."
Vern looked around this workshop. He was content working in Vermont, far away from the city and the life he was born into in New Jersey. And now he ran the risk of losing all he had created.
"Well, what will it be? Are you with me?" Nettles demanded to know.
The stonecutter's strong, beefy arm swung with speed and force that took the undertaker by surprise. The blackmailer had no opportunity to react before the craftsman drove his chisel through his skull and into the brain. Oliver was dead before his body hit the floor.
"There's your answer, you piece of shit," Vern said with contempt as he watched the blood spreading out around the undertaker's head like a red halo.
A moment later, Burt stepped through the door.
"I thought I recognized Nettles when he walked up the driveway. I followed him out here and waited outside. I overhead every word you both said."
There was fear in Vern's eyes, but Burt quickly reassured him.
"Look, I don't care what may or may not have happened in New Jersey. It's none of my business. As far as I'm concerned, things can go on just as they have. We've got a good thing going here, you and I, and I don't want to lose it."
"Believe me, I didn't want to hurt anyone, but he gave me no choice."
"I know. You're a much better man than he was. But his death does create a problem. We've got to get rid of his body as soon as possible. Hide him in here until tonight. Then we can put him in the hearse, drive him out to the cemetery and bury him ...."
"No," Vern said. "I killed him; I'll get rid of the body."
"Are you sure?"
"Leave it to me. I'll put him someplace where they'll never find him."
* * *
The former television actor's funeral was by far the most impressive—not to mention the most expensive—one Burt and Vern had ever arranged. The pallbearers were dressed as superheroes and the original Batmobile was rented to lead the funeral procession to the cemetery. After the service, the custom-made coffin was lowered into the ground in the center of four marble plinths. The widow was assured that once the ground settled above the casket, the life-size statue of Batman would be placed above her late husband, along with the granite figures of the four villains to be placed on top of the plinths.
While Burt was attending the post-funeral luncheon, Vern was busy in his workroom encasing Oliver Nettles' body in plaster. Once it dried, he would first carve it in the shape of the Caped Crusader and then apply a special finish so that the carving would appear to be made from a solid block of granite.
He was certain that his partner would approve of the method of disposing of the body since Burt had on more than one occasion claimed that Nettles looked like Christian Bale in Batman.
I don't see the resemblance myself, Vern thought. I think he looks more like Josh Brolin.
Either way, the handsome undertaker had ceased to be a dangerous competitor.
Most of the funerals described in my story are based on actual events.
Salem attends at least one funeral a week—not to pay his respects but to get the free food afterward.
