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  Betty spent her last conscious days with Jim, turning her head to the wall and slipping into the darkness only after he and she knew they had said all two people could say to each other.

  Now it was time for Maggie to perform one last service for Betty.

  Jim answered the door. Hollowed out by grief and fatigue, he looked his age for the first time since she had known him. Maggie put down her satchel and hugged him tight, trying to give him her strength, but the void was too great.

  His daughter Susan came to the door, and between them they supported Jim on the short walk back to the kitchen where the family had lived through their important times together. Betty was still all around them.

  The Turner sons and their wives were seated at the long scrubbed pine table, drinking tea in silence. One of them offered Maggie a cup, which she accepted willingly.

  “This is the difficult part,” said Maggie, nursing the hot tea in both hands. “I need to ask you what you all want for Betty. The two of us talked about it before she died and she made her wishes quite clear, but she also told me I was to ask you and to do what you wanted.”

  “I say we do what she said,” said Susan. “Mum always had to organise everything and she usually got it right.”

  Maggie looked across at Jim, who was staring out the window. The boys nodded and Maggie thought it best to keep moving through the formalities.

  “Has the doctor been and left anything for me?” she asked.

  Susan handed her an envelope, and inside was the necessary certificate stating time and cause of death. Even though Maggie was used to dealing with these documents, seeing Betty’s name written in black and white on the death certificate was a shock. She refolded it quickly into three and put it back in the envelope.

  “Would you like her to come with me now, or later? It’s completely up to you.”

  As close as she was to the family, today Maggie felt like an intruder, here to take away the person most precious to them all. She watched them exchange family glances and then nod, the code for a decision made.

  “Mum can go with you. We’re ready,” said Susan, and the others murmured their agreement.

  Jim got up quickly and blurted, “I can’t watch. Call me when it’s over.” He left the kitchen to go outside to his snow-covered vegetable patch.

  The ensuing silence was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

  “Nick,” Maggie explained. “He’s come to help.”

  When Susan and the boys had left, Maggie and Nick gently wrapped Betty securely in a blanket, making sure her head was covered and supported. Nick picked her up in his arms and carried her carefully out to Maggie’s waiting hearse. Jim was nowhere to be seen, but Betty’s children and their partners watched their mother’s last slow ride from home, down the steep street towards the lake.

  Chapter Four

  Maggie had realised she was resigned to the inevitable when she decided to upgrade her father’s hearse. It had been his father’s before and so it was a momentous decision. Two-year-old Nick and three-year-old Kate had nodded seriously when she told them her plans for modernisation. She chose a long wheel base 4WD, which she imported from the States, the advantage being that it would cope with the snow and ice blanketing the district’s steep roads in winter. She had the almost-new vehicle repainted with twenty coats of black high-gloss paint, giving it a deep luxurious finish. Taking everything out from the back, she had installed two slim wheel-lined rails that could be locked in transit, thus making sure there were no undignified slippages. The rear windows were refitted with darkened glass, and thickly ruched black velvet side curtains ensured privacy. Painted on the driver’s door was the name of the family firm, established in the district over one hundred years earlier:

  The Stables

  Maggie Potter: Funeral Director

  Betty was transported in a temporary casket from Suburb Street to the funeral home, situated in an old stable block on the far side of the botanical gardens. Maggie’s great-grandfather had converted the stables in the late 1890s, when he saw the unmet demand for burial services in the area. Her father renovated the facilities in the sixties, and then in the nineties Maggie updated everything again, using the latest technology from the States to accommodate changing fashions and people’s expectations. So far her small business had been able to resist takeover offers from the big Australian firms that were starting to dominate the New Zealand market, imposing their chain-store approach to the care of the dead. She continued to offer a personalised boutique service in the face of intense competition from the other local firms who had taken the Australian dollar, and who now offered a standard burial product for cut-price fees. The atmosphere between the different companies had become strained, but they still managed to cover each other when illness or holiday required it.

  Growing up, Maggie would never have believed she’d take over the business. She was teased about her father’s work at school, known as ‘school-ghoul’ by the cool crowd in her class. She had vowed never, ever to join the firm. Simon, her older brother, was completely disinterested and her mother wanted nothing to do with what happened inside The Stables, even though it was next door to the house. From very early in the marriage, she had used her children as a reason to excuse herself from anything to do with her husband’s work. She’d known what he did when she’d accepted his proposal, but when it came to the mechanics of managing the dead and the grief-stricken, Maggie’s mother preferred wilful ignorance and kept her distance.

  Maggie’s father had insisted there was no extra money to pay a stranger to assist him – and if there had been, he wouldn’t have paid for one because he had a daughter perfectly able to help him at no cost. So as she grew up, Maggie was left with little choice. She learned the business when she was young – too young, she thought. Initially she took on very small tasks, until gradually her father came to rely on her more and more. If she complained, her father would point out to her that this was how he paid the bills, and she should respect the work and the comfortable lifestyle it gave the family. He also tried to tell her about the privilege of being able to help people when they were at their most vulnerable, but teenage Maggie, with her thoughts on boys, skiing and school (in that order) had no interest in what he meant. Meanwhile Simon, the blue-eyed boy, was under his mother’s protection and spent his weekends skiing or working in one of the cafés in town.

