The Laughing Corpse (9 page)

I
HATE FUNERALS
. At least this one wasn't for anyone I had particularly liked. Cold, but true. Peter Burke had been an unscrupulous SOB when alive. I didn't see why death should automatically grant him sainthood. Death, especially violent death, will turn the meanest bastard in the world into a nice guy. Why is that?

I stood there in the bright August sunlight in my little black dress and dark sunglasses, watching the mourners. They had set up a canopy over the coffin, flowers, and chairs for the family. Why was I here, you might ask, if I had not been a friend? Because Peter Burke had been an animator. Not a very good one, but we are a small, exclusive club. If one of us dies, we all come. It's a rule. There are no exceptions. Maybe your own death, but then again being that we raise the dead, maybe not.

There are things you can do to a corpse so it won't rise again as a vampire, but a zombie is a different beast. Short of cremation, an animator can bring you back. Fire was about the only thing a zombie respected or feared.

We could have raised Peter and asked him who put a gun to his head. But they had put a 357 Magnum with an expanding point just behind his ear. There wasn't enough left of his head to fill a plastic bag. You
could raise him as a zombie, but he couldn't talk. Even the dead need mouths.

Manny stood beside me, uncomfortable in his dark suit. Rosita, his wife, stood spine absolutely straight. Thick brown hands gripping her black patent leather purse. She is what my stepmother used to call large-boned. Her black hair was cut just below the ears and loosely permed. The hair needed to be longer. It emphasized how perfectly round her face was.

Charles Montgomery stood just behind me like a tall dark mountain. Charles looks like he played football somewhere. He has the ability to frown and make people run for cover. He just looks like a hard ass. Truth is, Charles faints at the sight of anything but animal blood. It's lucky for him he looks like such a big black dude. He has almost no tolerance for pain. He cries at Walt Disney movies, like when Bambi's mother dies. It's endearing as hell.

His wife, Caroline, was working. She hadn't been able to switch shifts with anyone. I wondered how hard she had tried. Caroline is okay but she sort of looks down on what we do. Mumbo jumbo she calls it. She's a registered nurse. I guess after dealing with doctors all day, she has to look down on someone.

Up near the front of the crowd was Jamison Clarke. He was tall, thin, and the only red-haired, green-eyed black man I've ever met. He nodded at me across the grave. I nodded back.

We were all here; the animators of Animators, Incorporated. Bert and Mary, our daytime secretary, were holding down the fort. I hoped Bert didn't book us in anything we couldn't handle. Or would refuse to handle. He did that if you didn't watch him.

The sun slapped my back like a hot metal hand. The men kept pulling at their ties and high collars. The smell of chrysanthemums was thick like wax at the back of my throat. No one ever gives you football mums unless you die. Carnations, roses, snapdragons, they all have happier lives, but mums, and glads—they're the funeral flowers. At least the tall spires of gladiolus had no scent.

A woman sat in the front line of chairs under the canopy. She was leaning over her knees like a broken doll. Her sobs were loud enough
to drown out the words of the priest. Only his quiet, soothing rhythm reached me as I stood near the back.

Two small children were gripping the hands of an older man. Grampa? The children were pale, hollow-eyed. Fear vied with tears on their faces. They watched their mother break down completely, useless to them. Her grief was more important than theirs. Her loss greater. Bullshit.

My own mother had died when I was eight. You never really filled in the hole. It was like a piece of you gone missing. An ache that never quite goes away. You deal with it. You go on, but it's there.

A man sat beside her, rubbing her back in endless circles. His hair was nearly black, cut short and neat. Broad-shouldered. From the back he looked eerily like Peter Burke. Ghosts in sunlight.

The cemetery was dotted with trees. The shade rustled and flickered pale grey in the sunlight. On the other side of the gravel driveway that twined through the cemetery were two men. They stood quietly, waiting. Grave diggers. Waiting to finish the job.

I looked back at the coffin under its blanket of pink carnations. There was a bulky mound just behind it, covered in bright green fake grass. Underneath was the fresh dug earth waiting to go back in the hole.

