by Fran Rizer
“Well, if you’re tired, let’s get outta here. I want a shower before Roxanne starts working tonight.”
At home, when I pulled into her yard, Jane said, “Call me tomorrow,” and climbed out of the truck.
“Stairs are straight ahead, about seven steps in front of you,” I told her.
Jane was inside her apartment when I realized I had that humongous sub in the backseat. I picked it up and carried it to the top of the stairway. Jane let me in when I called out to her, and I cut the sandwich in half, wrapped it in two packages, and left one part in Jane’s fridge.
“Thanks, Roxanne will enjoy that in the wee hours of the morning.” Jane giggled. We both referred to her “conversationalist” personality as though Roxanne were a real person, not just a name Jane used on her job. Tired and ready to have some time to myself, I breathed a sigh of relief as Jane locked her apartment door and I headed down the steps.
My relief was premature. Ms. Lucas pulled in behind me in her gray Lincoln Town Car, opened the door, and stepped out. She wore a powder blue suit, probably some expensive brand from New York that I’d never even heard of.
“Glad to see you,” she said as she walked quickly toward me. “Is Miss Baker home?”
“Yes, she is. What do you want?”
“Mrs. White gave me keys to the property, but when I was here earlier, I found out she didn’t give me one for the apartment. I need to get in there to inspect it.”
“If you want to go in before Jane moves out, Mrs. White will have to come with you.” I stepped around her and opened the truck door.
“Well, if that blind girl is in there, she’s going to show me around.” Ms. Lucas started up the stairs. I sat in my car, hoping Jane wouldn’t answer the woman’s knock. I was just too exhausted to deal with this tonight.
“Open up!” Ms. Lucas shouted when she reached the top of the stairs and banged on the door.
Jane opened the door barely wide enough to stick her head out. “Go away,” I heard her say.
“I’m buying this property, and I’m coming in to look at it now.”
Stepping out onto the stoop, Jane pulled the door closed behind her. I could hardly believe what Ms. Lucas did next. She leaned far to her left and said something I couldn’t hear. Jane turned toward the sound. Ms. Lucas leaned to the right. Again, I saw her mouth open and close, but I couldn’t hear her. She continued moving, side to side, dipping down low, then standing on tiptoe, speaking to Jane from different angles and different heights.
Jane twisted her head, trying to determine the woman’s location. Jane was one of the most controlled people I’ve ever known, and her lack of sight had never seemed much of a handicap. All of that was irrelevant. Jane lost it. Totally and completely lost it. She began flailing her arms around, trying to locate her tormenter. Ms. Lucas ducked and moved from side to side, laughing at Jane’s distress.
Enough was enough, and this was too much. I jumped out of my car and yelled, “Just be still, Jane. She’s trying to fool you.”
When I reached the top of the stairs, I screamed, “Get out of here now. I told you to leave Jane alone. You’re not getting in here until we see a deed showing you own the place. Until then, the only person with a legal right to be in here is Pearl White or Jane’s invited guests.”
I couldn’t believe what happened next.
Ms. Lucas shoved me. I wobbled a moment, caught my balance, and yelled, “Jane, call 911. Get Sheriff Harmon over here.”
The woman pushed her way around me and ran down the stairway. “This isn’t over,” she yelled as she jumped into her car, gunned the motor, and sped out of the yard.
A few minutes later, Deputy Smoak pulled up in his cruiser. I went down to meet him. “The emergency’s over,” I said, “but I want to file a report.”
Chapter Twelve
Dalmation! A hundred and one dalmations! Shih tzu!!! Telling Deputy Smoak about Ms. Lucas and how she’d acted made me madder than I’d been while she was there. When he finished taking our statements, I told Jane I’d see her later, climbed in the rattletrap truck, and left.
Sometimes driving with the wind in my hair improves my spirits and removes my need for profanity, even if it is kindergarten cussing. Since I still didn’t have my convertible Mustang back, I rolled all the windows down and turned the air conditioner on high.
