Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (28 page)

“Can any of his partners help me with this?” I asked.

“No.” The voice was young and male, slightly flirty. “Mr. Randolph handles Dr. Sparrow’s affairs. We’d prefer you speak to him.”

“Are you one of his paralegals?”

“Nope, I’m a male receptionist.”

“When will Mr. Randolph be back?”

“I’m not sure, and our fax machine isn’t functioning properly. We’ve called the repairman, but he hasn’t come yet. I know that Mr. Randolph will want to see these papers you say Mrs. Sparrow signed. Can you bring them over?”

“Are you telling me to bring copies of the forms to Mr. Randolph’s office?”

“I’m sure that would help. I’d volunteer to pick them up, but we’re short-handed today. Do you know where our office is?”

As a matter of fact, I did. I told him I’d be right over.

• • •

For no particular reason, I’d worn another blowup bra that morning, after vowing to never wear one again after falling into the corner of the hearse door. Not that it would explode. I’m using “blowup” in its meaning of “inflatable,” and buh-leeve me, I’d pumped The Girls up so that I matched Rizzie and Jane in that department. The black dress I wore was buttoned up the front all the way to my neck. Now, I could say, “Don’t ask me why, but I unbuttoned the top buttons on my dress.” That, however, would be a lie. The clerk had sounded secretive, but young and masculine. I knew exactly what I was doing. I wasn’t proud of it, but I wasn’t dumb about it either. I wanted information, and I didn’t want to wait for the lawyer to get it, but I also hadn’t had a date in weeks and, who knows, that male receptionist could be looking for a girlfriend.

Adam Randolph’s office was only a few blocks from the funeral home, so I walked over. Well into fall, the weather was more spring-like. Not too warm, not cold. Bright sunshine. I was almost glad I had to be out. I’d never been inside Mr. Randolph’s building before, but the exterior delighted—a well-kept old colonial home with two-story columns in front. Lots of businesses around here occupy antebellum houses. It makes sense. Most families can’t afford the upkeep on those big buildings, but businesses can. It would be a shame to tear the buildings down or let them deteriorate.

The spacious office was furnished with couches and chairs with red leather upholstery studded with nailheads. The hunter green walls were set off by wide cream-colored chair railings and deep molding around the ceiling. A lot of offices in St. Mary have historical pictures hanging on the walls. Mr. Randolph’s office had a theme—magnolias. Displayed on each wall were gigantic paintings of creamy white magnolias with deep green leaves framed in heavy gold frames.

A slim young man with dark eyes and hair sat behind a highly polished, oversized mahogany desk.

“Welcome to Randolph Law Firm. My name is Furman. What can I do to help you?”

“I’m Callie Parrish from Middleton’s Mortuary. I spoke to you by telephone.”

“Aw, yes. Did you bring the papers Dr. Sparrow’s wife signed?”

I offered him the folder. Of course, it didn’t contain any of the originals, only copies I’d made for the lawyer.

“I’ll be sure Mr. Randolph receives these,” he said and placed the folder on the basket labeled “in.”

“Can you give me any information about who will be paying for our services?” I questioned. “Dr. Sparrow has been embalmed and is already casketed in the extremely expensive unit selected by his wife. His obituary with funeral plans is on our website and has been forwarded to the newspaper. Mrs. Sparrow requested several papers be notified at an additional charge. I’d really appreciate any information you can give me about the insurance policy.”

I said all that and felt pretty good about sounding so professional. Didn’t think Otis or Odell could have done better.

“You know I can’t do that.” The smile turned to a grin. “I could lose my job for that, and you know how the economy is these days.”

“Buh-leeve me, I do. That’s why I need the information. I don’t want to lose my job either.”

I’ve seen girls and women do it all my life, but until I discovered my inflatable bras, I never had enough in the boob department for it to make any difference. With my wonderful bras, I still don’t have much in the way of cleavage, but The Girls do stick out well and will bunch together when I lean forward while holding my arms tightly on the sides with my elbows pressing my ta tas together. I know because I’ve practiced it in front of the mirror at home, but I’ve never tried that move outside the privacy of my bedroom.