Mustn't let the loved ones think about red-clay soil pouring down on the gleaming coffin. Clods of dirt hitting the wood, covering your husband, father. Trapping them forever inside a lead-lined box. A good coffin will keep the water and worms out, but it doesn't stop decay.

I knew what would be happening to Peter Burke's body. Cover it in satin, wrap a tie round its neck, rouge the cheeks, close the eyes; it's still a corpse.

The funeral ended while I wasn't looking. The people rose gratefully in one mass movement. The dark-haired man helped the grieving widow to stand. She nearly fell. Another man rushed forward and supported her other side. She sagged between them, feet dragging on the ground.

She looked back over her shoulder, head almost lolling on her neck. She screamed, loud and ragged, then flung herself on the coffin. The woman collapsed against the flowers, digging at the wood. Fingers scrambling for the locks on the coffin. The ones that held the lid down.

Everyone just froze for a moment, staring. I saw the two children through the crowd still standing, wide-eyed. Shit. “Stop her,” I said it too loud. People turned to stare. I didn't care.

I pushed my way through the vanishing crowd and the aisles of chairs. The dark-haired man was holding the widow's hands while she screamed and struggled. She had collapsed to the ground, and her black dress had worked up high on her thighs. She was wearing a white slip. Her mascara had run like black blood down her face.

I stood in front of the man and the two children. He was staring at the woman like he would never move again. “Sir,” I said. He didn't react. “Sir?”

He blinked, staring down at me like I had just appeared in front of him. “Sir, do you really think the children need to see all this?”

“She's my daughter,” he said. His voice was deep and thick. Drugged or just grief?

“I sympathize, sir, but the children should go to the car now.”

The widow had begun to wail, loud and wordless, raw pain. The girl was beginning to shake. “You're her father, but you're their grandfather. Act like it. Get them out of here.”

Anger flickered in his eyes then. “How dare you?”

He wasn't going to listen to me. I was just an intrusion on their grief. The oldest, a boy of about five, was staring up at me. His brown eyes were huge, his thin face so pale it looked ghostly.

“I think it is you who should go,” the grandfather said.

“You're right. You are so right,” I said. I walked around them out into the grass and the summer heat. I couldn't help the children. I couldn't help them, just as no one had been there to help me. I had survived. So would they, maybe.

Manny and Rosita were waiting for me. Rosita hugged me. “You must come to Sunday dinner after church.”

I smiled. “I don't think I can make it, but thanks for asking.”

“My cousin Albert will be there,” she said. “He is an engineer. He will be a good provider.”

“I don't need a good provider, Rosita.”

She sighed. “You make too much money for a woman. It makes you not need a man.”

I shrugged. If I ever did marry, which I'd begun to doubt, it wouldn't be for money. Love. Shit, was I waiting for love? Naw, not me.

“We have to pick up Tomas at kindergarten,” Manny said. He was smiling at me apologetically around Rosita's shoulder. She was nearly a foot taller than he. She towered over me, too.

“Sure, tell the little guy hi for me.”

“You should come to dinner,” Rosita said, “Albert is a very handsome man.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, Rosita, but I'll skip it.”

“Come on, wife,” Manny said. “Our son is waiting for us.”

She let him pull her towards the car, but her brown face was set in disapproval. It offended some deep part of Rosita that I was twenty-four and had no prospects of marriage. Her and my stepmother.

Charles was nowhere to be seen. Hurrying back to the office to see clients. I thought Jamison had, too, but he stood in the grass, waiting for me.

He was dressed impeccably, crossed-lapels, narrow red tie with small dark dots on it. His tie clip was onyx and silver. He smiled at me, always a bad sign.

His greenish eyes looked hollow, like someone had erased part of the skin. If you cry enough, the skin goes from puffy red to hollow white. “I'm glad so many of us showed up,” he said.

“I know he was a friend of yours, Jamison. I'm sorry.”

He nodded and looked down at his hands. He was holding a pair of sunglasses loosely. He looked up at me, eyes staring straight into mine. All serious.

“The police won't tell the family anything,” he said. “Peter gets blown away, and they don't have a clue who did it.”

