Mourning Routine (The Funeral Fakers Book 1)

  Mourning Routine

  The Funeral Fakers, Book 1

  S.E. Babin

  © 2018, S.E. Babin.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Sweet Promise Press

  PO Box 72

  Brighton, MI 48116

  To Joel. I know you’ll never see this. But I still think you’re pretty okay.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peak

  More from Sweet Promise

  More from this Series

  About the Author

  1

  My acting career died as suddenly as it had begun, much like the life of one of those thrill-seeking selfie-takers. One moment I was on top of the world thinking how grand life was, the next I was metaphorical mincemeat on the pavement and people walking by couldn’t decide if they should feel sorry for me or shake their heads at my rampant stupidity.

  Of course, I liked to pretend all of that is in the distant past and when asked why I wasn’t still in Los Angeles pursuing the dream, I lightly laughed it off and pretended I’d wanted to come home. Meanwhile, every time I had to talk about it meant a piece of me died inside.

  So here I was. Back home in Asheville desperately trying to find a job so I could move out of my old bedroom in my parent’s home. It wasn’t easy. You’d think a popular city like Asheville would have a lot of jobs available. It was a trendy place with a lot of tourists milling in and out. This would be true, but considering I’d barely finished high school and hightailed it out of North Carolina with half a tank of gas and my head full of lofty dreams, my qualifications were...lacking.

  My resume skills were crying on demand and acting as a hand model for a lotion company that later got shut down by the government. So maybe I wasn’t on top of the world quite yet, but it was a good start especially since prior to my career implosion, I’d just landed a recurring role on a soap opera as a guest star to a man who shall not be named.

  To say that gig ended abruptly was an understatement.

  Shaking off the doldrums, I cleared my throat and pushed my resume over to the woman behind the desk. The smell of rancid coffee and cheap perfume lingering in the air made me want to wrinkle my nose, and it ensured I continued to silently lament the series of events that had brought me here.

  I’d stumbled onto this position quite by accident. My morning coffee was non-negotiable and I’d slid into a table where the person had left the classified sheet open to the Odd Jobs section.

  No one actually read them, but I was desperate. I could no longer afford my three-dollar-a-day coffee if I stayed unemployed. No one wanted to see me uncaffeinated. Some things should never be revealed.

  The woman pushed her drugstore glasses up the bridge of her nose, made a hocking noise in her throat that made me want to politely suggest a doctor visit, and perused my resume.

  “Los Angeles?” Her voice sounded like she’d never met a cigarette she didn’t like.

  I nodded.

  “And you’re back here, why?”

  Upon pain of death, I’d vowed to myself never to reveal the reasons I was back home living with my parents. “Illness in the family,” I said instead.

  She made a noncommittal noise and pierced me with her bright green gaze. It was the only thing lively about her. The woman’s faded blonde hair was done up in a topknot on her head that was pulled so tight it stretched the sides of her face making her look like an elderly, exhausted Joker. Her cardigan was a faded blue and worn over a dress that had seen better days. I couldn’t see her shoes, but I had no doubt they were sneakers. White ones. And they probably squeaked when she deigned to walk.

  The bane of American fashion. I shuddered.

  Her glasses were a faded and ill-fitting remnant of 1960’s style. A few of the rhinestones on the sides had fallen out and met whatever fate rhinestones had when they were confronted with someone who didn’t appreciate them as I much as I did.

  I cherished my BeDazzler like some people cherished puppies, but I only brought it out on special occasions. If I got this job, I’d eventually offer to fix those for her.

  “Listen,” she rasped, “we got a good gig going here, but we need extra help. Despite your lack of life experience, you have some qualities here we could use. Do you know anything about the personal mourning business?”

  An internet search prior to my arrival had ended in me being super disturbed and unsure about this job, but money was money, and I, Kitty Crawford, was smart enough to realize that beggars could not be choosers.

  Considering the state of my scuffed high heels and unraveling skirt hem, I was a beggar.

  I nodded. “Some. People hire mourners to show up to their loved one’s funerals and pretend they know them. And maybe act really sad?”

  The woman set my resume down and sighed deeply. “There is no pretending. This job requires research, lots of it. You need to know the habits of the deceased, any odd proclivities, coworkers, family members, favorite sayings. Everything. If someone asks you to remember the name of the person’s high school boyfriend, it had better be on the tip of your tongue. If the person liked puns, you’d better have a memorized list in your pocket of the best ones. If they played squash on Wednesdays, you’d better know their winning record or at least who their partner was.” She pushed up her glasses again. “We. Know. Everything.” She punctuated this with a jab at my sorry resume. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “It’s like researching for a role?”

