Free The Girl with the Phony Name by Charles Mathes

expect to find an elderly aunt.
    â€œNot that I really want to know,” Lucy finally said, unable to contain her curiosity. “but where are the bodies? This seems like just a nice old house.”
    â€œFuneral operation totally separate. In basement. Customers brought down ramp, side of house,” said Wing proudly, his eyes twinkling. “Let’s go see.”
    They proceeded down the center hall until they came to what looked like a closet. Wing opened the door and Lucy followed him into a tiny elevator, vaguely relieved that she didn’t have to go down a ramp.
    â€œI live on second floor,” said Wing, pressing the button marked B. “Your room third floor. Private staircase. Very cheery.”
    The elevator hummed noisily. In a minute a gentle clunk indicated that it had come to rest. Wing opened the door into another world: stark, white, antiseptic.

    They were in a cavernous basement hall. It looked and smelled like a hospital. The lighting was fluorescent. Against the low ceiling were bundles of pipes, each a different size and color.
    â€œThis is more like what I expected,” said Lucy, looking at the pipes.
    â€œFormaldehyde on tap,” said Wing, leaning over conspiratorily. Then he darted into a door to their right. Lucy shuddered and hastened after him. She found herself in a room with two stainless steel gurneys supporting man-sized black vinyl bags.
    â€œWing meet all state requirements,” he said, motioning at an empty table in the center of the room, proud as any owner of a modern noodle factory. Lucy’s eyes wandered to the drain in the middle of the floor and the curled-up garden hose. She wasn’t about to ask what the state requirements were. Wing was pointing to what looked like built-in file cabinets.
    â€œCold storage.”
    Lucy nodded.
    â€œNew, high-efficiency, electric crematory ovens,” said Wing in the next room, motioning at two rows of small iron doors set into the wall. Lucy tried to look interested, or at least not sick.
    â€œI call them ‘snappy retorts,’” he chortled. “A little funeral parlor humor. Ha ha?”
    â€œHa ha,” agreed Lucy.
    They pushed through three more rooms. Wing introduced her to several nearly normal-looking people in white coats, held up shiny tools of his trade, poked into cupboards and cabinets, cracked what he obviously thought were jokes.
    â€œWell,” said Lucy finally, “that was very impressive, Mr. Wing. About my cab fare …”
    â€œPlease, please, Ms. Trelaine,” said the little man, leading her to another door, this one steel, which he unlocked with a key from his ring. “My triumph. Will change course of
funeral industry. Please, please,” he begged, bouncing up and down, holding on to his top hat, which he apparently never took off.
    â€œI don’t think I really need to see …”
    Whatever argument Lucy intended to muster instantly became moot. Tak Wing had opened the door and was urging her in.
    Beyond the metal door was a gray room dominated by a machine, a monstrous iron contraption covered with intricate wiring, intimidating valve mechanisms, several chambers of varying sizes, and four polished hydraulic arms leading to gigantic pistons.
    â€œLatest invention,” said Wing, rubbing his hands together. He pulled a long lever. Lucy involuntarily took a step back.
    Steam hissed out of a chamber, an engine revved up, governors spun. Slowly the piston arms began to move, then picked up speed, until finally it seemed like they were standing in a locomotive. Wing pressed a button and Lucy could hear the sounds of gears engaging. It was like a Frankenstein movie.
    â€œWhat’s in here?” Lucy shouted above the din, pointing at a chamber the size of a small garbage can that had begun to rotate in front of them.
    â€œMrs. Hernandez!” hollered Tak Wing as he pulled another lever.
    Without another word Lucy ran for the