Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, There's A Body In The Car (Callie Parrish Mysteries)

by Fran Rizer

  "Now I want your car keys," he told her.

  "I doan have a car," Betty Jo wailed. "My mama brings me to work and picks me up when my shift is over."

  "Then gimme yours," the robber said to me.

  I handed the funeral coach keys to him. "Where’s it parked?" he asked.

  "Around on the side," I said, pointing.

  "Do I need to shoot you girls or lock you in the cooler or can you wait fifteen minutes before you call the cops? I promise you if you call before then, I’ll come back and get you."

  The three of us babbled assurances that we wouldn’t call anyone. I think Betty Jo promised "forever."

  Robber man ran out the door. Betty Jo grabbed Jane and me in a group hug while we laughed and cried at the same time.

  Our relief was short-lived. The robber flung the door open and stomped back in, rage on his face and gun pointed at me again.

  "There’s no car out there. The only thing is a hearse!" he snarled.

  "Yeah, that’s what we’re riding in, dummy," Jane smarted off.

  "Shhhhh," I said, "Jane, he has a pistol pointed at me." Then I turned toward the robber. "I gave you the keys," I said calmly. "Take that. It drives just like a car, only it’s a little longer. It’s got automatic transmission and a CD player."

  "Woman, you are out of your mind! I’m not driving a hearse. It’s dark outside. No telling what’s in the back of that thing."

  "There’s nothing in the back," Jane said. "We haven’t picked up the casket yet."

  "I’m not taking any chances," he said.

  "I told you it’s empty," Jane argued.

  "He’s talking about ghosts," I said.

  "There’s no such thing as ghosts," Jane said, then waved her arms and howled out a long, creepy "Whooooo-ooooooooo." She laughed, and I elbowed her. I guess if a person can’t see the gun, it’s easier to be brave, or maybe stupid is a better word.

  "I could call my mama to bring you her car," Betty Jo said.

  "I’m not crazy enough to let you call the cops and then sit here ’til they show up."

  The man’s face contorted from one expression to another—from fear to rage to confusion and back again.

  "This ain’t going right," he said. "I gotta good mind to go out there and shoot up that hearse."

  "No, pul-lease," I said in a disgustingly sugary southern belle tone. "I’ve already totaled one of the funeral home’s family cars. Please don’t trash the hearse. Steal it or leave it, but don’t shoot holes in it."

  "Just shut up!" robber man said. "I need to think. I want all of you over there in front of the counter." He shoved me away from him. "Stand still and be quiet. I gotta figure out what to do."

  "Why don’t you just leave in the car you came in?" Jane suggested.

  "Cause I walked here from where the last car I stole broke down, Miss Smarty Pants!"

  Anyone besides Jane, I might have seen a change in the expression in her eyes. Jane’s eyes don’t look deformed or strange, but they don’t reveal much either. Her face showed nothing, but her entire body tensed, and I knew something was about to happen.

  "I don’t understand where you want us to stand," Jane said. "Where are Callie and Betty Jo?"

  "Behind you," robber man said. "I’ll show you." He stepped toward Jane, mumbling, "You’re more trouble than you’re worth," as he reached for her.

  That red-tipped white cane shot out and whacked the robber’s right hand. Whap! Immediately followed with Kapow! as the semi-automatic went off and clattered to the floor. It landed on the wad of paper towels Betty Jo had left there. I knew what was under that pile, but I grabbed the gun anyway and aimed it at the robber, who was rubbing his hand where Jane had hit it with the cane.

  "A girl won’t shoot me," the robber said.

  "I’m not a girl," I said. "I’m a woman!"

  "And she’s already shot one man," Jane added.

  "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeh!" Betty Jo howled again and began shaking, working herself into a fresh hissy fit. "I knew y’all were crazy!" she cried.

  "Call 911," I said and pointed to the wall phone behind the register.

  The law men arrived and handcuffed the robber. "She’s got a gun," he told the deputy.

  "Yeah," I said. "I had yours, but they’ve got it now," and motioned toward the other officers.

  Betty Jo had finally calmed down. We exchanged a look, and she vowed she’d never seen any gun except the robber’s, which was technically the truth.

