«Death is a very serious matter, Mrs. Fiske. People who go through it are never the same.»
The woman leaned forward, cradling her face in her hands. Her slim shoulders shook quietly for a few minutes. I passed another box of tissues her way. She groped for them blindly and then looked up. «I know you can't bring him back, exactly.»
She wiped at two tears, which escaped and rolled down flawless cheekbones. The purse she clutched so tightly was reptile, at least two hundred dollars. Her accessories—lapel pin, high heels, hat, and gloves—were all black as her purse. Her suit was gray. Neither color suited her, but they emphasized her pale skin and hollow eyes. She was the sort of woman that made me feel too short, too dark, and gave me the strange desire to lose ten more pounds. If she hadn't been so genuinely grief-stricken, I could have disliked her.
«I have to talk to Arthur. That's my husband . . . was my husband.» She took a deep breath and tried again. «Arthur died suddenly. A massive coronary.» She blew delicately into a tissue. «His family did have a history of heart disease, but he always took such good care of himself.» She finished with a watery hiccup. «I want to say good-bye to him, Miss Blake.»
I smiled reassuringly. «We all have things left unsaid when death comes suddenly. But it isn't always best to raise the dead and say it.»
Her blue eyes stared intently through a film of tears. I was going to discourage her as I discourage every one of my clients, but this one would do it. There was a certain set to the eyes that said serious.
«There are certain limitations to the process.» My boss didn't allow us to show slides or pictures or give graphic descriptions, but we were supposed to tell the truth. One good picture of a decaying zombie would have sent most of my clients screaming.
«Limitations?»
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