Chapter 5 - THE BLACK SUIT AT DAWN
The Jenkins Family Funeral Home was an imposing Victorian structure with slate roof tiles, leaded glass bay windows, and heavy velvet draperies that kept the morning sunlight from intruding upon the business of grief.
At 7:45 AM, a light drizzle began to fall across the freshly paved parking lot.
Daniel Hayes stepped out of his silver Audi. He wore a sharply tailored charcoal wool suit, a black silk tie, and an expression of solemn, calculated devastation. He adjusted his cufflinks, took a deep breath of the damp morning air, and checked his Rolex.
Seven forty-six. Everything was proceeding with the clinical precision he had spent eight months planning.
The fire chief had called him at 4:30 AM to report the total loss of the Elm Street property. Two sets of remains had been tentatively reported as found in the basement rubble—though the intensity of the accelerant had left little behind for immediate identification. Daniel had wept convincingly on the phone, his voice breaking with theatrical perfection, before instructing the chief to have the county coroner release the remains directly to Jenkins.
He walked up the stone steps of the funeral home and pushed open the heavy oak door.
Inside, the scent of white lilies and embalming fluid hung thick in the warm air. Harold Jenkins, a third-generation undertaker with silver hair and an expression of perpetual, professional sympathy, stepped out of the private office.
"Daniel," Harold said softly, extending a limp, manicured hand. "I am so terribly sorry for your loss. When you called yesterday afternoon to make the preliminary arrangements, I had no idea tragedy would strike so quickly. To lose your mother and your daughter in a single night... it's beyond comprehension."
Daniel squeezed Harold's hand, pulling a pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing at the corners of his eyes. "Thank you, Harold. It’s... it’s unbearable. Lily was staying the night to help Mom with her medications. The fire marshal thinks the old furnace blew. I warned them about that boiler, Harold. I told them both to move into the townhouse with me, but Mom was so stubborn."
"A terrible tragedy," Harold murmured, gesturing toward the back office. "The coroner's representative dropped off the provisional transit permits an hour ago based on the fire scene report. But Daniel, you still need to execute the administrative authorizations and the indemnity release for the expedited cremation."
"Of course," Daniel said smoothly, following Harold into the wood-paneled office. "Mom was very specific in her living will. She despised the idea of a long, drawn-out viewing. She wanted to be cremated immediately and have her ashes scattered over the northern ridge at dawn. And given... given the condition of the remains, I believe that is the most dignified path."
Harold sat behind his large mahogany desk, sliding a leather-bound folder across the green blotter. "Sign here, here, and here. Once these are filed with the county clerk at nine, the estate’s provisional probate certificate will be unlocked."
Daniel took an expensive gold Montblanc pen from his inside coat pocket. His hand hovered over the signature line.
Margaret Hayes — Estate Authorization.
His pulse thrummed in his ears like a triumphant drumbeat. Six million dollars. The gas leases would clear his debts with the Philadelphia syndicates by noon. Meridian Assets would absorb the title to the northern ridge by three o'clock. And Vanessa, his mistress in New York who had been threatening to leave him over his spiraling bankruptcies, would be waiting for him at the Ritz-Carlton in Philadelphia by midnight.
He pressed the nib of the pen to the paper.
The heavy brass door handle of the office clicked.
The door swung inward with a slow, deliberate creak.
"You always did hold a pen too tightly, Daniel," a voice remarked from the doorway. "Your father told you three times a week that you’d snap the nib if you didn't relax your wrist."
Daniel’s hand froze.
The ink bled into the white parchment, forming a dark, expanding blot on the signature line.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Daniel slowly raised his head, his face freezing into a grotesque, paralyzed mask of disbelief.
Standing in the doorway was Margaret.
She was dressed in a clean navy-blue wool dress borrowed from Thomas Holloway's late wife. Her silver hair was brushed back into an immaculate knot. Her hands were folded calmly across the leather handle of her handbag. Her face was scrubbed clean, pale, and cold as carved marble.
Beside her stood Lily, holding a digital camcorder, the red recording light glowing steadily against the dark wood paneling.
Harold Jenkins dropped his reading glasses, his mouth falling open. "M-Margaret? But... the fire... the coroner said—"
"The coroner examined two bags of topsoil and charred cedar posts from my root cellar, Harold," Margaret said, stepping into the room. Her heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor. "My son didn't bother checking the basement before he opened the gas valves. He was in too much of a hurry to cash in on my coffin."
Daniel shot up from his chair, knocking the heavy leather armchair backward against the bookshelves. His face went from ashen gray to a violent, mottled crimson. His chest heaved as if he were suffocating.
"You're... you're supposed to be dead," Daniel choked out, his voice cracking into a shrill, hysterical whisper. "You were in the cellar. The door was barred! The house is gone!"
"I built that house with your father before you were a thought in this world, Daniel," Margaret said, stopping two feet from the desk. She looked at him not with anger, but with an icy, devastating contempt that seemed to shrink him where he stood. "I know every secret passage, every loose stone, and every rotten timber in that foundation. Including the ones you tried to hide behind."
"Dad," Lily spoke, her voice trembling with a mixture of heartbreak and rage as she held the camera steady on his face. "Why did you lock the door? We were screaming. I was screaming for you."
Daniel looked from his mother to his daughter, his eyes darting frantically toward the office window that looked out over the parking lot. "Lily... baby, you don't understand. It was an accident! I didn't know you were down there! I thought Mom was confused—I thought she was trying to hurt herself!"
"Stop lying, Daniel," Margaret interrupted, her voice dropping like a heavy iron portcullis. "It’s over."
Daniel’s expression twisted. The panicked son vanished, replaced by the cornered, venomous predator. He lunged across the desk, his hands clawing for the folder containing the deed.
"It doesn't matter!" Daniel snarled, spitting as he screamed. "The trust documents are registered in my name! The deeds were filed last week! You have no house! You have no money! Even if you’re breathing, you’re legally incompetent! I have three affidavits from your neighbors saying you’ve been losing your mind since August!"
"You mean these documents, Daniel?"
Margaret opened her handbag and pulled out Arthur’s original, brass-banded trust deed, slapping it down hard on top of the ink-stained paperwork.
May you like
"Arthur saw you coming seventeen years ago," Margaret said. "And so did the Department of Justice."
Through the front windows of the funeral home, the quiet morning was suddenly shattered by the synchronized wail of six police sirens tearing down Maple Street.
