"Royal, Noble, Ducal, Luxurious, Prestigious, Generous... the Golden Casket."
"Elegant, Restrained, Composed, Wise, Sagacious, Serene... the Gentle Breeze Casket."
In the living room, Karen sat on the small sofa, leafing through the family's color casket catalog.
What he had just read aloud were the two most expensive models in the brochure. Their titles were strung together with an endless series of flowery adjectives, priced at 2,250,000 lubi and 2,500,000 lubi respectively.
As for why the Gentle Breeze was more expensive than the Golden Casket, that was probably the price of "elegance."
Uncle Mason had mentioned that dividing the list price in the catalog by five yielded their wholesale cost. Even so, 550,000 lubi and 500,000 lubi were still staggering sums.
If Karen remembered correctly, 500,000 lubi was enough to buy a nice three-bedroom apartment in a prime downtown location.
In the world of the genuinely wealthy, a single casket really was worth an entire home.
"Coffee."
"Thank you, Aunt Winnie."
Aunt Winnie set the cup on the coffee table and took a seat on the opposite sofa.
"Been pretty quiet these past few days, hasn't it?" she asked.
"Yes," Karen nodded.
Mina and the others had to go to school, whereas he did not. Consequently, he had taken over cooking duties lately, completely reinventing the family's concept of fine food.
The day before yesterday, he had specially prepared a dish of boiled beef in spicy broth. The family's tolerance for chili was surprisingly decent; Uncle Mason, in particular, had eaten with immense joy. Unfortunately, Uncle Mason had walked with a limp the following day—his hemorrhoids had flared up.
Apart from cooking, Karen truly had nothing else to do.
Although Grandfather hadn't helped him restore his student registration, he had procured a full set of high school textbooks and study guides for him. Aside from occasionally flipping through the history book, the rest held little value for Karen.
"Things should pick up soon," Aunt Winnie said. "Two elderly residents at Flower Water Bay Nursing Home are falling ill again, and a few patients in critical condition are staying at the two nearby hospitals we partner with. There's also a parishioner bedridden at home near the church, nearing the end. When the time comes, I'll recommend your psychological counseling to their families."
"Thank you, Aunt Winnie."
"What's there to thank between family working for the family business? Drink your coffee; I added sugar for you."
"All right."
Karen kept his left hand curled into a loose fist. Even though the coffee sat to his left, he leaned over and reached across with his right hand to lift the cup, taking a sip.
Just then, the telephone rang.
Aunt Winnie stood up to answer it.
"Hello... yes... mm... understood."
*Clack.*
The receiver was slammed down with noticeable force.
Louder still was Aunt Winnie's immediate shout:
"Mason! Mason!"
Uncle Mason, who had been upstairs sipping black tea and reading the financial paper, dropped everything at once. Shrugging into his coat, he clattered down the wooden stairs in a rapid rush.
Aunt Winnie said, "The stage at the Crown Ballroom collapsed. Heavy casualties."
"Oh, the Crown Ballroom." Mason nodded instantly.
"Where is the Crown Ballroom?" Aunt Mary's voice called from the top of the stairs.
Mason blinked in sudden confusion. "Right, where is the Crown Ballroom?"
"I know, Mr. Mason! It's on Hill Street—an old dance hall with quite some history," Ron answered.
Moments earlier, he and Paul had been lounging on the garden bench, soaking up the sun. Whenever business was slow, they often spent whole days resting.
Yet that was simply the nature of the trade. Even knowing there was no current work, a firm had to keep its hired hands ready on standby. After all, finding extra waiters on short notice was easy, but finding body handlers was exceptionally difficult. One could hardly call on the neighbors to lend a hand.
Besides, Aunt Mary still hadn't reimbursed Mrs. Mark for the flowers she had complained about last time—not only refusing to pay, but getting into a shouting match with her instead.
"Ah, Hill Street." Uncle Mason turned toward Aunt Mary standing at the head of the stairs. "Darling, get ready as well. I'll try to bring the clients straight back—assuming there are clients."
"Of course, darling," Aunt Mary agreed with a nod.
