June Carried The Booking Register Into A Room Without Victor

The confirmed booking listed Mara's service for ten on Saturday morning.

There was a $500 deposit and a note: FAMILY WILL PROVIDE DOCUMENTS.

No family member had called. No one had died.

Detective Alan Rusk showed me a copy across my kitchen table.

"Is this your booking system?"

"The funeral home's. Mine only gets the webcast requests."

"Who could turn an inquiry into this?"

"June, Victor, and Owen Pike, the office manager."

Rusk wrote all three names.

"Please don't try to find out which one," he said.

I looked at the space where Saturday's camera request should have been.

There wasn't one. Whoever made the booking had wanted Mara to see it, not a family to use it.

I told Rusk that was my guess. He marked it as a guess.

The detective arranged another interview with Mara and asked for the envelope her notice had come in. She and her sister moved to a cousin's house for a few nights. The shop stayed open with two people present.

Mara called to tell me.

"I hate leaving my own kettle," she said.

"Take it."

She gave a small laugh.

"I did."

On Wednesday, June asked to meet me outside a branch library.

"Bring your lawyer," I said.

"Am I in trouble?"

"I don't know. I can't be the person you confess things to in a parking lot."

She called Nessa instead.

I saw her later at the county office, carrying a thick red booking register. Her lawyer walked beside her. I was there to answer a follow-up question about the timing on my recorder.

June stopped near the chairs.

"I told them," she said.

"About what?"

"The bill changes. And your desk."

Her lawyer touched her elbow, and she went inside.

I did not learn the rest until the court hearings.

June had signed four assistance forms without checking the final bills. She had allowed Owen to add fees after she signed. When the audit notice arrived, she finally compared the county ledger to the family accounts.

The funeral home had received the full assistance payments. Families had still paid the added fees.

She turned over the records requested by the county. Separately, she gave police the booking register and a saved email from Victor directing Owen to "reserve Ellis the usual room and make sure she receives confirmation."

Owen had paid the $500 deposit with a Hearth Ledger check. He had coded it as neighborhood outreach.

The note beside it in the paper register said HOLD FOR V.S.

By Friday, police had obtained warrants for business and account records. Uniformed officers went to Alder Gate with detectives. June called the waiting families herself and arranged another place for the afternoon service.

Nobody used their grief as a backdrop for the search.

I stayed home and finished an invoice for a small funeral chapel in Dearborn. The owner had heard I was available.

"Do you own your cameras?" he had asked.

"Yes. And I need your families to sign their own archive choices."

"Send the forms."

For the first time in two weeks, I had work on my calendar.

I tested every cable that afternoon. One had a cracked plug, so I replaced it for $14. My hands stopped shaking while I tightened the screws. There was comfort in a fault I could find, name, and fix before it hurt anyone's day.

Nessa called that evening to confirm one last equipment detail. My recorder's clock had been ninety seconds slow. I had noted the error on the day of the handoff.

"That's why we ask twice," she said. "A small honest error beats a large perfect story."

Through the phone, I heard a vending machine drop something.

"Dinner?" I asked.

"A packet of crackers has made a bold claim."

"I could bring soup."

She went quiet.

"Henok, I like talking to you. More than this job calls for."

I gripped the phone too hard.

"I like it, too."

"Then I need to speak to my supervisor. You are a witness in work I handle. We can't pretend that doesn't matter."

"I can wait."

"So can I. Please eat your soup while it's still soup."

Afterward, I put two bowls on the counter by mistake. I washed the unused one and left it in the rack.

On Monday, Alder Gate's other owners called an emergency meeting. Ruth received a copy of the notice because my unpaid bill was on the list of claims.

Victor left me a voicemail before it began.

"Come in and explain this misunderstanding. I'll release your money."

I sent the message to Ruth and did not go.

At noon, an email from her arrived.

The attachment was a court filing seeking control of the funeral home's accounts, and my invoice appeared on page one.