Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (6 page)

“What did you want to know from me?”

“Do you have any female friends who have long red hair?”

I stopped dead still and set the airbrush on the counter beside my work table. “My best friend has red hair—very long hair. It hangs to her waist when she wears it loose.”

“Would you be willing to look at the deceased when she’s brought back to be sure it’s not your friend?”

“Not necessary. My friend was with me when I found the body. She’s the woman who lives next door to me. You saw her. She sat in your car with me.”

“I don’t remember her hair being long.”

“She probably had it in a ponytail in back. Sometimes she braids it, and a lot of the time, she just loops it into a knot at the back of her head and pins it there. She may have pinned the ponytail up while she was inside her apartment before you arrived. I don’t remember because I’m so used to seeing her that I don’t pay much attention to how her hair is done.”

“Do you know any other females in St. Mary with extremely long, red hair?”
 

“Not that I can think of.”

I guess long hair is relative. Mine is barely shoulder-length now, which is long for me. Jane hasn’t really cut her hair in years. Sometimes I trim the ends, but basically she wears that long, straight hair because her mother had long, straight hair. Her mom was a flower child who died around the time we finished high school. Jane wears a lot of her mother’s vintage hippie outfits. I think it makes her feel close to her mom. My mother died giving me birth, and I have nothing particular that makes me think of her. Sometimes I wonder whether I would have enjoyed wearing her clothes if Daddy had saved them.

“Are you okay?” Detective Robinson asked. “You seemed out of it for a minute.”

“Just thinking.”

Thank heaven Odell stepped in at that moment.

“Looks good except for the nose,” he said.

“I want you or Otis to help with that.”

“No problem.” He turned toward Detective Robinson. “I saw you over at Callie’s house, didn’t I? Aren’t you the sheriff’s new homicide man?”

“I’m new to the department, and I’ll be heading up homicide cases. My name’s Dean Robinson.”

“Well, Deputy Robinson, I hope you haven’t had lunch. I went to that new place, Bubba’s Bodacious BBQ Barn, to pick up sandwiches for Callie, Otis, and me, but after I ordered, I saw they have pepper-vinegar, mustard base, and tomato base pork as well as chicken and catfish on their buffet. I couldn’t resist it. I ate there, so I’ve got two extra sandwiches in a bag on my desk.” He nodded at Robinson. “Help yourself to a sandwich while I work on Mr. Morgan’s nose.” He rubbed circles on his—well, in Odell’s case, the only word for it is
belly
. “I’m stuffed.”

Robinson must have been as hungry as I was eager to avoid having to rebuild Jeff Morgan’s nose because neither of us wasted any time getting out of my workroom. Over coffee and barbecue sandwiches, he told me more about the Santa found on my porch.

“I watched the medical examiner carefully, and I didn’t see any signs of violence other than the marks on the woman’s neck. There was definitely a circumferential ligature furrow around her neck as well as small abrasions or contusions periodically on the furrow. The doctor didn’t let me get my face right into what he was doing, but I could hear him dictating. He referred to petechial hemorrhages on the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes and facial skin. Are you familiar with petechial hemorrhages?” He took a big bite of his sandwich.

“I’ve read about them in mystery books. They indicate strangulation, don’t they?” I took a bite, but not nearly so big as his had been.

“Yes. I’m positive that the autopsy report will be that she died as a result of being choked to death with some kind of rope or cord.”

“You sound like a medical examiner yourself.” Okay, I know that was stroking his ego, but the man was good-looking.

“I’ve watched and read a whole lot of postmortem exams in Florida.” He sipped his coffee, and then beamed—a big, warm smile.

“You’re not married, are you?” His eyes twinkled and questioned as much as his words.

“Not anymore.”

“Are you in a committed relationship?”

I am about as far from a sweet, magnolia-mouthed, blushing Southern belle as possible, but I think my cheeks may have flushed bright pink.

“I don’t think so,” I answered.

“I didn’t see a man at your place Christmas night. Are you living with someone?”

“No, I was getting serious about a doctor, but that faded. Then I met this man in October. He had to go back to Florida, and we talk on the telephone almost every night, but it’s not really any kind of relationship.” I paused but felt compelled to add, “He talks like he’s really interested and keeps saying he’s coming back to South Carolina to see me.”

The detective smiled again. “Sounds to me like you might be free enough to have dinner with me Saturday night. How about it? I’m fairly new in town, and you could tell me the best place to get my dry cleaning done and all those little things. I know where you live. I can pick you up around eight o’clock. You choose where you want to eat, and we’ll share our baggage.”

“Share what?”

“Baggage. You know—the things in the past that have made us cautious in the present.”

Now, if Patel and I had shared more than just a kiss and he was calling me
every
night, I probably would have had even more hesitation about going out with Sheriff Harmon’s new deputy, but to be honest, the way Patel went on about being attracted to me, I’d been disappointed he hadn’t come to South Carolina around the holidays. Face it. Christmas hadn’t turned out so great when it ended with me finding Santa dead on my porch.

“That sounds nice,” I answered. “Of course, I never know when I’ll be called in to work.”

“And I plan to be off that night, though developments in this case could change that, but barring unforeseen work changes, I’ll pick you up at your place at eight.”

He finished his sandwich and walked briskly out of the room. I heard “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” when he left the building.

I should have cleared off the sandwich wrappings and gone back to my workroom immediately to see if Odell needed me and check why Otis hadn’t shown up for his sandwich. Instead, I acted like a fourteen-year-old and called my BFF.

“Callie here,” I said when Jane answered.

“I think after all these years I recognize your voice. You left early this morning. Are you at work?”

“Yes, but I called to tell you I have a date for dinner Saturday night.”

