Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (29 page)

“Well, I’m getting ready to make some major changes in my life, and I think I’ll have to go away from Frankie for a while. We can’t even be friends for a while. When that woman sounded so warm about ‘Mr. Parrish,’ I got jealous thinking Frankie had been going to see them.”

“Jane, those women are in their sixties or seventies, and neither of them looks like a cougar to me.”

“I’m considering moving away from St. Mary, Callie. I’ll miss you so much, but it’s not like I’d have to find a new job or anything. I can work from anywhere. Would you be interested in moving? Not necessarily across country. Maybe somewhere close like Charleston or Columbia?”

“But I can’t take my job with me,” I protested. “Many funeral homes have their embalmers do makeup. That’s part of their training. I don’t think I want to teach anymore and I know I don’t want to
ever
work in a beauty parlor again.”

Jane broke into tears. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I turned the radio on. It happened to be on the old station, not oldie goldies, but
old
music from before either of us was born. I recognized Ella Fitzgerald’s voice. She’s not bluegrass or country, but Daddy has some of her old LP records that he listens to on the ancient record turntable in his room. I keep telling him he can buy CDs of everything these days, but he likes to play those old vinyl records.

“How I wish I had someone to watch over me,” Ella Fitzgerald sang in a pure, beautiful voice.

Jane joined in and they finished the Gershwin tune as a duet.

“How do you know that song?” I asked. “It was way before our time.”

“Amy Winehouse did a cover of it and so did lots of other singers, including Linda Ronstadt. I’ve done it when I used to go out and sing Karaoke when you lived in Columbia.”

“Don’t they still do Karaoke some places?” I asked, and then continued before giving her time to answer. “You and I could go out sometime and sing at those venues.”

“Maybe. Let’s not talk about it anymore. When we get home, take Big Boy for a walk and then bring him over to visit while I cook, but I’ve said what I had to say. I don’t want to talk about anything serious.”

“Fine, but I want you to know that our friendship isn’t dependent on your dating my brother. I’ll always be your friend, no matter who you hook up with.”

“And I’ll be yours.”

“If I ever meet anyone who doesn’t run out on me,” I lamented. “Everyone I get interested in seems to like me, and then they drop out of my life. What’s wrong with me?”

“Maybe you’re attracted to men who are commitment-shy or it could be your creepy job.”

“Maybe so. You attract men who want to watch over you, but then you complain when a man tells you what to do.”

“No offense, Callie, but I want someone who won’t think watching over me means telling me what to do without making any effort to help me.”

“And I want someone who will hang around more than a few weeks.”

When we reached our building, I carried the groceries in and took Big Boy for his walk. By the time we returned, Jane’s apartment smelled like Italian sausage. Big Boy loved the dog treats, and I loved the lasagna. Jane and I spent the evening having our own Karaoke night—singing along with the radio until I went home to bed and she went to work as Roxanne.

Jane’s scream pierced my mind and wrenched me from a wonderful erotic dream. I shot out of bed, grabbed my keys, and raced next door, nightgown flapping against my knees and my heart pounding like it would burst out of my chest. I didn’t need the key. The apartment was wide open with the front door dangling from one hinge.

I dashed in screaming, “What’s wrong?”

In that horrible moment, I saw Jane cowered against the far wall, still wearing her jeans and tie-dyed orange T-shirt. Terrified, she screamed and wildly whipped her white metal-tipped mobility cane back and forth, but there was no one in front of her.

A heavy fist crashed into the back of my head. I buckled to my knees, disoriented in a world of blackness. I was in Jane’s universe—sightless. I crumpled to the floor.

I tried to sit up. “Oh, no, you don’t!” a voice growled. It sounded far away. My vision cleared a little. A tall form in a hooded brown overcoat appeared in front of me—arms uplifted, holding Jane’s ceramic Christmas tree. A flash of bright light blasted through my head, and I collapsed in agony. I may have lost consciousness or I might not have. I’m not sure. I lay limp while Jane screamed, “Callie! Callie! Say something so I can find you!”

I must have moaned because I don’t remember speaking or moving. I felt Jane leaning over me, pressing her hands against my head, whispering, “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right.” The words seemed to stick in my throat. “Someone broke your ceramic Christmas tree over my head. Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I’d just finished working and was putting my hair in a French braid when whoever it was bashed the door in and rushed at me. I grabbed my mobility cane and tried to hit the person while I screamed for help. Then you came in.” She mashed even harder on my head.

“Where’s the intruder now?” I managed to get the words out.

“Ran out the front door. Hold on, Callie, I’m calling 911. Your head’s bleeding, and I’ll get a cloth to hold against it.”

I can’t say that I heard Jane make the call, nor that I remember the sirens, but I was vaguely aware when a male voice assured me, “Callie, they’re taking you to the hospital to be checked out. You probably have a concussion and you definitely need stitches.”

Shih tzu!
I thought,
If I keep getting concussions, I’ll be like those boxers with the cauliflower ears and football players after they’ve had so many head injuries.

A male voice barked toward a direction away from me, “Don’t touch anything you don’t have to. I’m calling in the forensics team. They may be able to get prints off the broken glass pieces.” A pause. “Take the red-haired lady with you in the front of the ambulance and let her stay with the victim at the hospital. I’ll call the Middletons, too.”

