Death Notice. Todd Ritter

Not hesitating, he pushed inside, entering a tastefully appointed room dominated by a large mahogany desk. An attractive young woman sat behind it. She smiled at him when he entered.

      “Hello, Henry,” she said.

      He halted in the doorway. “How did you know it was me?”

      “Because you look uncertain.”

      Henry imagined he looked more than uncertain. He probably looked ghastly in his sweat-drenched T-shirt and running shorts, his flushed face making its flaws stand out even more.

      Deana Swan, however, looked better than expected. Years of speaking to her on the phone had created a mental picture that wasn’t flattering. In Henry’s imagination, she was a female version of her brother, with chipmunk cheeks and oversized sweaters. That was the type of woman who spent her whole day in a funeral home.

      The real Deana couldn’t have been further from the image created in his head. In her early thirties, she was slim, well proportioned, and modestly stylish in a black skirt and lavender blouse. She wore her strawberry blond hair pulled back, revealing razor-thin cheekbones, and startling, sparkling blue eyes.

      “What brings you here today?” she asked.

      Henry didn’t know, which was made obvious by his refusal to take one more step inside.

      “I was jogging,” he said.

      Deana ran her gaze up and down his body, lingering on his chest, his stomach, his crotch. The boldness of her stare made Henry pulse with excitement, as did the sultry tone of her voice when she said, “I can see that.”

      “When I passed by, I thought I would stop in and say hello. Since you’ve told me I never do that.”

      “You don’t,” Deana said. “And thanks. That was sweet of you.”

      Oddly, Henry felt more awkward chatting with Deana than he did telling Chief Campbell about George Winnick’s death notice. That was being helpful, a good citizen. This was something entirely different. This was, Henry guessed, flirting.

      “I just want you to know,” Deana said, her smile radiating a kind patience, “that my offer is still on the table.”

      “What offer?”

      “Lunch. I think it might be fun, since we’re coworkers in a weird way.”

      That was true. Henry talked to Deana more than anyone at the Gazette. And she seemed friendly enough, with no hidden agenda except to get to know him better. Plus, he thought it would be nice just once to break out of his safe routine.

      “A great sushi place just opened up on Main,” Deana said. “We could try it out one day.”

      Henry was on the verge of saying yes. He felt the muscles in the back of his neck loosen, preparing for the nod to follow. But then something on the wall caught his eye. It was a mirror—large and gilded—and framed in its center was his reflection.

      Staring at his own image, Henry suddenly felt foolish. He was in excellent shape, yes. But his face—that was unacceptable. And the more that Deana smiled benevolently at him, the more Henry became convinced that her motives were suspect. She wasn’t interested in him. Just like the patrons of a freak show, she was interested in his face. Its lines and scars and deformities.

      “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Henry said, breaking his gaze from the mirror. “But thank you for the invitation.”

      He regretted stepping foot into the funeral home. It was a bad idea, he realized. And now he was eager to leave.

      He turned and reached for the door, surprised to see it was already halfway open. Someone was on the other side, pushing the door so forcefully Henry had to hop backward to avoid being struck by it. That’s when Kat Campbell burst inside, riding a gust of frigid air.

      With her was a man Henry had never seen before. Although he was dressed in civilian clothes, Henry assumed he was a cop of some sort. He and the chief shared identical scowls as they passed, barely noticing his presence.

      Henry nodded a wordless greeting and exited the funeral home. Crossing the front porch, he heard Kat through the open door ask, “Are Art and Bob here?”

      “Arthur is,” Deana told her. “Is something wrong?”

      Henry paused at the top of the porch steps, waiting for the chief’s response. When it came, he was surprised, intrigued, and more than a little fearful.

      “I need to know,” Kat said, “how to go about embalming someone.”