Casket Case (8 page)

“I was raised in Charleston by our father and my mother. Roselle grew up in Georgia with her mother. When she located me about six months ago, I liked her, but she worried me with all that online dating. I thought it might be dangerous.”

Levi grinned, and I felt my toes curl. “I’ve tried to keep an eye on Roselle since she came to South Carolina to meet this Dawkins,” he said. “They married right away and went on a cruise to Greece. When they came back, I came here from Charleston. It seemed as good a place as any to explore what kind of business I want. Besides, I felt a need to keep an eye on the baby sister I hadn’t known existed until a few months ago.”

“I’ve known Melvin Dawkins my whole life, and he’s a gentleman. I guess I should say he
was
a fine man. If there was anything wrong going on, it seems it would be Roselle’s doing. After all, he’s dead, and she’s alive to collect his insurance.”

His eyes narrowed. “I haven’t known my sister very long, but I don’t think she had anything to do with her husband’s death. Every time I’ve been around them, she’s acted like Dawkins was the love of her life.”

“Maybe ‘acted’ is the key word.”

Before he could answer, my landlady drove up in the driveway on the side of the vacant apartment. Now I was even more embarrassed to be standing on the front porch wearing nothing but a short robe.

“Hi, Callie,” she called. “I’ve brought the keys. Is this the friend who’s looking for an apartment? I thought you said a female friend.”

“No, Jane Baker will be seeing it tomorrow. I’ll call you after she comes over.”

My landlady is sixty-five if she’s a day, but she put her hand out toward Levi and purred, “Then who is this young man?”

“Levi Pinckney,” he said. “I’m delivering for Nate’s and stopped here to ask about 1450 Oak Street. I can’t find it.”

“That’s because the numbers aren’t logical on this street. For some reason, 1450 is next door to 1432 up the block there. Follow me, and I’ll show you.” She looked back at me, and her voice stopped purring. “Callie, you should dress before you come outdoors, even when the weather is hot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said and slipped back inside, closed the door, and keyed the dead bolt.

By the time I got back to the tub, the water was cold. Big Boy had climbed up on my bed and was snoring. I gently pushed him off onto the rug. I should have been full from the late afternoon picnic, but my stomach told me it still wanted something to eat. Raiding the kitchen pantry only resulted in one Moon Pie. I slid between the sheets with my book and read as I nibbled the Moon Pie. I thought about Levi Pinckney and told myself,
Callie, you need to get a life. Thirty-three this weekend and all you have in your bed is dog hairs and Moon Pie crumbs. Maybe you should go online and see if Levi has a profile.

I put Sherlock Holmes aside and thought about Ann Rule’s true crime book,
Too Late to Say Goodbye.
I’d read it since I like Rule’s writing and because that case took place pretty near where I live. The victim’s husband was convicted of killing her after she fell in love with a guy named Christopher that she met on the Internet. Christopher turned out to be a fictitious male created by a woman. That would be just my luck. I’d wind up involved with someone who wasn’t even real.

After a while, Big Boy climbed back onto the bed and began licking up the crumbs.

I let him stay.

Life
isn’t fair. I’ve known that since I realized that other kids had mothers and I didn’t. I’ve known that since Jane and I became close friends. I’ve known that since I realized that my mother had no choice about leaving me, but Jane’s dad left her because he wanted to, because he was disappointed that his child wasn’t perfect.

Whenever we have a very young person to prep at the mortuary, I feel like my nose is being rubbed in the unfairness of life. I pulled on jeans and a tee over my underwear and called Big Boy.

“I don’t want to go to work,” I said to my dog as I clipped the leash to his collar and took him outside for his morning walk. As always, he stepped behind the young tree at the edge of the yard to do his business. He’s shy and doesn’t realize that his head shows on one side of the tree and his haunches on the other side. I pretended to ignore him. When he’d finished, I scooped his production into a bag and took him for a walk.