I had plenty to do at home. Housecleaning, laundry, watering my plants, and taking Big Boy for a walk. Problem was that I was too angry to be productive. I thought about driving by Middleton’s, but that didn’t really have any appeal either. Stopped at a traffic sign, I peered at myself in the rearview mirror. Maybe I needed a change. I headed for the pharmacy.
Once in the store, I realized that I’d come for cosmetics. A new lipstick or shade of mascara, something different in my life. I had many, many shades of lipstick in my kit at work, but I never used mortuary makeup on myself. It wasn’t because I’d used those products on dead people. I always used brushes and frequently cotton-tipped swabs at work to apply the makeup.
The problem was that, to me, teachers who took school supplies home for personal use were as guilty as Jane was for shoplifting. Those acts were stealing, and using cosmetics from work would be the same thing. I did sometimes use nail polish from work when I manicured Rizzie’s grandmother’s hands. I felt that was evened out by my personally buying polish for her, and using it at work whenever the colors were better matched to a client’s clothing.
Browsing through the nail polish display, I thought about Dr. Melvin. He’d worked here for so many years that it seemed strange not to see him, to know that he’d never be back. He’d selected the platinum blonde that was my current color. It had been his suggestion to lighten it up from the strawberry blonde I’d been wearing. Of course, I’d bought hair color several times and colored the roots numerous times since then. I wondered what color he’d pick for me if he were here. Probably red, like his new wife’s.
I didn’t want to be a redhead. There was no dye or tint product that could come anywhere near being as pretty and bright a red as Jane’s hair. Besides, I’d once dated a guy who’d been called “Red.” I definitely didn’t want to invite a nickname that would remind me of him.
“May I help you?”
I looked up and saw a middle-aged lady.
“Not really,” I said. “I’m just looking.” I smiled. “I’m thinking maybe I want a big change.”
“I noticed you looking at hair color. We have some new shades in.” She picked up a box and held it out to me. “This Honey Brown is new and Sherry Sparkle is nice, too. It’s a dark auburn.” She looked up at the clock and added, “We close in five minutes.”
Perhaps it was the anger still in me. Could have even been PMS, though I don’t acknowledge that I’m particularly foul at that time. I’m perfectly capable of being foul anytime or all the time. I couldn’t make up my mind. I wound up buying a box of each with the woman’s assurance that I could return the one I didn’t use so long as it wasn’t opened.
For a wonder, I had my cell phone with me, and it was even charged. I called Daddy.
“Hi, this is Callie. Is Daddy home?”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “Pa wants to talk to you. I’ll get him.”
“Calamine, I got your Mustang fixed,” Daddy said. “Your fuel pump was bad. I replaced it. Where are you?”
“I’m near McDonald’s. I’m going to get a Coke.”
“Wait there and I’ll bring your car to you and drive the truck home.”
I agreed and flipped the phone closed. That was nice of Daddy to offer to bring the car instead of making me drive to his place to get it. When I reached McDonald’s, I dropped my half sub into my bag, went inside, and ordered a large Coke. I sat at a table and waited.
Daddy showed up with Mike driving.
They came in, and Daddy offered to buy me a Big Mac or Quarter Pounder. “I been craving a Big Mac all day,” he said.
“Yeah, I thought Pa would have a Mac
Attack before we got here,” Mike added.
So much for the kindness of my family bringing my car to me. I declined the offer and left before they received their orders. It felt good to be back in my Mustang. I thought about putting the top down, but didn’t take the time to stop and do it. A crumpled pile of satin and lace lay on the backseat. The thongs. I wondered if anyone had noticed them.
Unwrapping my half of the deluxe submarine sandwich, I drove through town. The Mustang had belonged to my ex, Donnie. It was his pride and joy. When Donnie did what he did that made me divorce him, I was madder’n a wet Rhode Island Red hen. I asked for the car, and I got it.
At first, I just took Donnie’s Mustang for spite, even planned to sell it, but when I started driving that baby, I fell in love. I hope it lasts forever. That reminded me that I hadn’t even asked Daddy how much I owed him for the fuel pump. He wouldn’t charge me labor, but I should at least offer to pay for the parts. Finally, I drove back to my apartment munching on the last bite of my sub.
