by Fran Rizer
Agent Randolph opened the body bag and bent over, carefully examining the face. She pulled up the golf shirt and looked at the abdomen. There was a crescent-shaped blemish on the left side of his rib cage. "That’s it," she said. "I want to make another set of prints, but with your prints and the birthmark, I feel confident this man is Johnny Johnson. When I first read the reports, I thought he would have had plastic surgery on his face and had that birthmark removed, but he didn’t." She reached into her leather tote and pulled out another fingerprinting kit. At the rate we were going, we’d rub the prints off the body.
As she went through the printing routine, Agent Randolph said, "I’m going to authorize an autopsy, but he probably died of natural causes. According to our records, he’d be seventy-two years old now." When she completed the prints, she took a folder from her bag and showed the sheriff and me photographs of Johnny Johnson at the time he disappeared. Mr. Joyner had aged, but the features were still those of the robber.
"At this point," she continued, "we can close the case of locating Johnny Johnson, but we’ll want to investigate whether or not any of the money is still around. Sheriff, didn’t you say he has a wife?"
"Not legally," Harmon responded, "but he’s been living with a woman who goes by the name ‘Mrs. Joyner,’ and she can’t find his social security number or any formal identification."
I thought about it. "She did say that he paid cash for everything, but she didn’t say if it’s kept in a safe deposit box or hidden under their mattress."
"Well, if any of it’s left, it belongs to the government, not to the widow." Agent Randolph assured us.
"Do you want me to contact Mrs. Joyner and have her come in to give permission for the autopsy?" I foolishly asked.
Agent Randolph looked at me like I’d fallen off a turnip truck. Sheriff Harmon’s expression wasn’t much better.
"When the FBI requests an autopsy," the sheriff said, "permission from the spouse isn’t necessary."
Chapter Twelve
Agent Randolph rode off with Sheriff Harmon, who had a big grin on his face. Right before they left, the FBI lady had supplied her own papers and signed them, authorizing an autopsy on behalf of the United States Government—ASAP. Wow! Who was I to argue with that?
"Do you want me to take Mr. Joyner to Charleston?" I asked Odell when he answered his cell phone.
"No, and I can’t do it because I don’t want to leave the hospital while Otis is in Intensive Care. Call Jake. If he’s well, he can make the trip. He probably needs all the hours he can get this week anyway."
"Mr. Joyner’s been here a few days and usually you send them out as soon as possible. He hasn’t been embalmed. Is that a problem?"
"Callie, a body is never intentionally prepped before autopsy. It makes the medical examiners furious, so it only happens if the post mortem is ordered after a body has been embalmed. You’ve been around here long enough to know that."
"I guess so," I mumbled. "We don’t have a refrigerated removal van or hearse, do we?"
Odell laughed. "No, we don’t. Just tell Jake to turn the AC on high and hurry!" He was still guffawing when he ended the connection.
As usual, (well, as sometimes usual), I did as I was told. Jake had barely headed out to Charleston when Sheriff Harmon came back. He still wore that big grin.
"What are you so happy about?" I asked as the notes of "The Old Rugged Cross" ended.
Ignoring my question, he asked, "Has anyone picked up the Jaguar John Doe from Charleston yet?"
"I doubt he’s ready. We haven’t received the results."
"Well, a copy of the report was just faxed to my office." The sheriff still had a grin. Now it was a silly one. He was antsy too, like he couldn’t stand still."
"Did they identify him?" I asked.
"No. That’s my job. Turns out not to be a heart attack though. It’s homicide."
"Murder?" I sat down in an overstuffed burgundy velvet barrel back chair. Wayne remained standing.
"Yep, some kind of poison. Toxicology reports won’t be in for awhile, but the preliminary reports are pretty solid. Poison is homicide or an accidental death, and I’m betting someone got rid of him intentionally."
"Are they sure it wasn’t snake venom?"
"I don’t think they’re sure about anything except that he appears to have died from some kind of poison." Wayne looked antsier than ever, checking his watch every minute or so. "Anyway, have the John Doe’s body brought back here. This is my case."
I looked up at him. "Why do you look so happy? You can’t possibly be glad the man was killed." He grinned even bigger, and a thought crept into my mind. "Could your joy have anything to do with a pretty FBI agent?" I asked.
"Well, I am taking Georgette to dinner tonight." He looked at his watch again. "As a matter of fact, I need to get home in time to shower and change."
"Georgette? I thought she was Agent Randolph."
Sheriff Harmon chuckled. "She’s fascinating whether you think of her as Georgette or as Agent Randolph."
"Can she bake pies?" I teased.
"I don’t know. I’ll ask her at dinner."
The notes of "Jesus Loves Me" began as Sheriff Harmon opened the door. I followed after him and called, "I forgot to tell you. The John Doe’s shirt matches the one Mrs. Joyner brought for her husband’s burial."
