Die Smiling (19 page)

Hilde Swensen's funeral was held at Lohman's Funeral Home several days after the murder, a little soon in my book, but that's the way Brianna wanted it. I couldn't figure exactly why the big hurry, unless she just wanted to get it over with. Black insisted on going along with me, and there was a surprisingly large crowd already gathered at the plush, Victorian-decorated funeral parlor. The first person we ran into was Jude, gee, just lucky I guess. She gave me a quick, unwarranted, unwanted hug, and I smiled the whole while and tried not to choke on her perfume, yes, probably straight out of Coco Chanel's Parisian beaker, the same stuff Black gave me for Christmas. I wondered if he got hers, too.

Jude said, “This is all so very sad, isn't it?”

“Right.” I nodded, forcing a little concerned expression, but I wasn't sure Jude was really all that torn up. Black looked his usual uncomfortable self when the three of us were hobnobbing together. What did he think I was gonna do? Get her in a headlock or challenge her to a mud-wrestling duel? Both ideas sounded intriguing, I had to admit. Hey, I could take her down, no problem.

He said, “Let's sit down. The service is about ready to start.”

I led the way into the chapel because I wanted to find a spot where I could surveil the pews to my heart's content and detect any false tears or half-hidden, smug,
I-got-away-with-murder
facial expressions. I saw Bud sitting on the front row on the left side of the aisle. Brianna sat beside him, dressed head to toe in black, a wide-brimmed black felt hat with a black lace veil obscuring her face. She was obviously a big fan of dreary Victorian funereal wear. Probably why she picked Lohman's with all its lace doilies on the furniture.

I guided the previously married duo to the other side where a row of short pews sat adjacent to the main room. I stood back in gentlemanly manner and let Black and Jude precede me, but I really just wanted a seat on the end of the pew so I could get out in a hurry, if need be. Even more than that, I didn't want to sit by Jude.

When I sat down, Black leaned close enough for me to smell his sexy aftershave. It reminded me of sweet things. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Anything that will help me.”

My gaze met Bud's from across the way, and he didn't smile, but gave a little short nod of acknowledgment. That meant he was over his miff. Good. Now, too, if I knew him, and I did, he would begin to watch Brianna for suspicious behavior, whether he liked the idea or not. He was a good cop. That's what good cops do. I wasn't so sure she had anything to do with it, probabilities were that she didn't, couldn't do anything so brutal to her own sister, even if she did secretly hate her guts. Like Bud, I couldn't really see Brianna whip out a pair of scissors and play snip-snip with her sister's lips.

However, stranger things had happened. Lots of times. Maybe she was some kind of split-personality psycho gal, Black would call that disassociative disorder, but he's a shrink, and I'll call it what I want. Those kinda crazies will always be split personalities in my book.

Now Bud was leaning down and whispering to Brianna, and looking mightily concerned about what she was saying back. Then he shot me his
Help!-get-over-here-right-now
look. I knew it well.

“Be back in a minute,” I whispered to Black, but didn't give him time to object.

I crossed the room, feeling pretty conspicuous in my college-days black pantsuit and combat boots, but I had to hide my guns somehow. Everybody else in attendance looked like they'd walked straight off the pages of a last-rites fashion layout in
Mademoiselle
. I sat down on the other side of Brianna. She took my hand and squeezed my fingers, but I could barely discern her features through the intricate black lace.

“Thank you for coming, Claire. Your being here means a lot to me.”

I kept squinting and trying to see her eyes through the veil but couldn't manage it. It makes me nervous when I can't see somebody's eyes.

“I'm really sorry, Bri. I know this is hard on you.”

Then Brianna sobbed softly and lifted the black handkerchief in her hand up underneath the veil and dabbed at her tears. Where the hell do you get black hankies? I have never seen one in my life. Maybe you had to order them off eBay. Her shoulders shook with emotion, and so okay, I feel damn guilty suspecting her, especially with Bud leveling his
I-told-you-you're-barking-up-the-wrong-model
look.

