Death Actually Read online

  The sound of a lorry backing up to a side entrance distracted her. For the first time since she had opened the restaurant, the wine delivery was on time. Today of all days. Elka wiped her forehead and went out to greet the driver.

  Maggie was happy to forgo her morning walk, as it gave her an extra hour or two to get her life into some sort of order. A woman’s body had been brought in by the police that morning, with little supporting information apart from the name, death certificate and a contact number for the ex-husband, a lawyer in Auckland. She recognised the woman’s name, but with so many newcomers to the district she had never actually met her.

  Over the past fifteen years there had been an influx of wealthy Aucklanders, who shuttled between the northern city and the southern country, with grand homes in each place. The police told her this woman had moved permanently to her house beside Lake Hayes five years earlier, but like Maggie, they hadn’t had any dealings with her as she had kept to herself and hadn’t become part of the community.

  Her name was Jilly Levant, and judging from her body, which had been brought to The Stables that morning, the years had not been kind. She had died alone in her sleep in her Lake Hayes home, and had been found several days later by her cleaning lady.

  “Not unexpected,” said the young policeman. “The cleaning lady said she’d never known anyone drink so much. There were bottles everywhere when we arrived. Full and empty.”

  Maggie looked at the emaciated body on her trolley. Alcohol – and by the look of the nicotine stains on her fingers, smoking too – had ravaged the woman. She may have been attractive once, but Jilly was wrinkled beyond her years and completely yellow. Myocardial infarction was the cause of death on the certificate, but Maggie wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it had read liver failure.

  It took all of her dogged persistence over the rest of the morning to track down the lawyer whose contact details had been supplied with Jilly’s frail corpse, so she could find out what she was supposed to do. Eventually, between appointments, Mr Levant had taken her call and impatiently agreed to make the necessary decisions, before transferring her back to his PA who was instructed to tidy everything up as quickly as possible. Maggie went over the list of what needed to be done, and the PA politely instructed her to go ahead – purchase a plot anywhere in the nearest cemetery, and proceed with the burial as quickly as possible. All accounts were to be sent to the firm’s address on Queen Street.

  Jilly had made a will, in which she left everything to her daughter, and Mr Levant would make sure the legal formalities with regards to the cashed-up estate were completed. Maggie was further informed that as Jilly had alienated all her relatives and friends during late-night drunken phone calls, no one would be attending the funeral.

  The PA, who never did give her name, also instructed Maggie to arrange the sale of the house at Lake Hayes. Maggie tried to tell the officious woman she was busy enough already, and was not in the business of sorting out the financial affairs of her clients, but it was pointless. The woman ploughed on regardless of her protests, dispassionately informing her she would be paid for her work and so didn’t see why there would be a problem.

  Maggie was too flabbergasted to protest further when the PA then suggested she could go to the house to sort out the woman’s personal belongings and organise their delivery to the firm’s address in Auckland. Her boss was in the middle of an important court case, and Jilly’s only child, a daughter, was skiing somewhere in South America where she couldn’t be contacted. There was no one else to do it, and the PA reminded Maggie once again and ever so patiently that she need only submit her account and she would be handsomely rewarded – as if money really could buy anything.

  And then she hung up. Maggie was left looking in amazement at her phone.

  “The mystery is not why you drank,” she said to Jilly as she pushed her stretcher into the cabinet, “but how you lasted so long.” She closed the door and went back to the house for a strong cup of coffee.

  When everything was taken into consideration, it seemed there was no alternative but to do as the PA had asked. It wasn’t as if she could package Jilly up and send her to the firm’s address on Queen Street. The poor woman had to be buried, and Maggie did have the time – The Stables had been unusually quiet this winter. She blamed the competition and the flu vaccine. The money would certainly come in handy.

  In all her years as a funeral director, Maggie had never met a family – well, an ex-husband and his PA – who were so matter of fact about the death of a woman they both knew. The dismissive attitude of Levant, who must once have loved Jilly enough to marry her and build a life with her, was just more evidence in Maggie’s ongoing private prosecution of men. As for the daughter who was nowhere to be found, and who according to later reports from the cleaning lady had not been in touch with her mother for years, Maggie held her in even less regard than her father. She couldn’t begin to understand how or why a daughter could abandon her own mother.

  That afternoon Maggie opened the front door of Jilly’s home set high on a hill overlooking Lake Hayes. She knew the house was empty and that she had permission to be there, but felt she was intruding into a world she knew little about.

  Leaving her snow boots at the door, she explored in her thick woolly socks, grateful the cleaning lady had left the underfloor heating on. She resisted the temptation to go for long slides on the polished concrete floor, instead, and more responsibly, slowly worked out what needed to be done and how best to do it.

  The house was amazing. Brilliantly designed to suit its hillside setting, every room took full advantage of the surrounding scenery, maximising the views to the mountains in all directions and below to the lake, its steel blue stillness ringed with willow and poplar trees, their branches bare in winter. The sheer luxury of each detail in this huge home took Maggie’s breath away, having seen houses like this only in magazines or films.

