At five AM on a day with only one funeral planned, the mortuary should have been empty. Though to be fair, having been drained of all blood several days prior, my husband shouldn’t have been able to ask that one last question.

In my defense, the flaming coffin was a rather mesmerizing sight, all smoldering oak and wisps of lightly colored smoke from cheap silk. Arcs and ribbons of flame danced out from under clothes nicer than he ever wore in life. Slivers of green and blue flicked amidst the yellows and oranges, magical and menacing.

When I heard the, “tsk, tsk, tsk,” from over my left shoulder the danger of making assumptions about pre-dawn, post-mortum assassination privacy hit me like a mallet. Possibly the word came to mind because that’s all I had at my disposal after using the stake.

“I…can explain,” my voice sounded faint even against the crackling fire.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” came in repeat, then, “Such a dreadful waste.”

I had a feeling things had just gone from crap to crap-tastic, or worse.