Casket Case (4 page)

We all walked out together after George paid the bill. He and Pearl both laughed when they saw that Jane and I were traveling in the mortuary’s funeral coach. I didn’t laugh when I saw George open his car door for Pearl. He was driving a silvery blue Lincoln Continental. A new one with dealer tags.

“Where
are we?” Jane asked when I wheeled the funeral coach into the space in front of Victoria’s Secret. About a year ago, I discovered these wonderful blow-up bras there. I threw out all my old ones and replaced them with inflatables. Recently, when I’d tried to even out a few that seemed to have leaked down a little, I broke the cute little pump.

“We’re at Victoria’s Secret’s parking lot,” I told Jane. “I won’t be but a minute. Do you want to wait out here?”

She grabbed her mobility cane. “No, I’m going in. Why do you think I agreed to ride in a hearse with a body in the back? It was for Victoria’s Secret, not for breakfast.”

I’d expected that response but had hoped she would stay outside. The last time I took Jane into Victoria’s Secret, she faked a fall and blamed the clerk for discrimination against the handicapped. The manager had comped Jane with bags full of merchandise to keep her from suing and probably figured the store had gotten off lightly. I’d seen Jane pull similar scams when we were teens. “Don’t try anything,” I mumbled as I guided her into the store with her cane
tap, tap, tapping
beside me.

Both salesclerks who approached us were extremely polite. I couldn’t tell if they remembered Jane or not, but she’s kind of hard to forget. How many young blind women with waist-length red hair and hippie clothing could there be in Charleston? I explained that I needed to buy a replacement pump for my bras. Jane told the other clerk that she’d like to “see” some panties.

Jane and I checked out at the same time. I paid for my pump and Jane paid for a pair of hot pink satin thongs. I was so proud that she hadn’t pulled any stunts this time. As we left the store, I realized the clerks had recognized Jane because I heard sighs of relief as we passed through the door.

“Do you want to have lunch with me in St. Mary before I take you home?” I asked as we rode.

“No, you can just drop me off. Roxanne was up all night, and I need to sleep.” She reached into the plunging neckline of her dress and began pulling out what appeared to be tiny scraps of lacy cloth.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Eight pairs of thongs. Nine if you count the ones I purchased. I’m going to give you four pairs for bringing me to Charleston.”

“Are you telling me you stole panties from Victoria’s Secret?”

“I didn’t steal them. I just borrowed them against the rebate they should give us for making us want such expensive underwear.”

“I don’t need any of your stolen goods!” I spit the words. “One of these days, you’ll go to jail if you don’t stop!” I’ve tried for years to make Jane stop shoplifting.

“Is it because you only wear the ones with the built-in foam fannies?” she asked.

“
Dalmation!
You know how I feel about your stealing!” I said it with force, but even if she’d bought me a thong, I wouldn’t have wanted it. When I tried wearing thongs, they were uncomfortable, and Jane spoke the truth. I only wear panties that boost my booty power.

Jane and I spoke not another word until I pulled into her drive. “Okay,” I said when I turned off the car. “You can get out now.”

“I know you’re angry, but will you ask your landlady if I can take a look at the apartment?” Jane said.

So mad that I wasn’t sure I wanted Jane living next door, I almost told her, “Not no, but four-letter-word no.” Knowing I’d get over it and miss Jane horribly if our friendship ended, I said, “Okay, but we need to have another talk about your morals.”

“Later,” Jane said. Then added, “See ya!”

Panting
like a running dog with its tongue hanging out. That’s how I felt, full of fear that I was late, when I pulled the funeral coach into the garage at Middleton’s Mortuary. I’d left my Mustang in its assigned space at the back of the funeral home when I picked up the hearse to go to Dr. Melvin’s. I checked my face in the rearview mirror and found that while my tongue wasn’t protruding, wisps of hair straggled around my face, and I’d forgotten to put on any makeup.

My bosses require that I wear black dresses, stockings, and low heels to work. I’ve never asked, but I think they like the way I do my hair in a reserved style and don’t paint up my face on the job. Regardless of what color my tresses are at the time, I smooth my hair back into a discreet bun at the nape of my neck when on duty. My style couldn’t be called sleek now, so I patted my hair down, brushed on a touch of brown mascara, and slid on lip gloss before unfastening my seat belt and heading to the rear door.

By the time I’d dropped Jane off at her place and gone by my apartment to change clothes and take Big Boy out, I was running behind schedule. I didn’t want Odell to catch me slipping in late. I work for the Middleton twin brothers. Originally identical, Odell now outweighs Otis by about forty pounds because of his addiction to barbecue. Odell also shaves his head though Otis chose tinted hair implants when the brothers began balding. Otis is a vegetarian who tans himself two shades darker than Odell. Otis has offered use of the tanning bed he had installed at the mortuary to both Odell and me. I’ve never used it, and I don’t think Odell has either. Other differences between the two brothers include that Otis is always immaculate and usually soft-spoken. Odell shares neither of those characteristics.

“Hey, Callie,” Odell called as I entered. I was glad I’d made it on time and saved him from having to look at his watch and give me a lecture on punctuality. “You won’t believe what’s going on,” he continued. “While you were gone to take Mr. Dawkins for his postmortem, we’ve had three calls. I can’t remember the last time business has been this good!” He grinned.

I started to bypass my office and head straight to my workroom, but the telephone rang.

