Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (4 page)

“What time do you want me?” I got out of the bed and headed to the bathroom, talking the whole time.

“I’ll call you when I finish and we’re ready for makeup and dressing. Keep your cell phone charged and on you.” This was the only fault my bosses had complained about in the past. I used to have a hard time remembering to charge my phone and I lost it all the time, but my new routine of charging it overnight while it was by my bedside and carrying it in my bra was working out well.

“Okay, do you know any more about how Jeff died?” I gazed at myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked tired.

“He was in a car wreck four days ago. Of course, we won’t know for sure until the autopsy report is completed, but when I talked to the medical examiner, he said not all the toxicology reports are back, but Jeff appeared to have a high blood alcohol content in his body. Said he could smell it. Thankfully, Jeff hit a tree instead of another car, so no one else was hurt.”

“If it happened four days ago, why didn’t we know earlier?” I wet a washcloth and began wiping my face, trying to make myself more alert.

“His identification showed only his address in Rock Hill just below Charlotte. The police up there had to interview lots of neighbors and coworkers to find anyone who knew where he was from originally and who his nearest relative might be. It took several days before they got that info and contacted Sheriff Harmon. He went to Rock Hill and identified the body before he went to tell Miss Lettie yesterday.”

“Do you have any idea how bad the injuries are?” I asked. I don’t do any prepping (Funeraleze for embalming), but my work dressing and making up the body includes using reconstructive techniques whenever necessary to make the decedent look as good as possible for loved ones. South Carolina allows me to work as a cosmetician (Funeraleze for cosmetologist) because I have a South Carolina Cosmetology License, but my bosses, Otis and Odell Middleton, taught me my reconstruction skills.

I’m also a certified primary school teacher, but I’ll need two additional graduate level college courses to maintain my certification after next year, but I don’t plan to go back to teaching anyway. My clients now lie still, don’t talk back, and don’t tee tee their pants like my kindergarten students did.

“I’m not sure,” Otis continued. “Miss Lettie wants us to dress him in a suit from stock because none of his clothes are here. I’ll leave that selection up to you, and she wants him ready so she can see him when she comes in this afternoon. I’ll call and let you know when Morgan is here and about what time we’ll be ready for you.”

We both said goodbye.

What a way to start the day after Christmas! I wanted to call Jane and see if she’d like to go out for breakfast, but if she’d worked late last night, she’d still be sleeping.

At the exact moment that I stepped into the shower, James Brown belted “I Feel Good” from my phone again. I thought Otis must be calling back, but it was Daddy.

“Calamine, I’ve made a big pot of Brunswick stew. Can you pick it up and take it over to Miss Lettie’s house?”

“Is John there yet?” After all, he was Jeff Morgan’s good friend, while I hadn’t really known Jeff since I was only eight when he moved away when he and John were about twenty years old. Besides, that would be a lot like working. My extra duties at Middleton’s included taking register stands, folding chairs, and a silk floral wreath for the door to the homes of the deceased.

“John’s here at the house, but he’s too upset to go over there yet, and I want this stew over at the Morgan home as soon as possible. I was up before daylight making it. Couldn’t sleep thinking about that boy. He was a good kid, hung around the house a lot with John when they were young, before Jeff got to drinking like he did. You know he grew up without a dad, and Miss Lettie was a basket case until Jeff was several years old.” He cleared his throat. “Will you come get the stew? John’s planning to go over there this evening, and I’ll go with him then, but I want this food there early.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time I finished showering and dressing, I was starving and I’d eaten all of my MoonPies the night before. I called Otis back and got the address and directions to Miss Lettie’s farm house before heading to Gastric Gullah Grill on the way to Daddy’s.

My friend Rizzie Profit owns the restaurant. She was cooking and Tyrone, the teenager who’d been raised like her little brother, waited tables. Rizzie is a voluptuous woman about my age with a great figure and skin like Godiva chocolate. Sometimes she dresses and speaks her native Gullah, but this morning, she wore jeans and a sweat shirt with “Gastric Gullah Grill – G3” and a fancy sweetgrass basket embroidered on it. It coordinated with the baskets and other Gullah artwork that decorate the walls of the grill.