Watching this unfold from the sofa, Karen found it somewhat amusing. Anyone unaware of their profession might have assumed they ran an emergency ambulance service mobilizing for rescue.
Still, this was how their "business network" operated. The family maintained ties not only with hospitals and nursing homes, but also with informants in numerous other venues who would promptly tip them off when disasters struck.
Business had to be courted actively; that was how deals were made.
"Heavy casualties, was it?" Mason looked at Karen. "Karen, come along. We could use an extra pair of hands."
"Sure, Uncle."
Uncle Mason climbed into the driver's cab. Karen, Paul, and Ron folded the wheeled stretcher, stowed it into the rear compartment alongside body bags and other gear, and then climbed in themselves.
Just before the hearse started up, Aunt Winnie tossed a stack of brochures for Inmerles Mortuary Services through the window.
"Let's go!"
Mason gave his sister and wife a resolute look, like a general marching off to war.
Aunt Winnie and Aunt Mary looked back with solemn expressions, eagerly awaiting the general's triumphant return.
***
The hearse moved swiftly.
Karen noticed Uncle Mason running two traffic lights in a row. Fortunately, traffic cameras didn't exist in this era; as long as their luck wasn't so terrible that an officer was standing right beside the intersection, nothing would come of it—barring an accident, of course.
"Is a stage collapse really that serious?" Karen asked curiously.
Before Ron could reply, Uncle Mason spoke up from the front:
"The Crown Ballroom has a unique stage—a reinforced glass platform suspended nearly five meters in the air. Dancers in skirts and miniskirts perform up there, and those down below can look up all they want. Naturally, plenty of patrons are willing to pay extra for the thrill of dancing up in the air themselves. So if that platform gave way while people were dancing both above and below, the consequences would be catastrophic."
Ron chimed in, "Exactly. Hiring a dancer for a song down below costs five lubi, but dancing up on the glass costs fifty lubi. Outrageously expensive."
Uncle Mason said, "The money is beside the point. The main issue is that the Crown Ballroom is old and likely poorly maintained. I never dared go up there, terrified that an accident might happen while I was on it. Given our line of work, I've seen far too many gruesome corpses from accidental deaths."
"Did you go there often, Uncle?" Karen asked.
"I liked going when I was young. After marrying your aunt, I rarely went. Over the past few years, whenever I visited Rojia City to see family, I only went two or three times to gather with old friends. Once we moved back for good, I never set foot in there again, and I fell out of touch with that crowd."
It wasn't a matter of friends being snobbish about wealth. Uncle Mason had once been a moderately successful financial professional, whereas now he was the manager of the family funeral business. Though he still had connections, they belonged to an entirely different social circle.
After all, one could hardly say:
*"Hey, buddy!*
*I know you're grieving over your family's loss, so how about hitting the dance floor with me?"*
Before long, they arrived at Hill Street.
Uncle Mason pressed on the accelerator, veered into an alley wide enough for only one vehicle, wove through a couple of shortcuts, and quickly cut from Front Street into Middle Street.
Emerging from the alleyway, he swung right and pulled to a halt. Clearly, Uncle Mason knew the neighborhood inside out.
The building ahead displayed signs for a cinema, a gymnasium, and various other venues, but the largest and brightest among them was the neon sign for the Crown Ballroom.
They had arrived.
A crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk near the entrance. Many were bloodied, with lacerations to their heads, while others sobbed in terror. The scene was utterly chaotic.
Just as Karen and the others stepped out, a police car screeched to a halt beside them. In the passenger seat sat an inspector in a khaki trench coat, a pipe clamped between his teeth. He stared at the Inmerles hearse in sheer disbelief before barking in astonishment:
"Damn it, Mason! How the hell did you manage to get here faster than the police and the ambulances?!"
Evidently, the inspector and Uncle Mason knew each other well.
That came as no surprise. Beyond nursing homes, hospitals, and churches, the police department was another steady source of clientele for a mortuary. Picking up bodies from the police morgue was a routine affair.
Uncle Mason offered an explanation: "Inspector Duke, purely a coincidence! We happened to be just over on Front Street."
"Hah." Inspector Duke clearly didn't buy a word of it.
