Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (10 page)

“No, sir. It’s time for you to leave now. It’s past closing time.”

“I didn’t know funeral homes ever closed. Isn’t someone here all the time?”

“Not anyone who can handle money matters.” That was an unspoken lie. It would lead the listener to believe that
someone
was always on the premises, and it used to be law in South Carolina that someone was always at funeral homes, but that law changed years ago. Now if we have no decedents, we put the phones on call-forwarding and go home at night. Of course, we’re always available and if a pickup call comes in, Otis, Odell, or one of the part-timers goes immediately to bring the body to Middleton’s. I’ve even been on a few pickup calls myself.

Without touching Mr. Patterson nor telling him to come on, Otis led him to the door and locked it after Mr. Patterson left.

“Why didn’t you want me to make a copy of the contract?” I asked.

“Because I can’t find it. I first wanted you here to see if you copied it into the computer when you converted these files. Then I decided that from the way he’d sounded on the telephone, insisting to come this evening and all, I’d rather Odell handle the whole thing.”

“Where is Odell?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m on duty and he’s not answering his cell phone.”

Before I left Middleton’s, I pulled up the prepayment file for Emma Lou Riley on the computer. The prearrangements had been finalized and paid for almost twelve years previously. Plans were for a very expensive casket, quality vault, and top-of-the-line accessories. Of course, the price that had been paid wouldn’t touch that service at today’s prices. I printed out copies of the front and back of all the planning forms and the contract for Otis before I went home.

Big Boy didn’t meet me at the door like he usually did. He looked up when I talked to him and rubbed his head against my hand when I petted him, but he stayed on his special rug and seemed too tired to play.

I lay awake trying to read, torn between worry that Big Boy wasn’t acting normal and that Patel hadn’t called back since saying he would. I was also angry with myself that I hadn’t remembered to buy myself more chocolate MoonPies.
Sometimes life sucks,
I told myself,
but it’s a little more bearable when I have a MoonPie to nibble.

I couldn’t believe it! I stepped off the back stoop and stuck my tongue out as far as it would go while Big Boy dang near knocked me over trying to get back into the apartment. My dog’s lethargy from the night before was gone. He’d tried to climb up on my bed before I even thought about getting up. He obviously felt much better as he licked my face, and I’d ignored him as long as I could before pulling on a pair of jeans, sweatshirt, and Nikes.

When he was a puppy, I sometimes let Big Boy sleep beside me in bed, but now that he was pushing one hundred fifty pounds, he was too big. Besides, he’d had that surgery. I didn’t want to risk my dog hurting himself even more. Since I’d brought him home from the vet’s, there’d been times when he’d moan and whimper when he moved certain ways. I’ve never had surgery, and if I ever do, it won’t be by choice. I’m scared of the knife, or should I say scalpel? That’s why I wear my inflatable bras instead of opting for augmentation surgery. Being cut on has to hurt.

I’d clipped Big Boy’s leash to his collar and dragged him to the back door. He’d pulled back, trying to get to the front door where he usually went in and out.

When I pushed the door open, Big Boy jumped out, obviously in a hurry for his morning bathroom break, but as soon as he saw and felt something falling from the sky, he turned around and almost knocked me over getting back into the apartment.

My yard was beautiful—looked like a Christmas card!

South Carolina doesn’t get much snow. Oh, it snows occasionally up toward Greenville, and once in a long while, the middle of the state around the capital city Columbia has an inch or so, but on the coast, it’s very rare. This morning my yard was covered with snow. To be honest, it probably wasn’t more than half an inch, but there was enough of the wonderful stuff to hide my dead grass.

The few times I’d seen real snow before, it had fallen during the night, and I’d awakened to see it the next morning. This time was different. It fell all over me as I stood there with my tongue stuck out, hoping to taste the white flakes.

Then it hit me.
Dalmation!
Miss Lettie wasn’t going to be happy about this. The only people on the coast of South Carolina who can drive with even a minimum of ice or snow on the roads are transplanted folks from up north. Even the smallest accumulation creates holidays for everyone. Officials cancel schools for the day and close government offices. The only activity on a snow day would be at the grocery stores where customers immediately bought a month’s supply of batteries, peanut butter, bread, and milk in case the weather created power outages or the roads became impassable. Actually, for us, any snow or ice at all makes driving hazardous. Not only because we can’t drive in it, but because other folks on the road can’t either.

Miss Lettie wanted a big crowd for Mr. Morgan’s funeral. She wouldn’t like anything interfering with her plans.

I thought about that for a few minutes before deciding there was nothing I could do about Miss Lettie, so I might as well enjoy this unexpected blessing. I knocked on Jane’s door, and when she didn’t answer. I hammered it as hard as I could.

“Who is it?” A soft voice from inside.

“It’s me.” Okay, I know that the grammatically correct statement would be, “It is I,” but to say that around the Low Country would sound pompous and preposterous.

“Put your clothes on and come out back,” I added. “I want to show you something.”

“Oh, no, don’t tell me you found another body.”

“No, it’s a good thing.”

Jane stepped outside wearing a purple terry-cloth bathrobe over pink flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers. “It’s cold,” she said as the delicate flakes touched her face.

“It’s snow!” I shouted.

