Casket Case (5 page)

“Callie!” Jane screamed. “Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.”

Buh-leeve me, I was surprised. Jane is usually a cool, calm customer, while I panic frequently.

“What’s wrong?” I demanded.

“There’s someone going up and down the steps and when I ask who it is, no one answers. They’ve rattled against the door and seem to be trying to get in. What should I do?”

“Call 911. I’m on my way.” I pressed the key to end her call and told Otis, “Something’s happening at Jane’s. I’m going over there. Be back as soon as possible.”

Otis followed me out of the building, asking, “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I told her to call the sheriff. It’s probably a raccoon or something like that, but she’s all upset that whatever’s on her steps doesn’t answer her.” I paused. “Besides, somebody has to stay here. Odell just left.”

I jumped in the Mustang and tore out of the parking lot. Good grief. I don’t always think before I act. I slowed down and headed toward Jane’s at a reasonable speed. No point in breaking the law and no point in risking a wreck.

Almost to Jane’s, I realized that I was trying to minimize the situation, whatever it was. Jane’s hearing is acute and she’s excellent at interpretation. She’d know the difference between the sound of a human on her steps and a small animal like a raccoon.

Any doubt that something was happening ended when I turned into Jane’s driveway.

I heard her screaming.

“This
is
my
home, so it’s
my
porch. You get off. Just get off!” Jane stood at the top of the steep stairs to her front door, screaming and shaking her finger.

A tall, slender lady, wearing a pale gray skirt suit and alligator-skin heels, stood on the tiny porch. Apparently, Jane was trying to shake her finger in this woman’s face. The problem was that Jane’s adversary had turned her back, so the finger was shaking behind a gray high-dollar wedge haircut.

“What’s going on?” I called as I jumped from the Mustang.

I couldn’t understand a word because both of them began shouting.

“Calm down, calm down,” I cautioned as I bounded up the stairs and stopped on the next-to-the-highest step behind the gray-haired woman. There wasn’t room for both of us to stand on the covered stoop at the top of the stairs.

“Callie!” Jane yelled. “Make her leave. Tell her to get out of here.”

“Shhhhh,” I said to Jane. “Who are you?” I asked the woman who faced me.

“My name is Dorcas Lucas, and I’m trying to talk to Miss Baker here, but she won’t stop screaming. I’m not having some blind psycho living on my property.”

“What do you mean
your
property?” Jane demanded.

“My family owns Lucas Investment Enterprises, and we’re purchasing this house and garage apartment along with other properties belonging to Mrs. Pearl White. I came to inspect everything and speak with Ms. Baker, but if this is the tenant”—she turned back to Jane, motioned toward her, and frowned—“I’m having her evicted immediately.” The woman’s tone sounded haughty and hateful.

“Jane has lived here for years.” I put on my most professional funeral home voice. “As you know, she’s visually impaired. You frightened her when you wouldn’t answer while she asked who was out here. I’m sure you two can come to terms.” Buh-leeve me, I thought I was being diplomatic.

“I
demand
to see the inside of her apartment. It’s probably filthy since she can’t see to clean it up,” the Lucas woman snorted.

“That’s a good idea,” I answered. “You’ll be surprised. Jane can’t see, but she’s an immaculate housekeeper.”

“What’s that I smell?” Ms. Lucas demanded.

I’d been so upset with the screaming and arguing that I’d ignored the rich, buttery aroma coming from Jane’s open door.

“Cookies!” I said.

“I’m developing my own adaptation of benne wafers for the baking contest,” Jane said.

“Benny wafers? What’s that?” Ms. Lucas asked.

“They’re very thin cookies with toasted sesame seeds in a batter of butter and brown sugar,” Jane answered.

Ms. Lucas turned toward me and shouted, “She
cooks
?” The woman actually stomped her foot. “That blind girl better not be doing anything more than using the microwave in my building. That’s why I need to see in there. I don’t want a blind person burning down the place before I even take possession. If there’s a cooking range in there, it has to come out.
Immediately!
”

“Prejudiced effing bigot!” Jane shot her arm out and pushed the woman.