  Maggie was a lonely child and teenager. She had no friends at school, other than Lizzie Martin, who became too preoccupied with skiing to spend much time with her. Then at the age of fourteen, Lizzie was sent to a training camp in Europe, leaving Maggie at the mercy of the bitches at school.

  Maggie decided her best option was to go along with the childish expectations of her peers. Ahead of her time, she became the town’s only Goth. Her father thought she was making fun of him and all he stood for, but hoping she would grow out of her need to hurt him, said nothing. Her mother just shrugged, while Simon would pretend he didn’t know her when he was with his friends.

  When she was sixteen, Maggie started sleeping with men passing through town either as workers or as tourists. She couldn’t explain it and she didn’t enjoy it. Despite his later abandonment of her and their children, Maggie would always be thankful she’d met Andy when she did. The young Australian had seen through the tough facade she had cultivated, and to him she was more than a one-night stand. When he asked her to go to Melbourne at the end of the season, she hadn’t needed a second invitation. Emptying her savings account, she left town without saying a word to her parents. Looking back, Maggie realised how hurtful this must have been, but at eighteen, escape to a new life, and freedom from death, was all that mattered. She phoned her mother a week later to let her know she was alive, and told her not to worry.

  In Melbourne, Maggie heard from Betty, a family friend, that Simon had had no choice other than to take on the workload she had abandoned. Naturally irresponsible and fun loving, he started drinking too much and the reputa
tion of the business sagged under the disapproval of the local population, who preferred their loved ones to be buried with dignity by someone who didn’t look and smell as though he’d been out on the town the night before.

  Simon happily and quickly relinquished his role as son and heir immediately after their parents’ funerals, when Maggie found a lawyer’s letter turning the property and business over to her. In her absence the life insurance policies for both parents had been changed to make Simon the sole beneficiary, and he left town with enough capital to go anywhere in the world for as long as he chose.

  Maggie now had a home where she could bring up the children, but no income, and so she had no choice (according to Betty) but to settle down and make a go of it and (again according to Betty) should realise just how lucky she was. Simon’s emails and phone calls from far-flung exotic locations became less frequent, and it was now five years since Maggie had last heard from him, when he’d been working as a bartender in Buenos Aires.

  It was just before lunch when Maggie backed the hearse into the courtyard beside what her father had called his “funeral parlour”. She’d hated the term, with its connotations of black drapes, dusty ostrich feathers, dour-faced men in morning suits and The Addams Family. Irritated by the nonsensical term “funeral home”, she referred to her premises as The Stables.

  The building dated back to the late 1860s, and once housed the coach horses taking gold from the central Otago fields to Dunedin. It was a handsome building made with local schist in tones of mellow gold. The roof had been replaced with corrugated iron, and Maggie had put in skylights to open it up to the light and fresh air in summer. She’d had four refrigerated cabinets installed, and in front of these stood her work table. An antique French wardrobe sitting against the back wall contained her equipment. Due to popular demand and her own queasiness, she’d been pleased to stop embalming her clients, and getting rid of the bottles and tubing had freed up a lot of space. Instead, just outside the back door there was now a large freezer where she stored the long ice packs which, when changed regularly under a corpse, slowed decomposition.

  The double doors leading from her workroom had been made from timber recycled from an old hotel near the Arrow river, abandoned when the gold ran out. These opened into an area which could be used for burial and remembrance services, and where Maggie welcomed the relatives and friends of those who wanted to spend time with their loved ones before the funeral. Her desk was placed discreetly behind a screen. Larger timber doors opened directly onto the courtyard, across which was the house where Potters had lived for more than a hundred years. It too was made of schist and recycled wood. It was just large enough for Maggie and the children, cosy in winter and able to be opened up to breezes from the lake in summer.

  Nick arrived just after her. Standing to one side she watched as he easily lifted Betty’s body from the back of the hearse and carried her into the workroom, where he pulled a metal stretcher out of a cabinet and laid her gently down. Maggie was grateful for his help. Knowing she’d have to manage without him next year, she’d devised a system she could use alone. No need to tell him just yet, she thought.

  Typically, Betty had wanted to know everything that happened to bodies after death. She’d listened carefully to all the options and asked to have a few days to think about them. When Maggie had returned, Betty had had a list of detailed instructions ready.

  “Promise me I won’t look like a dead person,” she’d said. “I don’t want my family to remember me as a corpse. Make me beautiful, one last time, Maggie.” She’d handed over the list and a bag of make-up. That had been a month ago, and now the time had come for Maggie to keep her word.