That’s when I recognized the voice—Dean Robinson. I wanted to sit up and tell him, “I don’t need a homicide detective
or
a funeral home. I’m
not dead
!”
That’s what I wanted to do, but my hands wouldn’t move and I’d lost the ability to talk again.

Paralysis,
I thought.
I’m paralyzed.
I tried to lift my arms and realized they were strapped down. I wasn’t paralyzed. I was on a body board. I opened my eyes and saw Dean, Jane, and two emergency technicians
around me.

“Don’t struggle,” one of the EMTs said. “We’ve got you stabilized to carry you to the hospital.”

My mind went to Fields of Flowers and their webpage stating they would transport a body for one hundred dollars plus mileage.
Bet this ride will cost a whole lot more than that,
I thought
.
Good thing Otis and Odell have hospitalization insurance on me.
Then, even with my muddled mind, I realized how ridiculous it was to be thinking silly ideas about Fields of Flowers. I should have been grateful I wasn’t headed to a real cemetery.

I opened my mouth and found that I could finally speak once more, “Is Jane okay? Did the thief hurt her?”

“I’m fine, Callie,” Jane said. “You’re the one who was hurt, but I’m going with you to the hospital.”

“I broke your ceramic tree.” I knew that was irrelevant when I said it, but my brain was even less capable than usual of controlling my mouth.

“You’ve got a hard head,” Jane laughed.

• • •

I first met Dr. Donald Walters, my used-to-be sometimes boyfriend, when I went to the ER a couple of years ago. I didn’t expect to see him this time because he has his own practice now and doesn’t work emergency anymore, but he met us as the EMTs wheeled me into the hospital.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” I managed to whisper to Donald.

“When they reported the ambulance was on the way with you, hospital admissions pulled your records and saw I’m listed as your doctor. They paged me, and since I was checking on another patient here, I came down to ER.” He patted my hand, which was still strapped to the body board below the IV needle the EMTs had inserted.

“Seems like you’re here almost every time I’m hit on the head,” I said.

“Callie, head injuries shouldn’t be taken lightly. You know the routine. I want tests, and then I may want you here overnight for observation. Open your mouth.”

I stretched my jaws wide and he looked inside with a little flashlight.

“You’ve bitten your tongue. Chances are you have a concussion and were unconscious.” Donald loosened the restraints, and the paramedics moved me from their stretcher to a hospital gurney and left.

“I don’t think I lost consciousness,” I said. “I was hit and then Jane was looking for me.”

“
Looking
for you?”

“You know as well as I do that Jane
looks
by touch. I remember her calling my name, telling me to make noise so she could find me.”

“Could still have been out of it for a few minutes. Doesn’t matter now. The tests will show me what I need to know, and from the looks of your head, we’ll need to stitch some of those cuts.”

“Then sew me up and let me go home. I don’t want to spend the night here.”

“Tough. I’ll make that decision, but I won’t make you stay unless I think it’s necessary. The bleeding’s stopped. We’ll get a CT scan first.”

Two nurses, one on each end of the gurney, took me for the scan. I hate, positively
hate
when they put my head in those machines. I always get these terrifying thoughts that the metal will fail and the machine will crush me.

When it was over, they took me back to Emergency, which I thought might mean I was going home. Jane was sitting in a chair by the bed. A nurse helped me out of my bloody nightgown and into one of those hospital thingies that tie in the back but leave the patient’s behind open for all the world to see. I’d just leaned back when Dr. Donald came in with another nurse carrying a tray. He bent over and examined my head.

He reached up and turned on the brightest lights I’ve ever seen and directed them toward me. “Best shave the cuts after you clean them,” he told the nurse.

“Shave?”
I shrieked. “You’re going to shave my head?”

“Not your whole head. Just where you need stitches. You won’t feel a thing after I get a couple of shots of local anesthetic into the wounds.”

He lied. Of course, that’s not the first time a man has ever lied to me, but I was still disappointed in him. When he injected the numbing medication directly into the cuts, I definitely felt it and moaned.

After Dr. Donald was satisfied that the assistant had cleaned and shaved the appropriate spots on my head, I felt the stitches go in, though, to be honest, it didn’t feel like he was sewing my head. More like he was pinching me, and the shots must have taken effect because I didn’t much care. I didn’t object to what they were doing to my head, but my mind took off in peculiar directions. There I lay—head partially shaved, wearing my backless hospital gown with no boobs because I wasn’t wearing inflatable underwear, actually no underwear at all. Light green cloths draped all around me. I felt like I was drifting in and out of reality.

By the time the attendants pushed me out of the trauma room, down the hall, into the patient elevator, and up to my room, most of the reality was gone, and all I wanted to do was sleep. After what might have been a few minutes or much longer, I forced myself to open my eyes and saw that Daddy and Mike had joined Jane in my room. She was the only one who didn’t look completely shocked. I guess because she couldn’t see me.

I was vaguely aware when the sheriff came in. He took a statement from Jane about her intruder right there with my father and brother listening. Then he apologized for not arriving sooner. “I would have been here before, but we’ve got a kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” Jane said. “Is there an Amber Alert?”

“Technically, it’s not an Amber Alert because we have no vehicle description, but I’ve put out an APB as well as media releases.”

“Who is it?” Daddy asked.

“The baby.” Wayne said it matter-of-factly in his official cop voice.