Page 42 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Molly harrumphed. Literally. She literally harrumphed, like something out of a British children’s cartoon. But apparently she did not have a refrigerated van, for she waltzed out, leaving her mother on ice in the morgue. Mort was relieved that she’d left so easily, because the definition of ‘on ice’ had changed substantially since the business swapsies, and it wasn’t out of the question that poor dead Mama was sticking out of a champagne ice bucket.
‘Ding-a-ling!’ called Lily from the doorway. At least she hadn’t set the doorbell off – who knew what was next on its playlist. ‘I’m Walking on Sunshine’? ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’? ‘I Believe in a Thing Called Love’? ‘It’s Lily, the local newspaper delivery girl.’
Mort sighed. He assumed that Lily wasn’t here to share a particularly good coupon for Brolligarchs (they did make brilliant umbrellas) or a delightfully optimistic horoscope that spoke of bakery riches and good surf (Kit von Diesel, the local psychic, knew what the locals wanted to hear). ‘Tell me this isn’t about the obituary. I have heard all one man is capable of hearing about obituaries. Ask Molly Lambshead what topic she could do an impromptu TED talk on, and apparently it’s what’s appropriate to put in an obituary.’
Lily grimaced. ‘Well, unfortunately I’ve just spent the past half hour engaged in similar speechifying from one Bronson Roibles.’
Mort’s desk shook from the violence with which she slapped down a copy of theMirage Daily Mirror, which had a wedding announcement that began:We regret to inform you that Bronson Roibles and Tiffany Ferguson are tying the knot.Theannouncement ended withThe lucky couple are survived by their families and their dog Delilah.
‘Bronson Roibles,’ said Mort, taking a seat at his comfy leather desk chair, which had been studded with spikes until recently, but was now adorned with feathers. At least they were grey, which was close enough to black. ‘Quite the name. Evokes an affable aristocratic golden retriever who travels through time solving mysteries.’
‘Unfortunately for all of us, Bronson Roibles is a human, and not a particularly affable one at that.’ Lily prodded judgementally at the jar of black jelly cats on Mort’s desk. Hang on, were there some jelly beans among them? Mort scowled – the switcheroo was a constantly moving target.
Picking out a selection of jelly beans, Lily flopped down on the chaise longue to one side of Mort’s desk. (This was for the fainters. There were also some more standard chairs for the sitters, and a moody, ornate doorframe for the leaners.)
‘It’s sofuzzy.’ Lily stroked the chaise in a way that made Mort rather wish he were a piece of furniture. ‘Anyway, Bronson is one half of a couple with a space-flight-themed wedding I’m working on getting on the books two years from now.’
‘Twoyears?’ Mort was so surprised that he spun his chair in a full circle. ‘Must be nice to be able to schedule your work. Every time I think about a holiday, someone kicks the bucket. Even Pickleball Candice’s proposed funeral is only six months out.’
Lily regarded her jelly beans, which were disappearing at a worrisome rate. ‘It’s a very elaborate wedding, with a scale Mars Rover as a ring bearer and engraved meteorites as bonbonniere. Oh, and a performance of “Major Tom” from that astronaut who went viral. They’re hoping that space tourism will be a little further along by then, and that everyone can join them ona jaunt to the stars. A jaunt paid for by the guests, of course. Well, and some funding from NASA. The ultimate destination wedding.’
‘They arenot.’ Mort was appalled, but also fascinated. ‘What possesses a person to throw away so much effort and money on a single day?’
She threw a jelly bean at him. ‘Love, you fool! And a little bit of social pressure. And you’re one to talk. Funerals can be just as expensive, and the people who are the subject of yours aredead.’
Mort couldn’t argue with that.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make fun. I know you’re brilliant at what you do, or the Chamber of Commerce wouldn’t have picked your application over all of the others. And the runner-up does mirror-ball sculptures, so it was close. It just seems like an enormous undertaking for one day.’
‘But it’s not for one day,’ said Lily, picking out the yellow jelly beans and arranging them into a sugary flower on the chaise. ‘That’s the whole point. The one day is just thestart. Speaking of starts, or rather starts that never were: Veronica of disastrous-proposal-rejection-that-spoke-the-switcheroo-into-being fame – I found her. Veronica Teuer.’
Mort was impressed – what could he say? Lily impressed him. Especially her switcheroo origin story hypothesis, which was much more appealing than Mort’s, which was that he was actually dead, and all of this was a final, hallucinatory gasp from his poor, dying brain.
Yep, the curse option sounded much better than brain death.
‘You’d make an excellent stalker,’ he said. ‘Very unassuming. And very creative.’
‘Why thank you, kindly.’ Lily leaned to one side, striking a femme fatale pose. Alas, the funeral home’s blinds were now chiffon and didn’t offer the dramatic striped shadows a set ofVenetians might have. (The jelly beans also detracted a tad from the scene.)
‘I had some help from Angela and Tink,’ she admitted.
‘Ah. Learning from the best.’ Tink had famously tracked down an elusive post-rock composer based on the birdsong found in the background of their compositions. Mort leaned back in his chair, wriggling a bit to avoid a peacock feather. Had that been there before? ‘So, assuming you’re right, and she’s behind this whole …’
‘Switcheroo? Topsy-turvy? Reverse Uno card?’
‘Terrible. You should be ashamed.’
‘I’m not the one whose doorbell plays “It’s Raining Men”.’
Mort could feel what little colour lived in his cheeks draining away. ‘Nor does mine. It tolls, like all good doorbells should.’
Lily’s blue eyes twinkled in that terrible way that made Mort want to climb over the desk and seize her in a fit of passion.Whywas she lounging on the chaise longue like that? Was she, despite her outward cutesiness, a proponent of cruel and unusual punishment?
‘Sure, whatever keeps you going,’ said Lily. ‘Anyway, yes, the goal is to get her back here to reverse the spell. But Veronica has gone dark.’
That’s right. They’d been having a conversation. Mort had lost the thread a bit there, what with this delectably clad woman lying seductively before him, sexily eating jelly beans. Well, eating jelly beans as sexily as was possible. (Which, honestly, wasn’t very. And yet, Mort was still intrigued.)
‘Gone dark,’ Mort repeated.