  "She told me those two had a gun, too," the robber insisted.

  Betty Jo and I just shook our heads in puzzled amazement.

  By the time we’d each given a statement and signed it, Betty Jo’s boss had arrived. He was happy to learn that nothing was missing. It was almost ten o’clock, but he assured me we were only about fifteen minutes from Planet Friendly Funeral Supplies. He even let me use the store phone to call Mr. Harper, who agreed to be waiting at his business for us and repeated directions to me several times.

  The store owner insisted on treating us to large coffees to go, compliments of the store.

  As Jane and I started out the door, she turned around and told him, "You should be ashamed letting this young girl work here alone at night." He scowled. I rushed Jane to the hearse before she volunteered any more advice.

  Chapter Six

  "I’d begun to worry about you," Al Harper said as he led Jane and me into his showroom, which was a very large metal building. He was a chubby fellow, balding on top with a long, curly brown ponytail hanging down his back. Probably in his mid-thirties.

  We were in the largest casket showroom I’d ever seen. Harper guided us through a maze of woven coffins from extremely tiny, smaller than for a full term newborn baby to gigantic, big enough for a circus fat lady (or man, for that matter.) They were made of willow, wicker, rattan, cardboard and unusual materials I couldn’t identify. I wondered if he had any made of sweet grass—the stuff my Gullah friend Rizzie weaves into baskets.

  I was glad Jane couldn’t see. No, I don’t mean that at all. If there were anything I could do to make Jane see, I’d do it, including giving her one of my eyes if it would work. What I meant was that being there with coffins all around would have freaked her out if she could see them. Jane clenched my hand tightly as we followed Harper to a very attractive light golden brown woven coffin. I knew from the strength of her grip that the thought of being surrounded by caskets upset her even without seeing them.

  "This is the one you want," he continued. "It’s lined with environmentally friendly biodegradable leak-resistant sheeting, and a cardboard barrier beneath the lining protects the sheeting from being pierced by the wicker or willow." He sounded rehearsed, like a commercial.

  Harper lifted the lid from the top and showed us the inside. "The unbleached lining, shroud, and pillow are all included in the price." He paused. "You did bring payment, didn’t you?"

  I took Odell’s Middleton’s Mortuary check from my purse and handed it to him.

  He examined it carefully. Like I’d forge a check to buy a casket! "Well," he finally said, "if you’ll go out and back your hearse up to the double doors, we’ll get this baby loaded for you."

  Jane stayed inside the building. She held her arms tight by her sides as though she were afraid she might accidentally touch a coffin. I backed the funeral coach to the open doors and pressed the button to release the funeral coach’s rear entry locks. I left the engine running with the air conditioning on to cool off the interior before we started the long ride home. I jumped out, slammed my door closed, and went back into the building. Leaning over, I grabbed a wicker handle on the side of the casket we’d bought.

  "No!" Mr. Harper shouted.

  Jane jumped in response to his voice. "What’s wrong?" she said.

  "I’m sorry if I frightened you," he said to her, then turned to me. "We don’t carry these by the handles. Use the shoulder carry and advise the funeral director to be sure the pall bearers don’t attempt to move it by the ha
ndles."

  "What do you mean carry it by the shoulders?" I asked. "Are you talking about where the body’s shoulders will be?"

  "I’m sure you’ve seen it in movies if not while working. Shoulder carry is used frequently during military funerals," Harper answered. "I’ve installed a plywood base in the bottom, so the weight of the body won’t go through the wicker, but the whole bottom, including the base, could fall out if you move it by the handles. The shoulder carry is when a coffin is hoisted to the pall bearers’ shoulders, spreading the weight."

  Then why’d they put handles on it? That question stayed in my head and never escaped my lips.

  Together, Mr. Harper and I carried the basket casket on our shoulders and slid it into the funeral coach. I closed and locked the rear doors. When I guided Jane to the passenger side and tried to open it for her, the lock wouldn’t release. "Wait here," I said and walked around to the driver’s side—my side.

