Stone Age.”
Belle flashed him an inviting smile. “If you’re going to be around this weekend, would you like to earn some bucks? I could use a hand mowing the lawn.”
He cocked his head. “Min wage?”
“I vote NDP. Much more generous to labour. Ten an hour sound good?” She extended a hand to seal the bargain.
The following afternoon, though she had met Bea only once, as a courtesy, Belle felt compelled to attend the viewing. Civilities weren’t bad for business either. No telling whom she’d meet. A pale grey pantsuit with a cobalt open-necked shirt and low-cut black boots seemed formal enough. With a rare nod to jewellery, she added a silver bracelet and matching leaf pin.
One of the flagship Sudbury parlours, burying miners and their kin for over a hundred years, Johnson and Poniard was often dubbed Johnson’s Boneyard. It had been taken over by the Halverson chain, but the new owners had kept the original name. Tradition was important in a town with a short history.
The yellow-brick complex sat in an older section of town off Regent Street, where many marginal businesses such as small-appliance and shoe-repair shops clung to life. Other stores with newspapered windows testified to the dominance of suburban malls. The brilliant late chrysanthemums in the flower beds around the parking lot weathered the light frosts but reminded Belle that fall would soon freeze the ground and prevent bulb planting. Micro’s help would arrive none too soon.
She’d chosen four o’clock, with the idea of disappearing for home soon after. As she left the van, she saw a tall woman with dark red curly hair leaning against a late-model Oldsmobile, a large white poodle in the front seat, its handsome head peering through the open window. She wore a faux-fur ocelot coat with a bright silk scarf. Her shoulders shook in great sobs, and her purse fell to the asphalt. “Are you all right?” Belle asked, stooping to hand her the bag.
The woman dabbed a tissue at her eyes, smearing the running mascara. She had a heart-shaped face, olive complexion and a long noble nose, which Belle appreciated. With genetic planning and cosmetic surgery, soon everyone would look like Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. “I will be, I guess. Once I get through this. I hate viewings and funerals. Call me in denial, but I’d rather remember people alive.”
“I know what you mean. These rituals aren’t for the loved one, are they?”
“Bea was so young. I can’t believe what happened. In her own house. Tomorrow I’ll walk into that bakery, and she won’t . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she gripped her arms in an effort at composure.
“I’m here for her viewing, too.” Belle introduced herself and found that she was talking to Leonora Bruce, Bea’s business partner. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Windsor. Even as a puppy he had such a regal look.”
Belle stroked the expressive, aquiline nose as the poodle batted its eyes at her. Was it true that people came to resemble their pets? “My friend has a mini. A hyper squirrel. Cute doesn’t cut it with me. I much prefer this serious standard poodle.”
“They’re even used as guide dogs, so that’s a real testimony.” Her spine straightened, and she managed a feeble smile as she reached into the car for two bakery boxes. “It’s crostoli and frotoli. I made them special. A touch of brandy. They were her favourites.”
They walked in together, but Leonora went to the ladies’ room to refresh her makeup. Leaving her coat with an attendant, Belle looked at the options board, like selecting a movie. Beatrice Malanuk: Continental Room. Almost like a Vegas show.
Down the thickly carpeted hall she proceeded, following discreet brass signs and listening to faint strains of Delius’s Florida Suite, an inoffensive, almost spritely choice. Did funeral directors take a music course? Hard-rock miner Jack MacDonald, Miriam’s ex, would have requested “Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox When I Die.”
Two women in their thirties, both wearing dark blue dresses, passed her coming out, and she heard one say, “That panettone of hers was a miracle. I hope the next owner maintains the standards.” Who would take over the bakery? Would Dave step in?
Belle reached the Continental Room with her heart beating double time. No matter how often she experienced these rites of passage, she couldn’t grow a protective shell. Fortunately, Myron Halverson and his siblings had found their groove in meeting the needs of sorrowing families. Like selling a house on Landsend Street overlooking the mountainous slag pours, someone had to do it. She’d heard Myron speak on the CBC about the psychology of bereavement. His was a sincere and professional calling.
She stood for a moment at the entrance, picking up a memorial card from a table. The front pictured an angel with hands clasped: “Sadly Missed and Always Remembered.” Inside was a picture of Bea’s smiling face, perhaps cropped from a family photo. Belle thought about the gruesome duty of choosing the image. Uncle Bert at eighty-five had been replaced by his army picture in the Princess Pat’s Regiment. Bea’s family history was recorded on the facing page, all those predeceased names like a welcoming committee, parents, grandparents, husband and daughter.
She signed the guestbook, leafing through the gilded pages, amazed to note more than two hundred names. Bea was a fixture in the community, and with his high profile, Dave had many friends who would wish to offer their sympathies. Thirty people milled around, chatting quietly in small groups. On one side of the room, a huge buffet table held silver dishes pyramided with an array of pastries and a beverage selection, wine included. Trust the Italians to bend the rules. Her gaze moving forward a step at a time, Belle was wrapped in a cloud of roses. Long-stemmed and gorgeous, they sat in crystal vases on French provincial side tables and in four-foot sprays on racks. Pink, red and white. No yellow. Wasn’t that for infidelity in the quaint language of flowers? She saw Leonora, apparently recovered, embrace a man, whose broad back was turned. They seemed to cling to each other for a moment more than necessary. He went on to shake hands with a young couple, both in jeans and jackets. Perhaps workers from the bakery.
Micro wasn’t there. Perhaps he had come at the beginning for appearances, but she appreciated Dave’s forbearance against letting a young boy endure hours of heartbreaking drama. At one side of the long room, seated in Jacobean armchairs, two men with short hair and dark, nondescript suits talked briefly, and one of them slipped a notebook from his pocket, glancing around for a second as he wrote. Both looked like detectives that she’d met through Steve. They’d be at the funeral in case the killer wanted to observe the reaction to his sorry work. Did that ever happen, or was it a television cliché? Then she glimpsed an old German couple who had made tentative noises about selling their camp a few years ago but had decided to hold on to enjoy one more summer, then another and another. The magic age of eighty closed the door. The woman used a walker, and he looked none too starchy, setting his legs awkwardly as if he suffered a pinched nerve in his bowed back.
She headed in their direction when a deep, rich voice claimed her attention. Jack Palance, wearing a charcoal suit and a ruby rose in his lapel, twenty years younger than his Oscar-winning role as Curly in the City Slickers films. She pasted on a smile and chastized herself for this silly game.
“I’m Dave Malanuk. Thanks for coming,” he said.
So this was the man Bea had loved. Belle accepted his hand, which he squeezed gently, then added his other for an especially sincere touch. The fingers bore keloid scar tissue, and she looked up quickly, feeling gauche about telegraphing her thoughts. “Belle Palmer. I was . . .” Her syllables stuttered. It wasn’t often that you introduced yourself as a corpse finder.
He
