Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard

“What a wonderfully realized set of characters in an authentic and welcoming sense of place. Callie is wonderful! It’s such fun following her and very moving as well.”

—David Dean, Author of
The Thirteenth Child

“Callie Parrish is a hoot! I laughed so hard I dropped my book in the bathtub.”

—Gwen Hunter, Author of the
Rhea Lynch, MD
series

“Fran Rizer’s Callie Parrish and St. Mary, S.C., are as southern as fried chicken and sweet tea—and just as delightful.”

—Walter Edgar,
Walter Edgar’s Journal
, SCETV Radio

“A lively sleuth who manages to make funeral homes funny.”
 

—Maggie Sefton, Author of
Molly Mallone Mysteries
&
Knitting Mystery Series

Mother Hubbard Has A Corpse In The Cupboard

ISBN 978-1-62268-033-7

Copyright © 2013 by Fran Rizer

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information contact Bella Rosa Books, P.O. Box 4251 CRS, Rock Hill, SC 29732.

Or online at
 
www.bellarosabooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Also available from Bella Rosa Books in Trade Paperback:

ISBN 978-1-62268-032-0

First Print Edition May 2013

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013934748

BellaRosaBooks and logo are trademarks of Bella Rosa Books.

Dedicated to my biggest fan,

my mother

Frances Willene Baker Gates.

December 8, 1926 – April 25, 2012

1

James Brown burst from my bra just as I took a sip of Coors from my red Solo cup, the kind Toby Keith likes to sing about. Ex—scuse me. I didn’t mean James Brown, the man. First, he’s dead and buried somewhere—I think in Georgia. Second, my bra was fully inflated, but there would be no way to put even an action figure in there. What I meant to say is that since I tend to lose my cell phone so often, I sometimes carry it in my cleavage, and since I love James Brown’s old songs, I’d loaded his voice singing “I Feel Good” for my ringtone and turned it up loud that afternoon.

“What’s that?” my friend Jane asked as she plucked a long swatch of blue cotton candy off her paper cone, crammed it in her mouth, and then drank from her Dr Pepper can. She swears that pink cotton candy doesn’t taste like the blue. I’d never noticed any difference, but Jane is blind, so her taste buds are probably more sensitive than mine. School teachers, even ex-ones like I am, should be politically correct, so I’ll say Jane is visually impaired—extremely so since she was born with no optic nerves. She wasn’t drinking beer though we were in Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden because we weren’t sure yet if she was pregnant. I had strong feelings about that, but I wasn’t ready to share.

“It’s the new ringtone on my cell phone,” I told her.

Rizzie Profit, the third person at our rickety table beneath the canvas tent, is Gullah and gorgeous. Her scoop-necked black leotard top showed off voluptuous ta tas. The ankle-length skirt of red and gold African print cloth wrapped around her tiny waist with a split to the top of her thigh that revealed her long legs my brother would describe as going from the ground to heaven. Skin like Lady Godiva chocolate and eyes as black as obsidian contrasted sharply with Rizzie’s wide smile and bright white teeth. She had recently stopped wearing a cloth wrapped turban style around her head and had her black hair buzz-cut to a natural about half an inch long all over. The cut set off her marvelous bone structure.

The only woman I know who can chug Budweiser straight from a long-neck bottle and still look like a lady, Rizzie owns Gastric Gullah Grill in our hometown, St. Mary, on the coast of South Carolina. I’d had a hard time convincing her to come to the Jade County Fair for a “ladies’ day out” and leave her grandmother Maum and her fourteen-year-old brother Tyrone to close the restaurant for the night.

I removed the cell phone from its safe haven and pressed the warm plastic to my ear as I said, “Hello.”

Noise blared all around us from other customers, some of whom were well on the way to being hammered. Besides that, the canvas tent did little to block out the sounds of calliope music from the merry-go-round or the strident rock’n’roll from the adult rides. I could hear cooking sounds coming from behind Jane where a canvas wall separated the dining area of the tent from the kitchen/prep space. Servers dashed back and forth through an opening beside Jane, carrying beers, sodas, and fair food.

“I can’t hear you,” I yelled into the receiver.

“It’s Tyrone,” the young voice shouted. “Rizzie’s not answering her phone and I need her.”

“She’s right here,” I said. “I’ll put her on.” No surprise Rizzie didn’t hear her ringtone. It’s soft, classical music.

“No!” Tyrone shouted. “Don’t put Rizzie on. Just tell her Maum fell, and I couldn’t get her up. We’re at the Jade County Hospital. Tell Rizzie to come
now
.” At times, Tyrone seems like a full-grown man. On the telephone, he sounded like a scared little boy.