I wanted to tell him the police were doing their best, because they were. But there are a hell of a lot of murders in St. Louis over a year. We were giving Washington, D.C. a run for their money as murder capital of the United States. “They're doing their best, Jamison.”

“Then why won't they tell us anything?” His hands convulsed. The sound of breaking plastic was a crumbling sharp sound. He didn't seem to notice.

“I don't know,” I said.

“Anita, you're in good with the police. Could you ask?” His eyes were naked, full of such real pain. Most of the time I could ignore, or even dislike, Jamison. He was a tease, a flirt, a bleeding-heart liberal who thought that vampires were just people with fangs. But today . . . today he was real.

“What do you want me to ask?”

“Are they making any progress? Do they have any suspects? That sort of thing.”

They were vague questions, but important ones. “I'll see what I can find out.”

He gave a watery smile. “Thanks, Anita, really, thanks.” He held out his hand. I took it. We shook. He noticed his broken sunglasses. “Damn, ninety-five dollars down the tubes.”

Ninety-five dollars for sunglasses? He had to be kidding. A group of mourners were taking the family away at last. The mother was smothered in well-meaning male relatives. They were literally carrying her away from the grave. The children and Grampa brought up the rear. No one listens to good advice.

A man stepped away from the crowd and walked towards us. He was the one who reminded me of Peter Burke from the back. He was around six feet, dark-complected, a black mustache, and thin almost goateelike beard framing a handsome face. It was handsome, a dark movie-star face, but there was something about the way he moved. Maybe it was the white streak in his black hair just over the forehead. Whatever, you knew that he would always play the villain.

“Is she going to help us?” he asked, no preamble, no hello.

“Yes,” Jamison said. “Anita Blake, this is John Burke, Peter's brother.”

John Burke,
the
John Burke, I wanted to ask. New Orleans's greatest animator and vampire slayer? A kindred spirit. We shook hands. His grip was strong, almost painfully so, as if he wanted to see if I would flinch. I didn't. He let go. Maybe he just didn't know his own strength? But I doubted it.

“I am truly sorry about your brother,” I said. I meant it. I was glad I meant it.

He nodded. “Thank you for talking to the police about him.”

“I'm surprised you couldn't get the New Orleans police to give you some juice with our local police,” I said.

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “The New Orleans police and I have had a disagreement.”

“Really?” I said, eyes wide. I had heard the rumors, but I wanted to hear the truth. Truth is always stranger than fiction.

“John was accused of participating in some ritual murders,” Jamison said. “Just because he's a practicing vaudun priest.”

“Oh,” I said. Those were the rumors. “How long have you been in town, John?”

“Almost a week.”

“Really?”

“Peter had been missing for two days before they found the . . . body.” He licked his lips. His dark brown eyes flicked to the scene behind me. Were the grave diggers moving in? I glanced back, but the grave looked just the same to me.

“Anything you could find out would be most appreciated,” he said.

“I'll do what I can.”

“I have to get back to the house.” He shrugged, as if to loosen the shoulder muscles. “My sister-in-law isn't taking it well.”

I let it go. I deserved brownie points for that. One thing I didn't let go. “Can you look after your niece and nephew?”

He looked at me, a puzzled frown between his black eyebrows.

“I mean, keep them out of the really dramatic stuff if you can.”

He nodded. “It was rough for me to watch her throw herself on the coffin. God, what must the kids be thinking?” Tears glittered in his eyes like silver. He kept them open very wide so the tears wouldn't spill out.

I didn't know what to say. I did not want to see him cry. “I'll talk to the police, find out what I can. I'll tell Jamison when I have anything.”

John Burke nodded, carefully. His eyes were like a glass where only the surface tension kept the water from spilling over.

I nodded to Jamison and left. I turned on the air-conditioning in my car and let it run full blast. The two men were still standing in the hot sunshine in the middle of summer brown grass when I put the car in gear and drove away.

I would talk to the police and find out what I could. I also had another name for Dolph. John Burke, biggest animator in New Orleans, voodoo priest. Sounded like a suspect to me.