I reached out and steadied Ms. Lucas. She wobbled and I realized that the slender heel of her shoe had caught in the space between two of the boards on the porch. She wiggled her foot loose.

“See!” Ms. Lucas spat out the words. “She’s psycho. She could have knocked me down the steps. I’ll file an eviction notice and she’ll be out tomorrow.”

“I beg your pardon.” I revved up a nasty tone. “But we saw Mrs. White earlier today, and she just said you were interested in the property. You can’t evict someone from a building you don’t even own yet, and when you do possess it, the legal proceedings take a lot more than a few days.”

“You must have seen Mrs. White this morning. Just an hour ago, we set the closing with her for tomorrow at four thirty.” Ms. Lucas turned to face Jane. “I want you out of here tomorrow night. I’ll come back after the closing to see that you’re gone.” She brushed against me as she stomped down the steps, then climbed into her Lincoln Town Car and drove away. The car was the same color as her hair and suit. I wondered if her monochromatic color scheme was intentional.

Jane seldom cries, but when she does, it just destroys me. Her eyes are useless, but her tear ducts work fine. Tears flowing from those sightless orbs have always upset me. “Did you call 911?” I asked.

“No,” Jane sniffled. “She called out my name right after I called you. When she did that, I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me before. I opened the door. After that, we just screamed at each other until you came.”

I put my arm around her shoulder and led her into the apartment.

This had been the perfect home for Jane, one giant square room with a kitchen area in one corner, a bed in another, television and love seat in the third, and door to the bathroom in the fourth. It’s important for all of Jane’s belongings to have designated places. The apartment was large enough for that, but not too big for Jane to keep tidy. Pearl had worked for the Commission for the Blind, and, knowing Jane through the commission, she’d let Jane have the place for a ridiculously low rental.

Once we were inside, Jane regained her self-control. She went to the kitchen area and washed her hands, then filled the coffeemaker and clicked it on. She tugged on a padded glove and pulled a baking sheet from the oven.

“Have a seat,” she said and motioned toward the love seat as she set the pan on a metal trivet to cool. Then she sat in the fake La-Z-Boy.

“I guess I’ll be moving soon.” Jane sighed.

“No problem,” I replied. “Don’t you remember? I promised to check with my landlady. I’d really love to have you living next door to me in the duplex.”

“Yes, that could be a cool setup.” She sat silently for a few minutes before pushing the remote control. The television clicked on and we watched Paula Deen for several minutes. Well, I watched; she listened.

When the commercial came on, Jane went back to the counter, poured two mugs of coffee, and added cream plus three sugars in one. To avoid overfilling cups and glasses, Jane folds her index finger over the rim. When the liquid reaches her fingertip, she knows the container is full. That’s understandable, but I don’t know how she senses when my cup is empty and reaches for it to give me a refill. As I accepted my coffee, she said, “You’re gonna get diabetes if you keep using all that sugar.”

I didn’t bother to answer her because it’s probably true. I didn’t tell her that I’d been cutting back to two sugars either. Instead, I inhaled the fragrance from my mug and said, “Cinnamon almond.”

Jane grinned. “You’re getting really good at that. The
café du jour
is Almond Cinnamon. You reversed the name, but you got the flavors right.” She sipped, then continued, “I’m sorry I called you, but that woman kept walking on the steps and when I called out, she didn’t answer until after I called you. I’ll bet she heard me talking to you through the door.”

“She does seem strange,” I said before changing the subject. “Do you mind if I call Otis? He was upset for you, wanted to come with me.”

“Sure,” she said and handed me her telephone.
Her
phone, not the one Roxanne uses.

“Middleton’s Mortuary,” Otis answered. “How may I help you?”

“Callie here. Jane’s okay. The woman who’s buying Pearl White’s property was here and wouldn’t answer, stayed quiet when Jane asked who was there.”