I passed the phone over to Rizzie. She said, “Hello. Hello. Hello?” and handed it back to me. “Who was it?”

“Tyrone,” I replied. “Maum fell and he wants us to meet him at Jade County Hospital.”

Rizzie and Jane jumped up, but Jane stumbled and fell. I moved around the table to help her as she explained, “My sandal came off.”

When I bent over Jane, I saw that the canvas behind her had flipped up and lay draped over her leg.

“Go!” I yelled to Rizzie and handed her the keys to my Mustang.

“Aren’t we going with her?” Jane asked.

“No!” I waved Rizzie away and told her, “We’ll get a ride there later. If the doctors move Maum to another hospital, call me.” Where they’d taken Maum is small—more like a clinic or infirmary. Most major cases are transferred to larger facilities.

Rizzie flashed a puzzled expression, grabbed my car keys, and ran out of Mother Hubbard’s. I hoped she remembered to toss that beer bottle in a trash container before she drove the car. She wasn’t risking a DUI. It was our only beer of the day, and we’d only planned on one each, but an open container is a jail offense whether a driver is drinking from it or not. Just ask my brother Mike about that. He spent a night in jail for having a beer keg seat-belted into the front seat of his truck.

“Why aren’t we going with her?” Jane asked. She did that flipping thing she does with her long red hair. I have actually sat in front of a mirror and practiced that move, but it never looks as fetching when I do it, regardless of what my hair color
du jour
is at the time.

“We’ve got to call the sheriff,” I said. “There’s something on the ground near you.”

“OMG, Callie!” she squealed. “Is it a snake? If there’s something behind me, why didn’t you see it when I sat down?”

“Because it was covered by the canvas behind you, but when you stumbled, you kicked the cloth up.”

“What is it?”

“What do you think it is? We need the sheriff, and I didn’t want Rizzie to see it and have to hang around answering questions when she should be with Tyrone finding out about Maum.”

Jane stepped around the table and felt for Rizzie’s chair.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Getting away from whatever corpse you’ve found now.” She flipped her hair again, and then continued, “I swear, Callie, I’m going to stop hanging out with you. You’ll mark my baby with dead people.” She rubbed her middle, which was as concave as ever. “That cotton candy didn’t do anything for my stomach. I’m still hungry, and I smell good things like chocolate and bacon, French fries with vinegar, and those Polish sausage dogs piled high with fried onions and peppers.”

I hit 911 on my cell phone and reported a body in Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden—the one closest to the main gate of the fairgrounds.

A shaggy-haired young man wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and a short burgundy apron with “Mother Hubbard’s” embroidered on it came from the back. I beckoned to him. He scurried over and asked, “May I help you?” with a smile.

“Yes,” I said, “I want to speak to your manager.”

His expression changed to a cross between despair and anger. “Lady, don’t complain about me,” he whined. “I didn’t know you wanted anything else or I’d have come before.”

“What I want to tell management has nothing to do with you, but since you’re here, please bring my friend a sausage dog.”

“With extra peppers.” Jane added.

“If you want added peppers, you must not be having much nausea,” I commented to Jane as the young man went back through the canvas opening beside her. I totally expected to hear a scream when he saw the body, but he popped right back out.

“The manager is at another food service, but I sent for him, and I’ll get the lady’s order now.”

“Wait!” I confess I almost shouted though I’ve been taught calmness in my profession. “Didn’t you see the corpse in there?”

His turn to scream.

“Come look,” I said and motioned behind where Jane had been seated.

The young man leaned over and peered at the body. He gagged. His eyes rolled up in his head. He keeled over, flat on the dirt floor, right beside the dead man.

Several of his co-workers ran to us. When they saw the body beside him, they stepped away.

“What’s going on?” No mistaking the voice of authority. A tall, handsome man wearing jeans and a white shirt with “Mother Hubbard’s Concessions” on the chest pocket. He looked Indian—not Native American, but East Indian. “I’m Jetendre Patel, J. T. Patel, owner of Mother Hubbard Concessions.”

“There’s a body behind this table. I’m surprised your workers didn’t see it inside the prep area.” I couldn’t stop looking at him. He was possibly the best looking man I’d ever seen.

Patel bent over the corpse, felt the carotid artery, and looked up at me. “You’re right. He’s dead. My people wouldn’t have seen him because he’s actually lying in a space we have curtained off in the back for pantry and storage.” He called another server over, motioned toward the shaggy-haired guy on the ground, and instructed, “Get a wet cloth and pat his face and hands.”

Jane gasped.

Patel glanced at her and asked, “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s upset because she’s terrified by dead people and she can’t see where he is.”

“Tell her to take off those crazy purple sunglasses so she can see.”