The Queen of Sleepy Eye by Patti Hill Read Free Book Online Page B

someone—a spouse or a neighbor—who’ll help you. We’re all friends in Cordial. Between the two of you, I imagine you can wheel the body to the preparation room without any difficulties. I won’t concern myself with who brings the bodies in. Unless I hear differently, I’ll expect H is doing the job.”
    Mrs. Clancy held a set of keys in front of Mom’s face. She enumerated the purpose of each key before handing them over. She took a few steps before turning and setting her suitcases down again. “On days I’m meeting with families to make funeral arrangements or when memorial services are held in the chapel, there will be no cooking of any kind and no listening to the radio. Whispers only. No one should know you’re here.”
    Mrs. Clancy grunted when she picked up her suitcases.
    Mom darted after her, catching her by a doughy arm. “How many … um, dead—”
    â€œTerminology is everything in this business. You can be ‘dead tired’ or a ‘dead ringer for a movie star.’ You might drop an oar to be ‘dead in the water.’ Sometimes life seems as senseless as ‘beating a dead horse.’ There are dead ducks, dead weights, the dead of night, and Errol Flynn was drop-dead handsome. But the people brought here are ‘deceased,’ ‘beloved,’ or ‘dearly departed,’ most certainly not dead .”
    â€œOkay,” Mom said, perfectly cowed by Mrs. Clancy’s speech. Mom called after her. “Wait a minute. How many dearly departeds come through here in, say, a week?”
    Mrs. Clancy’s shoulders fell under the weight of the question.“As many as there will be, which usually means one, but we’ve had as many as five.”
    â€œCordial is a small town. I wouldn’t expect that many.”
    â€œWe service the whole North Fork Valley. Buckley, Cedarton, Hanford. Sometimes Clearwater. Numbers vary.” Mrs. Clancy closed the trunk. “I expect I’ll see you in church on Sunday,” she said with a tilt of her head toward the church across the street.
    Mom held Mrs. Clancy’s gaze. “Amy’s the churchgoer of the family.”
    Mrs. Clancy looked from Mom to me and back to Mom. “Families are more comfortable bringing their deceased to pious people.”
    â€œThen they should be perfectly fine bringing their dearly departeds here. Amy reads her Bible every day, rain or shine.”
    Mrs. Clancy looked like she had bitten into a pithy apple. To hire Mom and me meant living closer to the edge than she liked. Mrs. Clancy closed her eyes. Whatever her imagination played out for her helped her overlook Mom’s lack of church attendance. “Okay,” she said, getting into her car, “as long as the girl attends church services every Sunday.”
    â€œShe definitely will.”
    â€œDo either one of you sing? We haven’t had a good vocalist for in-house memorial services since Maude Hinckley passed on.”
    Mom hooked her arm around my waist. “Amy sings like a meadowlark.”
    â€œThere’s a twenty-dollar honorarium to split with the organist, if you’re a hymn singer.”
    Mom squeezed me tighter. “Oh my goodness, that’s all she sings around the house. Her favorite is ‘Rock of Ages Clapped for Me.’”
    Mrs. Clancy frowned at Mom.
    â€œI play the guitar too,” I offered, hoping to divert Mrs. Clancy’s attention from Mom’s near-blasphemy.
    The lines around Mrs. Clancy’s mouth hardened, and her words jabbed at my chest. “There won’t be any of that hippie music in the Clancy and Sons Funeral Home, not while I’m alive there won’t. Hymns are what the Good Book tells us to sing, and that’s all you’ll sing. Guitars and tambourines have no place in church, so there’s no place for them at Clancy and Sons. We must be cognizant of Satan’s work. Guitars and the