Easier said than done. As dusk deepened and lights began twinkling, they drove south through the city until the buildings grew shorter and farther apart, the road patchy and dotted with ruts. And all the while, a heavy silence sat between them. Until Lowe broke it.
“You look lovely.”
Her response leapt out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Yesterday was a mistake.”
“I disagree.”
“Well, it will never happen again.”
A long pause. “All right.”
She forced her twined fingers to relax and gazed out the window. Was he going to say nothing more about it? She tried again. “I’m not sure what came over me.”
“If you’re not interested, you’re not interested.”
“It’s not—”
“No need to explain yourself. Consider the matter in the past.”
She couldn’t make out his expression in the shadowed car. This was not going how she wanted it to. She struggled to put words to her thoughts, but he beat her to it.
“Glad I didn’t make a fool of myself asking you out this weekend,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Some friends of mine from the history department at Berkeley are meeting up for drinks and dancing in North Beach. I knew it wasn’t your thing, but everyone’s bringing dates.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, an old college sweetheart recently broke off her engagement and left me a couple of messages, wanting to reconnect.”
She stilled. “Oh?”
“Good old Ruby. A little wild. God knows she cheated on me left and right. But she’s fun at a party. I’ll see if she wants to go.”
Ruby. What a wretched name.
She rolled down the window to get some air as images of supper clubs and jazz bands collided in her head. Jazz bands and dancing and a wild woman who wanted to reconnect with him. A woman he’d taken to bed? Did the time they’d spent together mean so little to him that he could just shrug it off and start up with another girl?
But if she cared that much, she shouldn’t have told him their kiss was a mistake. Why did she say that, anyway? She was terrible at relationships. Part of her had given up on men entirely, and was convinced she’d never fall in love or have a family. But another part of her still hoped. The same part that lay awake at night wanting Lowe. Fantasizing he did the same for her.
Her chest ached. Raw, hurt feelings tightened her throat. Tears threatened.
“Hey,” he said in a softer voice. “You okay?”
“Just a little warm in here,” she said, calming her emotions. This was not the time to fall apart like a small child who hadn’t gotten her way. They had work to do.
“Mint?” he asked, offering her the open roll of candy in his hand.
She took three.
After the San Mateo County sign, they drove through the rural town of Lawndale, or Colma, as it used to be known. The necropolis. In the distance, rolling hills were lined with cemetery after cemetery, each privately owned and operated. Graves aside, there wasn’t much more in town but an athletic club, a train depot, and a downtown area filled with funeral homes.
Trotter’s place was a fat two-story home. The scent of cleaning fluid greeted them at the door, along with a cheerless elderly secretary, who led them into Trotter’s empty office.
“I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said, as they perched on two visitors chairs in front of an old desk. Business licenses and funerary certifications hung in dusty frames along the wall. No urns in sight, but Hadley thought she possibly detected a strange energy; another crossbar might be here.
“You need anything?” the secretary asked. “Coffee? Water? I’m just about to lock up and leave for the day.”
“Nothing, thank you,” Lowe said, sounding weary and empty. Was he already in character? Now she wished she would’ve spent the ride over pressing him for more information on his plan instead of pining over him like a lovesick girl. As soon as the secretary closed the door, Lowe leaned closer and whispered, “You don’t feel anything?”
“I don’t want to talk about that here,” she whispered back. “Later.”
“What?”
She glanced at him. “What what?”
“I meant the amulet crossbar. Do you feel its presence?”
Her cheeks heated. “Yes, I believe so. But it’s hard to tell. This place makes me anxious.” She took off her hat and fanned herself.
The door to the office opened, and a portly blond man wearing an ill-fitting suit entered. He looked Hadley’s age. Maybe younger. “Good evening, Mr. Smith,” he said to Lowe, extending his hand. “I’m Bill Trotter.”
Lowe shook and said, “This is my sister, Ruby.”
Ruby? His nightclub floozy? What in the world was he playing at?
“Miss Smith,” the young funeral director said, bowing his head. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” He didn’t sound all that sorry. If she didn’t know any better, she might think he was looking her over. That didn’t happen often. Maybe he recognized a kindred spirit whose life work also centered on death. “Won’t you please sit down? I’ll try to make this as easy for you as possible.”
The man’s chair creaked as he lowered himself into it. “Mr. Smith, I believe you told my secretary that your sister passed two days ago?”
“Poor Esmerelda,” Lowe said. “We came home to find her bludgeoned on the parlor floor.”
“Robbery?”
“Nothing was taken, so we don’t really know why it happened. Only that she wasn’t a well-liked person, to be honest. Always shooting her mouth off. There was no love between the three of us.” He grasped Hadley’s hand on the armrest; she had to fight every instinct not to jerk it back. “Ruby and I are close. We felt an obligation to take care of Esmerelda, even though she’s only our half sister. But I won’t lie—it’ll be more pleasant around the house now that we can keep her contained, so to speak.”
Good heavens. Lowe was telling the man a version of his own father’s myth—Hugo Trotter’s siblings were bludgeoned and stabbed.
“I hope you don’t find my honesty off-putting,” Lowe added.
“Not at all, Mr. Smith. Not everyone who walks in this door is wracked with grief.” He gave Hadley another glance. Or her legs, at least. She crossed them in the opposite direction and rearranged her dress over her knee.
Lowe cleared his throat. “Since I don’t want to waste your time, I’ll get right to the point. Esmerelda’s body isn’t viewable, which is why we’d like her cremated. But she did leave us a great deal of her father’s fortune, so we’d like to”—he gave Hadley a secret smile—“shall I tell him, dear?”
“Please do.” She had no idea where he was going with this ruse.
“Well, we’d like something extravagant to hold Esmerelda’s ashes. A showpiece—not your usual fare. Something we can put on a shelf and raise a glass to now and then. Money is no object, God rest her soul.”
Trotter brightened. “I’m sure we can find something to meet your needs. I have several unique pieces in stock. Would you like to see them?” He gave Hadley a hopeful smile. And another glance at her legs. Maybe he really was smitten with her.
They followed Mr. Trotter into a small showroom that featured a variety of urn options lined on shelves. Small paper placards provided pricing. A few of the urns were gaudy, but no strange energy, and no canopic jars.
“These are nice,” Lowe said, running his hand along the marble of the most expensive urn on the wall. “But what we had in mind was something exotic. Maybe something Roman or Greek. Something classic.”
“Something sculpted,” Hadley added.
Trotter’s brow lifted. “You know, my aunt Hilda’s urn sounds a little like that. Only, it’s sculpted in an Egyptian fashion. I—”
“O-oh, Egyptian,” Lowe said, as if it were the most intriguing thing in the world. “That’s very exotic. What do you think, Ruby?”