“How do you mean?” I said. “Well, consider it, good sir. ‘The Almeida Funeral Home.’ It’s flat, unappealing. Would you want to be buried from there?” I’d had enough vodka to think about it. Malcolm Peete used the gap to pour another triple into his glass. We’d both wanted a postmortem after Gail Fearey’s scene at the grave, and Peete even asked Liz Rendall and Arbuckle to join us. Liz begged off on the ground that she thought she should look after Ida. Arbuckle just begged off. “No.” Peete looked up from the bottle. “What’s that?” “I said no, I wouldn’t want to be buried from there.” “Of course you wouldn’t. Nobody would. Then again, by the time you have need of such services, the option is no longer yours. That’s why Madison Avenue has to step in. A niche needs filling.” “Don’t get you.” He set down his glass, spreading his hands. “Look, currently the choice of home is made by the survivors, correct?” “Correct.” “Well, that’s the problem.
