Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [5]
He smiled, his bleached teeth flashing vivid white against his salon tan. “Guilty. I’m third-generation owner and director.”
A family that buries together stays together. I swallowed hard, fighting to stay focused.
“Really? I hadn’t realized this building had been here that long.” This business district boasted mainly late 1990s construction.
“Oh, this wasn’t our original location.” He laughed with practiced lightness. “We started out in a two-story house on Dixie. In fact, I grew up living on the second floor over the funeral parlor.”
“How…nice.” I had an image of his family eating dinner at the embalming table.
“It had its moments.” He shrugged. “I once got into trouble for selling tickets to view the body of a baseball star killed in a car accident.”
Yuck. I took a step back and motioned. “Um—”
“The little girls’ room is at the end of the hall to the left.” Depp winked.
“Thank you.”
“When you get back, perhaps I could show you the casket room. We have some lovely new models. I have a nice bottle of wine in the mini-fridge in my office.”
He wanted to show me his caskets? Nice. “Later, perhaps. I need to pay my respects to the family.”
“Pardon me.” A blonde in a skin-tight black dress shimmied past us.
Depp did a double take, his gaze following every bump of the woman’s hips. “If you would excuse me.”
“Sure.”
I walked down the hall toward the entrance. I’d give the director a few minutes to catch up with the blonde and then I would go back, give my condolences to Claire and make good my escape. I glanced through an open door and paused. Although the one window in the room was faux stained glass, the muted light cast by the wall sconces made its colors glow. A simple altar and cushioned bench seats were the only other furnishings in the small chapel.
The quiet retreat beckoned but I snuffed the urge. I’d always preferred action to reflection and introspection. While the room might offer refuge for the bereaved, I didn’t particularly want to go down that path right now. Not when I couldn’t predict what memories might come crawling out.
Turning away, I spotted a small hall table with a display of brochures. Advertising even in a place of mourning. Idly, I picked several up and flipped through them. At least the flyers were appropriate for the business at hand. Cemeteries, bereavement counselors.
I folded and tucked into my jacket pocket a tasteful brochure about an organization dedicated to helping families prepare for death of a loved one. I picked up another high gloss flyer about the new research and development medical clinic that had opened in western Palm Beach County and slipped it also into my pocket. Keeping abreast of medical experts never hurt in my line of work.
A woman emerged in the hallway. “Ms. Sterling?” Claire Whitman walked toward me.
“Nicole, please.” I wasn’t in my professional environment so I didn’t know quite what to say or do for this woman. We’d only met a few days ago. Relying on those deep-seated instincts that come to us in times of sorrow, I gave her a quick embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Claire.”
“Thank you.” She drew back, self-contained behind a wall of grief. Her red-rimmed eyes held a vacant though haunted look as if she had been sedated. If she were lucky, all she would remember from this night would be a blur of faces and the heavy scent of flowers.
Dressed in a simple black dress, Claire wore no makeup and had barely bothered with her hair. Her hand trembled as she gripped a locket on a slender gold chain around her neck. I knew it contained a photograph of her holding the baby.
“Have you met my parents yet?” she asked.
“No, but I will,” I assured her. I did want to meet the family to help me assess Claire’s credibility. Although the police questioning might have been routine, something about her account of the interview nagged at the back of my mind. When I’d arrived, the detectives had already asked her several times about there being no baby monitor. I needed to speak with the relatives to learn what, if any, questions