  I’d thought this trip couldn’t get any worse, but it did. I’d set the locks on the doors. The casket was inside; Jane and I were outside; and the only key I had was in the ignition. My cell phone was on the seat. Mr. Harper had closed the double doors and walked to his van when I realized my problem.

  "Is something wrong?" Harper called.

  "I locked my keys inside," I answered.

  He walked over and peered through the front glass.

  "It’s running," he said. Duh? Like Jane and I were both too dense to notice.

  "That’s where the keys are," I said.

  Harper looked at his watch and grimaced, but he said, "Let me see if I have anything that will help. He went to the van and came back with a slender piece of metal, what Daddy calls a slim jim. Harper tried to slide it into the hearse, but the windows were too tight.

  "I’m afraid you’re going to need a locksmith unless someone can bring you a spare key." I figured that a locksmith probably wouldn’t cost more than ten hours’ labor for a part-time employee. Besides, if we waited here over five hours while Odell contacted someone and they drove up, it would be ten more hours instead of five before we got the casket to the funeral home.

  "Do you have a number for a local locksmith, and may I use your phone to call him?"

  "I’ll call Lock Doc for you." He took a cell phone from his pocket and hit auto dial. It seemed a little strange to me for him to have their number programmed in, but maybe lots of people lock their keys inside the vehicle when they pick up caskets.

  Jane and I stood by the funeral coach, waiting. My cell phone was ringing on the front seat. I could hear it through the windows and see it flashing. That’s when I remembered Odell had told me to call him when I had the casket. He’d estimated our arrival as around eight that night, but after the fiasco when we stopped for coffee, I’d forgotten to call. It was now after eleven.

  "May I use your phone?" I asked Harper.

  He handed it to me and walked around nervously as I dialed the mortuary phone number. Unless someone had called with a pickup, Odell would have transferred the call to his cell phone by now.

  "Hello," Odell growled.

  "We’re running behind," I said. "Can I just park at my place and bring the hearse and casket in tomorrow morning?"

  "That’s okay. I’m at the ER with Otis. I think the doctor’s going to admit him." I could tell he was upset because he didn’t scold me about calling the funeral coach a hearse.

  "I thought Otis just had a cold or flu."

  "His temperature shot up and he started having trouble breathing. I don’t know what’s going on, but you drive safely, and I’ll see you in the morning. Be to work by eight if you can."

  I disconnected. I hadn’t told Odell about the keys because he’d sounded so distressed about Otis. They fuss at each other a lot, but they’re identical twins who don’t look alike anymore. When they started to lose their hair, Otis got plugs; Odell shaved his head. Odell is also a barbecue addict while Otis is a vegetarian who spends a lot of time in his tanning bed. I don’t tell anyone, but the tanning bed is in the prep room at the funeral home. Odell wouldn’t be caught dead in it. I’ve been tempted to try it, but I haven’t yet.

  In any event, though they look very different now, they still have that twin thing going and relate to each other far more than my brothers.

  The Lock Doc arrived. A bald-headed guy with a picture of himself painted on the side of his van, wearing the same clothes he had on—green scrubs with "Doc" embroidered on the shirt. It only took him a few seconds to open the driver’s side of the hearse. I pushed the necessary buttons to unlock Jane’s side and walked her around. When I closed the door behind her, I moved to the driver’s side and pulled out the Middleton’s Visa card. That’s when the Lock Doc told me he only accepted cash. He called himself "Doc," but from the price he quoted, you’d have thought he was a brain surgeon.

  "I’m sorry, I don’t have that much cash with me," I said.

  Mr. Harper had been pacing back and forth since we discovered the keys were locked inside the funeral coach. He kept looking at his watch. When Doc turned his attention to Mr. Harper and began scolding him for calling and authorizing the work if I didn’t have cash to pay for it, Harper offered to run the Visa card through his machine and pay the locksmith cash. With that last bit of business completed, Jane and I headed for home.

  Jane hadn’t been company on the way to Tanner, and she wasn’t on the way back to St. Mary either. She was snoring before we reached the South Carolina state line, and she didn’t stop until we pulled into our driveway in St. Mary at almost five in the morning.

