The undertaker cleaned his wire-rimmed specs on a white sleeve, gave a final spot of sanding to the coffin lid, and called it a day. Mr. Hardy would be picking up his order soon, hopefully within the next couple of days, assuming that blasted Mrs. Hardy can let go of the girl’s body. Goshen was a small town and the undertaker had a business to run. He got paid to put people in the ground, not to build boxes and wait for wailing mothers to stop clinging to corpses. It had been three days since the girl passed, albeit suddenly, shouldn’t that suffice for poor Mrs. Hardy? Shouldn’t that be enough time to keep the town’s only undertaker from earning a living?
The undertaker took a seat at his desk in his workshop. The furniture shop did okay, but coffins were where the money was. It wasn’t everyday that someone bought a new dining room set, but they were going to die sometime. Death was good for the undertaker. Wailing mothers were not. Maybe Mr. Hardy will slap some sense into her.