by Fran Rizer
I cleaned his fingers, zipped the body bag closed, and returned Mr. Joyner and his tray to its assigned place, then I hurried toward my office with the print cards.
"Jesus Loves Me" sounded. Someone had entered the front door. I hurried to the foyer and met Sheriff Harmon.
"Callie, I’ve come to take your statement about this morning." He held up a pocket recorder.
"Okay, let’s do it in the conference room here." I motioned toward the same room I’d been in earlier with Mrs. Joyner.
I put the print cards on the table beside his little recorder. "What do you want to know?" I asked.
The sheriff flipped the device on, then recorded the date, time, location, and that he, Wayne Corley, Sheriff of Jade County, was interviewing Calamine Lotion Parrish. I grimaced when he said that. My name really is Calamine Lotion, but the only person who calls me that is the man who laid that name on me—my daddy. My mother died right after I was born. Daddy was so upset that he got drunk, really drunk, and named me the only pink thing he could think of—Calamine Lotion. I’ve thought many a time how glad I was he didn’t consider Pepto Bismol.
It didn’t take long to answer Sheriff Harmon’s questions. "All I know is that the man looked asleep, but when that fly crawled around on his nose, I got scared and tried to wake him. Finelay Best broke the window. I felt the body and determined he was dead."
"How did you know he was dead?" Sheriff Harmon asked. "I would assume he wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t beating, but you didn’t have any way to check brain function."
I laughed. I promise, I didn’t mean to laugh, but I did. "Folks can argue criteria for dead all they want," I said. "Brain death, heart death, whatever, but I didn’t need a mirror to hold under that man’s nose to check to see if he was dead. Rigor mortis had set in."
"What about the snake?" the sheriff asked. "Did you see the snake?"
"No," I answered. "I didn’t, but Best swore he saw an Eastern Coral snake in the car. Your new deputy, Blake, arrived, and right after that, you were there."
"Had you ever seen this man before?" Sheriff Harmon asked.
"Who? Blake?" I asked. "He’s new, isn’t he? This morning’s the first time I’ve seen him."
"Yeah, he hasn’t been with the department long. Moved down here from Philadelphia. But I was asking if you’d ever seen the dead man before."
"Never before today." I paused. "Was there really a snake in the car?" I asked.
"Now, Callie, you know that I ask and you answer," Harmon said.
I cut him an oh, you meannie look. I grew up with Wayne Harmon hanging around our house because he was friends with my five older brothers. He finally smiled and said, "But I don’t guess it hurts to tell you that yes, we found a fairly young Eastern coral in the car, about twenty-inches long, down under the straw seat protector the man was sitting on."
"Do you know his name? Where he’s from? What was he doing here?" I asked, running all my questions together and meaning, of course, the man, not the snake.
"ID in his wallet says he’s Richard Arthur and that he lived in Hilton Head. I’ve got people trying to contact a wife or relative, but they haven’t found anyone yet."
"Do you think the snake killed him?"
"Won’t know until the autopsy results. There did appear to be a gnawed place on the underside of his thigh. That could have been where the coral snake got him. If so, the cause of death could be venom."
Sheriff Harmon stood up. "If you think of anything else, give me a call." He grinned then sang to the tune of an old country song my daddy sometimes sings, "And, Callie, I can handle this job all by myself."
I walked the sheriff to the front, grateful that the music changes each time the door opens or closes. I get teary-eyed each time "Jesus Loves Me" plays. Makes me think about prepping and burying babies. Instead, a soft version of "Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise" lifted my spirits from thoughts of children dying.
Dalmation! My print cards were missing when I went back to the conference room. Perhaps they’d fallen on the floor. I was on my hands and knees searching the carpet under the table when Odell came in.
"What are you doing under there? Did you lose a contact lens or something?" Odell growled.
"No, I don’t even wear lenses. I put some fingerprint cards on this table, and now I can’t find them." I backed out from under the table and stood.
"Fingerprints? For what?" he asked.