When I pulled into my driveway, I saw something different on the front porch. I have a terra-cotta pot by the door that I plant with seasonal flowers throughout the year. Marigolds blossomed like a big frilly yellow hat over the planter. Across from them, on the other side of the door, stood a container filled with mixed spring and summer flowers. Who’d brought them? They weren’t here when I left the house. Levi Pinckney knew where I lived. Had he been by with a peace offering for standing me up at Nate’s?
Big Boy met me as soon as I opened the door. I clipped on his leash and took him for a long walk. My mood was lifted by something as simple as a bouquet. Back inside, I placed the flowers on the counter by the sink so I could see them from both the living room and the kitchen. I filled the dog bowls with fresh water and Kibbles ’n Bits, then set the food dish on the coffee table and hand-fed the red pieces to Big Boy. Those are his favorites, and he loves being spoiled.
RRRRing. “Hello,” I answered.
“Just me,” Jane said. “I left those thongs from Victoria’s Secret on the seat of your car, and I just remembered how fussy you are sometimes. Thought I’d call and tell you to go by and get them out before your brothers or your daddy see them.”
“I told you I’m not going to wear anything you steal,” I told her.
“I know that. I didn’t leave them for you. I want them back. Just forgot about ’em when the car broke down.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’ve got the Mustang now, and the thongs are still on the backseat. I’ll bring them in.”
“Okay,” she said. “That sub you gave me was almost as good as the meatballs.” She paused for a moment. “Gotta go. Someone’s calling Roxanne.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I mumbled. I didn’t want the thongs, but Jane was right. I was all grown up now, but a part of me was still the little girl who started drying her unmentionables on a clothesline in her room at puberty so her brothers wouldn’t see them hanging on the line outside.
Big Boy and I went out to the car and searched everywhere, including under the seats. No sign of any underwear. That was strange. I’d seen them. They’d been on the seat when I drove the car home. Was all this trouble Jane was having with Dorcas Lucas making me crazy? Those underwear, if thongs can even be considered that, had been on the backseat of the Mustang. I’d seen them with my own eyes.
Thinking about panties led me to think about bras. I put all of my inflatables on the table and lined them up side by side. Using a ruler and my new little pump, I adjusted them so they were all blown up exactly the same size. Now if I could just remember to put one on before dashing out in the middle of the night. I couldn’t believe I’d actually pinned up my hair, put on a dress, panty hose, and heels, but forgotten to wear a bra the other night. I wondered if Levi Pinckney noticed how flat-chested I’d looked.
After my divorce from Donnie, I went through a period of not dating at all. When I moved back to St. Mary, I went out almost every Friday night. Sometimes on dates with men, occasionally just Jane and me to a movie. About the time Jane took the job as a 900 operator, I stopped dating anyone who didn’t really interest me. As Jane used to say, “I stopped dating the creeps to check out the crop.” Jane couldn’t go out on weekends now because of her work, and I spent a lot of time reading.
I cuddled my dog up to me and rubbed his nose. “Big Boy,” I said, “do you realize how many times I’ve gotten really excited about someone, only to have my enthusiasm shattered? Nick Rivers made my heart go pitty-pat all the way back to high school. He turned out to be a murderer. Dr. Don Walters impressed me until I learned what a womanizer he was, and I really liked that bluegrass musician Andy Campbell, but I haven’t seen nor heard from him since he hit the spring/summer bluegrass circuit.”
I stopped petting Big Boy, and he licked my hand. “Don’t get me wrong,” I said to him. “A woman doesn’t have to have a boyfriend. I love my family and I enjoy my job, and I love you, too, you big old dog.”
I showered, put on a comfortable old nightdress, and crawled in bed with Deadly Advice by Roberta Isleib. It’s an advice column mystery, and I thought maybe I’d get some ideas to spark up my life, especially my love life. Did I say my love life? I didn’t have one!
Big Boy curled up against me. I went to the kitchen and brought the vase of flowers to the bedroom. Maybe my love life would improve after all.
Chapter Thirteen
Friday the thirteenth has a terrible reputation. Supposed to be bad luck. The thirteenth of any month is a miserable day, regardless of the day of the week it falls on. The only good thirteen I know of is my friend’s adorable little boy Aeden’s birthday, November thirteenth. That’s the only good thirteen I ever knew.