“That’s
weird
. Do you need to spend more time with Jane? The little girl’s family won’t be bringing her clothing in until tomorrow, so you can stay with Jane if you want. Just be on time in the morning.”

I thanked Otis and disconnected the phone. Turning to Jane, I said, “Otis has given me the afternoon off to spend with you. What do you want to do?”

Jane squealed with joy. She worked her phone line at night, and I was busy at the mortuary most days, so we didn’t have as much time together as we’d like. “Let’s pick up some po’boy sandwiches and picnic on the beach,” she suggested.

I’d never shared the secret with anyone. Jane and I used to skip school and go picnic on the beach. It was still one of our favorite things to do. Sitting on the sand, watching waves, was peaceful and brought memories of when we were young and our only problems related to which boys we each liked that week.

Jane locked her apartment door, mumbling that she hoped Pearl hadn’t given “that blankety-blank” keys to everything yet. I’ve tried to convert Jane’s profanity to my kind of kindergarten cursing, but she’s not always a believer. We put the ragtop down on the Mustang and headed to Rizzie’s Gastric Gullah near Hunting Island.

The restaurant had been open only a little over a month, but from the cars in the parking lot, it looked like Rizzie was doing well. Rizzie is a Gullah girl, well, woman, from Surcie Island. She’s beautiful—tall and dark as Godiva chocolate. She wore a red and turquoise-patterned piece of cloth that covered her breasts, wrapped around one shoulder, then circled her hips, forming a dress that exposed her toned arms. When she moved, one leg showed, but only up to her knee. She’d shown me how to wrap the long cloth to make a dress, but I never got the hang of it. Rizzie also wore a head cloth in turquoise with gold threads through it. Traditional to her West African roots.

“Huddy, ev’rybuddy,” she called loudly. “Come jine we on we bittle.”

“What did she say?” Jane questioned. She hadn’t come to St. Mary until we were in ninth grade, and she doesn’t understand the Gullah language as well as I do.

“She said,” I answered, “hurry, everybody, come join us and our food.”

“You got it!” Rizzie said as she motioned Jane and me to one of the small tables. Rizzie speaks Gullah for tourists, and though I understand the language better than I speak it, sometimes she enjoys laying it on for me, too.

“No table,” I said. “We want you to pack us a picnic. We’re on our way to Hunting Island Beach.”

“Where’s your picnic basket?” Rizzie asked and pushed a stray curl of jet black hair back up under her head cloth.

“We didn’t bring a basket,” Jane answered. “Just put it in a bag.”

“What do you want in your picnic?” Rizzie said.

I laughed. “From the smells in here, I want one of everything you’re cooking today, but we’ll settle for some sandwiches and drinks.”

“What kind of sandwiches?”

“How about shrimp po’boys?” I suggested. “That’s not very Gullah, but it’s what I want.”

“All seafood is Gullah,” Rizzie said. “My people lived on the islands for a long time and we cooked mostly what came from the ocean. I can make you the best shrimp you ever tasted. I’ll put some hush puppies in for you, too.”

Having eaten here several times in the few weeks Rizzie’s restaurant had been open, I knew she made
the
best hush puppies, even better than my brother’s. While Rizzie cooked, I described the restaurant to Jane.

“She has shelves all around with sweetgrass baskets on them. Since Rizzie makes baskets, I suppose they’re her own work, but she’s got framed Gullah art and other crafts on the walls with price tags on them. Probably made by her friends.”

“What kind of framed pictures?”

By the time I’d described the Low Country scenes in some of the paintings, Rizzie was back with a large plastic Piggly Wiggly grocery bag. “Sorry,” she said, handing me the sack. “I don’t have ‘to go’ bags yet. I’m just using what I get free.”

“That’s fine,” Jane said as if she could see. “Pay her fast, Callie. I can’t wait to eat these po’boys. They smell delicious.”