Casket Case

by Fran Rizer

  “You know Jane couldn’t beat anyone to death,” Frank said.

  “I could if I wanted to!” Jane protested.

  “Are you admitting you beat Ms. Lucas to death?” the sheriff asked.

  “No, just saying I could if I wanted to. I’ll bet there have been blind murderers. I’m just not one of them.”

  I had never seen it before. I roll my eyes sometimes when I’m not thinking, but I’d never seen a man do it. Sheriff Harmon rolled his eyes as well as any woman I’ve ever known. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that you can do anything you put your mind to, Jane.

  “The point I’m trying to make here,” he continued, “is that I’ve got all of that plus a possible serial killer loose in this town, and I don’t want to have to worry about Callie Parrish sticking her nose somewhere it doesn’t belong and getting herself hurt or in trouble.”

  To the affronted look on my face, he responded, “Pearl White said George Carter was all upset about you. He thinks you and Mrs. Counts talked to me about him. Mrs. Counts has disappeared, and I suspect Carter will come after you unless he’s skipped town.”

  He grimaced. “Add to that the facts that someone tried to kill you on the road, someone was in your apartment, and someone’s been sneaking around in your yard, probably playing Peeping Tom.” He paused. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

  “Enough for me,” Frank said. “I suggest we pack up some clothes for you gals and head back to Pa’s. He’ll welcome both of you.”

  “How about supper?” Jane said. “I was going to make spaghetti. We bought groceries.”

  “We’ll take them with us,” Frank said. “Big Boy can come, too. He loves playing at the farm.”

  I didn’t like the idea at all, but I was clearly outnumbered. Frank and Jane packed the food into the Jeep. They wanted me to ride with them, but I insisted Big Boy and I would follow in the Mustang. Sheriff Harmon helped me get Big Boy locked into his special seat belt. As I drove off, I saw the sheriff back at the front door, double-checking that I’d left it locked.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Big Boy,” I said, “do you ever wonder how we wind up in all these situations?”

  He didn’t answer, not even a bark, but I could imagine what he would tell me if he could. “Callie,” he’d say, “you need to get a life.”

  If I had a real life, lived for the day as Jane said, I wouldn’t have time to get mixed up in everything that happened in St. Mary. If I had a real life, if I lived for the day, I’d find myself a job that didn’t throw me right into the middle of every death in town, especially the ones that weren’t natural. A job that didn’t send me to a graveyard to watch a ten-year-old coffin come out of the ground and give me nightmares.

  I looked over at my dog again. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth, flopping around, but his ears stood straight up like they should on a purebred Great Dane. It had cost a small fortune—in my budget anyway—but cropping his ears had given him a much better look.

  “Want to ride convertible, Big Boy?” I asked.

  I didn’t wait for an answer, just pulled over to the side of the road and put the ragtop down.

  Big Boy grinned. Well, maybe not everyone would know his expression was a grin, but I did. I was still frightened, scared, and curious. What was going on? Why so many mysterious deaths at one time in a town the size of St. Mary?

  Both Dr. Melvin and Pearl White thought they’d found true love on the Internet.

  “Do you think I should try looking for love online?” I asked Big Boy.

  He gave me a What kind of fool are you? look and rolled his eyes. I know it sounds impossible, but it’s the truth. I promise. My dog rolled his eyes at me!

  “I guess not,” I said. “Neither of those turned out too well. Dr. Melvin’s dead, and we don’t know why or if his wife did away with him to inherit from him. Pearl White’s gotten herself involved with a man who might be a serial killer, and she’s started back drinking.”

  Vanessa crossed my mind. I had submitted the profile, but no one could ever trace that back to me. Or could they? Computer geeks can do all kinds of things. What if someone traced it? I laughed out loud. If they traced my entry, it would lead back to a mortuary. I didn’t think anyone would be eager to come looking there.