"Mrs. Joyner came by. She brought this brochure and kit for Memory Prints." I picked up the package and handed it to him."
"Yes, I’ve seen this at conventions."
"Well, Mrs. Joyner wants a gold charm bracelet with her husband’s prints. Since he won’t be embalmed, I went ahead and took the fingerprints when Jake brought Mr. Joyner in."
"Good." Odell flipped through the brochure. "Have you contacted this company yet to see what our cost is on this?"
"Not yet."
"Have there been any other calls?"
"No. Mr. Joyner is the only one here."
"I don’t guess Doofus has phoned."
"No, I haven’t heard from Otis."
"He said he’d let us know if he felt better and decided to come in. He sounded pretty bad this morning though." Odell set the brochure back on the table. "Do you want to go to lunch first?"
"No," I replied, knowing that the question meant he was ready to go himself.
"Shall I bring you something or do you want to go out when I get back?"
"Just bring me a sandwich, please." I looked around the room. "I can’t imagine what happened to those cards. I assume it’s okay that I had to break the rigor in Mr. Joyner’s fingers to roll them on the paper."
"No problem, but next time, try rolling the paper against the finger. If you don’t find the cards, you can ask for another kit when you call about prices."
"Okay. We don’t know yet when Mrs. Joyner wants him buried, and we’re going to have to order the special casket she wants."
"What kind of special?"
"Ecologically friendly. I’ve checked the Internet, and they’re available here in South Carolina, near Charlotte, so the worse scenario will be sending someone to pick up whatever she decides on. They’re biodegradable, and most of them are cardboard or baskets like wicker or reed."
"Yeah, I’ve seen those at conventions, too, but that didn’t cross my mind when she said ‘green.’ What time is she coming back?"
"She’s gone to Taylor’s Cemetery and will call when she’s finished there. I told her she’d have to wait until you came back for prices."
"Well, I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour, and the sooner we set everything up, the better. Schedule her for anytime this afternoon." He started toward the door, then turned back toward me. "And where is Jake? We may have to send him to pick up the basket."
"He was stung by a hornet. Thank heaven he was almost back to the funeral home because he’d left his epi-pen in his car."
"Did you call an ambulance?"
"No, I gave him the injection, and he seemed okay, but he said he was going home, maybe to the doctor."
"We’ll work it out. First things first," Odell said. I thought he was talking about Mrs. Joyner selecting the casket before we worried about picking it up. However, being Odell, he added as he left, "The first thing for me is to get some lunch. I’m starving."
I’d barely settled back at my desk when the telephone rang. "Middleton’s Mortuary. This is Callie. How may I help you?" I said, expecting the caller to be Mrs. Joyner.
"Ohhhhhh, Callie, this is Jane." Like I wouldn’t recognize Jane’s voice, even full of tears. After all, she is my best friend, and presently my roommate, until they finish replacing the carpet in my apartment and I move back next door.
"What’s wrong?" I asked. Couldn’t be a family emergency. Jane had no family. Her daddy ran off when her blindness was discovered in her infancy, and her mother died right after Jane and I graduated from high school.
"It’s y
our brother!" she sniffled. I have five brothers, whom I call The Boys because I don’t think they’ll ever grow up, but no need to ask which one Jane was talking about. She was engaged to marry Frank in December. Another brother, Bill, was supposed to marry his longtime, on again, off again girlfriend Molly in a few weeks. John, my favorite, most genteel brother, lives in Atlanta and had what I thought was the perfect marriage until he told me he was considering leaving his wife.
So far as my other two brothers, Mike and Jim, are concerned, each has a marriage and divorce in his past. Like me, I don’t think either has recovered from the first go-round enough to consider slipping a gold band on anyone else’s hand. Personally, I don’t know that I ever want to remarry. Divorcing Donnie kind of spoiled the whole romantic notion to me, and the only real thing I got out of it was my vintage Mustang, which was Donnie’s pride and joy, and a less than healthy fear of becoming too involved or vulnerable with anyone.
