The Undertaker Read Online Free PDF Page A

roots had buckled and tilted the concrete slabs of the sidewalks. By the look of them, it could have been back when FDR was President. Quaint, but other than the neighborhood skateboarders, I doubted anyone cared.
    I had no idea where the funeral home was, but the address in the obituary said East Larkin. At the four stop signs that marked the center of town, the cross street said Larkin, so I took a wild stab and turned right, figuring that had to be east. Sure enough, a quarter mile down the road I saw the sign for the Greene Funeral Home. It looked like I expected it to look: a big brick Georgian with white columns. The thought of entering another funeral home sent cold shivers down my back. I hated funerals, but I was angry enough to put up with almost anything for an hour or two, even if it was my own.
    The front entrance of the building faced the road and there was a drive-thru portico on the left side for loading the cars and hearses. The parking lot had only one entrance and it wrapped around the front and left side of the building. When I pulled in, the lot was nearly empty. In the far corner beyond the portico, sat two gleaming, black Cadillac limos, an even longer hearse, and five nondescript sedans that must belong to the hired help. I also saw a big, brown sheriff's cruiser parked in the shade of a big, overhanging oak. The Sheriff? The Talbott funerals must be a really big deal here in Peterborough. They brought the town cop in for crowd control.
    The only other car in the parking lot was a white Lincoln Town Car parked in the middle. I parked my Bronco in the front row, where I was sure it would be noticed. I got out, put on the blazer, and took the opportunity to slowly stretch my cramped muscles. At six feet two inches tall with a lean runner's build, my back and legs would tighten up like piano wires after a long drive. I looked around the parking lot again. Other than the Lincoln Town Car, the only people coming to the funeral looked to be the county sheriff and me.
Well, if this was the price one had pay for being such a monumental smart-ass, I'd remember to take my nice pills from now on.
    The sheriff's cruiser was sitting in the deep shadows under the tree. I couldn't see clearly inside, but there was a guy in a brown uniform slouched in the front seat, his arm hanging out the window, a cigarette dangling from his fingertips. He wore a pair of those “FOP-approved,” silver-lensed, aviator sunglasses like Ponch wore on CHIPS when I was a kid, the kind no “real” cop would be caught dead without. He was watching me with that bored-curious look that only a cop with nothing better to do would know how to give. I smiled and blew him a kiss as I walked past. At least that got him to move. He flicked the cigarette aside and I could see his head following me.
    The Greene Funeral Home was one of those long, low, one-story brick colonial things that was supposed to give the bereaved a feeling of history and permanence. The shrubs were neatly trimmed and the grass was green enough to have been spray-painted. The outside walls were a thick, dignified, brown brick and there was a tall white cupola on the roof, complete with a wrought iron weather vane and a crowing rooster. The main entrance had three broad concrete stairs and a set of double glass doors. Yep, the place looked sturdy and prosperous. It looked permanent. It looked positively eternal. Bet Mr. Greene didn't offer too many cut-rate deals on coffins. Bet he didn't even try.
    When I started out from Boston the night before, I had a full head of angry steam inside, but as I closed in on the front door of the funeral home and saw those two black hearses under the portico, my knees grew weak. The heat rippled off the asphalt and my pace slowed to a crawl. It wasn't me. It was my feet. They said not to go any further, and feet are rarely wrong. All the pain and anguish I kept locked away these many months had grabbed me by my coattails and stopped me dead