The sheriff turned and looked at me. "A green golf club shirt?" he asked.
"Yep, exactly the same. That’s coincidental, isn’t it?"
"Callie, there are seldom any coincidences in crime, maybe in everyday life, but not in police work."
"I don’t guess it’s such a big deal anyway, especially considering they’re both from Hilton Head, I guess it’s not so far out."
"How do you know they’re both from Hilton Head?"
I paused before answering. "I assumed so because John Doe was wearing that Hilton Head golf club shirt, and Mrs. Joyner said they live in Hilton Head." I thought for a moment. "I figured the man in the car was from Hilton Head before I even got close enough to see his shirt. A lot more Jags in Hilton Head than here in St. Mary."
"Thanks for telling me. It’s a stretch, but they could have been friends. Mrs. Joyner might recognize our John Doe. I’ll arrange to show her his picture." He glanced at his wrist. "I’ll give that some thought. Gotta get to that shower now." He closed his car door, waved, and drove away.
I considered sitting down on one of the big white rocking chairs on the veranda to enjoy the weather. The day was a lot warmer than usual for October. I’d have to leave the door open to hear the phone though, and that’s a big no-no at a funeral home. Doors and windows are never left unclosed. I decided to take the chance, but the minute I sat down, the landline rang. I pulled the door closed behind me and dashed to the office.
"Middleton’s Mortuary. Callie Parrish speaking. How may I help you?"
"Yes, this is Liz Taylor." Good grief! A prank phone call to a funeral home.
"Yeah, and this is Angelina Jolie." I shot back.
"No, not the famous Liz Taylor. I used to be Liz Burns. You know, the Burns family that runs the St. Mary Vegetable Garden Spot, but I married Evan Taylor. He died and I need to talk to Otis or Odell.
I boast that I neither give nor take guilt trips, but I sure felt shame-faced about my rude response to a recent widow.
"Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I really thought . . ."
"I know what you thought, if you thought at all, but you were wrong. Can I speak to one of the Middletons?"
"I’m sorry, Mrs. Taylor, but neither of them is here right now. I can have Mr. Taylor brought in and set an appointment for you to meet with one of the Middletons here to make arrangements."
"I guess that will be okay. Evan died at the Lazy Days Rest Home just awhile ago, and I really feel bad about that. I’d been taking care of him at home and it just got to be more than I could handle. I had him moved to Lazy Days just yesterday, and here he up and died today, but I want to bring
him home."
"Now?" I asked.
"No, certainly not now! What do you think? Or do you ever think at all? I want him home after you fix him up, so our family and friends can come here for the wake."
Most folks have visitations at the church or mortuary these days, but here in the South, visitation or a wake is sometimes held in the decedent’s home. I’d offended the woman again. This definitely wasn’t a good day for me.
"I’m sorry. I just misunderstood." I tried to sound as contrite as possible.
"Is this Middleton’s or an answering service? You don’t seem to know much about the funeral business."
"I’m here at the mortuary. I apologize. I’m here to serve you. Middleton’s will make every effort to help you through this difficult time." I was quoting Otis, and it certainly sounded better than when I spoke from my own mind.
"Okay." She sounded calmer. "Let’s start over." She spoke very slowly and a little louder, the way I’d heard some people talk to Special Needs students when I taught. "My husband, Evan Taylor, has passed away," she continued. "He’s at Lazy Days Rest Home, and I want Middleton’s to handle everything. I want Middleton’s to bring him home for visitation, then we’ll have a service at the church the next day."
"Do you want him embalmed?" I asked. We always ask that question because prepping the body requires a signature. Besides, I guess I had Mr. Joyner on my mind.
"Of course I want him embalmed!" Mrs. Taylor said. "And I know from the last time that I have to sign to have it done. How late will you be open tonight?"
"We’re open until eight o’clock, but I can certainly wait here for you if you want to come later."
"I’ll try to be there before eight."
Now what? Usually pick-ups are made by Otis, Odell, or Jake. I’ve been on a few, but I rarely go by myself, and I really shouldn’t leave before eight even though we didn’t have anyone resting at the moment. That’s not real Funeraleze. "Resting" is my own term for a body being on the premises—in the cooler, the prep room, or lying in a casket in one of the slumber rooms.
Odell was worried about Otis, and I’d already called him several times. I made the decision for myself. I’d reached for the telephone to call Denise to come cover the phone while I picked up Mr. Taylor, when our other line rang.
I answered, "Middleton’s Mortuary. Callie Parrish speaking. How may I help you?"
"This is Tessie over at Lazy Days Rest Home. I’ve called to report that Mr. Evan Taylor has passed away, and his wife specified that Middleton’s is her funeral home of choice."