Traffic had ground to a halt, and because the Rojia City Stadium was hosting an international football friendly that day, a large portion of the police force had been dispatched for security duty. Backup units would not be arriving anytime soon.
"Stick with me," Duke said. "Help me keep order."
"Yes, sir!"
Uncle Mason snapped to attention. Ron and Paul quickly straightened up beside him, and Karen, half a beat late, squared his shoulders as well.
The sight was slightly comical. Inspector Duke almost chuckled, but caught himself, remembering the gravity of the occasion. Turning to the officer behind the wheel, he ordered, "Mick, flip the siren on and clear the traffic ahead. Escort the ambulances in!"
"Yes, Inspector!"
Ron and Paul parted the crowd ahead. Inspector Duke swept his gaze over the injured gathered by the roadside. They had clearly fled the ballroom after the collapse; though many had sustained cuts and bruises, the fact that they could escape under their own power meant their injuries were relatively minor. They were already assisting one another with crude bandaging to stem the bleeding.
"Is anyone still inside?" Inspector Duke asked.
"Is anyone still inside?" Uncle Mason echoed, grabbing an employee in ballroom uniform.
"Y-Yes... yes, there are!"
"Move. We're going in."
Inspector Duke led the way. Heading up the stairs, they spotted several severely injured patrons being helped or carried out. Some had glass shards embedded in their legs, others in their abdomens, leaving them unable to walk on their own.
Uncle Mason bypassed the man with glass in his leg and went straight to a young man dressed in hip-hop style who had a shard lodged in his belly, grasping his hand:
"Are you all right? Can you hold on?"
Thinking a doctor had arrived, the young man nodded eagerly. "I think I'll make it... I can hang on!"
Mason's warmth evaporated instantly, and he let go of the man's hand.
"Doctor?" the young man called after him.
"Apologies! I have to head inside to find those in worse shape—they need me more right now!"
The young man nodded weakly. "I understand... I understand."
Inspector Duke led the Inmerles crew deeper into the venue.
Along the way, Duke teased Mason, "That desperate for corpses, are you?"
Uncle Mason replied, "Business has been slow lately."
"Hah, slow season."
"During your slow season, you can go bust weed peddlers and unlicensed brothels. During ours, it's not like we can go out and murder people, can we?"
"Consider yourself warned: if you find any critically injured people inside, they go to the hospital first. If the ambulances haven't arrived yet, transport them in your hearse. Don't you dare haul someone back to your parlor before they're fully dead!"
"As if I would!"
Mid-conversation, the group finally entered the main hall. Not many people remained; most had already fled, though about a dozen still lingered.
The floor was strewn with shattered glass, both large slabs and tiny shards.
A few steps in, they spotted someone slumped against a booth.
Drawing closer, they saw half the person's head had been sheared away. Behind the booth lay a massive pane of glass measuring roughly three square meters.
When a sheet of glass that size came crashing down, slicing through half a skull was as effortless as cutting through a watermelon.
The scene behind the booth was even more sickening—a splattered mess of colors, resembling an overturned sauce rack.
Uncle Mason hurried forward, then glanced back toward Inspector Duke, asking anxiously, "Inspector, come look quickly! Is this one completely dead?"
Duke raised a boot to kick Mason, but mindful of the shattered glass covering the floor, he pulled back halfway and didn't land the blow.
This exchange made it obvious that Mason and Inspector Duke shared an exceptionally close rapport.
Three years ago, when Inspector Duke's mother passed away, the Inmerles family had handled the funeral without charging a single lubi.
The original Karen hadn't known about that. Back then, he had been a withdrawn, reclusive youth with virtually no interest in or knowledge of the family business.
"Ron, body bag," Uncle Mason instructed.
"On it."
Ron pulled out a body bag and began slipping it over the unfortunate patron, muttering under his breath as he worked:
"Reserving this booth doesn't come cheap. Talk about rotten luck, sir."
Directly above and in front of this spot was where the glass stage had hung, offering the prime viewing angle for looking upward.
Ron handled the body briskly, showing no hesitation or squeamishness despite the gruesome sight. That was pure professionalism—and precisely why Ron and Paul could enjoy paid time off for days on end while earning far more than ordinary laborers.
