By the time she got there, she was wringing in the unseasonable heat. Usually by now they had a break in the weather. Not this year. Sweat darkened her armpits and her neck was damp, her hair springing out of the pins she’d fastened in wet tendrils. In town, with the wide reflecting streets and the puny trees, the sun shone hotter. The sheriff’s dim office offered some relief. He had a ceiling fan going, and on his desk a little, black, official-looking fan whirred as well. The brick walls were insulating and the inside of his office was cool and peaceful. Sheriff Hock was doing paperwork when she entered, and he looked glad for a diversion.
“So,” said Delphine, after they’d complained to each other about the heat, “what have you found out about the Chavers? Roy and I are wondering.” She didn’t mention Cyprian, for it struck her that Sheriff Hock might ask where Cyprian traveled off to from time to time, and she wanted to avoid the story about his being a brush salesman. But Hock didn’t seem at all interested in Cyprian’s excursions; he was, he said, interested in talking to her. Just lately, he said, he’d been wanting to ask about costumes.
“Costumes?”
“What you and Cyprian wore when doing your shows, your balancing acts. What did you have on?”
“We wore regular clothes. Cyprian said that part of the surprise of what we did was that we looked so normal, then our act was all the more unusual. Besides, at first we couldn’t afford anything fancy, no sequins.”
“Or red beads?” said Hock.
Delphine understood, thinking of the pantry floor. “Oh, now I see what you’re getting at. Are you saying that we could be suspects?”
“Well,” said Hock, “you know the beads. They’re still the odd component. Your dad says that nobody at the wake wore anything like a sequin or a bead or anything fancy that he remembers.”
“Not that he would have noticed, stewed as he got.”
“Likely,” said Sheriff Hock. “So I’ve also gone through the props department of our local company. You probably don’t think I remember!” He wagged a finger at her, twinkling his eyes in a way she didn’t like to see on a sheriff’s face. “I know you and Clarisse had a good time with that witch scene. I have a feeling either one of you’d have made an excellent Lady Macbeth.”
“We just understudied the part,” said Delphine carefully. She didn’t know if Hock was veiling an accusation. She attempted to lighten the moment. “Why don’t we revive”—she was careful not to tempt bad luck by saying the actual title—“the Scottish play!”
“Sadly, I am bound to my profession. I haven’t the time anymore, and anyway, do you think that the people of this town want to see their sheriff as, say, the eponymous murderer? I would lose their confidence.”
“People wouldn’t think… or you could always play Banquo.”
“No, no, no, to many, art is life. I am the sheriff, so I must play the sheriff round the clock. To accept any other role while wearing the badge would only confuse people.” Sheriff Hock squeezed his chin in his fist now, frowning. In a low voice he asked, “How is Clarisse?”
“She’s busy.” Delphine said this quickly to disguise her jolt of unease.
“Is she really?” Hock said in a light, menacing voice. “Busy? Or is she just avoiding her destiny? I like to think of myself as inevitable.”
His sly self-assurance tripped a wire in Delphine. “Inevitable!” she cried. “You’re a mental wreck. She hates you. I don’t care if you are the sheriff, you should leave her alone.”
“Caramel?” Hock extended a dish that had lain beneath some papers. He unwrapped one from its waxed paper and slowly fitted it between his lips.
Delphine shook her head and turned to leave. Already she regretted having lost her temper. Insulting Hock was a bad idea.
She stopped by the drugstore and bought a phosphate, drank it quickly to calm herself. Then she walked straight to the funeral home.
EVERYTHING ABOUT THE Strubs’ establishment was tasteful — painted gray and trimmed in dark maroon; even the awnings on the windows were made of matching, striped canvas. The porch was railed with turned cast iron. The lawn was a perfect swatch of muted green and the flowers in the summer garden were hushed lilac and mauve hollyhocks, white petunias, delicate blue bachelor’s buttons, nothing too colorful. The back door, also painted a calm gray, was fitted with a modern electric bell. Delphine pushed it, heard a pleasant stroke of music from inside. She looked nervously around to see whether she had been followed. When Clarisse came to the door, Delphine gestured at her to quickly let her in.
“Is it Roy?” said Clarisse, in an anxious, knowing way that temporarily unnerved Delphine.
“No!” she cried out.
“I’m sorry,” said Clarisse. “What was I thinking? Come in, come in. How stupid of me.” She put her arms around Delphine and led her into a soothing little back entry room.
“We have to talk now. Where can we talk?” asked Delphine.
“I can take you downstairs,” said Clarisse. “I’m working with Mr. Pletherton.”
Delphine nodded. The basement was a carefully planned space, cool in summer, heated minimally in winter, always just the right temperature for work. There, Clarisse and her uncle and Benta concentrated their attentions on the town’s dead. Delphine knew that she was privileged to be permitted to enter — no one else, except Doctor Heech and, in a case of suspected foul play, the sheriff, was allowed downstairs. Delphine had never been particularly bothered, and now she found the Strubs’ preparation room much less upsetting than the back cooler of the slaughterhouse. And for sure, anything they said there would go no further. So she went down the back stairs, following her friend, who wore a crisp white coat and now peeled off her gloves with a snap.
“I thought I had a date with a guy from South Dakota, but he stood me up,” Clarisse’s voice floated back. It seemed that her profession was still as unsettling to potential boyfriends as it had been in high school. The boy had quickly made it clear that if she wanted to date him, she’d have to quit. For a while she and Delphine talked the way they used to, exchanging news of the states of their emotions. Clarisse said she wondered how she could respect a man who was afraid of her job.
“He called me an undertaker, Delphine. You know how I hate that! He’s like the others. None of them would probably come down here, even if I asked them. They’re chicken.” Her expression shifted to a startling mask, and she hunched and croaked, “They fear I’ll drain them dry as hay.”
Delphine laughed, although Clarisse’s sudden transformation, in the basement surroundings, slightly unsettled her. In one corner, a phonograph record played lovely, swelling opera music. Clarisse played the music not only for herself, but also, she claimed, the notes had a soothing effect upon the flesh of the bodies she was working on, causing them somehow to absorb the fluids she pumped into them more evenly. She swore it was true, but perhaps her current client did not appreciate opera music. The place was brilliantly lit and Mr. Pletherton, whom Clarisse paused to regard critically before she wheeled him back into the cooler, looked gray and actually dead. Perhaps Clarisse was still trying to get the quality of dye right. She was constantly experimenting, trying to choose the exact right mixture of arterial solution for the peculiarities of each body. “They’re all so different.” Clarisse gave his arm a clinical stroke as she put him away and there was a small crackling sound. She frowned and muttered, “Postmortem emphysema.