Page 30 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘You know how to reverse the switcheroo on an organ?’ Mort called. Even his smartphone assistant hadn’t been able to help with that.
‘Well, no.’ There was some scuffling as Lily climbed up on her desk chair so that she could talk more freely through thegrille. ‘But there’s a player piano up for grabs not far from the cinema, if you want to take a walk with me.’
‘All right.’ Mort regarded his side of the grille. He’d done his best to repaint it, but the switcheroo pink kept oozing back through the endless coats of black he’d applied. In the end he’d moved a particularly tall floral display in front of it, feeling endlessly grateful for the local florist’s obsession with height. (She took the same approach with her hair, whose bouffant every day exceeded the previous day’s.)
In Mort’s humble, morbid opinion, pink and funerals did not go together. He needed the pallid, the wan, the ashen. It was right there on the two-toned colour wheel Gramps had put together years ago and had subsequently kept in his desk: ivory and black. Variations on the theme were accepted, but nothing that veered into the colour spectrum. If a dog couldn’t see it, Mort didn’t want it in the funeral home. Grief was a thing with feathers, yes, but crow feathers, not parrot ones.
The grille rattled as Lily clapped her hands against it. ‘I’ll be right over. Wear sensible shoes.’
Mort looked down at his polished Oxfords. He had never been accused of not being sensible.
Moments later, ‘Oh Happy Day’ rang out on the musical doorbell, startling Mort. Well, it was better than yesterday’s ‘It’s Raining Men’.
Lily shoved open the door, sweeping into the funeral home in an explosion of pink and yellow taffeta.
‘You look like the human embodiment of Pop Rocks,’ observed Mort. (Mort would never admit it, but he loved Pop Rocks.)
‘Why thank you!’ Lily showed off a pair of orange-heavy leopard-print sneakers that presumably counted as sensible in her world. Oh dear, did they light up when she moved? Yes, yes they did.
‘You’re welcome,’ replied Mort, amused.
‘Are we ready?’ Leading Mort outside, Lily rubbed the noses of the poodle statues out of the front of the funeral home (today they were in sunhats and beach towels), then dragged Mort up the winding pedestrian pathway that meandered through the heart of the village, connecting a hundred shop-lined laneways and ivy-smothered kiosks and seating areas fit for a fairy picnic.
‘Mostly I just wanted an excuse to walk the promenade,’ Lily admitted, pausing to wave to Jorge, the gardener whose magical botanical gift kept the flower baskets and huge planters lush and bright.
‘Morning, Lily!’ Jorge danced over with a vibrant zinnia for her. (Jorge never walked – he shimmied everywhere. He was quite the star on the dance floor and had proudly stood in as a seniors’ Zumba instructor at the YMCA a few times.) ‘A bright flower for my bright lady.’
Beaming, Lily tucked the flower into her curls. ‘Thank you, Jorge. Make sure you come by for some wedding cake. I just got some lemon poppyseed and some chocolate caramel in. We’ll do a taste test and you can let me know what you think.’
‘I don’t say no to cake.’ Jorge’s grin was so broad it took up all of the available real estate on his leathery face. Snipping his secateurs up and down like extremely sharp castanets, he pranced off towards a garden bed rainbowed with the reaching blooms of gerberas. The vibrant flowers’ feet were warmed by a colourful carpet of verbena and lantana.
‘Cake testing, huh?’ Mort held out a hand for Jenkins, the extremely personable Jack Russell who guarded the premises of The Hot Pot with threats of doggie kisses and an endless game of fetch. Jenkins usually stayed on site, but around lunch he’d trot up the promenade for extra treats and belly rubs, whichlocals and tourists alike were happy to give. The stumpy-legged pup slobbered a welcome all over Mort.
‘None for you until you wash your hands.’ Lily stooped to give Jenkins some belly scratches and a treat she produced from a hidden pocket. ‘I didn’t take you for a dog person.’
Mort raised an eyebrow. ‘Should I be offended?’
‘Well, maybe it’s just the Esmeralda thing. The two of you seem to get along, and most people are one or the other.’
‘But Jenkins isn’t just a dog. Look at him. He looks like Wishbone.’
Lily gasped. ‘You watchedWishbone?’
‘Sure. Just because I look like I grew up inThe Munstersdoesn’t mean we didn’t get TV reception. Besides, Gramps liked Wishbone’s outfits.’
‘Ah, now it’s starting to make sense. Although I don’t remember Wishbone’s goth phase.’
‘Wishbone could be anyone he wanted to be,’ said Mort haughtily.
‘You’re thinking of Gumby.’
Sending Jenkins back down towards The Hot Pot with a butt pat, Lily directed Mort up Oleander Avenue and around the pedestrian roundabout that let on to Juniper Way. Mort swallowed – Whispering Waters, which Angela had suggested as an option for Gramps, was just around the corner. Mort knew that Gramps needed something more low-maintenance than the current rambling family home, but a retirement home didn’t feel right.
Lily yawned, self-consciously covering her mouth. ‘Sorry. After I got done with Venus I spent half the night trying out spells to undo the switcheroo.’
Mort shot her a sidelong glance. ‘No luck, I see, unless your shop looks better than mine. But I appreciate the effort.’
‘I was going to fast-track a witchcraft kit from Amazon, but I didn’t want poor Roddy running around at 3 a.m. I made do with some river pebbles from the planters outside, some old spices from the cupboard, and a poem about change from a Hallmark card I found at the back of the wardrobe.’
