Page 44
Morton made a sound that might’ve been a sob.
As if on cue, the bell over the door jingled.
An older woman shuffled in, clutching her handbag. She took one deep breath through her nose, stopped, and stared at me aghast.
“Is…is someone…?” She clutched her chest. “Did someone just pass on the premises?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No one died here. Recently. Or at least today—that I know of.”
Morton coughed. “We had a small…incident.”
“It smells like my Chester’s viewing,” she whispered. “Exactly like it. Oh, Chester.” Her eyes filled.
“I am so sorry,” I blurted.
“Oh no, don’t apologize,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I miss him. This is…actually kind of nice.”
That might have been worse.
Behind her, a couple wandered in, hand in hand. They sniffed once, recoiled in perfect unison, and backed out without a word.
Morton closed his eyes. “Okay,” he said in a thin, high-pitched voice. “All right. Deep breaths. This is fixable.”
“It is?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “It’s definitely seeped into every crevice of the floor.”
Guilt crashed over me. “Morton, I’m so sorry. I can help clean—”
“No, no, dear,” he said quickly. “I’ll just let you get on with your day while I take care of this. It was so nice to meet you.”
Translation: please leave my establishment before you accidentally bury a live customer.
He took a flower from a bucket, one lone white Gerbera daisy, and handed it to me with a very fake smile. “For your trouble,” he said.
“Umm…thanks?”
“You just doused yourself with corpse essence,” he said gently. “Think of it as hazard pay.”
He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a small business card, pressing it into my palm. “One free grief consultation,” he said. “In case you need to talk to someone about what happened today.”
I tucked the card into my pocket with the daisy and my remaining dignity, which was hanging on by a thread. “I really can help you clean up,” I told him again.
“I know,” he said. “But I think you should go shower. Immediately.”
I agreed.
The bell jangled above my head as I stumbled back out onto Main Street, the embalming scent clinging to me like a curse. The breeze did nothing. If anything, it just wafted the offending smell up my own nose more enthusiastically.
I’d made it halfway down the block before a familiar drawl stopped me. “Is that smell coming from you, Roadkill?”
I turned.
Sterling’s sheriff friend, Ryder, leaned against a parking meter. He was wearing a very well-fitting sheriff’s department uniform. If I hadn’t just seen Morton, I would’ve thought there was something in the Blackwood water supply engineered to make men hotter here than anywhere else on the continent.
He slid his sunglasses down his nose just long enough to look me up and down, and then his nose wrinkled. “Okay, seriously, what am I smelling? It’s…like my great-aunt Myrtle’s funeral.”
“I’m just having a day,” I muttered.
