Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (27 page)

“Let me glove up first.” I pulled on a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall and gently angled Ms. Buchanan’s head. Wayne leaned in close, but not quite near enough to touch her.

“What do these look like to you?” he asked and pointed to darker spots of skin on the obvious strangulation marks around the neck. “The autopsy report states there are contusions or discolorations in a regular configuration on the ligature pattern around her neck. What do you think?”

“What I see doesn’t involve all those long words.” I leaned closer and almost bumped heads with the sheriff. “I see Christmas lights.”

“What?”

“It looks to me like she was strangled with a string of Christmas lights—not those tiny ones most people use on inside trees, but the slightly larger bulbs some folks use outside. Look.” I pointed to the spots. “They’re about four inches apart and go all the way around. If the lights had been on for a while, the bulbs would have made those marks. A contusion is another word for a bruise, but those look like slight burns to me.”

Wayne eyes lit up. “I believe you’re right, and if you are, we know where the primary murder scene is, and we’ve walked all over it.”

“Her front porch?” I asked.

“You’ve got it. She wasn’t taken from her house and killed. She was murdered right there on her porch. That’s why one end of the string of lights over the door was hanging loose.”

“That explains why someone who kept her house so neat inside would have left those candy canes scattered all over.”

“Zip it up.” For just a moment I thought Wayne was being rude and telling me to hush, but he motioned toward the body bag. “Let’s get back to the visitation. I’ll call Detective Robinson and tell him what we think. He’ll take care of a closer examination of that porch.”

Wayne received an emergency call and didn’t go back into the chapel, but I did. Everything went well until Snake Rodgers’s brother Gordon walked in.

Could have heard a pin drop? A deaf man could have heard a tear drop fall in that silence. With a determined manner, head held high, Gordon Rodgers moved through the crowd to the pulpit at the front behind the casket. He picked up the microphone and flipped the switch to turn it on.

I’ve been to weddings and funerals where fights erupt. It’s always tragic for something like that to happen at what should be a solemn affair, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I saw that Otis, Odell, and the part-timers all began moving quietly toward the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice rang out loud and clear. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Gordon Rodgers. Until a few days ago, my brother lived with Patsy Corley here, God rest her soul.” He gestured toward the casket. “I’ve heard rumors around this town that the Rodgers and the Corleys are going to have a feud like the Hatfields and McCoys or that one of my brothers is going to challenge one of Patsy’s brothers to a duel.” He stopped and looked around, as close to eye to eye as was possible in that crowded room.

“Well, I’m here to tell you that’s not what the Rodgers family wants. None of us could understand why my brother and Patsy stayed together, but they must have cared about each other, no matter how much they fussed and yelled all the time. Everybody knew the two of them were a catastrophe waiting to happen. If Patsy hadn’t pulled the trigger, sooner or later, my brother would have done it. Now two families are grieving about losing kinfolks they loved. Two mothers mourning the loss of their children. My mama is out in the car. She wants to come in and pay her respects to Mrs. Corley and the Corley family, but I told her I’d better check first to see if it would be all right.”

Mrs. Corley rose from the chair she’d been sitting in and walked to the podium. She was a tiny woman but strong and determined.
Dalmation!
I hoped she wasn’t going up there to slap Gordon Rodgers. No need to fear. She reached up and put her arms around Gordon in a motherly hug. Then she took the microphone from him, held it to her mouth, and said, “You go out there and tell your mama to come on in. This tragedy is enough of a disaster for both our families without any hate starting up.”

Applause broke out. The pastor stepped forward and called for blessings on everyone who was there.

Mrs. Corley looked down and then added, “I know it’s about time for the service, but I’d like to wait a few minutes for Mrs. Rodgers to come in and set beside me. We’ll share our grief over losing our children.”

And so it was that the mother of the man that Patsy Corley shot sat beside Patsy’s mama at the funeral in the chapel and rode with her in one of the family cars right by Rizzie’s grill to receive a Gee Three Shrimp Slider and soda.