The beautiful, intricately woven baskets made by the Gullah folk here are widely known far beyond where we live in the South Carolina Low Country. A lot of signs write Lowcountry as one word, but I like to do it my way. Both Rizzie and Tyrone can make the baskets, but Rizzie claims she enjoys cooking authentic Gullah food and creating her own Gullah-inspired recipes more than weaving.

“Hey, what’s with the Gee Three?” I asked.

“It’s my ‘brand.’ Gonna use it on a webpage and on menus—everything associated with the grill.” Rizzie answered.

The restaurant was almost full. Even the favorite seat of regular morning customer Pork Chop Higgins, who probably weighs more than three hundred pounds, was taken. A young couple occupied Pork Chop’s favorite booth, which is the only one with a movable table so he can create more space between the table and seats than the other booths have. Pork Chop sat on one of the stools at the counter with his huge round butt cheeks hanging off each side of the seat. He had on his usual overalls over a bright green shirt. Pork Chop owns a pig farm not too far down the road from my daddy’s place. He’s about an xxxxx-large man whose mere size is intimidating. I confess that I’d never want to be the one who tried to cheat Pork Chop or make him angry, but he’s always been a gentleman around me.

I slid onto a counter stool beside Pork Chop and tried not to accidentally touch his overhang. Rizzie herself brought me a cup of coffee and glass of water.

“Where’s your server this morning?” I asked.

“I let her have the day off because I didn’t expect to be slammed. Guess everyone got enough of cooking yesterday and didn’t want leftover turkey sandwiches for breakfast.”

“Make me something fast and good,” I told her.

“Do you want a Gullah breakfast?” Rizzie asked.

“No, just scrambled eggs and toast will be fine. I’m kind of in a hurry.”

A copy of the
St. Mary Gazette
lay on the counter, probably left by a previous customer. I picked it up and began reading the obituaries. Middleton’s Mortuary is the only funeral home in the actual town limits of St. Mary, but the
Gazette
carries obits from several surrounding towns as well, including Beaufort and neighboring islands. I write the death notices for Middleton’s, and I’m always interested to see how other mortuaries are wording their news releases as well as who may have died in St. Mary but chose to use one of other undertakers in the area.

Tyrone slid a plate in front of me. “Scrambled eggs and toast” had become Rizzie’s own version of Gullah Eggs Benedict with scrambled eggs piled on top of flash-fried oysters on a spicy corn bread flat cake. She’d topped the whole stack of culinary heaven with Bearnaise sauce instead of Hollandaise because she knows I absolutely
adore
tarragon. I dug in and was concentrating on my feast when a disturbance across the room drew my attention.

The
very
pregnant woman who’d sat in Pork Chop’s booth was trying to slide out of the seat. She was a pretty girl who looked far too young to be pregnant. The boy with her hardly looked Tyrone’s age, and he’s only fifteen. The young man pulled on the girl’s arms and got her to the edge of the bench, but each time she tried to stand up, she sank back onto the seat and screamed.

“Misty,” he said, “we’ve got to get you out of here and to the hospital.”

“I’m trying, Billy Wayne. I’m trying.” She grimaced. “You don’t have any idea how bad it’s hurting.”

Now, anyone who grows up on a farm in the South is very familiar with birth. We’ve seen it in farm animals and frequently assisted creatures when Mother Nature wasn’t making delivery run smoothly. I confess, I thought about stepping in to help, but I hesitated, thinking the boy—excuse me, I mean young man—would get her to a hospital. I didn’t know what stage by number, but I knew enough to realize that Misty was in advanced labor.

Eeeeeeyowwww!
Misty arched her back and slid from the booth onto the floor—flat on her back. Now tears and sobs mixed in with her very regular screams. Billy Wayne stepped back, clearly awed and confused about what to do.

Pork Chop slid those monstrous hams off the stool and stepped over to Misty and Billy Wayne. “When’s her baby due?” he growled in a raspy voice.

“Last week,” Billy Wayne gasped.