  Her head dipped as she studied me. “Honey, every role here is the role of a lifetime.”

  My thoughts spun at the implications. I was no longer an actress in the broadest sense of the word and living it up in LA, but I still had the opportunity to keep honing my skills just in case something else came along. Squaring my shoulders, I came to an internal decision.

  “What do I need to do?” I asked the woman.

  Her gaze narrowed. “The name’s Ruthie. Come back after lunch and I’ll have a packet ready for you.” She looked me up and down and I suddenly felt self-conscious at being overly dressed up. In LA you either dressed to the nines or you didn’t leave your house. But I was back in my hometown and glittery pink heels weren’t going to cut it.

  “And wear something a little more North Carolina, would you?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”

  Ruthie flicked her hand at me, effectively dismissing me and my too-high heels.

  I pushed through the door and out into the cool Asheville air. E
very single time I came back here I couldn’t help but inhale the air as soon as I stepped outside. It smelled clean. Innocent. Purged from the atmosphere of out of work actress desperation and the hungry competition, coming home felt like a gift at times. Even if I had come back here with only ten dollars in my pocket and my name on a Hollywood blacklist. I opened the door of my little black Honda and slid inside, thankful for the small opportunity that had just come my way.

  Ruthie hadn’t said what time to come back. “Afternoon” could mean a million different things. To my family, it meant not before 12, but definitely not after 2. I picked one o’clock as a good time. Smack in the middle. Still considered afternoon. I pulled out of the parking lot, a smile slowly forming on my face. I hadn’t done much since I’d gotten back home, but this was a good start.

  I opened the door to my parent’s mountain home and barked a quick hello before pounding up the stairs and into the bedroom my mother had hastily fixed up for me. When my parents learned I was coming home, they were surprised. I think this had less to do with my acting abilities and more to do with the long, drawn-out speech I’d made when I snubbed their college dreams and announced I was going to Hollywood. This included an Oscar-worthy soliloquy about never returning home again until I had a star on the Walk of Fame. Looking back, I realized what a selfish and spoiled thing I had done. But my parents, amazing people that they were, merely paused for a second when I broke the news, then told me I’d have a room ready when I got back.

  They’ve never said a word about my overly dramatic, ungrateful speech or how I had crushed their dreams of me becoming the first Crawford surgeon. If I ever had children, I could only hope I’d be as gracious as they’d been to me.

  I tossed my purse onto the full-size bed, slung my heels off and groaned with relief, then padded barefoot to my closet to rummage around. My mother hadn’t tossed out a single item of the clothing I’d left behind. As my fingers flicked through hanger after hanger, nostalgia hit me square in the solar plexus. I’d grown up in the acreage behind this home, running through the woods and at the bottom of a mountain peak since I’d barely been knee-high. I could name every scar on my body, and ninety-nine percent of them had come from getting into something I shouldn’t have right on this very land.

  My fingers stilled when I landed on a soft floral blouse I’d worn the last night I’d been home. A deep maroon set off by small white flowers, it was feminine without being ostentatious and just enough me to work. I pulled it off the hanger and tossed it onto the bed and went back to flipping until I’d found a pair of black cigarette pants. Tossing those onto the bed also, I bent down to the bottom of my closet and searched until I found a pair of black kitten heels.

  “I need to go shopping,” I muttered. An idea hit me as I stood back up and looked at all of the designer clothes I had hanging up. Why I’d bought all of these was a mystery to me since I had racked up quite the hefty credit card bill thanks to Louboutin's and Versace, but...they were all in pristine condition and could fetch a pretty penny. I didn’t think I could sell them in town simply because most people around here were more interested in Fairtrade and eco-friendly, not Hollywood elitists who charged way too much for synthetic materials.

  Things like this were the reason God invented eBay. Smiling, I began slowly pulling out my Hollywood wardrobe. While part of me cringed at the thought of throwing my old life away, and giving up my Hollywood dream, country-girl Kitty Crawford knew it wasn’t always clothes that made the person. Putting on a smile and pretending you had it all together went a long way, too.

  A few hours later I stood in front of the mirror examining my new look. I’d toned down my dark brown hair and curled it just on the ends so it had body but didn’t scream I was trying too hard. My makeup looked as natural as I could make it, though I did double up on the mascara to accentuate my baby blue eyes. Those eyes had convinced a lot of people to give in a lot more than they’d wanted to and though the woman at the agency seemed impervious to things like that, I decided to try anyway. I had to get this job, if only to be able to get my own place and stop living off my parents.

