Page 5 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
I stand, frozen, unsure what to do, when the receptionist, Shelly, pops her head up from behind the counter and beams at me.
“Hey, Tess, whatcha doin just standing there?”
I stare at her newly dyed red hair and thick fake lashes, unsure how to answer. Despite her trashy looks, she is actually a very caring and happy person, perfect for the front counter of a funeral home – especially the after-hours visiting time from 5pm-10pm when she does her shift, which coincides with mine.
“Ah, is, ah, do we have any clients or visitors here at the moment?”
“Only old Mrs Jameson,” she smirks, “why?”
I feel the tension in my shoulders relax. Mrs Jameson died on Monday and will be buried soon. I have almost finished my work on her, and she will look as beautiful as she did on her wedding day when my cosmetic magic is complete.
I smile and continue past Shelly towards the back rooms where I do my work, thinking about how to answer her, as I walk. I can hardly say ‘oh because I smelled someone else here.’ Distraction, I find, usually works with the woman, especially asking about her latest boyfriend drama. For a thirty-year-old, she has more relationship issues than a teenager, and just as poor decision-making skills when it comes to matters of the heart. Not that I’m an expert.
“What were you doing under the desk?” I smile at her, “hiding from a new flame? I like your hair colour by the way.”
“Huh? Oh, thanks. No, I was looking for some of our manuals. We have to organise our first military funeral, and the boss said we had to do it by the book. Only I can’t find any book.”
“Military funeral?” I raise my eyebrows, “I wasn’t aware any of the old men in town had died recently?”
“No, it’s for Ryan Spencer, he’s taken over his granddaddy’s farm on Old Larch Road, just up from you.”
I almost fall over.
“He’s dead?” I gasp.
“No,” she shakes her head, unaware that I almost became the first vampire in history to have a heart attack. “He’s paying for the funeral of a friend, someone he served with, and he’s asked us to organise it, although the actual service will be held in Ohio.”
I place my hand on my chest to try and stop my heart from beating so fast as I prepare to question her further.
‘His name is Ryan? He’s ex-military? Curiosity killed the cat – don’t ask.’
I ignore myself and ask anyway.
“I thought the government paid for the funeral of anyone killed on active duty?”
“He was a veteran,” she shrugs. “I think $300 is all he was entitled to, although I didn’t want to ask too many questions of the snog-worthy Mr Spencer. He said he wanted the best funeral money could buy, and that is what he’s going to get.”
I nod, ignoring her reference to my neighbour as ‘snog-worthy’ which there was frankly no argument about, although snack-worthy would be more appropriate for me.
Continuing through to my workspace, I don my white work jacket and set to work on Mrs Jameson. But I can’t help wonder how a man who makes his own furniture and lives in a derelict house would be able to afford a lavish funeral for a friend, or why he would want to.
“Perhaps he was more than a friend?” I whisper to Mrs Jameson. “Now that would throw a spanner in Pru’s match-making plans, wouldn’t it?”
I almost laugh out loud, thinking about her reaction if I could tell her the neighbour was gay.
“Maybe getting to know him won’t be so fraught or worrisome after all, if and when I get my thirst under control.”
Mrs Jameson, predictably, says nothing, but the lipstick I have chosen is clearly not to her liking, and I wipe it off and try a lighter colour.
The Piggly Wiggly is one of my favourite shops, everything and anything you might need is here, and it is all relatively inexpensive. Family-owned, this shop acts as a supermarket, come hardware, come everything this tiny town might need. I take my time strolling up and down the aisles, impulse buying things I really don’t need.
I don’t buy food often unless it is a special treat for Orson, cat food, or carrots for Buffy and Spike. But tonight I’m looking for Christmas cookie ingredients, and my eyes are drawn to some of the extra cute little decorations available now.
Picking up a packet of tiny marzipan Santas, I add it to my basket and spin, eyes wide, as the front doors open and the cold evening air whooshes in a gust of deliciousness that threatens to turn me into a heartless and merciless creature of the night.
Zipping to the end of the aisle furthest from the door, I peer around the display of marshmallows artfully arranged in the shape of a giant snowman and strangle a scream as I see my neighbour hesitating between aisles.
Finally, he chooses the fruit and vegetable aisle, and I lose sight of him as I scurry to the counter.
