The Art of Death by Margarite St. John Read Free Book Online Page A

Achmed’s son -- using a 3-D printer. The technology can even be used to make keys that work and plastic guns that fire real bullets.”
    “Does Miss Appledorn need that?”
    “Apparently it’s the latest thing in forensic reconstruction.”
    “How does it work -- if you know?”
    “I’d show you if I knew how. All I know is what she told me one time. The machine is programmed by a computer to make a three-dimensional object. Somehow it applies one layer on top of another until the thing is formed. What the layers are, I don’t know. Plastic maybe. Depends on what she’s making. She says her toy company owns a big one, but she’s owned her own private one for the last five years. Apparently the new machine she bought is light-years more sophisticated.”
    “So what else does she want?”
    “A room for experimenting with mummification.”
    “You’re kidding!” Steve exclaimed.
    “Not a bit. She’s trying to find the secrets of the Egyptian embalmers. Also a room to display replicas of skulls she’s put a face on. Did you know, she’s reconstructed over a hundred faces and she’s only, what, thirty-something? Well, you’d know that better than me. She wants a room for her awards and book collection. A studio facing north for the huge paintings she still does in her spare time. She’s having an architect draw up the plans. They were supposed to be ready today but I’m told there’s a delay. Anyway, I’ll get them to you soon as they’re ready.”
    “So, how’s old Chester? He was over fifty when she was born, so he’s got to be at least 85 by now.”
    “I haven’t seen him in years except once in awhile he’s sitting in the window of his bedroom or on the porch swing.  He nods and waves at me. Neighbors say they sometimes see him in the pickup when Miss Appledorn takes him for a drive in the evening. Otherwise, the old man stays up in his bedroom 24/7 so far as I know. A neighbor lady comes in to take care of him when Miss Appledorn is gone.”
    “What neighbor lady?”
    “Nettie Steenhardt, youngest girl of the Steenhardts, never married, must be at least sixty by now. Lives in a little Cape Cod across the road a quarter mile down. Walks here for the exercise. I hardly ever see her either, but I’m glad she’s here. Chester’s the last man I’d want to take care of.”
    “Why?”
    “Mean old son of a bitch, from what my dad tells me.” Dougie shook his head. “Sorry. Shouldn’t a said that. He was your father-in-law once upon a time, wasn’t he?”
    “No apology needed. He was a mean old son of a bitch, at least to me. I think the only person he ever loved was his daughter.”
    “Quite a prankster, I hear.”
    “That he was,” Steve said. “One Halloween, when Madeleine and I were newly married, he showed up at our house dressed like a sheriff. Said he had a warrant for my arrest for car theft. I almost had a heart attack. He thought it was hilarious and told that story every chance he could, how I looked guilty and stuttered about being innocent. Oh, yeah, he really got me.”
    “Nettie seems to like him, though. Good thing too, because she has to lift him here, lift him there, do things for him I wouldn’t want a woman to do for me.”
    “I take it she’s big and strong.”
    “Not all that big, but strong as a bull. Or should I say bulldog? Believe it or not, she retired from the U.S. Marines a few years ago. When you see her, look at the tattoo on her left arm.” Dougie spit again between two headstones. “You do any skeet shooting?”
    “No,” Steve said, puzzled.
    “Nettie’s a crack shot. She can take a pigeon -- clay or real -- right out of the sky, like that,” Dougie said, snapping his fingers. “Oh, yeah, she’s quite a gal.”
    “So, I take it you don’t see Chester a lot.”
    “As I said, not all that much. Sometimes, when the weather’s good, I see him on the porch swing. He always waves and nods but never says anything. Miss Appledorn told me not