Nicole descended the rest of the stairs and pushed open the solid basement door, letting the cool air swirl around her ankles. The door slammed behind her. She shuddered. She loved helping the deceased look their best, but she never quite got used to working in the basement.
Heart pounding in her ears, she hurried to the empty steel table in the corner, spread the fax out and compared it to the original document. According to the undated document from Isaac King, his father had made prearrangements and paid for a top-of-the-line casket. The contract from the file specified a less expensive casket. Less expensive by several thousand dollars.
Her stomach sank.
Both documents had Derreck Denner’s flashy signature. Derreck was Mr. Peters’s nephew and had come on board about a year ago. Did Derreck change the document of his own accord or had Mr. King made the changes and forgotten to give the new contract to his family before he passed away? She lifted the original document to her face and studied Derreck’s signature. She was no expert, but both signatures seemed the same. She held the paper to the light. It was thin. Thin enough for someone to trace a signature.
Nicole tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and racked her brain. Did she think she was a detective now? She shook her head. Maybe it was just a matter of showing Mr. King the document on file, the document that listed a less expensive casket. She threaded her fingers through her hair. Which document was more current? She pounded down the corner of the crumpled documents.
“I should have told Mr. Peters the minute the phone call came in,” she muttered to herself.
You were trying to save him the hassle.
Now she had one royal mess on her hands. How could she bring this up to Mr. Peters without seeming as though she was interfering?
Nicole bit her bottom lip. She closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders. It’s Derreck’s signature on both contracts. She couldn’t exactly accuse Derreck of mishandling a client’s money. She had no proof. Her stomach flip-flopped. But why did she have this uneasy feeling? Was it because she had overheard Derreck trying to smooth things over with another disgruntled client a few weeks ago? Or because she had totally bungled her dealings with the King family?
Either way, she’d have to tell Mr. Peters...once she got up the nerve. Then she’d explain how she was trying to help and how she’d never overreach her job description again. There. She had a plan. She folded up the two documents and stuffed them into her purse.
Nicole pulled up a stool to her workstation and opened the deceased’s file. “Okay, Mrs. Fenster,” she spoke aloud to the empty room, a habit she had gotten into when she first started this job six months ago. “You’re going to look beautiful, just like you did in—” she picked up the photo of the woman from the file in front of her and studied the black-and-white photo of a woman in a bouffant hairstyle and pillbox hat “—1962.”
It amazed Nicole how many family members provided dated photos of the deceased, no doubt at the request of their dearly departed. She supposed everyone wanted to be remembered as they’d appeared in their prime.
Nicole decided that when she died she wouldn’t care how she looked.
A muted shuffling made her scalp prickle. She enjoyed the solitude of working alone, she just wished it wasn’t in the basement of a funeral home. Her mind tended to play tricks on her. Her gaze drifted to her purse on the steel counter.
Focus on work.
Nicole grabbed her metal makeup box from the cabinet over the sink and set about getting Mrs. Fenster ready for the four o’clock viewing. She sat on the stool and lined up the makeup on a tray.
Another sound, more distinct this time, made her pause and turn toward the basement door. A thin line of light shone around the heavy basement door before it clicked solidly closed. A blanket of goose bumps covered her skin. She set a makeup brush on the tray and squinted into the shadows.
“Who’s there?”
The shadows moved and Gene Gentry stepped into the soft light surrounding her workstation. He held a white garbage bag and wore his perpetual apologetic look. Gene was thin with a stooped posture curving his six-foot-six frame. If someone was searching under funeral home embalmer from central casting, they would have found a photo of Gene. His awkward demeanor was perfect for working with the dead, not so much for those they left behind.
“Sorry, Miss Nicole, just emptying the garbage can.”
She forced a laugh that echoed in the cavernous space. “It’s okay, Gene. Sometimes I let my imagination get the best of me when I’m down here.”
Gene fingered the white plastic of the garbage bag. “After a while, you get used to creepy.” He snapped the bag to open it and lined the garbage can. He looked up. Nicole thought she detected a hopeful expression. “Do you think you’ll stick around?”
“I plan to.” Nicole dug through her makeup kit, searching for the blue eye shadow.
“Not exactly where you expected to be working when you graduated high school, huh?” He dragged his fingers over a thinning comb-over that made him appear older than he was. She vaguely remembered him graduating a year ahead of her, or maybe behind. She didn’t exactly reminisce about her high school days. And Gene wasn’t exactly the kind of person she would have hung around with.
“I’m happy to have the job.” She smiled at him, secretly ashamed she hadn’t been a model Christian as a teen. But that was a long time ago. She had long since made peace with her past and did her best moving forward. She plucked the blue eye shadow from the bottom of her makeup kit and held it up. “I better get back to work.”
“Me, too.” Gene lowered his eyes and took a step toward the door, then turned back around. “I’m real sorry about Missy.” He cleared his throat. “I sure hope they find her.”
Nicole smiled tightly at Gene, trying to hold her emotions at bay. “Pray they find her.” Her dark thoughts threatened to smother her. Keep praying.
“One time on TV, I saw a tool you should have in your car to break the window if your car goes into the water. Did you have that tool in your car?”
Nicole shook her head. “No, I didn’t. But we can’t give up hope.” Her pulse throbbed in her ears. Hot tears burned the backs of her eyes and blurred the eye shadow palette in front of her. “Well, I really have to get Mrs. Fenster’s hair and makeup done.”
Gene’s eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. “Okay, I’ll get going then.”
“Have a good day.” She watched him slip out of the room, his posture reminiscent of a boy who had been scolded.
* * *
Nicole slipped Mrs. Fenster’s paperwork into the folder and placed it on the steel table next to her purse. It had taken her a little longer than she had anticipated to get the woman’s hair just right.
She snapped her makeup case closed and returned it to the cabinet over the sink. While at cosmetology school, Nicole had envisioned herself working in a swanky salon in the city where she’d make big tips. When she had returned to Silver Lake to help out her grandmother, visions of a job in a salon vanished. She refused to work where she’d be the subject of gossip.
Now her clients didn’t talk or give tips, unless they were of the life-lesson variety, such as “don’t eat too much fried food” and “don’t cross against the light.”
Nicole washed her hands and dried them on a piece of paper towel. She tossed the crumpled-up towel into the wastebasket and wondered if she should do the same with the conflicting documents in her purse.
Mr. King wouldn’t forget as easily.
Nicole hiked her purse straps over her shoulder. She’d grab some lunch in the break room and then do some bookkeeping. Maybe if Derreck still wasn’t around, she’d finally talk to Mr.