  There were thick-piled Persian carpets throughout, highlighting the tasteful mix of antiques and modern classical furniture which worked together to create a home which, although firmly 21st century, implied a heritage of privilege. There were elegant sofas and chairs deeply and invitingly upholstered in gold and red velvets and brocades, their colours contrasting with the snowy countryside outside. Paintings varying hugely in style hung on every wall, sometimes at weird angles; others were stacked on the floor one against the other, some still in their dealers’ packing materials.

  Throughout the house, the devastation of Jilly’s recent past was writ large against the opulence. Maggie had known the woman was a drinker, but was still surprised at the quantity of wine bottles, some half full and others empty, scattered across the floor and on the bedside tables. Dregs of red wine had stained some of the rugs and in places had leached into the concrete. Bottles bore the labels of the better local vineyards, with Gibston Valley wines featuring strongly. Cases from other well-known New Zealand and Australian producers were piled dangerously high against the wine racks lining one entire wall of the entrance hall.

  Ash from overloaded ashtrays drifted onto surfaces as she moved from room to room. The house felt sad. Although the décor was impeccable and expensive, the rooms were unused and devoid of family. Designer furniture and lamps did little to create the homely atmosphere Maggie preferred, although, she had to admit, the state of her finances permitted her little choice in the matter.

  The few personal possessions she found consisted mostly of old photographs of happier times long past, and wardrobes stuffed with clothes, some with price tags still attached. Unopened delivery boxes from net-a-porter.com were stacked against one wall of Jilly’s dressing room, testifying to her ability to spend money thousands of miles from the designer shops she patronised.

  Maggie whistled when she looked at the prices, knowing most of the clothes had never been worn. Jilly had been an XXS. Maggie was a definite M, so everything would have to be bundled into rubbish bags and dumped unceremoniously at the charity shops
in town. If they were smart enough to sell the pieces online, they’d be in for a bumper year.

  The only parts of the house that showed signs of habitation were littered with rubbish. The kitchen, Jilly’s bedroom and her bathroom were strewn with empty and half-empty wine glasses. Pill bottles sat beside ashtrays on singed surfaces, competing for space with luxurious tubs of face cream promising salvation from the ravages of time. Her thousand-count bed linen was stained and smelly, and would have to be incinerated.

  Amongst the clutter were many photographs of a young girl, some askew on the walls, others in tarnished silver frames on dressing tables and chests of drawers. In one the girl was solemn in school uniform; in others she was laughing with friends. A large photo showed her in cap-and-gown regalia, the formality contrasting with later photos of the now grown-up young woman lugging a backpack in front of Notre Dame. In another photo, the same woman was sitting in her business suit in an office, the unmistakable skyline of New York in the background. It seemed Jilly had been a part of her daughter’s life after all, if only through photographs.

  There were earlier pictures too – faded images of a man and woman laughing together beside their daughter, their eyes meeting above the blonde head of the child.

  Maggie slipped some of the photos she judged would have been the most treasured into her handbag.

  Looking over this beautiful but dejected house, Maggie was overwhelmed by the sadness of squandered opportunities. Jilly had lived here for nearly ten years, but once the cleaner had been through, and the photographs and jewellery had been packed up and the wardrobes emptied, there would be no trace of the woman’s existence. The house would be sold just as the architect had designed it and the interior decorator had furnished it, wine stains in the concrete her only legacy.

  Jilly Levant no longer existed.

  “Get rid of the lot,” the PA had said briskly, caring little, if at all, that she was talking about a woman’s life. “The clothing can go to the local op shop and any photos or jewellery can be parcelled up and couriered north. You can tell the agent the house is to be sold as is – furniture, appliances, wine and paintings – the lot.” She had then given Maggie bank account details for depositing the funds from the sale.

  Never having bought or sold a house before, Maggie had no personal experience of any of the local real estate firms, but she had heard of Estelle Parker, one of Queenstown’s more flamboyant agents who seemed popular with both local worthies and city visitors. Before leaving home that morning, she had arranged to meet her here at the house. Given carte blanche by the PA, Maggie had no interest in spending time getting competitive quotes, negotiating commission, or even in finding out how much Estelle would charge to market the house. If the family didn’t care, why should she?

  The doorbell rang just as Maggie was mentally ticking off the list of tasks she could do herself, and those she would delegate to others. There were a few people in the community who would be glad of the extra income to finish the cleaning up and clearing out.

  Deep in thought, Maggie barely registered the doorbell or the cursory knock that followed, but she couldn’t ignore the loud and melodic “Cooee” that heralded the arrival of Estelle Parker.

  Without waiting for an invitation to enter, Estelle clicked grandly across the living room in her high heels, only pausing on her way to the windows to air kiss Maggie, taking care to avoid actual physical contact. Turning dramatically with both arms raised, and framed against the snow-covered mountains and the lake behind her, Estelle announced her thanks breathily to the woman in black standing near the fireplace.

  “We’ve never officially met, have we, Maggie? And yet …” she paused for dramatic effect, “you bring me this. The best house with the highest commission I will make all year. I will, of course, never forget your consideration.” She paused again, and squinted. “But who knew you were so beautiful – much too beautiful to be an undertaker, my dear.”

