Casket Case (2 page)

The paving stones were patterned with little mosaic roosters on them. I followed her into a tidy kitchen decorated with more roosters. I mean everywhere. Wallpaper, canisters, dishcloths, even one of those half-circle rugs in front of the sink with a big rooster on it. Roosters printed on everything.

Only one thing in the kitchen was more predominant than those roosters: baked goods. Pies, cakes, platters of cookies, and loaves of home-baked breads covered the table and countertops. All wrapped in Saran Wrap. “Do you like to bake?” I asked conversationally.
Duh.

“No, Mel bakes.” Her answer was short and clipped. “There’s the phone.” She pointed toward an old black AT&T rotary, probably been on the wall since the fifties or sixties. I dialed 9—
click, click, click, click
,
click, click, click, click, click
—1—
click
—1—
click
. Lined up on the counter beneath the telephone, bottles and jars of vitamins and food supplements filled four rows. Must have been thirty or forty containers of pills and powders.

After reporting what might be an accidental drowning, although Dr. Melvin could just as well have suffered a massive stroke or heart attack, I asked Mrs. Dawkins if she’d prefer to wait inside the house or go back outside with me.

It seemed disrespectful to leave Dr. Melvin alone. He’d filled all the prescriptions for nasty pink medicine when I was a child, and he’d sold me the girly things my brothers and Daddy refused to go for when I reached adolescence. He’d handled much of what my mother would have if she hadn’t died when I was born.

“I really just want to get in bed and cry,” Mrs. Dawkins said, “but I think I should wait with Mel until you take him to the funeral home.” She pulled the short robe closer around her slender frame and headed out the door. I’d bet that she was commando under that cover-up. I was trailing behind her when a woman’s scream cut through the night like a surgeon’s scalpel through flesh.

What now?
I thought.
If this were one of the mysteries I read, someone would have stolen Melvin’s body.
No time to speculate. I dashed out, almost expecting the body to have disappeared, but Dr. Melvin still floated. The screaming came from Mrs. Dawkins, and she wasn’t yelling about her husband. Near the split-rail fence at the edge of the yard stood a very good-looking dude.

Ex-cuuze me. I was on a pickup call for the funeral home to transport a man I’d known and liked my whole life. What was I doing thinking about how handsome this stranger was? Must have been hormonal. Then I realized Mrs. Dawkins wasn’t just screeching. She was yelling words: “What are
you
doing here?”

The man stepped forward, closer to us. “What’s happened?” he asked in a smooth voice with a heavy Charleston drawl and motioned toward the hot tub.

For the first time since I’d arrived, Mrs. Dawkins burst into sobs with giant teardrops pouring from her dark green eyes. “Mel and I were relaxing in the Jacuzzi. I went in the house to get some wine, and when I came back out, he looked like he does now. I knew he was dead, and I didn’t know what to do. There’s only one funeral home listed in the phone book for St. Mary. I called them. Now this woman says the sheriff and coroner have to come before she can take Mel out of the tub.”

“That makes sense,” the stranger said, “but did you check his pulse when you found him like this?”

“I held his wrist, but I didn’t feel anything. That’s why I didn’t call 911. Just look at my poor Mel. He was exactly like that when I came out. I could tell he was dead or I wouldn’t have called a funeral home.”

The man walked to the hot tub, bent over, and lifted Dr. Melvin’s arm. He held the wrist more than a minute, then felt Dr. Melvin’s carotid artery. He shook his head no at Mrs. Dawkins before turning his attention toward me. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Callie Parrish. I work for Middleton’s Mortuary, and I thought that Mr. Dawkins had already been pronounced and was ready to be picked up. I’ve called for the sheriff and the coroner.”

“I’m Levi Pinckney, a friend of Roselle’s from Charleston. I stopped when I drove by and saw the hearse.”

“What are you doing in St. Mary and why were you driving by my house?” Mrs. Dawkins interrupted. She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

“I came down here a few weeks ago, and I drive by sometimes because it makes me feel better about you. I guess I’m behaving like a jerk, worrying about you all the time.”