Back to Jane, on the phone, sobbing.
"What did he do?" I asked her.
"He wants to move our marriage up to October and have a double wedding with Bill and Molly." She was now bawling like a cow at milking time.
"What’s wrong with that?" I asked.
"I don’t want to get married so soon, and besides, if we do that, everything has to be the way Molly’s planned it. I don’t want a big, fancy reception. I can’t afford it either, and Frank says he’ll pay for our part, but if his bank account is flush, why’s he living with your daddy?"
"I don’t know a thing about Frank’s income," I answered, but I didn’t think he’d have money to pay for half of the shindig Molly was planning. Besides, the invitations for Bill and Molly’s wedding had been sent a month ago.
"What kind of wedding do you want?" I asked.
"Just you as my maid of honor and Frank having one of his brothers stand for him. A simple church wedding with cake and punch afterwards in the fellowship hall."
"That sure sounds better than all that folderol Donnie’s mother insisted on when we were married. Donnie’s family paid for a lot of it, but it was a waste of money for my daddy as well as their family."
"What should I tell Frank?"
"Tell him that he’s already had a wedding, but this is your first and that as the bride, it should be the way you want it."
"Had a wedding? Can’t you keep your brothers straight? Frank’s been married twice already."
"You’re right. Even more reason to let you plan it."
The sniffles stopped. "I’ll just tell him what you said." She paused. "When will you be home? I’m cooking dinner."
"I don’t know. I’ll call you when I leave here. I was supposed to work from one this afternoon until eight tonight, but I got called in early."
"Who died?"
"Nobody you know. Two old men. Kinda unusual. They’re both from Hilton Head."
"Do you think—" Call waiting beeped in and caller ID showed a call from H Joyner. "Gotta go, Jane. This is a business call. We’ll talk tonight."
I hit "flash" and answered, "Middleton’s Mortuary. Callie speaking. How may I help you?"
Chapter Four
Odell sat with Grace Joyner and me at the conference table. I’d barely had time to scarf down the barbecue sandwich Odell brought me for lunch before the widow arrived. She was over half an hour earlier than we’d scheduled on the phone. Appointments didn’t seem to mean a lot to Mrs. Joyner.
Although Odell isn’t as polished as Otis, he’s a much smoother speaker during a funeral planning session than at other times. He’d explained to Mrs. Joyner, "We don’t stock any ‘green’ caskets and there are none in our catalog, but Ms. Parrish here has printed out several options from the computer."
"Several" was an understatement. Basket caskets as I thought of them, came in many types of materials—wicker, and rattan for starters. Manufactured primarily in England and China, they could be traditional coffin-shaped—wider at the top for the shoulders, narrowing as the basket reached the foot area. They could be completely rectangular like the most popular American caskets these days. Corners could be squared or rounded. Colored bands of rattan or ribbon were sometimes woven into the sides.
"What’s this?" Grace Joyner asked and touched one of the photographs.
The one she’d indicated had a divided lid so that the top half could be opened without the bottom. "That’s called the American Viewing Model," I replied.
"I know I don’t want that," she said. "I don’t believe in putting dead people on display."
Okay, I admit that her comment kinda hurt my feelings. My job is to make the deceased look good for viewing.
"Another option," Odell offered, "would be cremation."
"Oh, no," the tiny woman shuddered as she spoke. I wondered why she’d be so opposed to cremation. After all, she wasn’t into preserving the body. Why not just speed it up all the way? Her answer came quickly.
"Do you realize that crematories use tremendous amounts of energy resources to produce the necessary heat?" she asked. "Not only that, but cremation releases pollution into the air. It’s definitely not an acceptable alternative to green or natural burial."
Odell looked a little confused, then recovered. "Certainly, we’ll be happy to handle Mr. Joyner’s services however you like."
Grace Joyner looked through the papers again. She kept returning to the same page, then held it out to Odell.