“Jane might move next door to us,” I told him. “You’ll like that. She’ll want to pet you all the time. I hate to tell you this, but we’re going to have to shorten our walk this morning. I’ve got to find a way to work, maybe call Otis and see if someone can come pick me up.” We turned and headed back to my apartment.

On the way, we passed a young man and woman stopped by the side of the road, talking. Each of them had a dog on a leash. His, a chocolate lab; hers, a fluffy white poodle. Might have even been bred at Bill’s fiancée Molly’s kennels. Why didn’t any nice young men ever stop and talk to me when I took Big Boy out?

Looking at my big, gawky gray dog with his black spots and long legs, I wondered if it had anything to do with Big Boy not really looking like the choice of a frilly, feminine lady. The woman with the poodle had on pink shorts and a snug white shirt with pink trim on the sleeves. She tossed her hair back with a shake of her head and smiled at the young man, ignoring her prissy poodle with its yellow hair ribbons, though the dog kept trying to get her attention.

My blue eyes were taking on that greenish tint again. Jealousy is an ugly trait, but sometimes it creeps all over me. I try not to be jealous, but I don’t always succeed.

I try, I promise I try, to be a frilly, feminine girl sometimes, but I just can’t make it with the Magnolia Mouth speech and the ruffles that go with being a Southern Belle.

“Southern Belle” made me think of the baking contest. I wondered if I could create a recipe that would win half a million dollars. Puh-leeze. I don’t cook very well
with
a recipe. Nobody would want to eat something I made up.

The young couple continued talking while their dogs explored each other more boldly, sniffing. The poodle had it all over Big Boy as a man magnet. The next thing that happened revealed that the little dog had it over Big Boy in other ways, too. The poodle didn’t tee-tee like a girl dog the way Big Boy did. That tiny, adorable creature lifted his leg and piddled on his mistress’s beautiful tanned calf.

She spewed and let loose with an unladylike four-letter word.

I pulled on Big Boy’s leash to nudge him into walking home with me. He might be shy and he might still squat like a girl dog to tinkle, but he’d never wet on me. I patted his head and told him what a good boy he was.

Just as we reached our yard, Frank pulled into my drive in his Jeep. Mike, the middle brother, was behind him driving the rattletrap pickup Daddy keeps at the house for really dirty jobs.

“Good morning,” I called. “What got you two up so early?”

“Pa made us bring you the extra truck to drive,” Frank answered. “He’s going to check out your Mustang this morning. I looked under the hood yesterday, but I didn’t see any broken belts or anything.”

“Do you have coffee made yet?” Mike asked.

“Not yet, Mikey, but I’ll put some on.”

“Don’t call me ‘Mikey.’ I’m grown,” Mike said as he and Frank followed Big Boy and me inside. I set up the coffeepot and showered while the coffee dripped, leaving my brothers in the living room watching the
Today
show. I put on panty hose and heels with a black dress and joined them.

Both men had brought Dunkin’ Donuts travel mugs in from the truck and wanted their coffee to go. Mike handed me keys to the pickup, and they left with their steaming hot coffee. If I’d been a Mickey Dee’s, I would’ve needed to warn them that fresh coffee is very hot.

I pulled my hair back into a chignon on the nape of my neck and examined the color. I’d been platinum blonde for a while. Dr. Melvin had picked out the color before he retired from the drugstore. He called it “Jean Harlow, Marilyn Monroe, and Jayne Mansfield blonde.” I’d heard of those women, but almost all I knew about them was that they were all dead and that Jayne Mansfield had been the mother of Mariska Hargitay.

Almost thirty-three years old, I was ready for a change. I wondered how I’d look with honey brown hair.

When I called Daddy on my cell phone and thanked him for sending me what he still calls wheels, he said, “I’ll try to get your car running today and get it back to you tonight.”

Some women wouldn’t want to be seen driving a beat-up old pickup to work, but I had a private parking space in the back so I wouldn’t be embarrassed, and I’m not scared to drive anything. I drove the combine growing up, so I had no problem with driving a truck.