  Chapter Seven

  "Callie Parrish, I need to talk to you right now!" Sheriff Harmon shouted over the instrumental version of "Just As I Am" announcing he’d opened the front door. He sounded upset, and I’d already had enough of upset men for today. With only three hours’ sleep, I’d arrived at Middleton’s at nine A.M. Odell had been pacing when I arrived. He was in a hurry to go to the hospital and check on Otis and irritated with me for making him late.

  Stepping out of my office, I pulled the door closed behind me and walked toward the foyer. "I’m here," I called, though not so loud as Harmon had yelled for me. The Middleton twins had trained me never to raise my voice in the funeral home.

  "Where did you get that set of fingerprints that were on the table when I was here yesterday?" He pulled them from his pocket. No wonder I hadn’t found them!

  "I took them from Mr. Joyner. His wife brought in a brochure about a business called Print Memories. According to the pamphlet, the bereaved can have their mortuary take the loved one’s fingerprints. The company makes memorial silver and gold pendants, cufflinks, and other jewelry with the prints on them."

  "So these prints really are from a corpse here at the funeral home?" Harmon asked, waving my missing set of cards at me.

  "I’ve been looking all over for those. How’d you get them?"

  The sheriff ignored my question.

  "Show me the corpse these prints came from," he demanded.

  "Follow me," I said and headed toward the cooler.

  When I pulled Mr. Joyner from his drawer, he looked as good as he did when we’d brought him in. He still lay in his navy blue pajamas, and there wasn’t yet any sign of discoloration or skin slippage.

  "And you’re sure those fingerprints came from him?" the sheriff asked.

  "Yeah, I took them myself." I paused.

  "Did you know the Joyner family before the body was picked up?" Harmon asked.

  "No, they’re from Hilton Head. Why? Can I have the prints back?"

  The sheriff ignored my question and said, "I accidentally took the cards with me. When I realized it, I put them on my desk so I’d be sure to bring them back. Do you print all bodies?"

  "Oh, no. These were just because the widow wants a gold and diamond charm bracelet with his prints on the charms. I’m sure glad you’ve got the cards, so I don’t have to do them over."

  "Tell you what, Callie. I’ll make a new set
and give you back your original ones. I need a chain of evidence that the prints I turn in came from this corpse." Sheriff Harmon pointed at Mr. Joyner and removed a plastic bag with cards and ink pad from his coat pocket.

  "What are you talking about, chain of evidence? Odell said Mr. Joyner had an attack of gastroenteritis while he was in Beaufort. Went in the hospital there for a few days, then died. He wasn’t murdered or anything like that."

  "In this case, Callie, the corpse wasn’t a homicide victim. He’s a killer." The sheriff began rolling fingerprints as he talked. Like Odell had suggested after I’d taken the first set of prints, Harmon inked the finger, then rolled the paper against it instead of rolling the finger against the paper.

  "That new deputy, Eddie Blake, is the most eager beaver I’ve ever had working for me. Some of the fellows have started calling him Fast Eddie. He saw the print cards and put them through AFIS without even talking to me about it. I was ticked off until the results came back," Harmon said.

  "AFIS as in Automated Fingerprint Identification System?" I asked. I’d read about the computerized operation.

  "Un-hunh. AFIS got a hit on them. Your Mr. Joyner is Johnny Johnson, a missing person, alleged killer during the Buckley armored car robbery in 1980. He was one of the FBI’s most wanted until terrorists and more vicious killers claimed all the top spots."

  "Johnny Johnson?" I asked and rolled my eyes—just a little.

  "Don’t laugh. I once arrested a Tommy Thompson. When is Johnson’s funeral scheduled?"

  "This afternoon."

  "No way!"

  "Well, you can’t hold him too long. His wife doesn’t want him embalmed."

  "I need contact information for Mrs. Johnson."

  "She’s not Mrs. Johnson. She goes by the name ‘Mrs. Joyner’ even though they weren’t legally married. I can give you the home number and one for her cell as well as their address."

  "I need to run these new prints I made through AFIS. If the report’s the same, I’ll have to notify New Jersey and the FBI."