Chapter 7 - The Double Bottom
The rain had turned from a steady drizzle into a cold, blinding downpour by the time we pulled back into the gravel drive of the Pike & Sons Funeral Home.
The red sheriff’s cruiser was still parked by the front steps, its blue emergency light switched off now, leaving the vehicle looking tired and ordinary against the drab gray background of the courthouse square. But the front doors were wide open, and through the gap, I could see Deputy Tom Gable standing by the reception desk talking urgently into a handheld radio while Vanessa sat huddled in a plastic chair near the water cooler, her black wool coat soaked at the hem and her hair clinging to her cheeks like wet seaweed.
Dad didn’t pull up to the front. He swung the Dodge around the side, bumping over the low limestone curb and parking directly beside the service entrance that led down to the embalming rooms and the back storage bays.
“Stay in the truck, Nat,” Dad said, reaching under his seat for a heavy iron tire iron that was rusted red at the edges.
“Dad, no,” I said, grabbing his sleeve. “If the deputy is still in there, and Harold’s talking, we can’t just break into the back records room. That’s trespassing—that’s tampering with evidence—”
“Evidence?” Dad let out a short, bark-like laugh that had no humor in it whatsoever. “Nat, that safe in my cellar wasn't the only thing they broke into last night. Silas just told us where the nineteen-seventy-two board letter is sitting. If Vanessa gets her hands on that paper before we pull it out of Harold’s filing cabinet, she won't just own the timber rights—she’ll own the entire county watershed, and half the men in this town will lose their farms before the first snow.”
He pushed open his door before I could argue, his rubber-soled slippers hitting the wet gravel with a determined slap.
I didn't stay in the truck. I scrambled across the center console, shoved my door open against the driving wind, and followed him down the concrete ramp toward the heavy steel fire door that led into the mortuary’s basement storage area.
The door wasn't locked. In fact, the brass padlock had been smashed clean off its staple, the iron shank bent double like a cheap hairpin.
Inside, the basement smelled intensely of formaldehyde, damp cardboard boxes, and old carpet. Rows of metal shelving stretched away into the dim shadows, loaded down with stacks of empty cardboard urns, floral display stands, and spare brass nameplates wrapped in tissue paper.
At the far end of the room, tucked behind a partition of heavy plastic sheeting, was Harold’s private office.
And someone was already inside.
A flashlight beam was cutting erratic circles across the ceiling tiles, bouncing off the filing cabinets and the rows of leather-bound record books.
“Grant?” I whispered, freezing by the doorway.
The flashlight beam snapped downward, blinding us with a harsh white glare.
Grant’s face popped out of the shadows, his eyes wide and panicked, his expensive jacket soaked through at the shoulders, and his hands black with greasy graphite from the back of an old filing cabinet. In his right hand, he was holding a yellowed, water-stained envelope tied with faded pink ribbon.
“You!” Grant choked out, stepping back and knocking over a stack of spare cardboard boxes that hit the concrete floor with a hollow thud. “You’re supposed to be dead! Both of you! You’re ruining everything!”
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Dad didn’t say a word. He didn't raise the tire iron. He just walked slowly, heavily across the concrete floor, his eyes locked on the yellowed envelope in Grant’s trembling hand.
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