Before Levi continued, Sheriff Harmon stepped through the gate. Jed Amick, the coroner of St. Mary, who has an amazing resemblance to Ichabod Crane, shuffled in right behind him.

“Callie,” the sheriff said, “where’s Otis or Odell?”

“They’ve gone to Georgia and left me in charge. They’ll be back tomorrow. Well, since it’s past midnight, they’ll be back later this morning. Dr. Melvin’s over there in the hot tub.” I pointed. Jed sauntered over and peered at Dr. Melvin in the bubbly water. “I didn’t know Mr. Amick hadn’t been called when I came,” I added.

“And she didn’t say a word about you or the coroner when I called her,” Mrs. Dawkins protested.

“You called Callie? What’s your relationship to Mr. Dawkins?” Harmon asked without pausing for a response to his first question.

“He’s my husband. I’m Roselle Dawkins. We’ve only been back from our honeymoon a few weeks. Mel took me to Greece. The hot tub in our hotel suite was so much fun that Mel had this Jacuzzi put in for us at home. Tonight was our first time in it.” She burst into tears again. “We’re still newlyweds.”

Levi stepped beside her and even if she didn’t want him there, she had no qualms about letting him hold her close against his chest while she cried. I wondered what their relationship was—ex-husband and wife?

The men who attract me are usually tall. This Levi Pinckney wasn’t a lot taller than I am, and a few inches over five foot four isn’t even average for a man. His disheveled dark, curly hair fell forward over part of his forehead, and his deep brown eyes reflected concern for Mrs. Dawkins, but he still projected pheromoans in all directions. I know that’s not how to spell that word, but it’s what my friend Jane and I call that sensuality that just seems to emanate from some men.

The man hadn’t even looked at me, but I sure wished I had on my bra. Buh-leeve me. I would have been happier if I’d had it on and had inflated it a little more than I usually did. I grew up with five brothers, so I know that most males react to healthy female chests.

“Callie?” Sheriff Harmon called me. “Did you phone one of the part-timers to meet you here?”

“No, sir,” I answered.

“Jed’s going to need an autopsy on Melvin to determine cause of death. We’ll have to send him to Charleston.”

“Are you going to call in forensics?” I asked.

“No, I don’t see any signs of foul play,” Sheriff Harmon responded. “Jed thinks this appears to be natural, but we have to know cause of death. You’ll need one of Middleton’s part-time drivers to take Melvin to the medical university.”

In South Carolina, we don’t have medical examiners. Our coroner here in Jade County is an elected official who sends bodies to MUSC—the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston—when a postmortem exam is needed.

“Otis and Odell are due back this morning. I can drive Dr. Melvin myself and be home before I’m scheduled for work this afternoon.” I glanced at the Jacuzzi. Mrs. Dawkins had turned off the jets and was showing the coroner how to drain the tub. Levi Pinckney was helping them. The part of me who thinks I’m Kinsey Millhone instead of Callie Parrish wondered if they should save a sample of the water in case Melvin didn’t die of natural causes, but I had enough sense not to mention one of my wild ideas.

“May I use your telephone again?” I asked Mrs. Dawkins.

“Sure,” she answered. “I’m going in myself to get dressed. I know I won’t be able to sleep any more tonight, and it’s cooler out of the water than it was in the tub. I don’t want to catch ammonia.”

I did a quick double take at the woman’s fear of catching “ammonia” in the June heat of the southern coast, then returned to the rooster kitchen of baked goods and vitamins to dial my friend Jane’s number.

“What do you mean calling me before sunrise?” she demanded. “Roxanne’s on the other line.”

“Dr. Melvin died. I’m taking him to Charleston. By the time I get there, deliver him, and have breakfast, I won’t have to wait too long for Victoria’s Secret to open. I’m going shopping.”

“What about the funeral home?”