  Since Big Boy was now gazing around, not paying any attention to me, I stopped talking to him and thought to myself, Thank heaven Pearl hadn’t yet sold all of her property and given the proceeds to charity, thinking Georgie would take care of her the rest of her life!

  Ms. Dorcas Lucas had been the biggest witch with a b that I’d ever encountered my whole life. Bad enough the sheriff had thought Jane pushed her down the steps. Now he was convinced from the autopsy that someone had beaten her to death. I couldn’t swear—well, I try not to swear anyway—that Jane wouldn’t push someone away and that person couldn’t fall down the steps. But I was positive that Jane wouldn’t have beaten even Ms. Lucas to death with a two-by-four.

  I really didn’t have anything to do with those events, so why was I being harassed? Why did someone try to kill me on the road? Why break into my apartment? Why peek in my windows and leave notes for me? It was too much, just too much, to all be coincidental. There had to be a connection.

  Big Boy was looking at me like, “Why’d you stop talking to me?”

  “Don’t you agree?” I asked him. “There has to be a connection. Dr. Melvin and Pearl were cousins and both found romance on the Internet.” I stopped talking again.

  Romance could have come to me through the Internet, too. Indirectly. The Internet had enabled Roselle to find her half brother Levi. Then the Internet had led her to Melvin here in St. Mary, and Levi had followed her. If I hadn’t run Levi Pinckney off, I may have had a relationship from online. Jane and I hadn’t had a chance to really talk, but I’m sure she would think I was crazy to tell Levi I wasn’t interested in chemistry.

  I could tell from their actions that Jane and Frank had worked their problems out. I wondered if Jane had convinced him she needed her job, or if he’d convinced her she needed him more than she needed the work.

  Someone, I think it was Sherlock Holmes, said something like, “When you rule out all the impossibles, what’s left is the solution.” That wasn’t doing me much good since I couldn’t identify the impossibles. I decided to think about probables instead of possibles.

  From what Mrs. Counts said and from what the sheriff told us, it was more than probable that George Carter was an alias for one of those men who marry and murder over and over for profit. If that were the case, he’d never loved Pearl White. He would have married her, moved her to Florida, and seen to it that she met with an accident that left him rich.

  If. There was a big if involved. He’d told Pearl that they didn’t need her money. She’d taken him at his word and put everything on the market, planning to donate the proceeds to her favorite charities to help people with vision or hearing impairments. George Carter wouldn’t inherit a thing if Pearl liquidized and donated her proceeds to charity before he married her.

  That was the connection!

  Dorcas Lucas wasn’t killed for personal reasons. She hadn’t been murdered because she was such a horrible person, though she truly was an awful being. She’d died because of her job. Because if she negotiated the sale of Pearl’s property and Pearl donated the proceeds to charity before her wedding, there’d be nothing left for George Carter to inherit after he killed his new bride.

  From what I’d read, blunt force trauma was a much more masculine than feminine way of murder anyway. Females were more inclined to kill by poison, smothering, or some other less combative means. Of course, Jane said she could beat someone to death if she had to. I didn’t believe her, but I feared Sheriff Harmon did. I wondered if he’d figured out the motive for Ms. Lucas’s death. If he’d figured out that George Carter had beaten her to death.

  Good grief! George Carter could have killed Dr. Melvin, too. Maybe he feared that Pea
rl would leave some money or property to him since he was her only relative. If the toxicology reports showed something had been slipped into food or drink to cause Dr. Melvin’s death, I’d put my money on Carter as the culprit.

  But why would Carter try to run me off the road? And why would he be peeking through my windows and plundering through my apartment? Those questions would take more thought, but I felt like I was on the right track. I reached for the cell phone to call Sheriff Harmon.

  Dalmation! I’d left it home again. I know sometimes I give Big Boy credit for more human-type intelligence than he can possibly have, but when I turned toward him, I promise he gave me a What now? look.

