Then she checked the statewide index available to her office.
Nothing.
She looked at Audrey.
“Do you have a funeral home name?”
“St. Agnes Memorial Services.”
Patricia wrote it down.
“Sometimes there are discrepancies in the information.”
Audrey nodded.
“Like what?”
“Misspelt names. Incorrect dates. Records filed under different jurisdictions.”
“So how do I fix it?”
Patricia considered.
“I’d suggest contacting the Pennsylvania Department of Health’s vital records office. They have broader access than we do.”
Audrey took the paper she offered.
Then hesitated.
“There’s definitely no record here?”
“Not under the information you’ve given me.”
Audrey looked down at the form.
Her mother’s name sat neatly in the first box.
Marianne Elise Whitlock.
She had written it hundreds of times.
On school forms.
College applications.
Medical histories.
Every official document asking whether her mother was living or deceased.
“Does that happen often?” she asked.
Patricia paused.
“Not often.”
Audrey left with the paper folded in her jacket pocket.
Outside, the morning was bright.
A delivery driver was arguing with a parking enforcement officer.
Two teenage girls walked past, laughing over something on a phone.
Audrey stood on the steps and called her father.
He answered after four rings.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Dad, do you remember exactly where Mom’s accident happened?”
A pause.
“Outside Lancaster, I think.”
“Do you remember the road?”
“Not really. Why?”
“The county doesn’t have her death certificate.”
Silence.
Then he said, “They must have lost it.”
Audrey looked across the street.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Try the state office.”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“No. I’ve got it.”
“Okay.”
He hesitated.
“Audrey?”
“Yeah?”
“Everything all right?”
She nearly said yes.
Instead, she asked, “Did you ever see the accident report?”
Her father was silent for several seconds.
“No.”
She frowned.
“Why not?”
“The police called me. After that, the funeral home handled everything.”
“Who identified her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad.”
“I don’t know, Audrey.”
His voice had changed.
Not angry.
Strained.
She looked down at her shoes.
“Okay.”
He exhaled.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to get the paperwork.”
She ended the call.
For the first time in eleven years, she wondered who had actually seen her mother’s body.
The following afternoon, Audrey called the funeral home.
St. Agnes Memorial Services had operated in Lancaster County for nearly sixty years.
The receptionist transferred her to an administrator named Martin Keene, who listened patiently while she explained the situation.
He asked for her mother’s name.
Then the funeral date.
Then her father’s name.
There was a long silence while he searched.
“Miss Whitlock, I’m finding a service reservation from October twenty-fifth, 2015.”
Audrey straightened.
“That’s her.”
“Possibly. It lists Graham Whitlock as the family contact.”
“Yes.”
“But this is unusual.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“What is?”
“The service appears to have been arranged through an outside coordinator.”
“What does that mean?”
“We provided the chapel and staff. We didn’t handle the preparation or transfer of remains.”
Audrey stared at the wall.
“Then who did?”
“I’m seeing a reference to a private service provider, but I’d need to retrieve archived documents.”
“Could you?”
“I can request them.”
She swallowed.
“And the casket?”
“Excuse me?”
“Was there a body in it?”
Silence.
Then Martin spoke carefully.
“I’m afraid I can’t determine that from the information currently on my screen.”
Audrey pressed the phone closer to her ear.
“But someone must know.”
“I understand your concern.”
“No, you don’t.”
The words came out sharper than she intended.
She closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
She took a breath.