Then Bud said, “Brianna wants to put something in the casket with her sister.”

Oh, crap. I hadn't been expecting that. Now I understood his SOS signal.

“I really want to do it,” Brianna told me, all throat-clogged and weepy. She opened the hand that wasn't holding the handkerchief and revealed the little gold locket shaped like a heart that was lying in her palm. “I want Hilde to wear this. I know she'd want to. We exchanged these hearts when we graduated from high school. Mine has her picture in it, and hers has mine. We always believed they were lucky, you know, we wore them on special occasions, times like that. You know, for good luck.”

I figured it was a little too late for good luck in Hilde's case, but didn't say so. “How about letting Bud do that for you, Bri? I really think it would be a better idea. Just so she has it with her, that's the important thing.”

“No, really, I feel like it's something I need to do myself. Just one last time. See her and say good-bye. You understand?”

Bud said, “Listen, Bri, believe me, you don't wanna remember her this way. It's better to think about how she looked the last time you were together.”

“Bud's right, Bri. She's not going to look the same as she did in life.”

Brianna suddenly stood up. “I'm sorry, but I have to. I'm stronger than you think, truly I am. I want her to wear this forever, and I'm going to put it around her neck myself.”

“We need to tell her, Bud,” I said.

“Tell me what?” Brianna looked at Bud. I guess she was, the damn veil was making it hard to tell.

Bud said, his voice very low. “Okay, Bri, I didn't want you to have to deal with this, but you're not leaving me much choice.” He hesitated, looked around a second. “She won't look the same. The killer disfigured her face.”

Brianna began to moan, a very low and terrible sound. Her fingers were clenched together, knuckles white. “I still want to see her one last time. I need to see her.” Her voice was loud enough to quiet the low murmuring of the room.

Bud stood up and whispered, “Okay, ssh, Bri, then let's do it now before they bring the casket in here. It'll be more private back in the viewing room.”

Bud took her elbow and led her out a side door into an adjoining room. I stayed where I was. I'd seen enough caskets and dead bodies inside them. In fact, I didn't ever want to see another one. I watched them walk to the closed white coffin, one that somebody should have locked up nice and tight and then thrown away the key. I thought of Hilde's hideous skeleton smile and knew that Brianna would regret this decision for the rest of her life.

Clarence Lohman, the funeral director and owner of the place, was standing guard at the coffin, waiting for the signal to roll it into the sanctuary. Short, thin, pointy features, pencil mustache à la Don Ameche in the
Cocoon
films, and about the same age, early eighties, maybe even older. He wore a somber suit and expression to match. He listened to Bud's whispered request, looked mightily concerned, and shook his head vehemently. He didn't want Brianna looking at her sister's body, either. Brianna stepped closer and spoke to Lohman for a moment, and he reluctantly nodded, then assumed that solemn, compassionate, bowed-head expression that they must teach in Funeral Parlor 101. I wondered what he really thought about when he was standing around at strangers' funerals looking concerned, maybe the Cardinals' baseball game on TV tonight or if his wife was having lasagna for dinner, or hey, maybe, he really was as sympathetic as he came off. The organ played on, softly, heartbreakingly, “In the Sweet By and By.” God help me, I hated funerals.

I didn't want to see Brianna's face when she looked down upon Hilde's hideous lipless grimace, so I put my attention on Black and Jude and tried to think about them instead. They looked damn good together, too good, unfortunately. Instead of a crack shrink, Black could've been a male model and walked the runway, too. Spectators would probably pass out from his sheer sex appeal alone. At the moment, he was looking
what-the-hell's-going-on
at me. Jude was looking
you're-my-soul-and-my-life's-inspiration
at him. So I looked
back-off-lady-you-had-your-chance
at her. Uh-oh, love triangle brewing here, right?

Black must have noticed my interest because he got up, strode across the room, and sat down beside me. “What's going on, Claire?”

“She's insisting on viewing the body, even after Bud told her about the mutilation. I don't want to see her reaction. I wish I could just leave.”