I did it. I leaned over Furman’s desk and gave him a full view, hoping he saw the skin above the bra and not just lace. But then, some men love to see fancy underwear. It couldn’t hurt.

What did he do? Ignored me and The Girls.

“Can’t you tell me what’s so secret about Dr. Sparrow’s insurance?” I asked in my best imitation of Roxanne.

Did no good. The man ignored my extra efforts and looked down at his watch.

“I’ll see that Mr. Randolph receives these papers, and he will probably be calling Middleton’s this afternoon to schedule an appointment to discuss this.” His tone was dismissive as he glanced toward the door and then back at his watch.

“Couldn’t you just give me a hint about the insurance?” I didn’t sound like Roxanne anymore. This echoed in my ears more like begging.

“It’s the will.” Furman couldn’t keep his eyes off his watch. “Please excuse me a moment.”

He stood behind his desk, obviously waiting for me to leave. He’d paid no attention to me, so I gave none to him.

“I’ll be right back.” The man virtually ran out of the office, but he was true to his word and returned in only a few minutes. His hair had obviously been combed, and it glistened with water or some kind of styling gel. He smelled slightly of mouth wash. With my job, noticing little things about appearance are important.

Before I had time to process the need for this grooming, the door opened and in walked a real hunk, a hottie for sure.

“Ready?” Hot Stuff asked in a low, melodious voice.

“Miss Parrish, I hate to do this, but when Mr. Randolph isn’t here, I lock up while I go to lunch. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now.”

I took one more shot. “I know you could tell me what’s in Dr. Sparrow’s will. It would certainly make my life easier when I get back to work.” I flashed my sweetest girly smile.

“I’ve told you I would be violating client confidentiality to tell you.” Furman shot a pleading look at his friend as though the man might rescue him from this insistent female who was preventing them from going to lunch.

“Does she mean that doctor’s will? The one you told me about?” The lunch date may have been just talking or showing off that he knew what I wanted to know, but I used it.

“What’s Mr. Randolph going to think when I tell him you wouldn’t give me, a representative of someone with a legal interest, any information, but you told your friend here about it?” I made sure to use an accusing tone but switched immediately to assurance. “If you tell me, I promise to never let anyone know about it. What’s in that last will and testament might help us at Middleton’s, and I’m sure Mr. Randolph will tell us when he hears about the problem anyway.”

“Oh, tell her, Furman.” Now the friend looked at
his
watch. “You know it’s our anniversary. I’ve made reservations.”

“I don’t know.” Furman seemed torn. What to do? What to do?

“I’ll solve this,” his friend offered. He smiled at me. “Now, you promise this is in strictest confidentiality?”

“I do.”

“Oh, don’t say that. I never want to hear a girl say that to me.” He and Furman laughed like that was the biggest joke either of them had ever heard.

“Furman told me about the will this doctor made. He left
nothing
to his wife, absolutely nothing. The insurance is made to his estate and everything he owns is to be sold and all that money put into a trust fund. His wife is the heir to the trust fund, but it’s all tied up. She’ll only receive a small allowance each month, and if she remarries, she loses that, too.”

“What about funeral arrangements? Anything in the will concerning that?”

“Furman didn’t tell me that.” He frowned at his watch again. “Now can we go?”

“Oh, what the hell.” Furman was ready for his lunch date. “The will states there will be no funeral. He wanted a direct cremation without even a memorial service.” A direct cremation means no embalming, no cosmetizing, nothing. The body is picked up and cremated with no fanfare.

“We’ve got to go now. I’ve attached a message to the folder you brought asking Mr. Randolph to call you, but he’ll probably just tell me to call and schedule an appointment. Now, please go.”

I left.

• • •

Otis turned a whiter shade of pale beneath his tan when I told him what I’d learned, but the only thing he said was, “I’ll talk to Odell about it.”