• • •

Odell and a couple of part-timers drove the family cars back to the Corley home. I rode from the cemetery to Middleton’s in the funeral coach with Otis. He’s positively wild about Mumford and Sons and played their new CD until I said, “Otis, I’ve been thinking about Mr. Patterson and the Field of Flowers.”

Otis turned the volume down and asked, “What about him?”

“That prepayment was over a decade ago. Wouldn’t it be cheaper to refund the money than to supply the casket and everything in the contract?”

A grin spread across Otis’s face. “It would be, and I’ll tell Odell that, but we won’t give him any money until after his wife dies and he’s her legal heir.” He turned Mumford and Sons back up until I spoke again.

“Otis, what’s going to happen to Amber Buchanan?”

Once more, Otis turned the volume down and this time, he answered my question with one of his own. “What do you mean?”

“Sheriff Harmon said he hasn’t located a next-of-kin for her. Will we just keep her in the refrigeration unit indefinitely like Spaghetti in North Carolina and Deaf Bill in Alton, Illinois?” I remembered tales he’d told me about them. They’d both been embalmed and held for decades by mortuaries waiting for relatives to pay for funeral services.

“No, I don’t see us keeping a body over fifty years. There are legal ways to avoid things like that these days.”

“I’m glad. That seems disrespectful to me. When I Googled Deaf Bill, I read that some people believe his ghost haunts the building where that funeral home was.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Callie?”

“Not really. It’s like Odell says, if ghosts haunted the places where they died, you wouldn’t be able to turn around in hospitals and nursing homes. They’d be full of ghosts.”

“So you know about Spaghetti and Deaf Bill. Sometime when you’re not working or reading, Google ‘Unburied bodies.’ I’m not saying it’s common, but not as rare as you might think.”

I shuddered, hating to even think of such disrespect toward decedents.

“Those aren’t the only cases like that,” Otis continued, “and not all of them were years ago. As recently as 2004, an elderly lady named Ada in Texas died and went unburied at least five years because the family didn’t pay for the service in the funeral home chapel nor interment, so the mortuary kept her all dressed up and resting in her casket. They even moved Ada when the funeral home relocated.”

“Would you and Odell do that?”

“No, we wouldn’t do that. Most morticians perform their responsibilities in respectful, honorable ways, but sometimes awful things happen in this business. One incident occurred right here in South Carolina when a funeral home quoted a price to bury a minister who was six feet, five inches tall. After the interment, rumors circulated around town that when his legs hadn’t fit inside the coffin, an employee had cut off his feet to get the man in his casket. The gossip was so bad that the family demanded the preacher be exhumed. Sure enough, his feet and lower legs were in the casket, but they were no longer attached to the man.”

I trembled with disgust. Reverence for decedents and their families is one of the first policies the Middletons taught me.

“So what will we do with Amber Buchanan if no one claims the body?” I swung the conversation back to my original question.

“We can petition the court for permission to cremate or bury an unclaimed body in Potter’s Field.”

The thought of that woman being murdered and lying six feet under in an unmarked grave brought the quick sting of tears to my eyes. I hadn’t known Amber Buchanan before her death, but I felt like I had. Sometimes I thought of her as simply “Amber.” The women at Safe Sister had seemed to care deeply about her. I remembered the unopened presents under their Christmas tree. I wondered if they’d be willing to contribute to some kind of memorial service for her. As quickly as that thought popped into my mind, I rejected it. Those ladies were in no position to do anything about Amber.

Otis didn’t offer me a penny for my thoughts. Perhaps he didn’t figure they were worth that much. He adjusted the sound, and Mumford and Sons filled the hearse—I mean the funeral coach—the rest of the way.

Two people sat in the rocking chairs on the verandah when Otis pulled into Middleton’s Mortuary parking lot. I was surprised to see Frankie and Jane. I asked Otis to let me out before he parked the funeral coach.

“Why are you here?” I called.

