We stared at him, dumbstruck.
“Oh, I get it,” Bernice piped up. “The cruise company hired its own undertakers because they heard Emily was traveling with us. Someone finally wised up. Now we won’t have to make any unscheduled stops to offload bodies.”
“Bodies?” Virginia Martin’s gaze darted between me and Bernice. “What bodies?”
Tilly shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, yes, I do. Why did the cruise company hire undertakers because of Emily?”
“We prefer to be called ‘funeral directors’,” interrupted Cal, “a term that polls much more favorably with focus groups than undertaker, which ranks a notch below garden slug and three notches above Congress. And no one hired us. We’re just a group of ordinary businessmen who decided to take our annual conference on the road. Or the boat, as the case may be.”
“Would anyone like a business card?” Woody pulled a small leather case out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “It lists our 1-800 phone number, FAX, email, website, Facebook page, Twitter account, blog address, Pinterest accoun—”
“No one needs our business card,” said Cal as he leaned over to swipe the leather case out of his father’s hand.
“Shoo!” Woody knocked his son’s hand away. “Here’s the problem with you, Cal. You’re not willing to market. Everyone in this room is a potential client, but nooo. You don’t even want me to hand out our damn business cards!”
“This is neither the time nor the place, Dad. You can’t meet people for the first time and launch into a spiel about advanced funeral planning.”
“Why not?”
“Because it depresses people!” Cal flung out his hand. “Look at the effect you’ve had on Bernice. Have you ever seen a more miserable face?”
Osmond flicked his hand in an “aw, go on,” gesture. “Don’t blame that on your dad, son. She always looks like that.”
“I don’t care how miserable she looks,” bristled Virginia Martin. “I want to know why Emily is working in collusion with undertakers.”
“Funeral directors,” repeated Cal with a hint of impatience.
Victor Martin cleared his throat with such force, he nearly popped the oxygen tube from his nose. He stabbed his cane in the direction of the coffee table. “While my wife conducts her inquisition, would someone be kind enough to pour me a glass of the Calvados?”
I couldn’t quite figure out Victor’s accent. It was so subtle as to be undetectable to the untrained ear, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t been born and raised in Houston.
Virginia swung her head around in slow motion, pinning her husband with her gaze. “Are you insane?”
“Does it matter?” he wheezed. “I want a drink.”
A spark of temper flared in her eyes. “Really? Well, go right ahead, darling. I’m sure a shot of brandy will work wonders for your balance.”
“Ish worked wonders for mine!” crowed Irv.
“Give that man a business card,” cried Woody as he sailed a card toward him … and Osmond … and Victor … and—
Click-clack click-clack.
Eyes stilled. Heads cocked. Ears listened.
“What was that?” asked Cal.
“Shounds like the noise my knee makes when it pops outta joint,” said Irv.