"This is what I want," she said.
Odell took the paper and read aloud. Mrs. Joyner had selected "a traditional shaped willow unit in weatherbeaten gold color with green bands inlaid into the sides, woven handles, and unbleached white cotton liner."
I leafed through the computer printouts Odell set back on the table and found the one for the closest supplier. "If you’ll excuse me," I said, "I’ll step into the office and see how soon we can have this delivered."
At my office desk, I called the nearest dealer, who didn’t stock that model. The next closest was located in North Carolina, about four and a half to five hours away from St. Mary.
The gentleman who answered the telephone identified himself as Al Harper. After I read the casket description to him, he said, "Yes, we’ve got one like that in stock. It’s made in England, but it’s a pretty popular choice, so I keep a few on hand. What size do you need?"
"He’s an average sized adult male, neither extremely tall nor heavy."
"No problem. Shall we ship it?"
When I’d first come to work for the Middletons, I would have said, "Certainly."
Now I knew that whenever possible, Otis and Odell preferred to pick up anything within a reasonable drive. We’d had too many slip-ups during the several years I’d been working at the funeral home. Occasionally a casket wasn’t shipped when promised, and at other times, it would arrive on schedule but not be the exact model we’d ordered.
"How late are you open?" I asked.
"I’ll be here until six, but I can give you my cell number. Call when you get to town. I’ll meet you whatever time you arrive."
When I returned to the conference room, I assured Mrs. Joyner that we could have the casket in St. Mary this evening, no later than early the next morning.
"Great!" she said. "Then let’s plan the burial for early tomorrow afternoon."
"And Taylor’s Cemetery assured you there would be no problem about burying without a liner or vault?" Odell asked.
"They said no problem and accepted my money for a plot," she answered. "The man said that the graveyard is so old that many of the graves are unlined. They fill in settling of the earth whenever necessary." She smiled. "They’ll let me plant a tree instead of placing a monument, too. I plan to pick up a crape myrtle tree from the nursery this afternoon. Some of them blossom all summer, and since fall is so late settling in this year, the manager said he has several still in bloom. The planting will be part of the service."
"When I was reading about environmentally friendly funerals, they mentioned planting trees and suggeste
d burial in woodlands instead of cemeteries," I commented.
"Yes, but in my case, I don’t own any woodlands. I’d like for Harry to be close enough to home for me to come visit his tree sometimes, but not so near that I’d be tempted to sit by his grave every day. There’s not a commercial woodlands burial park near here."
The telephone rang, and I excused myself to answer it while Odell finished with Mrs. Joyner’s plans and financial arrangements.
"Middleton’s Mortuary. Callie speaking. How may I help you?"
"Callie, I’ve decided not to cook." Jane wasn’t crying anymore. "I’m so angry with your brother that I don’t want to be here if he comes over. I’ll be dressed when you get home. I’ll treat you to dinner anywhere you like that isn’t too expensive."
"Fine," I answered, "but I’m hoping Odell will send me to pick up a casket this afternoon. It’s almost a five-hour drive to North Carolina and five hours back. I’ll get overtime. Do you want to go if he sends me?"
"I’d like to, but Roxanne needs to work tonight. Frank’s been over here so much lately that I’m way off on hours this month. You know I don’t work when he’s around. Guess I’ll have to pass."
Roxanne is Jane’s "professional" name. She calls her job "fantasy acting," but to call a spade a flippin’ shovel, Jane works on a 900 sex phone line. As Roxanne, she sweet-talks men. It sounds negative, but she makes good money and doesn’t have to pay for transportation to and from work. Her hours are flexible, and there’s only been one time that she recognized the voice of one of her customers other than on the telephone.
As I slid under the steering wheel of the hearse (ex-scuuze me, the funeral coach), Odell leaned in and said, "You’ll need your cell phone to call the owner to meet you. Do you have it with you and is it charged? It’s three now, so it’ll be about eight o’clock by the time you get there." He harrumphed.