Free Courting Death by Carol Stephenson

man who helped Depp direct people at the funeral could have been a part-timer.
    Last was the corner office, clearly the owner’s. My lips curled at the sight of the cemetery posters covering the walls and a model-sized coffin on a credenza. I retraced my steps to the hall leading to the front and then paused. Something niggled at the edge of my mind about the showroom. I returned to its door and studied the contents.
    It struck me. The lid on the third coffin was closed while the others were open so customers could see how they would spend eternity in comfort. I could have sworn all the models had been open during the Whitman funeral. Unable to shake the sense of wrongness, I approached the coffin. For all I knew, the staff liked to play a sick game of hide-and-seek.
    Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the lid’s handle. I thanked the exercise gods for all the push-ups I’d done the past year and wrestled the lid up. I bit back a scream.
    Colin Depp was a true funeral home director even in death. His sightless eyes gazed back at me as he reposed with his hands crossed just below his breast bone. His tie was neatly knotted and the jacket of the banker gray suit buttoned closed. The lapel held a crushed white carnation. Beneath his head red ribbons of blood streaked the small pillow’s ivory satin.
    The sound of a door closing brought my head up. Whether it was the staff, the murderer or both, I wasn’t waiting around to find out. I made a beeline for the door and peeked around the corner. A man cursed in the hall leading to the front. He was close.
    Praying the thick carpet would muffle the sound of my shoes, I dashed to the door I’d entered through. I pressed down on the handle but metal was metal, no matter how well maintained. It screeched.
    I slammed it open and then ran past the preparation room into the garage.
    “Hey!” At the hoarse exclamation, I looked back and saw a man dressed in white standing in the door. He dropped a small cooler. Plastic bags with dark contents spilled onto the pavement. The man reached for the gun sticking out of his waistband.
    Oh shit. I ducked around the first limousine and the windshield shattered in a spray of glass. Keeping low, I raced to the exit and burst through the door. I jammed my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the keys as I ran in a zigzag pattern to my car. I ripped open the door, flung myself into the seat and jammed the key into the ignition. Come on, baby, start.
    Sweat trickled an icy path down my spine as the engine roared to life. I spared a glance through the windshield and saw the man taking a wide-legged stance in front of the car and raising the gun. My thundering heart told me to go in reverse; my head said to go forward.
    I put the BMW in drive, ducked down and floored the accelerator. Glass shattered and the passenger seat cushion exploded into bits of foam. I tightened my grip in anticipation of contact, but the gunman dove to the side seconds before I reached him.
    Dammit. Missed him.
    I sped along the drive, peering through the spidery cracks in the windshield. At this time of the morning traffic was light on the side street. Tires screeched in protest as I made a sharp right turn toward the nearest main road, Military Trail.
    Behind me a horn blared. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I saw the ice cream truck careen onto the street. I canceled any thought of losing him in the traffic on Military Trail. Too many stop lights, too much congestion could work against me as easily as for me.
    Maneuverability. That was my advantage.
    Without slowing, I turned left, machine screaming in protest, but the Beemer held the pavement. As I raced down the side street, I dared to take my right hand off the wheel for a moment and rummaged in my purse. I breathed a sigh of relief as my fingers brushed the smart phone tucked as habit in the side pocket.
    I pulled it out and touched the number 1.
    Sam’s tone was brusque. “Nicole, I can’t