  When we reached the apartment, I opened the door and let the dog in, then remembered I’d left my purse on the seat. I went back for it, then returned and entered.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  George Carter stood at my kitchen sink with Big Boy sitting on the floor right beside him, the dog looking up like he was Scooby-Doo and Carter was Shaggy. I could see them from my front door.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded. “How did you get in here?”

  “I’m running fresh water for your dog. You shouldn’t leave his bowl empty, even when you take him off with you. You might forget to fill it when you come home.” He reached down and patted Big Boy on the head.

  “He’s a friendly fellow, especially to people who bring him hamburger.” George set Big Boy’s water bowl on the floor. “I came in through the bathroom window. Someone will have to replace the glass, but it won’t be you.” George walked from the kitchen area into the living room. “Your face looks terrible,” he said, “but it won’t matter.”

  “Why are you here?” I backed against the door.

  “So you can tell me exactly what you told Pearl. You’ve upset her tremendously. As a matter of fact, Pearl was so disturbed that she’s drunk. I left her passed out on our bed. She kept saying your name and crying. What did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything. She just knows what I learned about you.”

  “How’d you learn anything about me?”

  “Surely you know that it’s as easy to check a person’s background on the Internet as it is to create a new persona and scam poor widow ladies out of their property and life’s savings.”

  “You don’t understand. I really love Pearl.” His tone was sincere, but the smile on his face wasn’t.

  “If you love Pearl so much, why’d you beat Ms. Lucas to death to stop the sale of Pearl’s home and beachfront property?”

  “What makes you think I killed Ms. Lucas?”

  “It’s pretty obvious. You’re strong enough, no one knows where you were that morning, and you telling Pearl you didn’t want her money was nothing but lies. You never counted on her deciding to liquidate everything and give the money to charity. When you couldn’t stop Pearl from selling, you stopped Ms. Lucas from buying.”

  “And now I have to stop you from talking. I have to stop you and convince Pearl that nothing you told her was true.” George had gradually walked over to me, close enough that we were so face-to-face that I could feel and smell his breath as he spoke. “I’m lucky my lady love has a taste for alcohol. It makes her easier to manipulate and makes a future possible accident more believable. I felt blessed when she acknowledged her alcoholism and I convinced her that her drinking problem had been due to unhappiness. She could have a little drink now that she was going to live happily ever after. It didn’t take but one to knock her slap off the wagon.” He grinned. “But you know too much. I have to silence you.”

  “What if my brother knows what I learned?”

  “Then I’ll have to stop him, too.”

  I realized then that bringing Frank into the picture wouldn’t save me. It was more likely to end up with both of us dead.

  “I haven’t really told him anything, and I don’t have to let anyone else know about you,” I lied. “I can deny to Pearl that I ever said anything. She was drinking. You’re right. She can be convinced that it never happened.”

  He laughed. Not the pleasant, charming sound I’d heard from him before. This was maniacal. “All I have to do is decide how to make your death look like an accident.”

  George looked around. Big Boy finished lapping up water, walked to me, and lay down on the floor beside me in front of the door.

  “Put your dog outside unless you want him dead, too.”

  “He never goes out without his leash. I leave him in the bathroom sometimes. Can I put him there?”

  “Just do it. I don’t want that big hound jumping me. I don’t have any more hamburger in my pocket.” That previously charming man looked and sounded meaner than anyone I’d ever encountered. More than mean. Wicked and evil.

  I took Big Boy by his collar and led him to the bathroom. There’s something weird about me. Well, some folks would say I have lots of strange characteristics. The one that took over right then was my habit of throwing up when I’m frightened. Puh-leeze. If I could control it, I would.

  It seemed a better idea to heave in the bathroom instead of all over my kitchen or living room. I was hugged over the toilet like a college freshman at a frat party when two strong hands pulled me upright.

  “What are you doing? Why are you making yourself do that? I didn’t poison you.”

  “You just scare me. I barf when I’m frightened.”

  “Oh.” He wet a washcloth and wiped my face. That sounds gentle, but it wasn’t. He hurt my bruises then pulled my hair as he grabbed it and dragged me backward to the living room.

