Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (18 page)

“Was Patsy married?” Otis asked. We like to be sure we’re dealing with the next-of-kin when making plans. If Patsy died a married woman, her husband would be responsible for funeral plans instead of her mother.

“She was, but she divorced before she moved back here.”

“A legal divorce? Not just a separation?”

“It was legal,” Walter said. “I seen the papers.”

“I told you to be quiet. If you keep that up, I’ll call Penny to come get you, and I’ll drive myself home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did she have children?”

“You asked me that already, and I said no. The closest relatives Patsy had was her mother, that’s me, and her sisters and brothers. That makes me next-of-kin, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. Another question, before you select a casket, we need to know if you plan to have Patsy cremated like you did Mr. Corley. If so, we have special choices for that.”

“No, Patsy didn’t like me having Jimmy Lee cremated. Said it gave her the heebie-jeebies just thinking about us doing that to her daddy. I’ll want to bury her in the St. Mary Cemetery, the old part with the stand-up stones. Jimmy Lee and I bought plots there a long time ago. I brought the deed for them with me.” She took a folded blue paper from her purse.

“You’ll need to go by the cemetery and show them which grave you want opened, but that can wait until Miss Patsy is back here in St. Mary.”

“Where is she?” Walter asked. Mrs. Corley cut him a look that made the worst schoolteacher look I ever shot anybody look like a smile.

“They took her to Charleston for a postmortem exam,” Otis said. “Since we can’t set a time and date yet, would you like to select the casket next?” He pulled out a notebook of plastic-covered sheets with casket pictures and specifications. “These are the ones that we stock here at Middleton’s, but I also have catalogs with others that we can order for you. If you’ll step with me into the room next door, I can show you some examples.”

“I don’t have to look at sample coffins. I’ll pick one out from the book here.” She began flipping through the pages. Walter leaned over to look, too, but she pushed him away. I wondered if she’d been like this with her children when they were little.

“Are you the one who took Patsy to Charleston?” Mrs. Corley asked Otis.

“No, ma’am. My brother Odell did that.”

“You know, she’s a heavy girl. We had to have a special-sized casket for Jimmy Lee. Do I need to get something special for her?”

“I don’t believe so. Odell would have mentioned that if the size would be a problem.”

Mrs. Corley went through the book several times and finally settled on a pale gray steel with silver handles and shirred pink interior. The page showed several sample, mostly pink, casket sprays, and she selected one of those also.

“What about clothes?” Otis asked. “Will you supply them or should I have Callie shop for something?”

I confess the thought of being sent to Charleston on a shopping trip excited me. Jane and I love to go to Victoria’s Secret in Charleston, and that would be even more fun now that Jane had quit shoplifting and I didn’t have to worry about what she might try to pull in the store.

“No, Callie girl won’t need to shop. Patsy bought lots of clothes after her divorce. I’ll go to the trailer and get something from her closet.”

I didn’t bother to tell her to call it a mobile home, and I didn’t mention that the place might be roped off with yellow crime scene tape making it impossible to get in there for an outfit. I figured that poor woman had enough to deal with, and it was better to let her face any complications as they came instead of suggesting some that might not exist. Dean had said that the investigation was closed. Maybe he’d already removed the tape.

Otis went through each step thoroughly, letting Mrs. Corley take as long as she wanted to make choices. She decided on a service in our chapel, with her nephew, whom she called “Preacher” as though that were his name and an organist, but no soloist.

“And food,” she said. “I want a catered reception. Can we do that here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Otis took out a brochure showing lunches and finger foods. Around here, family and friends take food to the home of the bereaved, but there are caterers who will provide food at the funeral home.

Mrs. Corley’s eyes lit up. “Did you see that article about the man who died and his funeral procession went through one of the short-order places and everyone received one of the dead man’s favorite burgers? I saw it in one of those little newspapers they sell at the grocery store.”

“No, ma’am. I don’t think I did.”

“Well, that’s what I want to do. Instead of having food here, we’ll take the procession to a drive-through window and have them give each person something.”

“Do you have a particular restaurant in mind?” Otis didn’t miss a beat.

“I don’t know yet.”

“What was her favorite food?” I asked.

“Shrimp.” Walter barely had the word out when Mrs. Corley glared at him.

“Most places with drive-through windows don’t serve shrimp,” Otis said, “but we’ll let Callie figure out that problem and get back to you.”

Just my luck. Now they expected me to find a McDonald’s or Burger King that sells shrimp-burgers.

Mrs. Corley turned to me. “Now, I want that same oak stand you brought to my house before because it matches my furniture. I want a white wreath for the front door and one for the back door, also, because lots of our neighbors come around there.” She wiped her brow and wrinkled her face even more than it already was. “Oh, and the registers, don’t forget those.”

“Callie won’t forget anything,” Otis assured her.

“I want this stuff brought out
tonight,
” Mrs. Corley emphasized. “There was an article in the paper this morning about Patsy’s death, calling it a murder-suicide, but people are being kind and have already started bringing food to the house. It’s a shame they have to print that stuff in the paper like that. I’d think they’d give us a little privacy, what with me having to bury my child. It’s not right for kids to go before their parents. It’s not the natural way of life.”

“No, ma’am, it’s not, but we just have to do what needs to be done to respect and remember our loved ones,” Otis said as he slid the papers over in front of Mrs. Corley and showed her where to sign them.

