Everything in this funeral home is false.
Jane listened to the crackling of electric logs in the fireplace and used the remote control to cycle the scent from pine to sandalwood to cedar and back to pine again. She played with the flame setting for a few moments before turning the fireplace off and taking a quick inventory of other untruths in the room.
The door to her left, which separated this faux parlor from the director's office, was a cheaply manufactured plastic door, molded to resemble an ornately carved, multi-paneled door from the Victorian era. The Chippendale cabinet to her right looked identical to one she'd seen at Wal-Mart a few weeks ago and the antiques on its shelves wouldn't be antiques for at least another 75 years. The porcelain figurine was manufactured in China. The pipes had never been smoked. The Victorian era doll still had its manufacturer's tag attached.
Yes, this was the perfect place for her parents' funeral.
Jane moved from the overstuffed Broyhill sofa to the chair beside the door so she could hear the muffled voices of the funeral director and her sisters a little better. With the fireplace scent off, the room was beginning to fill with the stench of two perfumes that did not belong in the same building, let alone the same room together.
Laura wore Tiffany®, a perfume that defined everything she had wanted to become when she packed her bags at eighteen and moved to New York. Courtney wore Avon Incandescence®, which reflected her own choice of escape mechanisms. While Laura had been the intelligent one who used her brains to snag a college scholarship, Courtney had been the pretty girl who was voted most likely to and did. Getting herself pregnant was her way of escaping, although it appeared she merely exchanged one prison for another.
Laura's way was smart. Courtney's was desperate. Her way was the ultimate solution. Eliminate the problem and collect one-third of the estate and life insurance benefits.
Jane smiled and moved back to the sofa. She didn't need to be close to eavesdrop upon their conversation. Her biointeractive allowed her to uplink to the network port in the corner ceiling and from there, it took only a few moments to find her way into the funeral home's network monitoring system. She could view and hear everything as clearly as if she was sitting on the corner wall in the director's office. This was better, because now she didn't have to endure the conflicting stench of her sisters' perfumes. Monitoring equipment only utilized sight and sound.
"Your sister selected the Devon II caskets." Mr. Hendrix's voice sounded stressed, like the used car salesman had sounded when her parents had first walked away after he told them the car's price. They had bought that car for about half the asking price and it had proven a true bargain ... especially when the auto-navigation system failed and crashed into a bridge support at ninety miles per hour.
Jane pulled out her handkerchief to hide her smile. The bags had deployed properly, but the gas tank had ruptured. She had always told her father that smoking would kill him someday.
"Twenty gauge steel with satin interior and matching pillow and throw," Mr. Hendrix's voice droned on. "Seventeen hundred and seventy-five dollars each, which is only slightly more than the casket allowance in your parents' pre-paid funeral plan."
"Our sister is underage." That was Laura, her Hoosier slur replaced with an acquired upper crust New York accent. "We are the co-executors and we do not wish to expend the additional funds for those caskets our little sister selected."
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