  She took a scented face cream from the bag and massaged it gently into Betty’s cold, kind face. Then she smeared a generous dollop of lip gloss onto her lips. Lastly, she slipped eye-caps under her eyelids to hold them firmly closed, and to stop the eyes from drying out.

  “Dehydration is the enemy of skin tone, even in death, Betty,” she whispered. “That’s all for today. I’ll get you gussied up according to instructions tomorrow, when you’ve had a chance to work through a few changes.”

  Maggie pushed the stretcher back into the cabinet and shut the door. The refrigerator hummed into life. Wearily she took off her apron and put it with the bag into the wardrobe.

  Nick was waiting for her in the office. He held out his arms and she walked straight into a hug. Arm in arm they walked across the cobblestones to the house and a hot cup of very strong coffee.

  “Nearly lunchtime and no sign of Kate,” said Nick, putting a cheese sandwich in the toaster. “Not like her. We know how much she likes her food.”

  Chapter Five

  A film crew had taken over a motel complex on the outskirts of the town. Three large trucks spiked with antennae and draped with coils of thick cables occupied the forecourt. Men and women scurried backwards and forwards between different units in the cold, carrying messages and organising last-minute details with the urgency that goes with being on a very tight budget.

  Funding for the film had been scraped together from a rag tag mix of government grants, angel investors and desperate appeals on open-source websites. Even the film editor’s second cousin once removed had been cajoled into contributing, with promises of tickets to the premiere and film credits. Most of the people scurrying around the forecourt were volunteers from film schools angling to get experience in an actual movie. They survived on student loans and money donated by their long-suffering parents, but primarily they lived on their enthusiastic love of film and, of course, on hope.

  Queenstown residents were quite blasé about film crews. The spectacular locations nearby were sought after for everything from action movies to Bollywood romances, and it wasn’t unusual to round a bend on a river only to be turned back by crews hoping to get their best shot before the light faded.

  The area had the added advantages of an international airport, a small population, and a town large enough to service most demands. Its easy accessibility – if not by road then by helicopter – in both winter and summer, also helped. As well as these natural advantages, there were well-trained Kiwi crews asking internationally competitive wages, not to mention mouth-watering tax incentives from the New Zealand government.

  The film being discussed around the kitchen table in Unit 7 at the motel was different. Tim James, the forty-something, stunningly handsome action hero and star of the biggest-grossing blockbusters of the last decade would be arriving before week’s end to shoot a small cameo role. His films were some of the most successful ever made, but the excellent work he had done over the past fifteen years was overshadowed by the public’s fascination with his not-so-private life. Details of his loves and leavings, his escapades in exotic locations, not to mention his blazing rows with directors, were reported in salacious detail in women’s magazines and on gossipy TV programmes. “More social media fodder than real movie star” was how one reviewer had described Mr James.

  Tim had agreed to take the part mainly because he liked the script, but also as a favour to the movie’s director, a young New Zealander making his first feature-length movie, whose father had just happened to have provided twenty-five percent of the financial backing for the last three Tim James blockbusters.

  The crew had been sworn to secrecy, but of course news of his imminent arrival had got out – leaked not only by the director, but also by the marketing department, the local tourism board and the producer.

  It went without saying that Tim wouldn’t be staying with the crew at their basic and overcrowded motel. Rooms had been reserved for him and his entourage at one of New Zealand’s most exclusive lodges – a haven of luxury built on a secluded promontory looking out across Lake Wakatipu to the Remarkable Mountains.

  Tim’s private secretary, personal trainer, hairdresser/make-up consultant, PR team and a personal masseuse had arrived in advance of the star and were already making waves in local businesses with their demand
s for immediate service made on behalf of a Mr Smith. The nom de plume fooled no one.

  The paparazzi had arrived at the weekend, occupying scarce rooms in busy hotels and motels. It was the height of the ski season, and planeloads of skiers were arriving from Australia and South East Asia several times a day. Some of the photographers had had to find accommodation in neighbouring towns such as Arrowtown and Wanaka, driving into Queenstown and then another thirty kilometres to the gates of the lodge to stake out their vantage points. Others waited patiently at the airport, hoping to get a shot of the star as soon as his private jet touched down. Part of the excitement was that no one knew if Tim would be travelling alone, or if his wife and baby son would be coming too.

  Every morning at first light, the photographers took up their positions outside the wrought iron gates of the lodge, blowing warm breath into cold hands and stamping boots on packed snow to get blood flowing to frozen feet, chatting away to each other in different languages or talking by phone to the other side of the world. Each understood the etiquette. Once their quarry had arrived it was every man or woman for themselves, the cheerful camaraderie disappearing as soon Tim James appeared, signalling that the battle for the best shot had commenced.

  In the late afternoon a black Porsche Cayenne drove down the access road towards the lodge and the waiting pack. The photographers surged around as it slowed, cameras raised high above their heads in a continuous cacophony of clicking shutters and rolling video, pushing each other out of the way, only to capture a startled middle-aged man trying to swipe his security card through the machine.