“If they won’t pay for the casket, can we use it again?” I knew the answer, but I asked anyway.

“Callie, you know perfectly well that caskets are never reused. The rentals that we use for visitations and viewing of people who will be cremated are made special for that purpose with removable linings which are replaced between clients. That casket has no value at all once a decedent has been in it.”

“Am I going to have to deal with the attorney?”

“No, but you did a good job getting information for us. Odell and I’ll take it from here.”

25

“I know how it was done.” Wayne burst into my office as excited as I’ve ever heard him. Personally, I was still a bit sleepy and wondered about all this enthusiasm so early in the morning.

“How what was done?” Chalk up another duh for me.

“How Leon Pearson got himself shot in that pantry.”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know that yet, but I know that no one was in there with him.”

“How could someone who wasn’t there shoot him?”

“The bullet came through the roof of the tent.”

“Through the top?”

“Yes, we examined the side walls, but we didn’t check the ceiling of the tent. I guess if Pearson had been shot in the top of his head, I’d have thought about it. Being shot in the back made us think the bullet came from the side of the space. It came from
above
Leon Pearson.”

“Are you telling me he was killed by a ‘falling’ bullet?”

I’d read about that phenomenon, but never had any experience with it. My family might not be the brightest lights on the Christmas tree, but we’ve all got better sense than to fire guns into the sky. Besides, if Daddy ever heard we’d fired into the air, he would have made sure we didn’t forget again. He used to tell us, “What goes up, must come down, and it could come down on your head.”

Then he’d say, “Bullets go a long way up when they’re fired, but no one knows where they’ll land. If you drop a bullet from an airplane or helicopter, it could reach a terminal velocity at about one hundred miles an hour, which probably won’t do fatal damage, but a rifled bullet will have a much higher terminal velocity and could kill or injure someone.” Funny how Daddy always sounded so much smarter talking about guns, cars, and fishing than at any other times.

I grew up around guns, but I don’t understand all that terminal velocity business. I only knew that if my daddy told me never to fire a gun into the sky where it could go astray or directly into the ground where it could ricochet, then I wouldn’t do that. I had an even greater respect for the possibility of a bullet ricocheting since Frankie pulled his stupid stunt.

My mind moved back to the present. “I know about that. Jim told me stories about people who fired guns in the air to celebrate weddings and important events in some of the countries he’s been to since he joined the Navy. He said it’s more common in other countries, but a lot of idiots in America do it, too, especially on New Year’s Eve. Certainly not every time, but he said that sometimes, people are hit by these ‘stray’ bullets and on more rare occasions, ‘falling’ bullets.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Leon Pearson was hit by a falling bullet. That’s how it happened. I know it’s freaky, but it makes sense, and when I contacted Patel and had him check the tent, there’s a perfect bullet hole in the canvas that would have been directly over Leon Pearson when he was shot.”

I confess. My mind wandered again when Wayne mentioned J. T. Patel. There are just too many incidents of “another time, another place” in my life. I really liked Patel, and I respected his honesty about his attraction to me being related to his deceased wife, but when will it be my turn to live happily ever after? I’d thought Dr. Donald and I were headed toward that until he dropped me so hard I bounced.

“Do you know what kind of bullet it was?” I spoke to take my mind off Patel.

“Yep, a .308 Winchester. Used to be considered military, but some people hunt with them now.”

“If Pearson was killed with a falling bullet, could the doctor have been hit by a stray bullet?”

“Not likely. He was hit square in the middle of his forehead as he came down the steps leaving the ER, a half an inch lower and it would have been smack between his eyes. That was an aimed bullet fired by a skilled marksman. I don’t believe in coincidence, and two freakish accidental gun deaths are too much to even consider. I haven’t totally eliminated his wife as a suspect either. She doesn’t have an alibi, but I don’t have a real reason to suspect her except that we always start at the people closest to the victim and work outward. I’d sure be happy to learn she won marksmanship prizes in high school or something to directly tie her to her husband’s death.”