“Middleton’s Mortuary,” I answered, “this is Callie Parrish. How may I help you?”

“This is Dennis Sharpe. Can I speak to the embalmer?”

“I’ll be happy to arrange to pick up the deceased for you,” I said, thinking what a smooth, melodic voice this man had. I have this thing about voices. A really smooth voice is more interesting to me than good looks, but this guy sounded like he had both.

“No, I want to talk to an embalmer. By telephone or you can make me an appointment.” He cleared his throat. “Come to think of it, I’d rather come by. Can you schedule an appointment for me?”

“Would you like to come in today?”

“No, tomorrow’s better. Can I talk to an embalmer tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, I’ll be glad to schedule that. How about ten o’clock?”

“That’s fine.”

“May I tell Mr. Middleton what the meeting will be about?”

“No, just tell him Dennis Sharpe with Carefree Pets will be in to see him in the morning at ten.”

He hung up, and I wrote the appointment on the message pad before hurrying into my workroom. With three clients, Otis or Odell probably had already embalmed, or in mortuary vernacular, “prepared” at least one of them.

Sure enough, an elderly man lay on my work gurney with a sheet tucked in over his shoulders, up under his chin. I didn’t recognize him, but a note on the counter had a line drawing of a circle head with hair parted on the left and combed over the top. I read the note in Odell’s handwriting: “Callie, this is how Mr. Johnson’s family wants his hair combed. Clothes on the rack. Do
not
put polish on his nails, not even clear.”

Like I’ve
ever
polished a man’s nails unless the family asked for it. I manicure male clients, but I only buff the nails. Never polish unless requested.

A gray suit, white shirt, and red tie with blue stripes hung on the rack behind my worktable. Socks and shoes were lined up neatly beside the note. I removed the sheet and saw that whichever Middleton had prepped him had, as always, put underwear on the gentleman before bringing him to my area. White boxer shorts and T-shirt, compliments of Middleton’s Mortuary.

Mr. Johnson’s skin had that pale, papery look that sometimes comes with age. I opened my kit and selected an appropriate shade of base makeup. Just as I finished applying the first coat to his face, neck, arms, and hands, Otis came in.

“Hey, glad you’ve started. I just completed the next one and she’s gonna be hard. Nine-year-old girl with cancer. She’s still on my table. Mr. Johnson was preplanned, and the family came with the garments less than an hour after we picked him up. I’ll help you dress him, and we can casket him right away. I’ll be right back.”

While I worked, Odell stuck his head in the door. “Going over to Shoney’s,” he said. “Be back soon.”

By the time I’d made Mr. Johnson look as good as possible, Otis rolled in a mahogany bier with a gunmetal blue casket with blue-gray satin lining on it. With the help of the body lift, we dressed and casketed Mr. Johnson. As we rolled the bier down the hall, Otis told me, “Slumber Room B.” He glanced toward the door to Slumber Room A and said, “We’re putting the little girl in A.”

“Odell said we have three today,” I said. “Is he counting Dr. Melvin?”

“No, I guess it’s four if we count Melvin Dawkins.” Otis smiled. “Seems terribly disrespectful to be glad people are dying, but we need the business.” He made the turn into Slumber Room B, pulling the bier, while I pushed from behind.

“Is the third one here yet?”

“Nope,” Otis said. “We’ll be going out to Taylors Cemetery tomorrow for her.”

“Did someone die at the cemetery? Why would we wait a day to go get the body?”

“Remember asking me if Middleton’s has ever handled an exhumation?”

“Yes,” I said and thought
Ugggghhhh.
I like my job and enjoy making the deceased look good for their loved ones. So far as I’m concerned, the bodies we work on are shells left after the soul or whatever someone else wants to call it is gone.

For me, personally, though, there’s no interest in learning to embalm, and if Middleton’s is opening an existing grave, I’m glad I won’t have anything to do with it. I don’t want to be involved in those sides of the business.

“Well,” Otis continued, “some woman in Beaufort won pretty big in the state lottery, and she’s having her grandmother moved to a perpetual care cemetery. We’ll be handling it for her.”

“How long has the grandmother been buried?” I asked as we positioned Mr. Johnson’s casket with his left side against the wall in Slumber Room B. I don’t know why, but we always place the body tilted just a tiny bit toward the right in the coffin, and normally the bereaved pass by on the deceased person’s right.

“I’m not quite sure how long the grandmother’s been dead, but this woman wants the best of everything. We’ll be recasketing and installing our best vault. Middleton’s is ordering the marker, too. The lady’s supposed to bring the paperwork and permits by this evening.”

“Will I have to do anything?” I asked.

“Don’t know yet.” Otis headed toward the hall. “If we’re recasketing, we’ll probably be redressing also.” I grimaced. “Come back to the prep room and let me go over what we’re going to do for the little girl,” Otis said.

I hate, positively
hate
working on children. There’s no way that any makeup can duplicate the beauty and freshness of a child’s complexion, but I don’t think that’s my problem. It’s the sadness of life being cut so short and the extreme grief of the parents and family. Otis and Odell have been in the funeral home business all their lives, spent their own childhood living upstairs over the mortuary, but burying children still gets to them, too.

Saved by the bell. Just as Otis and I stepped into the prep room and I saw the tiny sheet-covered mound on the gurney, my cell phone rang. Miraculously, it was charged and in a dress pocket, so I answered it.