Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (27 page)

“Callie, how bad did it sound? We really haven’t made much progress in either case, but my purpose in calling the press in wasn’t related to the two murders. I want people to know what’s going on. I don’t like what I fear is happening in our town.”

“What
is
happening?”

“Thefts, signs of increased drug activity, tagging, and two murders. It’s not pretty.”

“What’s tagging?”

“This graffiti we’re seeing on signs and walls. That’s tagging and it’s gang-related. Gangs tag to identify their territories.”

“Gangs in St. Mary? That’s hard to believe.”

“I think it’s happening right here, right now.”

Right here, right now, in River City,
I thought, then wondered where that came from. Sometimes, not frequently, Wayne tells me things about cases. So far, I’ve managed to never repeat what he tells me unless it’s common knowledge. I had the feeling I was about to hear something that hadn’t been told at the press conference.

“Callie, ballistics show that the bullets that killed Leon Pearson and Dr. Paul Sparrow came from the same gun.”

“What?”

“The same gun. It doesn’t make sense unless one of them was accidental. Leon Pearson isn’t from around here. He was actively trying to recruit local kids into a gang.”

“The reds or blues?”

“Neither. A totally new gang.”

“How would he do that?”

“He provided things that they’re too young to buy, like beer and liquor. He sold them drugs at prices below street rates. The idea there is to get them hooked. When they’re addicted, the discounts stop, and the kids are cut off unless they join the gang and participate in gang activities to earn enough money to support their habits.”

“How do you know this?”

“About gangs? I’ve been to classes.”

“No, about it all being tied together here.”

“A local boy told me.”

“Anyone I know?” I asked, but I was hoping, praying the answer would be, “No.”

“Afraid so. Tyrone Profit came to me and spilled his guts after Leon Pearson’s right-hand-man ice picked your Mustang. Tyrone was scared they were going to hurt you or Rizzie because he’d refused to join them. They’d been taking his lunch money and made him give them the school issued iPad. He gave me Leon’s name and where he’s from. I checked it out, and Leon had a rap sheet a mile long.”

“Do you think they’ll try to hurt Tyrone?”

“I don’t see how they’d know who ratted them out or even that my men didn’t learn it without anyone telling us. I didn’t even name Tyrone in my report. I’ve already picked up Leon’s partner. It seems they’re the ringleaders. What doesn’t make sense are the murders. I understand about the church break-ins, vandalism, graffiti, drugs and alcohol. That’s all typical gang activity, but the killings don’t fit. So far as I know, there’s only one gang attempting to operate here. Ride-by shootings are usually gang activity, but these two murders don’t fit.”

I looked out the window.

“What are you looking for?” Wayne asked.

“Hoping it doesn’t rain,” I answered. “I’m praying it doesn’t rain anymore until my new ragtop comes in at the Ford dealership. I patched the holes, but they still leak.” I bounced back to our other subject. “What do you know about Leon Pearson besides his gang involvement and where he’s from? Could there be some other reason someone killed him?”

“Naming Leon’s killer would be easier to answer if we knew
how
it was done. There’s no stippling to show the weapon was fired at close range, but there’s no evidence that the body was moved from another crime scene into Mother Hubbard’s tent either. I know the noise is loud at the fair, but Patel said business had been good that day. Someone in the kitchen or dining area should have heard a shot fired that close.”

“Or seen them go into the storage area,” I added, thinking of my tour of the beer garden tent. “Are you going to warn Rizzie that she and Tyrone could be targets if someone else comes to town to groom our kids?”

“I plan to, but there’s still a chance that Tyrone’s involved in the shootings. He never came up with a weapon for us to compare to the ballistics of the killings, and he can’t name anyone who can verify where he was the night the doctor was shot. Tyrone’s the only connection I can see between the two victims. Leon Pearson was harassing him, and he hated Dr. Sparrow.”

“But he came to you and gave you information. That doesn’t sound like he’s a killer to me.”

“Callie, you wouldn’t believe Tyrone was guilty if you’d seen him shoot them.”

“Well, he’s got a pretty good alibi for the time that Leon Pearson was shot. He was running Gastric Gullah with his grandmother and then at the hospital. After he left the hospital the first time, he was with Rizzie until after they went back. Then he was with me.”

“Yes, and that’s the only reason I don’t have him in a holding cell now.”

“You don’t really believe that kid killed anyone, do you?”

“These people weren’t playing around. Don’t forget that they attacked your car, and they fire-bombed the Profits’s van. The paint at Mother Hubbard’s and Middleton’s was done by Leon Pearson’s side man and two local kids he’d already enlisted. I believe that was meant to tell Tyrone that he’d better come around to the gang’s demands. After all, he was seen with you and Patel at the fair.”

“You know for sure that Rizzie’s van was set on fire intentionally?”

“Positively.”

“I think I’ve seen someone smoking a cigarette out by the oak tree in front yard a few times.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

“I never thought too much about it until you told me all this.”

“You do realize that you’re not to tell anyone about what we’ve talked about, don’t you?”

“Do I have ‘stupid’ written all over my face?”

“No, but women talk a lot.”

“Watch it. You’re starting to sound like my daddy.”

24

The instrumental “God’s Other World” that announced the opening of the front door at Middleton’s should have been “Here Comes the Bride.” Miss Nila Gorman and Arthur Richards met me in the front hall. She wore a stunning white wedding gown that had to be from the Atlanta
Say Yes to the Dress
television show. It’s hard to believe they make mermaid styles to fit short, round, little old ladies, but they do because Miss Nila wore one. It had beading and sequins all the way down to a flouncy, tiered chiffon bottom, and sequins accented the sheer fingertip veil she wore. I might have expected Mr. Richards to have on the tuxedo he’d worn to Miss Nina’s funeral, but instead he wore white tails.

