McKenzie Kenneth - Mortuary confidential : undertakers spill the dirt

First and foremost Id like to thank my agent, Elana Roth. In a literary landscape littered with apathy, she chose this manuscript and championed it, and ultimately made all this happen. Also, my editor at Kensington, Amy Pyle, who helped me produce the best possible finished product. To Bill Thompson, who I have had a relationship with as long as I have been scribbling, thank you for getting the ball rolling. Your advice on the original draft made all this happen.

Id also like to thank my biggest backers and fans, my grandparents, Jean and Max Robinson. When I embarked on this crazy dream of writing you never doubted me. A special kudo to Barbara and Kruger; my beautiful wife, Melissa, who had to suffer the humiliation of our first date; my uncle, Rick, who taught me the trade, and all those I work with (you know who you are). To my peer reviewers: Megan Baker and Caitlin Navarro, I know some material you loved didnt make it into the final product, but your advice on the thousands of drafts was, as usual, point on. And a special thanks to Scott Navarro for the author picture. Finally, my bro, Scott, and all the soldiers like him keeping our country safe.

Todd Harra

I want to thank my sister, Katie; my grandmothers, Alyce and Katie; and Dr. Bob and Bill W. All these people have given direction and meaning to my life.

As this book was nearing publication, both my mother and her mother passed away unexpectedly and peacefully.

My mother always taught me that you can obtain anything in life that you want. She proved this when she became a commercial pilot in 1978. One of her big life secrets: Always be able to laugh at yourself.

My grandmother taught me many things: how to fish, bake, and even knit. And her secret for keeping cookies soft? Place a piece of bread in your cookie jar, and your cookies will always be moist.

Kenneth McKenzie

If you would like to submit your story for consideration in future
compilations, please send it to Ken and Todd at
www.menofmortuaries.com.

In Loving Memory

16 YEARS
1938

80 YEARS
2002

ALYCE K. MCKENZIE

APRIL 28, 1922 FEBRUARY 15, 2008

People usually ask me where my freewheeling sense of adventure comes fromwriting a book like this, for exampleand I tell them, hands down, it came from my grandma. My grandmas unique sense of humor and spirited personality shaped my life and helped me achieve all that I have. I think the above photos show her personality. In the photo on the left the year was 1938, my grandma was 16, and she had just been at the Solano County Fair. Alycegrandmasaw what were billed as Live Nude Dancers there (behind wooden fences, of courseit was 1938, after all). Later, tooling around with her friend Dorothy in Alyces Model T, they came upon a wooden fence. Dorothy posed a dare. Sixty-four years and a lot of bragging later, how could Alyce top that photo? Do it again at age eighty! Grandma, this book is dedicated to you.

Kenny

A portion of the proceeds from Mortuary Confidential is being donated to KAMM Cares Foundation to help women battling breast cancer. For more information or to make a donation, please visit www.kammcares.org.

Contributed by an amateur boxer

I ve been in the business of death many, many years. Ive met a lot of different people; seen a lot of deaths, many tragic; and been in too many strange situations to count, much less remember. Today Im older and grayer, and my memory is fading a little, but there is one incident of a middle-of-the-night body removal that I will never forget as long as Im not laying on my porcelain embalming table.

I can still picture in my mind the house where I heard a dead man scream.

I started out working for my dads best friend, a man I called my uncle. He ran a funeral home in a small city with a sprawling suburb. We serviced a fairly large geographic location and a very diverse demographic. On night calls, you never knew what end of the county youd end up in or what type of people youd be dealing with.

On the night of this particular event, I happened to be taking the calls with my uncle. In typical fashion, the phone rang in the wee morning hours. I fumbled for the receiver and grunted, Hello?

Death call, my uncle replied. Meet me up at the funeral home.

I mumbled something unintelligible and hung up. Instead of lying in bed and contemplating another five minutes of darkness, the best thing to do was just hop uplike ripping off the proverbial Band-Aid. I threw on my suit, knotted my tie, donned my topcoat, opened both eyes, and cruised up the highway to the funeral home in my beat-up Buick.

At the office, I loaded the station wagon with the supplies we would need and warmed the engine until my uncle arrived. Once he arrived, we drove a hundred yards to an all-night-diner, as was our routine, fueled up on caffeine, and set out again.

It was just a few days after the New Year, and as we drove through the suburbs, faux candles lit the way from windowsills. The occasional Christmas tree could be seen peeking from a passing house.

Here it is, my uncle told me, after we turned down a few quiet, tree-lined streets.

Think so? Not too many cars, I replied.

My uncle consulted his note. Yep, this is it. Look at the lights. And it was true. Every single light in the house was turned ona sure sign of a death.

I backed the big old boat of a wagon slowly into the vacant driveway and we got out. The house was a rancher that had fallen in benign neglect; mold grew on the sides of the house and we had to push bare branches out of the way as we navigated the front walkway. My uncle knocked, and I buried my hands deep into my topcoat pockets. It had to be one of the coldest nights of the year.

Oh, hello, the middle-aged woman who answered the door said. Thank you for coming this quickly so late.

That is what we do, my uncle replied.

Introductions were made. Then the woman, Sue, gave my uncle the wounded expression that I had seen scores of times before, and my uncle thousands. It was the look of loss. Come on in, she said somberly. Dad is in the back room.

We trooped in, grateful to get out of the biting cold. By habit I stamped my snowless shoes on the mat as I crossed the threshold.

This is my husband, Harold, Sue said, and gestured to a man standing on the opposite side of the living room. He nodded at us and we both nodded back. And that is Peaches. Peaches was a large orange tabby sitting on the dining room table near Harold. She watched us with hooded eyes.

Hi Peaches, my uncle said. Having a cat of his own, he considered himself a cat person. He made a sucking sound with his mouth and Peachess attitude shifted. The bright ball of fur meowed and ran over to rub against his legs.

There are more running around here, Sue said.

My uncle smiled. I could tell he liked Sue and Harold because they were cat people.

Dads back this way, Sue said and headed towards the rear of the house.

We followed. The rooms were neither tidy nor messy; they were lived-in and had the pleasant aroma of fresh evergreen and holiday candles. Sue and her husband were old enough to have grandchildren, and the remnants of gifts for little children were strewn in our path. The three of us arrived at a bedroom at the back of the house, Harold trailing somewhere behind us. The room appeared to have been a porch at one point and we stepped down into it.