Back when I went to the University of South Carolina in Columbia, we’d had rare accumulations of an inch or so of snow, but this was the first time Jane and I had experienced it together.

“Tell me what you see,” Jane commanded and danced around, doing her version of a victory dance, though in her case, it must have been a hippie dance because I remembered her mother jumping like that when she was very happy, and Jane’s mom was as hippie as hippie can be.

“Be careful. You’ll slip and fall. The ground is slick,” I warned my friend.

“I want to build a snow man.” Jane continued her joyful dance.

“Not enough yet, but if it keeps falling, we might be able to make snow angels.”

When Otis Middleton walked into our back yard, Jane and I probably looked like full-blown idiots. There wasn’t enough snow for a snowball fight, so Jane and I were gathering up handfuls of the powdery stuff and smashing it into each other’s faces like some brides and grooms do when they cut their wedding cakes.

“So, here you are,” Otis said. “I’ve been trying to call you. When I couldn’t get an answer, I drove over, checking out the ditches on the way to be sure you hadn’t run off the road on the way to work. I’ll drive you. I’m in one of the family cars, much heavier than your Mustang.”

Work? A hundred and one dalmations!
I’d forgotten all about it.

“I’m sorry. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready,” I apologized.

Otis nodded in agreement and then turned his attention toward Jane.

“You need to go inside and put on a coat,” he told her. “It’s too cold to be out here in what you’re wearing.”

Jane shivered, obviously exaggerating the motion. “You’re right, Otis. There’s fresh coffee inside if you want to come in for a cup while Callie gets dressed over at her place.”

They went into Jane’s while I headed to my door. Big Boy’s bladder had finally won out over his fear of all things that fall from the sky. When I opened my door, he darted outside, looked around for a tree to hide behind, and then gave up and squatted right by the back steps. Of course, the stitches in his abdomen may have made lifting his leg painful, but the truth is that regardless of how big he is, my dog still acts like a puppy. He
never
lifts his leg, and if there’s a tree or anything to hide behind, he’ll be sure to get on the other side of it, oblivious to the fact his head sticks out on one side, while his wagging tail shows on the other.

• • •

I confess that while I felt quite confident that I could drive as well in our scant covering of snow as Otis could, I didn’t mind having a ride to work that morning. No telling when some other Southerner who’d never driven in snow or ice before might careen into me, and I do
not
want my 1966 Mustang hit. I’ve got a new ragtop on it, but it still has scratches and gouges from vandalism not too long ago, and that’s already too much damage.

“Are you certain that Miss Lettie will want to have the funeral today with this weather?” I asked Otis as he carefully backed out of the driveway.

“I’m not sure, but we need to be ready regardless of what she decides.”

I laughed. “At least we don’t have to worry about this being one of those redneck funerals Jeff Foxworthy talks about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Foxworthy says you might be a redneck if you wear shorts to a funeral. There’ll be jeans there, but I don’t expect shorts.” In the summertime, we’ve had people wear shorts to funerals. Odell has joked about handing out long pants like some restaurants lend ties to men who don’t fit into their dress requirements.

On the way to the mortuary, we passed a couple of vehicles that had skidded off the road and landed in ditches, so I was surprised when Otis pulled over to the side of the road for no apparent reason.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said as he stepped out of the car. “I want to check the tires. One of them doesn’t feel right.”

He walked slowly around the vehicle, pausing and looking at each tire. We’d hardly gone a mile farther when he did the exact same thing again. Before we reached the mortuary, Otis had stopped to check the tires four times. I didn’t mind because once we were actually in St. Mary, the big silver tinsel stars the town had put on each streetlamp were perfect with the snow on the ground. Sad that we make our world so beautiful for Christmas and then take it all down.

Odell met us at the employee entrance. “Mrs. Morgan has already called.”

“Is she postponing?” I asked.

“No, she wants everything as planned, but she made a strange comment about anyone who fought in a war wouldn’t cancel because of the weather. Did Mr. Morgan serve in the military?”

“No, but she wants us to present a flag during his service. She’s bringing the one she received at her husband’s funeral. I told Callie we’d do a little ceremony with it,” Otis reminded Odell.

“No problem. Like we always say: If it’s not illegal or going to hurt someone, we do whatever the loved ones ask. How are the roads?”

Otis suddenly turned and walked quickly away from us down the hall to his office, so I answered, “Not very bad.”

“I didn’t think the streets were a real mess or the florists wouldn’t have delivered already. Everything in the flower room is for the Morgan services. Take them into Slumber Room A.”

“Sure. Let me take off my coat first.”

“Otis will stay here, and I’ll take the new family car to Mrs. Morgan’s to pick up her and her friend.”

“You might want to take the older car. Otis felt something wrong with the tires and kept having to stop to check them.”

“Did he have to stop and walk around the car?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what he did.”

Odell burst into a roaring guffaw. “Ain’t nothing wrong with the tires. He went out and ate enchiladas and refried beans last night. Otis has been pulling that stunt when he has gas since he was a teenager. Now me, I just let it rip.”

• • •

Typical of South Carolina snowfall, most of it had melted off the streets by noon though trees, bushes, and lawns were still blanketed in a thin layer of white. I took Mr. Morgan’s casket to the chapel and double-checked his appearance before moving all the floral tributes from the slumber room to the chapel.