Oh, no,
was my first thought,
she’s going to want us to exhume her sister and change her clothes again.

Miss Nila held her left hand out to me. No, actually, she thrust it into my face, somewhere in the vicinity of my nose. On it were a gigantic diamond solitaire and a band encrusted with at least two karats of sparkle.

“We’re married! I’m Mrs. Arthur Richards,” Miss Nila announced—as proud as if she’d married a crown prince.

Mr. Richards beamed.

“I wanted you to see the dress before Artie and I leave for our honeymoon.” Miss Nila twirled around so I could see every angle.

“Congratulations! When was the wedding?” I asked.

“This morning. We had an early ceremony followed by a champagne breakfast. We’re leaving now for Florida to go on our honeymoon cruise.” She giggled like a thirteen-year-old. “I apologize for not inviting you. It was just so fast that I hardly had time to arrange everything, and I forgot some people.” Her apologetic smile didn’t last long. She grinned again. “Miss Parrish, I’m so happy I can’t even think, but I insisted we stop by here. I’ve changed my mind. When we get back from our trip, I’ll send you my bridal clothes and I want to be buried in them when the time comes. You do have somewhere safe to store them, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of it. You just send them to me.” My assurances were off the top of my head. I don’t know a whole lot about proper storage of extravagant wedding gowns. My own hadn’t been anywhere near as elegant as hers, and it wasn’t in storage anyway. I was so mad when I divorced Donnie that I built a bonfire and burned my dress and all the wedding pictures except the big wall-sized portrait of me in my gown and veil that hangs in the living room at Daddy’s. I’ve tried and tried to get him to take it down or at least move it to his room, but he says, “As much as I paid for that picture, I like to look at it. I don’t see why it bothers you. You look real pretty, and Donnie’s not in it.”

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked. Otis and Odell have taught me to always offer refreshments, and I thought that at their ages, coffee might be a good follow-up to a champagne breakfast.

“No, we’re on the way. Thanks for everything.” Miss Nila kissed me on the cheek, one of those air kisses that barely touch skin. Mr. Richards planted a loud smack on the other side.

They left, and I hoped they lived happily ever after.

Back at my desk, I wasn’t too surprised when the fax machine sounded. I turned around and picked up the printed paper.

Stunned silence. That was my reaction to the correspondence I held in my hand. Otis had told me about something similar to this happening before I came to work at the funeral home, but it was a first for me. My official title at Middleton’s is cosmetician, which is Funeraleze for a person who’s not a mortician but does hair and makeup for deceased people. In South Carolina, anyone with a state cosmetology license can work at a funeral home so long as they’re not involved in embalming. I’m not hankering to do that no matter how many times Otis and Odell offer to send me to mortuary college.

If all I did was hair and makeup, I wouldn’t be worth what they pay me. Not that I make a fortune, but my pay is decent, comparable to what I’d make if I went back to teaching or working in a beauty parlor. Besides cosmetizing, I write and submit obituaries to newspapers and post them on our website. I also do some paper work. Not book-keeping, but checking over records, ordering death certificates, filing, and confirming intake information.

I hadn’t expected any trouble when I organized the paper work for Dr. Sparrow. We had his autopsy report from Charleston. Cause of death was gunshot wound. Manner of death was homicide. Our copies were for filing and to send when I ordered death certificates. The sheriff’s department would have received their own.

Another part of my job is verification of facts. This isn’t usually much trouble. Most survivors bring in copies of the insurance policies. Mrs. Sparrow had assured us that the doctor was insured and filled in the name of the insurance carrier and an amount more than sufficient to pay for services. She’d signed the forms so that Middleton’s payment would be sent in a separate check, directly to the funeral home, but she hadn’t shown Otis or Odell the actual policy nor a document from the insurance company. I’d faxed a copy of the signed papers to the carrier and considered it done.

Now I had before me a faxed reply stating that Robin Sparrow wasn’t the beneficiary on the policy and was, therefore, not allowed to authorize assignment of payments. Certainly not my personal problem, but I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. The insurance company advised me to contact Dr. Sparrow’s attorney, Adam Randolph, Esq., to obtain information about the estate and to make arrangements for disbursement of funds.

I knew what to do about that. Give it to Otis to handle. I went looking for him. He wasn’t in his office, and we didn’t have anyone scheduled for prep, but I’d bet a month’s pay that he was in the prep room. I stood outside the closed door and knocked. That door is kept shut at all times.“Otis, Otis!”

I pounded harder and louder.

“Hold your horses.” Not that I have any horses. Daddy has a few on the farm, and Tyrone had a pony named Sugar when I first met the Profits a few years ago, but horses never interested me, not even as a little girl. “Hold your horses” is a Southern expression meaning “Wait a minute.” It’s not exactly courteous, but it’s a whole lot better than, “Don’t get your panties in a knot,” another colloquialism, which Otis would never say to me no matter how unhappy my interruption made him.

“Come in.” When I heard Otis’s voice, I opened the door. He stood in front of me clutching a towel around his waist with both hands and glowing with the pink complexion he has right after tanning. I held the letter out to give it to him. He looked down and said, “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

He was back in a few minutes, dressed and grumpy. He held out his hand, and I placed the letter in it, hoping he’d say, “I’ll take care of this.”

Not so. “Handle it,” was his response.

What next? I’d hoped this was just a matter of filing. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but lawyers aren’t my favorite people. I guess that’s because every time I’ve ever needed one, it’s been an unpleasant experience—especially my divorce proceedings back in Columbia when I dumped my husband for what he did, and, no, I didn’t catch Donnie on the dining room table with another woman like Stephanie Plum caught her ex.

A telephone call to Mr. Randolph’s office got me nowhere. Mr. Randolph was in court, and I would need to see him to handle this matter.