“Came to see if you want to go to a turkey trot with us,” Jane answered. She tugged at the orange and red tie-dyed T- shirt she wore beneath a suede fringed jacket. Jane loves to wear her mother’s old clothes, but since her mom was shorter than Jane, sometimes the lengths are a big short. In the summertime, a bare belly button wouldn’t matter these days, but in the cold winter, that shirt was probably freezing her middle.

“You must mean a turkey shoot, but most of those closed right after Christmas.”

“No, we’re going to a turkey trot. It’s all over town that Buster Gwyn’s having a turkey trot. Frankie’s taking me. I’ve never been to one.” Jane brushed her hand across the suede fringe on her mother’s old hippie jacket.

“Jane, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but there’s no way anyone’s going to let you shoot a gun.”

Frankie laughed. “You’re wrong.”

“You plan to let her shoot?”

“No, I mean you’re wrong about where we’re going. It really is a turkey trot, not a turkey shoot.”

“A turkey trot is a footrace. They’re held in November, and the people who started them used to say that they were running to work off the calories eaten at Thanksgiving.”

Frankie turned to Jane. “That’s my sister, the encyclopedia. Daddy should have named her Wikipedia instead of Calamine. She thinks she knows everything.” He looked at me when he continued, “I might look like I fell off a turnip truck, but it wasn’t last night. I know all that, but this is something different.” He only said that bit about the turnip truck because he knows I despise that expression. Otis joined us and pulled two more chairs over to where Jane and Frankie sat.

I seated myself and said, “Then tell us about it.”

“There’s a place in Texas where a turkey trot is different. They line up domesticated turkeys and hold them back with a gate. Then they fire a starting pistol and lift the gate. All these gobblers go trotting down the street.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“I guess they do it for fun in Texas. Buster Gwyn got the idea that we could put numbers on tags around the turkeys’ necks and see which one crosses the finish line first. He has more turkeys than usual left after the holiday season.”

“So?” That was a childish response, about like when kids used to say, “Psych,” but I saw no point in watching turkeys race.

“Jane and I are going to place bets and win some money. Thought you might want to come along.”

“Are you sure that’s not against the law like cock fighting and dog fighting?”

“No more than betting on anything is against the law. People are arrested for fighting dogs and roosters because it’s cruel to the animals. This won’t injure the turkeys at all.” He laughed. “Unless somebody steals one and eats it.”

Everyone knows Buster raises turkeys and is proud that his operation’s a sideline, not industrialized. He claims his turkeys are free-range, which means they aren’t crowded into small spaces and fed chemicals. Daddy buys his turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas from Buster because he likes to cook fresh, not frozen, birds. He also likes that Buster’s birds are brown-feathered, not white like commercial turkeys usually are. I have no idea if the color has any effect on the taste, but my daddy has his own ideas about most things. All of that meant that I didn’t think Buster would even consider an activity that would hurt the turkeys.

“You can go if you want, Callie,” Otis said. “I’ll be here the rest of the day and Odell should be back soon.”

“Why don’t I stay here and you go to this turkey trot?” I suggested.

“Because I’m not a betting man. Go ahead. You might win.”

• • •

I’ve never been to a dogfight or cockfight in my life, and I never want to see animals made to hurt or kill each other, but if I ever get the chance to go to another turkey trot, I will. It was as much fun as watching the pigs race at the fair and wound up being far more exciting.

We left the van at Middleton’s and took my Mustang to Buster Gwyn’s farm. I thought that most of St. Mary’s residents had been at Fatsy Patsy’s funeral—oops! I didn’t mean to call her that anymore. Like I said, I thought everyone was there, but a lot of them must have left the cemetery and headed over to Buster’s because parked cars and trucks covered two fields and some of the people we saw getting out of them were, like me, dressed more suitably for a funeral than a turkey race. We had to walk at least half a mile following arrows from where we parked to the area designated by hand-lettered signs as the “Trotting Track.”