  “Funeral director,” corrected Maggie. “I prefer that. It’s less gruesome, don’t you think?”

  Estelle smiled painfully. She had done everything she could to ward off the ageing process and was an active patron of many alternative health therapists, both in and outside the district. Right now she was in the throes of having her chakras balanced and felt them wobble as Maggie said the word funeral. She would make an appointment when she got back to the office.

  Estelle was afraid of only two things: ageing and death. She was trying as hard she could, regardless of the cost, to prevent both, spending thousands of dollars on regular retreats to exclusive spas in New Zealand and overseas, where every inch of her body inside and out was analysed, massaged, alternately fed and starved, exercised and thoroughly cleansed.

  In return for her efforts Estelle was gratifyingly alive and well, and looked several years younger than her real age, which served to confirm her faith in her chosen therapies. The spas had the added advantage of providing opportunities to meet the partners of rich men – women desperate to maintain a semblance of eternal youth as their best insurance against divorce and the relative penury and social banishment that inevitably followed. The good thing about divorce, Estelle had realised early in her career, was that whereas a married couple needed only one house, a divorced couple needed two houses.

  Estelle sighed. She hadn’t known Jilly but couldn’t help knowing about her. They used the same wine merchant. If only Jilly had found my path, she thought, she wouldn’t be dead before her time and looking like shit, by all accounts. And a stranger would not be selling her house.

  “Look at this view,” she said. “You know the lake was named after Bully Hayes the pirate, don’t you?”

  “That’s what a lot of people say, but it’s not true,” replied Maggie. “I suppose it’s more romantic to think it was named for him, but the old families remember an Australian called Hays who came here before the gold. He was looking for sheep country but this wasn’t it, and he left.”

  “Dear me. How dull. I prefer the pirate story,” Estelle said, walking out of the room.

  She did a quick tour of the house and garden before joining Maggie for a cup of coffee at the black granite bench in the kitchen.

  Maggie was relieved to see she wasn’t the only one in awe of the home and its contents. It was gratifying to know that Estelle, who was surely used to this sort of place, was also impressed.

  It didn’t take long for the two women to conduct their business together. Estelle was remarkably understanding and sympathetic, which surprised Maggie who, knowing the woman only by reputation, had imagined she would be overly businesslike. She surprised herself by accepting an invitation to Estelle’s next cocktail party, to be held the following month at Elka’s – but not as surprised as Estelle had been when she’d issued the invitation.

  Estelle had assumed Maggie would be dour and solemn, as she imagined all undertakers needed to be. She was genuinely attracted to Maggie’s warmth and humour and bemused to find herself drawn to this woman in black. That she was delighted Maggie had brought her this great house to sell went without saying. A party invitation was the least she could do in return.

  Sitting companionably in the kitchen they shared the necessary addresses, contact details and other relevant information to make sure everything could be achieved with the minimum of fuss. Estelle planned to stay on after Maggie left to draw up an inventory of the contents and take photographs for her portfolio of properties. She waited for the inevitable question from a client – which was how she now viewed Maggie.

  “Around the $5 to $6 million mark I think,” said Estelle, watching Maggie’s face register her surprise. Then Estelle corrected herself. “Actually, with the paintings and furniture, I think the market could – no, will – pay more. This is one of the few locations left on this road which can’t be built out, so it will always be private. It’s also on the right side of the airport.”

  “So how long do you think it will be before you find a buyer?” Maggie aske
d her anxiously. “I don’t want this to drag on any longer than necessary.”

  Estelle paused, considering carefully whether to divulge the fact that she already knew of two possibles, before concluding Maggie was essentially harmless. There was no way she could affect the sale process. “Within the week, I think. I’ve got two buyers I’m going to call now; I’m hoping they can come out and look at the place this evening.”

  “But it hasn’t been cleaned,” Maggie said, clearly shocked at how quickly things were moving. “Poor Jilly only died a few days ago and there are bottles everywhere. I didn’t know her, but we can’t let people see how low she sank.”

  Estelle relented. Maggie was right, but for the wrong reasons. No buyer with that much money wanted to witness another human being’s total degradation in what would be their new home.

  “Good thinking. I’ll ask them to come tomorrow afternoon. Do you think the cleaners will be finished by then?”

  “I’ll talk to them. Who are they, your buyers? Do I know them?” asked Maggie

  “A couple staying at the Lodge told me they were thinking of moving here and. wanted a property in the country. This would suit them perfectly. The other buyer you might know, so you don’t breathe a word to anyone, or I will have to hunt you down and kill you.” Estelle smiled dramatically, but her intent was clear. “It’s the new GP, Ben Goodman. He wants something just this, and of course with his family money, he can afford it.”

  Estelle was amused at Maggie’s feigned indifference, but said nothing. She wouldn’t have been good at her job had she not been able to read faces. It suddenly occurred to her this woman might be attracted to the doctor – much good it would do her, poor soul. Ben Goodman had a reputation for being very selective when it came to women, especially since his divorce from the glamorous Sarah.