Pork Chop turned around and pointed at me. “Get some towels or tablecloths,” he barked.

Rizzie must have heard all the commotion because she came running out of the kitchen and grabbed an arm full of tablecloths from the linen shelf.

“Hold those sheets up around us and give this little lady some privacy,” Pork Chop said. “And somebody call 911 and tell ’em we need an ambulance.” He said it “am-boo-lance.”

Rizzie helped some other diners and me hold the tablecloths like curtains around the young girl. Pork Chop’s voice lost the gravel and became comforting.

“Now push just as hard as you can. I’ll catch your baby.”

A moan, a groan, a scream from behind the tablecloth drapes.

The next sound was a cry—a loud, lusty howl.

“It’s a boy!” Pork Chop yelled joyfully. “I’m putting your son on his mama’s chest,” he said to Billy Wayne. “Cover him up with these clean cloths and make sure he don’t slide off before the paramedics get here.”

I confess that I peeked around the tablecloth I held. The baby was red and wet and wrinkled and had its eyes squenched shut just like newborn farm animals.

Silence reigned in the Gastric Gullah Grill for a moment, but a cheer went up when we heard sirens heralding the ambulance.

The paramedics proclaimed that mother and son seemed healthy but that they would take them to be examined by a doctor.

“Wow! Guess you learned to do that while helping birth those piglets on your farm,” Rizzie told Pork Chop.

“No, by the time my ninth young’un was due, I’d gotten old and fat and lazy. When Mary Beth woke me up and said it was time to go, I figgered we had plenty of time, and I tole her I wasn’t going anywhere until after I had my breakfast. I delivered my last kid on the kitchen floor.” He grinned. “And my wife ain’t never gone let me fergit it and she ain’t cooked me no breakfast since then either. That’s why I’m here every morning.”

With that, Pork Chop went to the men’s room. When he came out, he picked up his cup and plate from the counter and moved them to his booth recently vacated by the new parents. He sat down and rattled his spoon back and forth in his empty coffee cup while calling to Tyrone, “Can you warm this up for me?”

• • •

The prettiest thing about my childhood home is the long drive bordered on both sides by ancient live oak trees that bend across the road forming an overhead arch dripping with Spanish moss. The house itself is ugly, covered with dark gray shingles and black trim—both chosen by Daddy because they were on sale.

My dad had been waiting for me, probably very impatient, because I’d barely braked the car before he came out with Mike right behind him carrying a huge pot, which he placed on the floor of the front passenger seat. I noticed John’s dark gray Mercedes in the drive and asked, “When did John’s family come in?”

“We don’t have time to talk,” Daddy said. “I told you I want this stew over there right away.” Behind Dad’s back, Mike shrugged his shoulders and gave me a
What can I say?
look. Daddy has never allowed any of his six kids to even suggest what he should do, and that’s become a problem since he had a heart attack and my brothers and I try to “help” him more. He’s stubborn, and it’s “my way or no way.”

“I’m gone,” I said and pulled away without ever stopping the engine.

When I arrived at Miss Lettie’s, I was surprised to see only one vehicle in her driveway—a blue F-150 pickup truck. Around here, when someone dies, friends and relatives usually flock to the home. I went to the door and rang the bell without getting the stew pot from the car.

“Who is it?” someone called from inside. Not an old lady voice, it had the sound of a strong, young person, but the face of the woman who opened the door didn’t match. Wrinkled and weathered would have described her appearance even if her skin hadn’t been flushed dark red and tear-streaked. She stood tall and straight, again at odds with that angular, aged face. Her brown, long-sleeved, chenille bathrobe covered her head to toe, but I could tell she was lean and sinewy. Her hair—going gray, but with some lifeless brown still in it—was pulled tight into a scrawny ponytail in back.

“Is Miss Lettie Morgan home?” I asked.

“It’s Miss Lettie or Mrs. Morgan,” she answered. “I was married to Jeffrey Morgan Senior which makes me Mrs. Morgan.” She stretched out the Mrs. to Missusssss. “Somehow people just began calling me by my first name and stuck Miss in front of it, kind of like they do kindergarten teachers.”