Further ahead, a small crowd had gathered around a man.
Multiple shards of glass were embedded in his body, and blood kept bubbling from his mouth. He could no longer speak coherently; only his blinking eyes showed signs of life.
Because his wounds were so severe, the bystanders—whether his companions or well-meaning patrons—didn't dare move him, terrified that the slightest jostle might end his life on the spot.
Uncle Mason rushed over immediately and grasped his hand. "Hold on! Stay with us, please, you must hold on!"
Turning back, he shouted toward Paul, "Stretcher! Stretcher, quick!"
Paul, carrying the stretcher, set it down at once without lowering the wheels.
Uncle Mason directed the people around them: "Careful, everyone lend a hand. Keep it steady. Let's lift him onto the stretcher and get him outside first. The ambulance will be here soon. There's still hope—there's still hope!"
The bystanders promptly pitched in, following Mason's directions.
Karen knew that Uncle Mason's sudden fervor stemmed from the harsh reality that, barring a miracle, this man was beyond saving.
Even so, Mason was doing the right thing. It was indeed the best course of action for the victim, getting him to medical care as quickly as possible.
And once the victim reached the hospital and passed away, Uncle Mason—having already established a familiar presence—could naturally secure the funeral contract before a crowd of grateful relatives.
Inspector Duke watched from the side without interfering. He knew that while Mason was eager for business, he wasn't someone who crossed lines recklessly.
Karen considered stepping in to help, but the stretcher was only so large, leaving no room for him to assist.
Right then, Karen heard Inspector Duke let out a curious sound. "Huh?"
Looking toward the noise, Karen saw that Duke had walked over to the center of the original stage.
The Crown Ballroom's layout featured a large wooden platform three steps high in the center, with the glass stage suspended directly above it.
When the glass stage plummeted, the impact had punched several large holes through the center of the wooden platform below.
At that moment, Inspector Duke was crouching beside one of the jagged holes, pushing aside several splintered wooden boards with his hands.
Karen walked over, and the sight froze him in his tracks.
Inside the cavity lay the corpse of a man.
The male corpse was completely naked. His arms were spread symmetrically at forty-five-degree angles on either side, palms facing upward. Two iron nails had been driven through his middle fingers to fix them in place, forming a double obscene gesture.
Furthermore, at the corpse's abdomen—directly over the navel—sat a white flower. It looked to be made of plastic.
Above and below the navel were distinct stitch marks. In all likelihood, this wasn't merely a single flower, but an entire potted plant.
The pot was buried inside the corpse's belly.
Beyond that, the man's face had been heavily painted with cosmetics.
Lipstick extended exaggeratedly from the corners of his mouth down his cheeks, creating the grotesque illusion of a wide grin.
Resting upon the corpse's chest was a book, its cover bearing the title *Song of the Soul*—the holy scripture of the Berry religion.
Karen recalled Aunt Mary complaining earlier about how Mr. Mossan's children had claimed their father was a Berry believer just to save money.
The tenets of the Berry religion dictated that remains must be cremated after death to return to nature. The more one adorned a corpse or staged an extravagant funeral, the greater the sacrilege against nature and the faith.
Yet the corpse concealed beneath this stage had been modified and arranged to an astonishing degree.
Moreover, judging from the bluish-black discoloration of the skin, the man had been dead for quite some time, even if visible signs of decomposition were minimal.
In any case, he couldn't possibly have been crushed by the falling glass stage, only for someone nearby to strip him naked and stage him like this on the spot.
Inspector Duke's expression turned grim.
The ballroom disaster had been an accident. For an officer, an accident mainly required maintaining rescue order. But this corpse changed everything.
Duke bit down on his pipe stem and muttered under his breath:
"If it weren't for this accident, there's no telling when this murder would have been uncovered."
"I don't think... that's what happened."
"Oh?"
Inspector Duke turned, glancing up at the handsome young man standing beside him.
"What do you think happened, then?"
Karen pointed at the corpse inside the hole.
"The killer deliberately staged this accident just to display his 'work of art.'"
Chapter 12