Restless Coffins by M.P. Wright

Author:M.P. Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black & White Publishing
Published: 2018-01-08T05:00:00+00:00

21

A white flicker of lightning struck out above the trees on the opposite side of the Dejeans’ home as I opened the taxi door and joined Evangeline on the back seat. I felt the cold metal of the Beretta against the clammy skin on my back as I leaned forward in my seat and gave the driver the address of the funeral home that was printed on the scroll of paper from inside the alabaster casket. We drove out of one of the poorest parts of the city and quickly entered the wealthier, middle-class areas of the suburbs. Outside of pristine homes and ornate lawns, black gardeners clipped the hedges and watered rose beds. White oleander, azalea and myrtle trees were planted thickly behind the scrolled iron fences that lined the fronts of most of the white-columned properties. It was all far removed from the old wooden row houses and shrub-filled front yards that we had just left less than three miles back in Holy Cross. I turned from staring out of the passenger seat window and glanced across at Evangeline. She looked stunning. Her face had lost the anguished look of the last forty-eight hours and had been replaced with a radiant quality that somehow made me feel a little more buoyant. She wore a white, knee-length cotton dress decorated with tiny red flowers and her hair was tied back in a bun with a short length of red velvet ribbon. A number of thin, silver hoops jingled on her wrist and she held a white clutch bag in her right hand. My heart suddenly picked up a beat in my chest and my stomach had butterflies. The skin around my cheeks warmed. I knew what I was feeling wasn’t down to the Louisiana heat. I heard myself sigh, then turned and stared blankly back out of the car window; my inner voice telling me to stick to the job at hand.

Odell & Bultman Mortuary Service was located on the north-west corner of Charles Avenue in the heart of the Garden District of New Orleans. The taxi driver pulled up sharply outside the undertaker’s establishment. I looked across the front seat of the cab at the meter, pulled a roll of banknotes out of my hip pocket, paid the driver the three-dollar fee and threw in a dollar tip for good measure. Evangeline swung open her door and the two of us got out, crossed over the street and stood on the pavement outside the gravediggers’ swanky-looking joint. The company name was hung proudly in the show window of the funeral home in six-inch-high, white neon script. Enormous trees draped in the haunting southern canvas of Spanish moss shaded the front of the building. On the gable end, the American flag, hung at half-mast, was waving gently in the breeze.

Evangeline and I went inside, and I was immediately hit with the overbearing smell of burning incense which stung the air. A bell tinkled above our heads as I shut the door and took a quick look around.

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