Page 105 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
But then on a particularly sharp incline, something under the hearse started to rattle. An alert on the dashboard dinged.
‘Is our popcorn ready?’ asked Lily.
‘The check engine light,’ said Mort, frowning. ‘But I just had her serviced. You can even check the log book.’
Lily opened the glove box and pulled out a tidy log book in which Mort had diligently recorded every piece of maintenance that had been done on the hearse in the past … well, since ever. It was a much more impressive testament to car ownership than Lily’s haphazard set of receipts, which were jammed down the side of the door and had to be dug through every time her mechanic asked her about her car’s chequered past.
More rattling, then another ding. Then another.
‘Is it the switcheroo?’ asked Lily. ‘Is the hearse becoming a pumpkin or something?’
‘I think it’s just … dying,’ said Mort, with a sigh. ‘As all things do.’
Lily couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Well, you’re never not on brand.’
‘Very funny.’ Frowning as the entire dash console glowed red, Mort pulled over.
He popped the hood, then walked a lap around the car. As he got to the doors at the back, he folded his arms.
‘Well, I’ve found the source of the rattling,’ he said, holding up a set of tin cans, the type that newlyweds might hitch totheir car. ‘I think one of them got stuck underneath and broke something.’
‘So now what?’ asked Lily. She checked her phone – no signal.
‘It’s just us and an overnight wait for roadside assistance.’
‘We should’ve taken the Miata,’ teased Lily. ‘She’s reliable. Still going strong, 200,000 miles in.’
‘That’s a warning sign in and of itself. A car with that many miles is at the end of its mechanical life.’
Lily huffed. ‘I’m glad poor Lucille isn’t here to hear you say that.’
‘Lucille would still be at the bottom of the hill,’ pointed out Mort.
‘At least we picked a nice place to get murdered by a hitchhiker,’ observed Lily.
Despite the irony in her tone, she spoke the truth: they’d broken down by the side of a wildflower-studded field, high up on a winding road that offered glimpses of the slow-moving ocean and the twinkling lights of the town and the estates that spilled out from it in every direction. The air was a scarf of scents and sounds: the citrusy scents of yerba buena and wild roses mixed with the hum of crickets and the wind over the hills.
She checked the time on the dash. ‘So, how much longer do we have until someone comes for us?’
‘From my knowledge of the hours that Tow Truck Trent keeps, about eight hours,’ said Mort. ‘He’ll be at bingo, then in bed, then walking his dog. Promise me you’re not going to keep asking.’
‘I promise,’ said Lily. She grabbed his hand. ‘I mean, if you’re saying we have time …’
She pulled him around to the back of the hearse, yanking open the doors and dragging him in after her.
Mort blushed. ‘About the bunk bed mattresses,’ he began.
‘What bunk bed mattresses?’
‘The ones from the switcheroo. I thought it couldn’t hurt to have something comfortable to lie on.’
‘Ah, lie on,’ said Lily knowingly. ‘But there are no mattresses. There’s only one …’
Mort sighed. ‘Coffin. There’s only one coffin.’
The switcheroo had struck again.
‘It’s a double coffin, at least?’ said Lily, poking at it. ‘To be fair, the lining’s really soft. And the padding is quite solid. Ooh, and it has drop-down sides.’ She demonstrated. ‘It’s like a futon coffin. A coff-on. A fut-in.’
