She picked up another folded document and handed it to me. Estate Planning and You was printed on top. The glossy folder was a handy guide for preplanning the disposition of a body when its owner had no further use for it. Inside were several photos meant, I suppose, to be soothing. I was just too cynical to understand why photos of wooded glades with muted sunlight should make me feel better about shuffling off my mortal coil, or the coils of those nearest and dearest to me. Would my relatives head for the forest to chat with my ghost?
“Maybe you can explain this to me,” the widow said. “If you looked at that, what would you think?”
I skimmed the preplanning folder. Simple questions with blanks thoughtfully provided for the answers outlined the mortal one’s wishes, and in this case, it appeared that Larry Zipoli himself had filled in the answers. “None,” his blocky printing declared under preferred religious services. Cremation was checked, with ashes returned to family. Perhaps Larry wanted to rest on the mantle, his ashes participating in family gatherings. After preferred memorial service, he’d printed, a bit impatiently, “Whatever they want to do. Won’t matter to me.” What a touching sentiment.
The third page of the folder nailed the nitty-gritty of this process. Total cost estimated for services had prompted a flurry of printing, the ball-point pen pressed hard into the heavy stock paper. “Cremation services, $679.95.” He’d checked the cost somewhere, or been offered a bid. Below that, he’d added, just in case there might be some shade of misunderstanding in the grief of the moment, “No other services. No embalming. No good wood to be wasted. No broke ground. No memorial stone no where.”
No, no, no. Larry Zipoli made it clear-when it’s over, it’s over. He had signed and dated it two years previously. End of argument.
“He knew his mind,” I said gently. That didn’t assuage Marilyn much. The anger still flamed her cheeks, at the same time simmering the tears that gathered. “You were okay with this?”
“We talked about it back when Larry was facing his gall-bladder surgery, sheriff. We both knew how dangerous that can be, especially with someone whose weight is over the top like Larry’s was. I got the forms from Mr. Salazar, and managed to corral Larry long enough so he would jot down some answers.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. It’s hard to take something like this seriously. And I can tell you right up front, Larry didn’t take it very seriously. But the whole process gave him the willies. I know that. The last thing he wanted was to be embalmed, Sheriff. He thought that was one of the most repulsive, pointless things.”
“Most of us don’t,” I said. “Take it seriously, I mean. We leave relatives to clean up after us.”
“And what a mess.” She waved the document. “And none of this makes it any easier. Look, I know that he didn’t want anything to do with a church service, or with any of that stuff. That’s what he called it. ‘Any of that stuff.’ Larry wanted his ashes scattered,” she said. “You know what all this reminds me of?”
“What’s that?”
“Remember that article about the car dealership up north? They’d take the customer’s car keys-the keys for the trade in? They’d take them and not return them until the sale was made. Make the customer a captive audience. That’s what this reminds me of. They have my husband’s…” she paused and shook out a ragged sigh. “They have my husband’s body because that’s where the hospital sent it.”
“I’m sure Art will work with you.”
“Yes, he will.” The determination in Marilyn’s voice was hard. “And that’s what I’ll do. Larry loved the Butte, so that’s where he’ll go.” She referred to Elephant Butte, the enormous lake that puddled the Rio Grande over by Truth or Consequences.
“Fair enough.” I handed the preplan back to her. I noticed that it had been signed by her husband in November two years previous. I’ve always thought of November as a dark month-an appropriate time of the year for such sober thoughts. Things have to be damn sober to sit down and preplan the end of days.
Marilyn didn’t bother wiping away the tears that coursed down her face. I could remember my own grandmother, a spare, hard-limbed old lady, saying to me after my childish blubbering was over and I had subsided into silent, persistent tears, “Billy, your eyes be leakin’.” That was the case with Marilyn this time. No heaved sighs, no shaking voice, no huffing as she tried to catch her breath. Just leaking eyes.
Marilyn handed me the letter, the contract thoughtfully prepared by Salazar and Sons. “Now, this is what reminds me of the car dealer, Sheriff.”
Cutting to the chase, I flipped to the last page. Total Services included an impressive figure well over twelve thousand dollars, including a 1 °C Sealtite coffin for more than four grand. A plot in Posadas Memorial Park took another chunk, with various other charges tacked on for this and that…even grave closure for $645.00. I was sure that Louis Trenton, who operated the backhoe at the cemetery, didn’t pocket that.
“Now,” Marilyn said again. “You’re a detective. You tell me how we get from this,” and she shook the preplanning folder sharply, “to that.” She waited expectantly.
“Did you discuss this with Salazars?” None of this was within my province as undersheriff of Posadas County, but if Marilyn churned up enough rage at Art Salazar to shoot him through the eyebrow, it would be.
“Discuss? No, I didn’t discuss it.” This time, she sucked in a deep breath. “The body was taken to Salazar’s after the PM, sheriff. Directly from the hospital. They asked, and I said, of course. Salazar’s. Where else? They’re the only game in town. Now, I know that I have to pay for that transportation, and I’m sure I’ll be stuck for some outrageous figure that Larry’s insurance won’t pay. I called Salazar’s to make an appointment to talk about arrangements, but Mr. Salazar said it would be easier for him to put together a preliminary package-that’s what he called it-and bring it over to the house. I could look through it, and let him know. I mean, what’s he doing…testing the waters?”
“Don’t people usually have to select a coffin and stuff like that?”
“Oh,” and she turned to glare at the table. “There’s another brochure about them, too. Anyway, Mr. Salazar came to the house a little while ago and left this for me. Does he really think I’ll agree to this?”
“I don’t know what he thinks,” I said. “As a businessman, I suppose it’s to his advantage to encourage some rethinking of the final process.”
Marilyn glared at me-well, through me-for a moment. Her gaze shifted to regard the silent Estelle Reyes, and what that young lady thought was anyone’s guess.
“I want what Larry wanted,” Marilyn said softly. “That’s all. It has nothing to do with money at this point. I don’t happen to have ten or twelve thousand dollars lying around the house, but I suppose I could get it. That’s not the point. I know what Larry wanted. You know, I don’t think anyone is ever prepared for this kind of earthquake, sheriff. None of us are going to die until we’re a hundred and two. But that preplanning thing was serious. What he put on that form is what he wanted. Only that.”
“So that’s what he gets,” I said. “It’s as simple as Nicky Chavez here in Posadas trying his best to sell you a car. You want the basic model, but it’s to his advantage to show you the luxury model, making you think that you’ll feel better in the long run.”
“Will I? Will I feel better?”
“No. You’re not going to feel better for a very long time.”
Her face softened, and she took a moment to mop up the tears. “I’ve always liked talking with you,” she said. “The unvarnished truth. You went through this with your wife, didn’t you.”