Clark.
The security cameras had been installed to capture the goings on in the flower room, which is clear at the back of the building, and heaven forbid Gaylen Smith the two-ton mortician should have to walk anywhere outside the perimeter of his office during the day. Besides, after closing time, the flower room had to be left open for floral deliveries being left for evening viewings on the night preceding the funeral service the next day. I always thought the real reason for the cameras was to scare off florists from rearranging the work of their competitors when no one else watched, a crime of which I had been the victim a few times.
When I got into the glorified closet labeled “flower room,” I noticed two other small planters on the stands lining the long narrow space. I looked at the labels on the enclosure envelopes to determine which planter came from which shop. One came from JoAnne’s Flower Basket, and one came from Countryside Floral, the shop in Plainville owned by Irwin and LaDonna Shaw. On the left, was the garage door; the one where I met my one-minute stand in a plastic bag. Past the garage door was a set of cabinets with a small stainless steel sink and two small drawers left open, the sloppy contents left on the counter. Make-up brushes, small round tins of disturbed rouge and plastic hair combs remained to tempt or scare the imagination.
The entrance to the main part of the mortuary rested at the end of the standard issue public school linoleum squares and yellow fluorescent lighting. The door and frame were fashioned of beautiful cherry wood. On the other side of that door, thick pile carpet colored in rose, cream and peach muffled the sounds that might have bounced off the cherry wood paneling matching all of the door frames in the funeral home. A sign posted on the wall above the employee time clock next to the door read, “No florists past this point.”
Knowing Derrick couldn’t have delivered a casket spray, let alone any matching pieces in his tiny car, I assumed his driver must have delivered everything earlier and he was just here to schmooze. I recognized the voice of Gaylen Smith coming from around the corner.
“Did you guys get that plot set-up finished?” He shouted to unseen persons.
A dull quiet voice answered “Yeah. We’ll put the chairs out tomorrow morning.”
“Wuhl yeah,” Gaylen’s belligerent voice replied, “you don’t want to put ‘em out tonight. People’ll steal ‘em if you put ‘em out tonight.” Somebody liked being in charge. “Be here tomorrow at seven,” he ordered, “the viewing’s here at nine.”
“Okay.” The answer was monotone, not reflecting any reaction to the condescension in his superior’s tone.
“Hey, Derrick what can I do ya for?” The boss was in a better mood all of a sudden.
“Just seeing if we’re still on for our two o’clock tee time tomorrow.”
Gaylen told Derrick he was still “a go” for golf.
“Great I’ll just put it in my iPhone.”
“Wow that’s quite a phone,” Gaylen said. “Is that gold plated or something?”
“Not the whole phone. Just the skin. I had it made special by a guy I know.” I rolled my eyes to the very tops of my eyelids, quietly placed my puny planter and tried to slink out of the second class quarters before the non-combative gravediggers came in to punch out on the time-clock.
I carefully opened the back door, so as not to bump into Derrick’s car, then just as carefully slid out of the opening and inched my way around his back bumper.
“Hey. Watch the paint job.” A nasty male voice yelled behind me.
“Oh. Hi, Derrick, how are you?” I asked politely.
“Who the hell are you?” He replied.
“I’m Quincy McKay. We met at the last designer’s showcase, remember?”
“I wouldn’t remember something like that. Just watch yourself, you probably scratched my paint.”
“No
The security cameras had been installed to capture the goings on in the flower room, which is clear at the back of the building, and heaven forbid Gaylen Smith the two-ton mortician should have to walk anywhere outside the perimeter of his office during the day. Besides, after closing time, the flower room had to be left open for floral deliveries being left for evening viewings on the night preceding the funeral service the next day. I always thought the real reason for the cameras was to scare off florists from rearranging the work of their competitors when no one else watched, a crime of which I had been the victim a few times.
When I got into the glorified closet labeled “flower room,” I noticed two other small planters on the stands lining the long narrow space. I looked at the labels on the enclosure envelopes to determine which planter came from which shop. One came from JoAnne’s Flower Basket, and one came from Countryside Floral, the shop in Plainville owned by Irwin and LaDonna Shaw. On the left, was the garage door; the one where I met my one-minute stand in a plastic bag. Past the garage door was a set of cabinets with a small stainless steel sink and two small drawers left open, the sloppy contents left on the counter. Make-up brushes, small round tins of disturbed rouge and plastic hair combs remained to tempt or scare the imagination.
The entrance to the main part of the mortuary rested at the end of the standard issue public school linoleum squares and yellow fluorescent lighting. The door and frame were fashioned of beautiful cherry wood. On the other side of that door, thick pile carpet colored in rose, cream and peach muffled the sounds that might have bounced off the cherry wood paneling matching all of the door frames in the funeral home. A sign posted on the wall above the employee time clock next to the door read, “No florists past this point.”
Knowing Derrick couldn’t have delivered a casket spray, let alone any matching pieces in his tiny car, I assumed his driver must have delivered everything earlier and he was just here to schmooze. I recognized the voice of Gaylen Smith coming from around the corner.
“Did you guys get that plot set-up finished?” He shouted to unseen persons.
A dull quiet voice answered “Yeah. We’ll put the chairs out tomorrow morning.”
“Wuhl yeah,” Gaylen’s belligerent voice replied, “you don’t want to put ‘em out tonight. People’ll steal ‘em if you put ‘em out tonight.” Somebody liked being in charge. “Be here tomorrow at seven,” he ordered, “the viewing’s here at nine.”
“Okay.” The answer was monotone, not reflecting any reaction to the condescension in his superior’s tone.
“Hey, Derrick what can I do ya for?” The boss was in a better mood all of a sudden.
“Just seeing if we’re still on for our two o’clock tee time tomorrow.”
Gaylen told Derrick he was still “a go” for golf.
“Great I’ll just put it in my iPhone.”
“Wow that’s quite a phone,” Gaylen said. “Is that gold plated or something?”
“Not the whole phone. Just the skin. I had it made special by a guy I know.” I rolled my eyes to the very tops of my eyelids, quietly placed my puny planter and tried to slink out of the second class quarters before the non-combative gravediggers came in to punch out on the time-clock.
I carefully opened the back door, so as not to bump into Derrick’s car, then just as carefully slid out of the opening and inched my way around his back bumper.
“Hey. Watch the paint job.” A nasty male voice yelled behind me.
“Oh. Hi, Derrick, how are you?” I asked politely.
“Who the hell are you?” He replied.
“I’m Quincy McKay. We met at the last designer’s showcase, remember?”
“I wouldn’t remember something like that. Just watch yourself, you probably scratched my paint.”
“No
Similar Books