  Over to the left, hanging in various assortments around the room, was my wardrobe. I made sure I’d dry-cleaned everything before I left, so all of the clothing looked pristine and straight off the rack. When I got home later, I’d take pictures of everything. I wasn’t the best photographer, but there was so much editing software out there it shouldn’t be a big deal to get decent photos. My mind whirled with the possibilities. It would take longer, but I could also go online and offer up various jewelry ideas. Sort of like please buy my stuff, but wait, here’s what you can get with it. And, oh by the way, you have to buy my stuff to get it. I grinned to myself as I grabbed my purse and swept out the door. I had a good feeling about this. At minimum, I could pay my parents back for their hospitality and possibly even put a deposit down on an apartment.

  I hadn’t asked Ruthie how much the new job would pay, but it had to be over minimum wage. I hoped.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in front of Exit Stage Left, taking deep breaths and telling myself it was all going to be okay. I dug through my purse and pulled out a pair of black-framed glasses. I didn’t need them but everyone always told me they made me look smarter, so I wore them any time I needed a boost. Sliding them on my face, I glanced in the mirror, pressed my lips together to spread my lip gloss a little smoother, and nodded to myself.

  “You got this,” I whispered.

  I slid out of the car, contemplated the appropriate posture for a mourner, and walked into the building.

  Ruthie was sitting in the same exact position I’d left her. A regal, aging queen, she stared at me as I walked through the waiting area and straight to her desk smack in the middle of the room.

  “Kitty Crawford,” Ruthie said as she pushed a folder over to me. I couldn’t figure out whether she was impressed or amused.

  “Ma’am,” I said, politely.

  I found out what she thought when she said, “Lose the glasses.”

  I pressed my lips together in embarrassment and lost the glasses.

  “I assume you don’t need them?” she asked in her raspy voice. Her gaze pinned me to the floor. I felt like she was measuring me and I was coming up short.

  I shook my head.

  “You’re trying too hard. This isn’t Hollywood.”

  I nodded. “Right.”

  “Your outfit is good. Keep doing that.” Ruthie waved her hands in the air, motioning at everything from my hair to my shoes. She rolled a pen across the top of her desk to me. “Sit down and fill these out.”

  I caught the pen before it rolled off the desk, scooped up the folder, and made my way to the empty waiting area. Two attractive women gathered by the water cooler caught my eye. One of them gave me an appraising stare, but the other offered me a wide-toothed grin which gave me a little hope that Ruthie was more bark than bite.

  Ten minutes later, after filling out my address and social security number for what felt like the thousandth time, I’d finished the paperwork. I took it back up to Ruthie who was enjoying what appeared to be her fourth or fifth cup of afternoon coffee and slid it across the desk. She took the pen from me and scooped up the folder.

  Ruthie motioned for me to follow her. I swallowed hard, unsure why I was so nervous. On one hand, the office was nice but stark. There was nothing overly personal or scary there. On the other hand... Ruthie. She fulfilled the role of a sitcom grandma, somewhat warm on the outside, but she walked with steel in her spine and grit in her eye. It made me want to please her and that wasn’t a feeling I’d had in a long time. Not since I’d gotten off the plane in California ready to take the world by storm. A feeling that slowly faded every time a casting director told me to do a spin so he could look at me. Even worse when they wanted to come by my apartment for a “drink”. The only “drinks” they wanted were the ones I wasn’t giving away.

  But there was something about the woman in fro
nt of me that made me want to do a good job. I shook my head free of those odd thoughts and followed her into another office, once again with few personal touches. I frowned as I walked in and Ruthie caught it.

  “No one is in the office long enough to make it their own.” She motioned for me to sit. “There’s a lot of autonomy here. As long as you get your job done and the clients are happy, you don’t have to come into the office that much. When you do have work here, find an empty desk anywhere and claim it for a little while. No need to personalize it. We aren’t your typical 9 to 5.”

  She opened the folder in front of her and scanned over my details.

  It felt very weird to describe your entire being in just a few sheets of paper. Even though most of it was cut and dry information, it was me listed out in just a few sentences. I was so much more than that and I hoped Ruthie kept me around long enough to figure that out.

  She skimmed over most of it and I could tell the moment she hit my job history. Her eyes slightly widened. I assumed she had arrived at the place where I listed the name of my mortal enemy and my brief foray into potential stardom.

  Seth Morrow.

  “You worked with Seth?” she asked, her lips lifted on one side.

  I was just about to wax poetic about how wonderful Seth was (a total lie, by the way), when I realized that Ruthie said Seth. First name only. Like she knew him. It totally threw me off my game.

  “Errr. Yes?” I said it as a question when I meant it to be more authoritative, but my mind was scrambling to think of something to say if she brought up that which must not be named. Because if she knew about the incident, there was no way I was getting this job.