Murder in the Hearse Degree by Tim Cockey Read Free Book Online Page B

that he was free to bring along whatever knickknacks he wanted in order to personalize the event. It’s a long story that perhaps I’ll tell some other time, but we once had a live ostrich at a viewing, standing at the head of a casket. The Health Department had wanted us to put a muzzle on the bird, which can be known to take nasty bites out of people with lightning speed. Of course no one knew where to locate a muzzle that could be fitted for an ostrich, so we ended up tying its beak closed with a green satin ribbon. Some of our visitors complained about the ostrich, some complained about the ribbon. This is not a world in which one can expect to be able to please everyone.
    Clifford left me with a black-and-white-checked worsted suit (“Oliver’s favorite”) and of course a photograph of Mr. Engelhart, along with an adjective to work with.
    “Oliver was the most insouciant man you’ve ever met.”
    As soon as Clifford left I popped downstairs and got to work on Mr. Engelhart. It wasn’t until I was halfway through that I remembered my promise to Darryl that he could help out with the wash-down. Oh well. So I had lied. Something told me that Darryl wouldn’t be too upset.
    Mr. Engelhart couldn’t have been more cooperative. Just a delight to work with. After draining the man’s blood and replacing it with my own special blend of herbs and spices, I popped upstairs to consult the dictionary.
    Insouciant (French) Marked by blithe unconcern; nonchalant.
    Well hell, you can’t get more blithely unconcerned than being dead. Sewell and Son’s Parlor for the Newly Insouciant. Works for me. I went back downstairs and wrestled Mr. Engelhart into the black-and-white-checked suit, then started in with the cotton balls and the face massage. Consulting Clifford’s photograph, I worked one of Oliver Engelhart’s eyebrows up into a quizzical arch (this wasn’t easy, but it’s why I get paid the big bucks), and then with my patented invisible Hitch stitch I closed his lips together in an expression that was probably more dour disregard than insouciance. But the cocked eyebrow counterbalanced sufficiently, I thought, and overall I’d say that the result was pretty damned insouciant. A little puff, a little powder, a stinkless spray to hold the hair in place, and the man was as ready as he would ever be.
     
    Pete Munger was kneeling in the middle of the floor of Julia’s art gallery with pieces of wood scattered all around him. A couple of nails were poking out of his mouth. Tough guy. Chews nails. I picked up a hammer by the head, flipped it, caught it niftily by the handle, and started toward him.
    “Here, I can take care of those.”
    Pete spit the nails onto the floor. He intoned, “Step away from the carpenter.”
    I surveyed Pete’s work. He was building a new sales counter for Julia. Julia had been seeing a guy lately she called Eric the Red, and a few days previous he had driven his motorcycle right through Julia’s sales counter around three in the morning. Julia had been riding on the back. What the two of them were doing driving a motorcycle around inside Julia’s gallery at three in the morning was something I was begging Julia not to tell me. At any rate, the counter was a goner and Pete had offered to build her a new one. From what I could see, Pete didn’t appear to be in a hurry.
    “Remind me, are you building or destroying?”
    Pete gave me the one-eyed glare. “Exactly. You’re looking at a goddamn metaphor is what you’re looking at.”
    “It’s a sure thing I’m not looking at a spanking new sales counter.”
    Banished from the fiefdom of her sales counter, Julia’s assistant, Chinese Sue, was cooling her heels on one of the large windowsills, taking in the sunshine like a lazy cat. She was reading The Mill on the Floss , large-print edition. The thing was about the size of a phone book. I called out to her, “Hey, Sue!” She looked over at me with her patented opaque stare and said