After Mrs. Corley and Walter left, I loaded folding chairs, silk wreaths, an oak stand, and both a guest register and food register into the van. When I was ready to leave, I asked Otis, “Can I take the van home and bring it back and trade it for my Mustang tomorrow morning.”

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“That depends on whether we get any clients in, but I can bring the van back whether I’m working or not.” All I knew was that I wanted to get Big Boy from my daddy’s house, and I thought he’d ride more comfortably in the van than in my car.

“Okay, I’ll call if we have a pickup.”

• • •

Mrs. Corley had changed since June Bug died, but the house remained about the same. Everything was precise. In the kitchen, pots with shiny copper bottoms hung from black wrought-iron racks over the range top, but I’d bet the pots they cooked in were under the cabinets. Almost every surface in the living room sported those starched, crocheted doilies with stand-up ruffles. I thought about Mrs. Corley’s crocheted tote bag where she kept her bottle of rum and wondered if she did all that needlework herself.

Penny and one of her brothers helped me unload the chairs and set them exactly where Mrs. Corley told us to. Like before, she complained that the oak register stand was lighter than her furniture. Once again, I restrained from explaining that her furniture was older than the stand and had darkened as it aged. When Penny told me, “Just leave the flowers and registers. We’ll put them where they belong,” I was glad to get away.

I stopped by Daddy’s on the way home. He asked a bunch of questions about where I’d been and why the sheriff had brought Big Boy to them to dog-sit. I skirted the issues and didn’t actually tell him anything. Mike and Frankie helped me put Big Boy in the van, and I was glad to see that he seemed more lively and in less pain.

Jane’s door opened when I pulled into the driveway in front of our side-by-side apartments. “Where have you been?” she called out. “Did you spend the night with that homicide cop?”

“No, been working. Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m working right now. You wouldn’t believe how many calls I’ve had tonight. Call me tomorrow and we’ll have coffee, but not before noon.”

Jane’s use of the word “call” made me eager to check messages to see if I had a message from Patel. Nothing. After feeding Big Boy and scoffing up a few of his banana MoonPies myself instead of even heating a can of soup, I called Patel. The phone rang and rang. No answer.

Rain pelting my rooftop made me want to stay in bed, and even all scrunched up in my blankets, I felt it was going to be a watery, cold day. The last thing we needed on New Year’s Eve was slick roads drenched with rain. I glanced at the clock beside the bed and was surprised to see it was almost ten. Normally Big Boy would have been by my bed licking my face before then. I’d promised Daddy I’d go by his house before I reported to work at noon and I should have gotten up already.

I wanted to talk to Jane and see if she had any plans for the evening—New Year’s Eve—the night every single woman wants to have a date, and I had none. Here I’d been worrying about whether I should feel guilty about the flirtation and attraction between Dean and me because of my previous budding relationship with Patel, but I was as dateless for New Year’s Eve as any old spinster I’d ever read about. Probably wouldn’t even have a phone call that night. At least, Jane would have calls, maybe more than she could handle. From what she’d said lately, Roxanne was burning up the phone and earning bigger checks than ever.

Big Boy was nowhere to be seen when I went to the bathroom and had a shower. I wrapped a towel around me and went through the apartment looking for him. That’s not hard to do because my place isn’t large—two bedrooms, kitchen with eating area, living room, and one bathroom—and none of the rooms are big. My single bed fits fine in the larger bedroom, but a double would crowd it, and a king-size would be impossible. I used to describe my apartment as being “probably the only one left in St. Mary with olive green shag carpet.” That changed after several unfortunate events which resulted in bloodstains and my getting new paint and carpet throughout. I chose cream walls and dark beige berber carpet.

The floor plan of Jane’s apartment is a mirror image of mine, but she keeps hers much cleaner and knows exactly where everything is. I admit that my method is to put things wherever it’s convenient and then look around when I need them again.

Big Boy wasn’t lying on his special throw rug in the living room nor by the stove in the kitchen. Both of those were favored spots though he’d prefer lying on my bed or my new couch if he didn’t know that would bring down my wrath. I saw the door to my second bedroom was slightly open. That’s supposed to be a guest bedroom, but after I clean it up, I never have any overnight guests, so I wind up stacking books and things in there, and soon it looks like those houses on the hoarder television shows again.

My dog lay in the middle of a pile of unfolded laundry I’d thrown on the bed, planning to deal with it later. He’s not a puppy anymore, but a chewed book lay beside his mouth. When I lifted it, slobber dripped off.

“Big Boy?” I said and scratched him behind his ears. “Big Boy?”

He looked up, but there was no recognition in his eyes. I swear that dog is the most expressive animal I’ve ever known. He laughs and cries, and sometimes, he rolls his eyes like a thirteen-year-old. Now, even with open eyes, he had an unconscious look. I screamed with shock and frustration. Big Boy didn’t react at all.

When I tried to rouse him enough to get off the bed and stand, he flopped like a soft-filled teddy bear. I did what most girls do when there’s trouble. I called my daddy.

“We’ll be right there,” he assured me. “Don’t you try to lift that giant dog. You’ll tear up some of your inside parts, and I’m still hoping for more grandchildren. Mike and Frankie can put Big Boy in the truck and take him to the vet. No telling what’s wrong. You didn’t let him get into any poison after you took him home, did’ja?”