Mike had installed a CD player after he let his car get repo’ed and had to drive “the spare” for a few months. He had some great music in the truck. I listened to Bon Jovi all the way to the funeral home, then found an old Eagles album that I listened to sitting out back before I went in to work. My musical taste had been influenced by what my brothers played, and we’d all listened to Daddy’s music coming up. He liked a little rock and roll, a little rhythm and blues, and a whole lotta bluegrass.

Otis met me in the hall. “I’ve just put the little girl in your workroom,” he said. “There’s a picture on the counter and her clothes are on the rack.”

“How’d she die?” I asked. This is a no-no question from mourners who come to pay their respects, but Otis and I were the only ones there.

“Acute leukemia. Didn’t respond to treatment.” He paused. “Poor little girl.”

I’ve noticed that although Otis and Odell both insist that the deceased be called by their names, never “the body” or “the corpse,” they usually refer to children as “the little boy” or “the little girl.” I think it’s to keep from getting too personally involved.

“Mrs. Dawkins is scheduled in at eleven to make arrangements, too,” he added.

“Is Dr. Melvin coming back from Charleston today?”

“Don’t know, haven’t heard.”

“What about the exhumation?”

“Mrs. Whitaker brought her paperwork in yesterday, but it’s not complete. She has to have another permit before we even begin planning the transfer.”

“Where’s Odell?” I questioned as we went into my workroom and I pulled a plastic smock over my dress and disposable gloves over my hands.

“Now, where do you think he is?”

“Shoney’s?”

“Yep.”>

I began my work on the little girl.

She was dressed and I was ready to find Otis to ask for the casket when he came in pushing a white, child-sized model with soft pink lining.

“She looks nice,” he said.

“Have her services been planned?”

“Visitation is tonight. The family moved here from Connecticut. Father is a Marine at Parris Island. Tomorrow morning, we’ll be shipping the little girl up north for the funeral.”

I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d be spared another child’s funeral. We casketed her and rolled the bier to Slumber Room A. The name on the sign by the door read “Miss Angela Lee ‘Angie’ Greene.” The casket spray was pink rosebuds and baby’s breath. I removed it from the stand and set it on the bottom half of Angie’s casket.

An instrumental version of “Blessed Assurance” sounded through the funeral home, signaling that the front door had been opened.

Dreading facing the parents during a time of such great loss, I went to the entry hall. The man stood at the door alone. I wondered why Angie’s mom wasn’t with him. Then I realized that this man did not look like a Marine, even an off-duty one.

There aren’t any mountains along the South Carolina coast, but this was a mountain man, for sure. He wasn’t much over six feet tall, but he gave the impression of being a giant. He was huge in a way that wasn’t flabby fat, just a solid-looking big man. He wore a farm equipment cap with camouflage pants and T-shirt. The pants were held up with leather suspenders, hand-tooled with vertical letters spelling out “Carefree” on his right side and “Pets” on the left.

When he turned to pull the door closed, I saw that his gray-streaked brown hair hung through the hole in the back of the cap in a ponytail down to his waist. His beard was a lot like one of the men in ZZ Top, and he had an unlit cigar in his mouth. It looked slobbery, like he’d chewed on it.

“I’m Dennis Sharpe,” he said in that same wonderful warm voice I’d heard on the phone. A voice that didn’t go at all with his appearance. “I’ve come to talk to an embalmer.”

“Certainly, Mr. Sharpe. I spoke with you yesterday. Have a seat in the conference room and I’ll call Mr. Middleton for you.” I motioned toward an open door and watched as he went in and sat at the round conference table. He sure didn’t look like he sounded.

I was glad this man wasn’t the little girl’s daddy. He didn’t look like I’d pictured her father in my mind. Actually, I don’t think I’d ever pictured anybody quite like him. I pressed a button on the wall beside the light switch and notified Otis to come up front. When he arrived, we entered the room where Mr. Sharpe waited.