Thirteen is the first of the teenaged years. So far as I’m concerned, the only females with great memories of their teenaged years were cheerleaders.
I’ve tried and tried to think of something good about thirteen. There were thirteen original colonies in the United States, but now there are fifty. Surely fifty is better than thirteen. I’d rather have fifty dollars than thirteen any day.
The movie Ocean’s Thirteen was released in 2007, and I went to see it with my brother Mike, but the only thing I really liked was looking at Brad Pitt and George Clooney.
Personally, I ignore the number thirteen. It doesn’t bother me at all that some elevators go directly from the twelfth floor to the fourteenth. I admit that when I was a little girl, I wondered what was on the thirteenth floor. It never occurred to me that there was no thirteenth floor. I thought it was just a secret place.
I read Janet Evanovich’s book Lean Mean Thirteen, and was surprised that someone as smart as she is would not only write chapter 13s, but a whole book with that number in the title. Then I figured out maybe that’s why Stephanie Plum is plagued by bad luck, especially with her cars.
As for me, Calamine Lotion Parrish, I have no intention of ever writing a chapter 13, and there is no way in a four-letter word that I will ever even read another book with “thirteen” in the title. (That is, unless Janet Evanovich gets up to 113. I’m kinda addicted to reading what happens to Stephanie Plum.)
Chapter Fourteen
Friday. But not Friday the thirteenth. Friday, the twenty-first of June. Thirty-two years and 364 days since my birth.
Four fifty-three a.m. I sat on the front step of my apartment wearing my heart-printed nightie. Insomnia had plagued me all night, but my distressed rolling around hadn’t bothered Big Boy. He was inside, asleep and snoring.
Thank heaven he’d moved to the rug because he’d recently grown so large that when he plopped on his stomach on the bed and spread-eagled all four legs, there was hardly any room for me. But this night, thoughts, not Big Boy’s legs or snoring, had crowded me out of the bed.
The moon was full—a big round yellow balloon in the sky. A childhood song played in my head. I see the moon; the moon sees me. God bless the moon, and God bless me. Just as the rhyme ended in my mind, a dark sh
adow crossed, blocking out the golden orb. An eclipse? Were we having a lunar eclipse? The blackness moved too fast for an eclipse. I wasn’t watching any great astronomical event, just clouds. Sometimes my thought processes amaze me, not always in good ways.
St. Mary needed rain, especially local farmers, but I hoped any rain would be during the morning hours. Frank, Bill, and Mike planned to move Jane from her garage apartment that afternoon. The thought of Jane living next door should have brightened my spirits, but I was smothered in a dark haze.
I didn’t know what had me in such a mood unless it was Dr. Melvin’s death. I’d cosmetized people I knew in the past, but not anyone I’d felt as close to as Dr. Melvin. I expected him back from Charleston and ready for me by the afternoon.
Otis and Odell would be pleased for the pharmacist to be returned to Middleton’s. They both panic anytime there’s no one in a prep room or a slumber room, and right then, we had no clients at the mortuary. The little girl, Angie, had been sent to Connecticut. The reinterment of the grandmother awaited even more permits and paperwork.
Unless a call came in, the only work for me today was making Dr. Melvin look good if he came back from Charleston. I needed to think in terms of doing my best for him, regardless of what I thought of his young wife and how many questions kept creeping into my mind about his death.
Jane had said that I “attracted” murder, and I didn’t want to think anyone had killed Dr. Melvin, but it didn’t sound right that the autopsy hadn’t shown the cause of death. Sheriff Harmon had mentioned waiting on toxicology reports. I hoped Dr. Melvin hadn’t been poisoned or drugged to death.
I glanced at my watch again and wondered if it were too early to make coffee. Pondered going back to bed and trying to catch an hour of sleep. I looked back at the sky. Clouds now blacked out the stars as well as the moon. I decided not to make coffee yet, but to get a Moon Pie and a glass of milk. Just as I stood, the skies opened. I was totally drenched before I even got back under the porch ceiling.