In my mind, I saw the big grin on Jane’s face. “J.T. Patel’s coming back to town?” she asked with a lilt in her voice, but the expression was a statement rather than a question.

“No. Do you remember the homicide detective who was at the house last night?”

“The one who made us sit in his car?”

“His name is Dean Robinson, and he asked me out.”

“Where’d you see him?”

“He came by Middleton’s to ask some questions.”

“What about J. T. Patel?”

“What about him?”

“I know you’re not really in a relationship with him, but aren’t you two trying to hook up?”

Thank heaven a call-waiting beep interrupted the conversation because I didn’t know how to answer that question.

“Got a beep coming in. I’ll call you or see you tonight.” I hit the “flash” button on the telephone.

“Callie,” the smooth, velvety voice of J. T. Patel greeted me. “You’ve been on my mind since I woke this morning, and I wanted to see how your day is going. Sometimes thinking about you makes me feel like a sixteen-year-old kid in love for the first time.”

We chatted for several minutes, and no, I didn’t tell him that I was going out to dinner with another man on Saturday night.

“Just As I Am” called me from the front door.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “Someone’s in the hall.”

“I’ll call you tonight,” Patel promised, and then added, “We’ve got to make plans to get together.”

The call from Patel made me wonder if I should cancel the date with Detective Robinson. Patel and I’d never told each other that we weren’t dating other people, but since we talked most nights, it was obvious that neither of us was getting busy in the evenings.

No time to pursue that line of thought. I stepped into the hall where tall, thin Miss Lettie awaited with her short, slightly plump neighbor Ellen.
What time is it?
I thought.
I haven’t dressed Mr. Morgan yet. Surely it’s not two o’clock already!

The first thing Miss Lettie said was, “I want to see my baby!”

• • •

Odell joined us before I had time to open my mouth, much less consider what to say.

“You’ve come early, but of course, you’ll see your son,” he said in that calm, professional undertaker tone he uses. He took her arm at the elbow and guided her into the first conference room. We’ve recently added paintings of Southern flowers on the walls of the planning rooms and named the rooms for the décor. We sat around the mahogany table in the Wisteria Room, named for the cluster of silk wisteria centered on the round table and an oil painting of lavender wisteria on the wall behind the side table.

“I want to see him
now
!” Miss Lettie protested.

“Let me assist you in planning how to best respect Mr. Morgan with a beautiful funeral or memorial service.” Odell continued as though she hadn’t said anything.

“I know what I want, and I want to see my son!” Miss Lettie objected.

Watching the sometimes gruff, growly Odell Middleton tame that lady was a lesson in professionalism. He convinced her that she’d want to see Mr. Morgan in the casket she selected. In no time, with only occasional encouragement from her friend Ellen, Miss Lettie selected a solid cherry casket that we stocked. Odell sent me to tell Otis what had been chosen and that Mr. Morgan should be casketed as soon as possible.

I found Otis in my work room finishing dressing Mr. Morgan. His nose looked great! We brought the coffin in from the storage building, put Mr. Morgan in it, and placed him in Slumber Room A, which hasn’t yet been renamed.

By the time I stepped back into the conference room, Miss Lettie had set the visitation for Saturday, at one p.m. in Middleton’s chapel with service to follow at two p.m. and interment beside Jeff Morgan’s father in the St. Mary Cemetery. She considered and then flatly refused offers to have the visitation catered with finger foods, saying, “People can eat before they come.”

As she nor Ellen had any church affiliation, Miss Lettie told Odell to hire a preacher and someone to sing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “Battle Hymn of the Republic” because those were the songs performed at her husband’s funeral. She requested a red, white, and blue casket spray, and then asked emphatically, “Are we done now?”

“As soon as you sign these papers,” Odell said and placed a clipboard of paperwork in front of Miss Lettie. She scrawled her name everywhere Odell indicated and swatted Ellen’s hand away when Ellen reached for the clipboard, probably intending to read what her friend was signing.

“Now I want to see my son,” Miss Lettie demanded.

Odell raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the door. I nodded “yes,” and Odell said, “Callie here may need to ask a few more questions for the obituary, but if you’d like to see Mr. Morgan before that, we can see him before finalizing the announcements.”

Fully expecting Miss Lettie to be a body-grabber, I stood close to her when she reached her son. The top half of the casket was open, but we’d draped a thin, almost transparent cloth over it—not that it would physically prevent anyone from seizing or embracing the decedent, but we’ve found it’s a good psychological barrier when there’s facial damage.

Straight and tall, Miss Lettie looked like that woman in Grant Wood’s picture “American Gothic.” Everybody’s seen it—a solemn, plain woman standing beside a farmer holding a pitchfork with a barn in the background. I always thought they were man and wife, but I’ve read that the woman was his daughter. Miss Lettie looked just like her with hair beginning to gray, and for the first time, I saw that even in December, Miss Lettie had a farmer’s tan browning her hands and the back of her neck.

She narrowed her eyes and stared at Jeff Morgan without making any effort to touch him.

“My baby,” she finally said. “He was my beautiful baby, and he looks just like his daddy.” She turned toward me. “Why did you shave his head?”

“No, ma’am. His head isn’t shaved. He’s bald.” I knew this because I’d rubbed the top of Mr. Morgan’s head myself out of curiosity. Shaved heads on men are stylish now, and I like the look, but Mr. Morgan’s head had shed the dark hair I’d seen in his youthful photograph. Her question did make me wonder how long it had been since she’d seen her son though.

“His daddy’s hair was thinning. If he’d lived long enough, he probably would have been bald, too,” Ellen said.

“I guess so.” Miss Lettie’s voice lowered, barely audible. She turned toward me. “I don’t want a long write-up. You can say that Jeffrey Junior was killed in a car accident and announce the time and date of the service, but that’s all.”