I kept waiting for some kind of horrified shriek, didn't hear it, but Black was watching Brianna and Bud. He frowned and said, “They've opened the casket, but Brianna doesn't seem all that upset.”

A bit shocked at that notion, I turned around and found Brianna placing the locket down into the coffin with her sister but showing no shock or revulsion, none that was audible anyway. To my surprise, it was Bud and the funeral director who looked like they'd seen a ghost. I got up and walked into the viewing room with Black close behind me. Truth be told, the last thing on earth I wanted to see was Hilde's mutilated face again, but Brianna's nonchalant reaction to it was just a little too bizarre to ignore.

When I reached the casket, I understood right off why Brianna wasn't upset and why Bud and the funeral guy looked dumbfounded. I stared down at Hilde Swensen in her white satin-lined casket with its beautiful embroidered pillow and tufted silk lid. Only her mouth wasn't disfigured anymore. Her lips were sewn back in place and expertly painted with fire-engine red lipstick. She looked peaceful and lovely, as if no sicko maniac killer had gotten his jollies by hacking off her lips.

“Thank you, Mr. Lohman. She looks just like she's asleep,” Brianna said to the funeral director, then took Bud's arm and slowly walked back into the chapel. Bud looked at me, frowning big-time.

“How did you get her mouth to look that good?” I asked Mr. Lohman.

His eyes locked on mine. “I didn't.”

“What'd you mean, you didn't?”

He shrugged, seemed genuinely nonplussed. “It's a closed-casket service. We prepared and laid out the body, of course, but we didn't do any kind of facial reconstruction. We didn't have the lips to work with. I don't know how this happened. It's impossible.”

Black said, “Sweet Mary.”

I said, “Who could've done it?”

“I don't know,” Mr. Lohman said. “But whoever it was knew what he was doing. You just don't know how difficult it is to reconstruct a mouth and have it look acceptable, especially when you're talking about shorn lips. That's why we always recommend closed caskets in these kinds of cases.”

“Well, I wanna know what the hell's going on here and who tampered with this body.”

“Yes, ma'am. Please, do investigate. Nobody should've had access to the body, not without my permission.”

“Get the word out to your staff that I want to talk to them as soon as the funeral is over.”

We stood there as a couple of Lohman's employees wheeled Hilde's coffin into the chapel, and Mr. Lohman kept telling Black and me that he was as shocked as everyone else that some phantom plastic surgeon wizard had performed such a miracle transformation on the corpse. Imagine. This funeral parlor had been in his family for seventy-five years and nothing had ever happened like this before. He knew for a fact, he insisted, that the client had been alone inside the casket, safe and sound the night before when they had locked it for the funeral service. Lord have mercy, nothing had ever happened like this before, he reiterated, but at least they'd done a good job, had eased the suffering of the family, but nobody had ever tampered with one of his clients before, never, ever, as God is my witness. Good thing, I thought. Sure wouldn't be good for the burial business.

Black and I returned to our seats, and the service began. We listened to lots of pretty girls tell pretty stories about the pretty murder victim, and one distraught hairdresser sob loudly in the back, that being Mr. Race, of course. When I glanced back to see who it was carrying on so, I saw that Corkie was comforting him, her hair long and dark red now. Brianna didn't stand and eulogize her sister, but continued to dab at tears that were apparently dripping like a faucet behind the dark veil.

I sat there with Black and Jude and thought about how Hilde's corpse could possibly have been tampered with, expertly so, at that, and without anybody knowing it. A pretty good trick, to be sure, and I wanted to know who had done it, and more important, why. The perp was the logical explanation of who might want to skulk around and re-desecrate his victim's body, but oh, yeah, in a good way this time. That didn't make a helluva lot of sense to me, actually none whatsoever. Why would some wacko hack off Hilde Swensen's lips while she was still alive, then sneak in and mysteriously reattach them so she'd look nice at the funeral? And if it wasn't the perp, then who the devil was it? The whole scenario was crazy, but I was going to find out if it killed me.