Murphy glances at me. His eyebrows crawl toward each other as if he’s asking if the tour’s necessary, then he follows Rock.
Jigsaw hangs back, and I slap his arm to get him moving. “I thought you liked dead bodies?”
“Enemies. Bad guys I’ve carved up,” he answers in a harsh whisper. “Not someone’s sweet little ol’ nana laid out on a slab.”
The walls are covered in faded gold wallpaper. Under our feet, the well-worn carpet does little to mask our heavy footsteps.
“Dude really digs yellow,” Jiggy whispers to me.
“Someone probably told him it was soothing or uplifting or some shit back in the seventies.”
He snickers and keeps walking.
Cedarwood stops in the doorway of what looks like a cross between a morgue and a therapeutic massage room.
A plump, curvy young woman in glasses and protective gear barely turns away from the casket in front of her. From the doorway, we can’t see past all the white satin lining, but I’m pretty sure a body rests inside.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Jiggy mutters.
“Dad, I’m almost finished with Mrs. O’Leary. I went with a slightly peachier blush. I think she’d like it if—” She glances up, and her voice halts. She pulls down her mask, snaps her gloves off, and steps away from the casket.
“Oh hell,” Jiggy whispers.
With her blond hair pulled into a severe knot, thick, black-rimmed glasses, and a lab coat, she looks like she’s ready to attend a Halloween party as a “sexy scientist”—you know, if you overlook the playing-with-corpses thing.
“Don’t,” I warn Jigsaw.
Cedarwood nods at the woman. “This is my daughter, Margot. She’s our mortuary cosmetologist.” He doesn’t bother introducing us one by one.
Jigsaw solves that problem by stepping right up to her and introducing himself. While I share an eye roll with Murphy, I note Jiggy’s deliberately positioned himself away from the casket.
“Follow me, gentlemen,” Cedarwood says. “Get back to work, Margot.”
She scurries away, stopping at a cabinet to grab a fresh pair of gloves.
“Damn,” Jiggy whispers, shooting a murderous glare at Cedarwood.
“Easy, killer,” I warn.
The five of us file into Cedarwood’s office. More worn carpet. Chipped furniture. Wallpaper peeling in spots. But it’s large enough to accommodate an entire grieving family. Still, I wonder how much business he loses due to the shabby appearance of the place.
“So,” Mr. Cedarwood says, turning his attention to Rock. “Your son says your motorcycle club is interested in investing in my family’s legacy.”
“We’re interested in an arrangement with a business that has roots in the community,” Rock says, ignoring the whole legacy thing.
“What kind of arrangement are we talking about? Anything that will get me or my family in trouble?”
Smart question.
“Nothing like that,” I say smoothly. “You’re the only funeral home in the area. Guaranteed business, right?”
Cedarwood sits straighter, beaming with pride. “We have a good relationship with the local hospitals. Or we used to.”
I nod to the shred of wallpaper hanging on by a thread above his desk. “A renovation might inspire more confidence.”
He stares at the wallpaper as if he’s just noticed its shoddy condition. His gaze pops around the room like he’s seeing it for the first time in a long while. “You’re probably right,” he mumbles.
“Hey, I get it. If you look at the same thing day after day, the flaws disappear.” I gesture to Rock, Murphy, Jigsaw, and myself. “We can be your fresh eyes.”