Chapter 2 - Christopher Had Been Trying To Burn Bertha Within Forty-Eight Hours
Bertha died on a Tuesday night.
Christopher wanted her cremated Thursday afternoon.
That alone was not automatically suspicious.
Families choose cremation for all kinds of reasons.
Bertha had once told me she preferred it.
What bothered me was the speed.
No extended visitation.
No second medical review.
No time for relatives flying in from out of state.
And absolutely no autopsy.
I had asked Christopher about that the morning after Bertha died.
He shut me down immediately.
“She didn’t want one.”
“Did she put that in writing?”
“She told me.”
“When?”
“Moments like this are exactly why she didn’t want you involved, Evelyn.”
That sentence had hurt enough that I stopped pushing for several hours.
Then I called Bertha’s primary physician.
He had not certified a clear cause beyond probable sudden cardiac arrest pending the medical examiner’s review.
Bertha had no significant cardiac history.
She had complained of shortness of breath and unusual fatigue the week before.
That could mean dozens of things.
Pulmonary embolism.
Undiagnosed arrhythmia.
Viral myocarditis.
Even something entirely benign followed by an unrelated fatal event.
I did not immediately think murder.
Being an ER nurse had taught me something television rarely does:
Most sudden deaths are not secret homicides.
But unexplained deaths deserve proper process.
Christopher treated process like an enemy.
When the medical examiner determined there was not enough external evidence to require a mandatory autopsy, Christopher immediately signed for release.
Then he called a private cremation chapel.
Melissa handled arrangements.
They scheduled the earliest available service.
I asked for one more day.
Christopher refused.
I asked to see Bertha alone.
He refused.
I asked whether I could bring the dress Bertha wore at our last family Christmas instead of the outfit Melissa selected.
He refused that too.
“She’s already dressed.”
Something about that answer bothered me.
“Dressed in what?”
Melissa answered.
“Her navy skirt and cream blouse.”
I knew those clothes.
Bertha had planned to wear them to a nonprofit board meeting the weekend after she died.
She had texted me a photograph asking whether the skirt looked “too serious.”
Now that same outfit was inside the coffin.
May you like
At the time, it seemed sentimental.
After Veronica’s whisper, it became something else entirely.