“Otis and Odell are already scheduled to open this morning. We don’t have any clients right now, and the mortuary phone is forwarded to my cell. I’m not due in until four this afternoon.”
Mental note
:
Go by my apartment and pick up the cell phone before leaving town.

“Roxanne will speed up. Can I go?”

“If you’ll behave.”

“I’ll try.”

Dalmation!
I’d gone by my apartment, taken my Great Dane dog, Big Boy, out for his morning business, and showered. I changed from the black dress I’d worn to the Dawkins house into fresh jeans and a tank top with an inflated bra, then climbed in the hearse and headed toward my friend Jane’s. Why can’t I remember to call the hearse by its proper name—the funeral coach?

Almost to Jane’s, I thought about the cell phone. After checking for any calls I’d missed while gone, I’d used my landline phone to call the mortuary number and leave a message for the Middletons. I’d explained about Dr. Melvin’s death and that I was taking him to Charleston for a postmortem exam. That had been efficient. Leaving the cell phone on the coffee table again hadn’t been. I needed the telephone with me until Otis and Odell opened the mortuary and transferred calls back to the business line. I was fortunate that another call hadn’t come in while I was at the Dawkins house, not even realizing the business calls were going to the cell phone in my apartment with nobody there to answer. The mortuary telephone was supposed to be answered immediately twenty-four/seven. That was one of Middleton’s rules.

I finally reached Jane’s apartment after detouring back by my place for the cell phone and rubbing behind the ears of my joyful dog, who was happy to see me, but mad when I left again. No telling what Big Boy would do while I was gone. That dog throws temper tantrums like a five-year-old child.

Jane was standing at the top of the steep stairway up to her garage apartment. Usually, she would have started down when I turned into the drive. Born blind, Jane recognizes the sounds of her friends’ cars, but since I was driving the funeral coach, she wasn’t sure it was me until I called out to her.

“Hey, Jane, come on down,” I yelled.

“Oh, that
is
you, Callie. I wasn’t sure since you’re not driving the Mustang,” Jane said as she walked toward me. I got out, stepped around, and opened the door for her. As usual, Jane wore vintage sixties clothing—a crinkly lavender dress with a low neckline. She’d inherited her mother’s hippie wardrobe after her mom’s death following our senior year of high school. Somehow, the clothes appeared current on her with her long, straight red hair hanging down to her waist. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a clutch of purple violets at the band and new sunglasses with deep lavender lenses.

When I was back in the driver’s seat and we were both buckled in, Jane asked, “Are we in the hearse?”

I didn’t even bother to correct her that we call it a funeral coach. Just mumbled an affirmative, “Uh-huh.”

“Is Dr. Melvin in the back?” she asked as I pulled onto the highway.

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t smell anything.”

“You shouldn’t. He’s fresh, clean, and enclosed.”

“What kind of casket is he in?” Jane shows interest in my work, but the truth is that my job is as repugnant to Jane as hers is to me. She calls herself a “conversationalist,” but to call a spade a flipping shovel, Jane is a telephone sex operator. She works nights on a 900 line as Roxanne. I don’t criticize this because it pays well and keeps her self-sufficient without relying on anyone for transportation.

Buh-leeve me, I
know
who would be driving her to and from work if she had to go out to a job. Being Roxanne at night works because Jane was always a late-night person anyway and frequently talks until dawn.

“He’s not in a casket,” I said.

Jane’s nose crumpled into a disgusted wrinkle. “He’s just lying back there?”

“No, he’s in a zippered body bag. You can’t see him.”

Jane howled with laughter. “I couldn’t see him anyway.”

When Jane and I first became friends, I was very self-conscious about using words related to sight. After a while, I realized that it didn’t matter to her. Her standard good-bye is, “See ya later.”

“Did you say Dr. Melvin drowned?” Jane asked.

“We don’t know for sure. His wife found him dead in their new hot tub. The coroner wants an autopsy to see if he drowned or died from a heart attack or stroke.” I paused. “Betcha didn’t know he has a young new wife. She’s got red hair like you.”