  “Why’d you come poking around, watching me? Why’d you try to run me off the road?” I asked.

  “I haven’t had time to follow you and watch you. Between Pearl and Dorcas Lucas, I’ve had my hands full. I was lucky to run into Dorcas and get her to agree to go with me to your friend’s place. I’m still expecting that local yokel sheriff to blame Dorcas’s death on your blind buddy.”

  He jerked me tighter against him with one arm and used his other hand to pull a gun from his pocket. A tiny snub-nosed revolver.

  “No one will believe I died accidentally of a gunshot wound,” I said. “I’ve been around guns my whole life.”

  “Then it will have to be suicide.” He pointed the weapon at me and said, “Get some paper and a pen.”

  He followed me into the kitchen, where I took down my magnet grocery list pad and pencil that hung on the refrigerator. We sat at the table, and he moved in closer, pressing the gun against my cheek. He dictated. I wrote:

  I am too ashamed of the lies I’ve told Pearl White and of pushing Ms. Lucas down the steps and hitting her. I can’t go on, so I am ending it all.

  Callie Parrish

  “Is that your legal name?” George asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Then sign it with your legal name.”

  That didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. It’s not like the note was a will or anything legal, but I was in no position to argue. I drew a line through the signature and signed “Calamine Lotion Parrish” beneath it.

  That suicide note was as bad as the original part of the perfect country song. The song that didn’t say anything about rain or trains or Mama. That note didn’t say anything about love or caring. Nothing about Jane, Daddy, or my brothers, and it didn’t say who would take care of Big Boy with me gone. Anyone who knew me well would know those weren’t my words when they read it. Duh. What difference did that make after I was already dead?

  That little snub-nosed H&R revolver might be a sissy gun, but with nine shots of .22 bullets at close range, I was sure it would work. But then, who could empty nine shots into their own skull? Would Carter shoot and wait to see if it killed me before firing again?

  Forensics can tell everything nowadays, including what shot was fired first and what shot killed the victim. Couldn’t be suicide if all nine shots were fired and the second one was deadly. My family would never believe I’d committed suicide anyway, and even if
they did, they definitely wouldn’t think I’d used that gun instead of one of my own. Well, actually one I’d borrowed from Daddy.

  All these thoughts of not only dying, but suffering between shots made my stomach rumble again. To be polite about it, I regurgitated on my suicide note.

  “What the . . . ?” Carter said and jumped back. He yanked me into a headlock and a little bit of vomit dribbled onto his sleeve. He looked at it and scowled in disgust, then he placed the gun against my temple. My heart pounded. I closed my eyes.

  The gun went off.

  Amazing!

  I didn’t feel a thing.

  I opened my eyes. George had been yanked away from me. The bullet smashed through my kitchen window. The gun clattered to the floor. George and another man struggled from the kitchen into the living room. I dared not follow and wished again that I had a door to the outside from the kitchen. I complained about that every time I had to take my trash out the front door. Now I needed another exit not for trash, but to let me escape the apartment without going through that fight.

  Picking up the revolver, I peeked around the kitchen door. For an instant, I’d imagined that Levi Pinckney had rescued me, but George’s assailant was much bigger than Levi. The ponytail and beard identified Dennis Sharpe. I wanted to get a clear shot at George, but I didn’t want to kill him or harm Dennis.

  I had the gun sighted, waiting for the perfect opportunity, when Dennis pulled out a great big hunting knife. He rammed it into George’s belly and yanked it straight up to his chin. I turned away and dropped the revolver.

  George Carter was scum. He’d killed women before. Preyed on older, widowed ladies, the loneliest people in society. He would have murdered both Pearl and me. I see corpses every day at work, but I couldn’t look at George Carter’s gutted body lying on the floor with a pool of dark red soaking through my old avocado green shag carpet. The coppery smell of blood seeped through the other death odors.