"Yes, she’s already talked to me."
"Then will someone be here soon? I told her we’d call you, but Mrs. Taylor is the kind of woman who has to have her own way and insisted she’d call you herself."
She coughed softly. "Believe me, the poor man was only here one day and she drove us crazy with her instructions. More like demands that everything be done her way, even though we’re professionals in caring for the ill and elderly."
I’d stopped listening when she said, "Believe me." It was the first time I’d heard an older woman use my favorite expression, even though she said it like, "b’lieve" and I say it, "buh-leeve." Of course, I had no way to know her age, but she sounded quite elderly. Like she ought to be a patient instead of an employee at Lazy Days Rest Home.
"Yes, ma’am," I said. "We’ll be there soon."
"Bye," she said softly.
I called Denise and asked if she could come over and stay while I was out, explaining that I’d only be gone about an hour.
"Be there as soon as I get my dress on," she answered and for a moment, I wondered if I’d interrupted something before I realized she meant get out of jeans or whatever she was wearing and into her long-sleeved black dress.
The pick up went fine. An employee there helped me get Mr. Taylor into the body bag and on the gurney. I spread the cover over him before we moved to the hall. The sight of a body bag being wheeled out is disturbing to lots of people, especially the elderly and ill. I don’t see where it matters a lot since they know what’s under there, but rules are rules, and my bosses insist they be followed. All the patients’ doors were closed as the employee and I wheeled Mr. Taylor to the service exit. As the orderly and I put Mr. Taylor into the funeral coach, a little lady who looked like the epitome of a true old fashioned southern lady came out to us.
"I’m Tessie," she said. "Are you the young lady I spoke with at the funeral home?"
"Yes, ma’am."
"I am so glad to get that man out of here. Not that I’m ever glad when a patient dies, mind you. I’m just glad that wife of his won’t be back. She’s tried to boss everybody here around since her husband came in. She was even telling employees who had nothing to do with her husband how to do their jobs. Thank you for taking him away."
She shook my hand and went back into the building.
Denise was sitting at my desk and shrieking when I walked into my office.
"What is going on around here?" she screamed.
"Nothing unusual that I know of," I answered and leaned across her to look in the message basket on my desk. "What’s got you upset?"
"It’s too noisy here. I’m not going to work this job after dark anymore."
"Been hearing the ghosties walking ’round?" I kidded, and I didn’t mean to. I promise I didn’t mean to, but I raised my arms and moaned, "Whoooooo, whoooo!"
Denise put her head on the desk and sobbed.
"Come on," I tried to comfort. "This is an old house. If you’ve heard anything, it’s the settling and normal sounds of the building. Besides, if there were such a thing as ghosts, I’d have seen one by now. I’ve been working here three years." Hoping that would pacify her, I changed the subject. "Have there been any calls?" There weren’t any notes in the message basket, but if she’d been this upset, she may not have written anything up.
"Jake called. Told me he got a speeding ticket on the way to Charleston. No other calls, but a Mrs. Taylor came by. She said she needed to sign an embalming form and screamed at me until I found one in the bottom drawer of your desk. It’s right here." Denise waved the paper in front of me. "There’s a picture, too. She said she’ll be here at ten in the morning for a planning session, and she wants to see Mr. Taylor then. She expects him home by tomorrow afternoon for the wake she’s planning." Denise looked over her shoulder as though she’d heard something, but the room was silent to me. "Mr. Taylor’s clothes are hanging in the entry. I didn’t want to go into any of the rooms."
"That’s fine." I said. Denise stood, picked up her purse, and briskly walked toward the door. "Wait up! You can’t leave yet. I need you to help me," I called.
"I am not helping you unload that corpse," Denise said. "I told you and the Middletons when I came to work here that I’m not touching or working around anything dead."
"I know, Denise," I comforted. "All I want you to do is sit here and listen for the door or phone calls while I get Mr. Taylor into the building."
"How are you going to do that by yourself?"
"He’s not very big, just a little old man. I can do it." Yeah, my mind told myself. You can slide him off the gurney onto the tray for the cooler, but you can’t embalm him.
Better call Odell again.
When Mr. Taylor was secured in the cooler and Denise on her way home, I called Odell and brought him up to date.
"I’ll stay here until Jake gets the John Doe here," I said.
"No, Otis is doing better. I’ll come in, prep the new gentleman, and wait for Jake. You can go home when I get there, but I’ll need you in for cosmetizing in the morning."
"By the way, Jake got a speeding ticket."
"A speeding ticket! Why in tarnation would he go over the speed limit in the funeral coach?"
I tried to defend Jake. "Well, you did say to tell him to turn the air on high and hurry."
"I was teasing you," Odell growled. "I’ll be there soon." As the call ended, I heard him mumbling, "Can’t t
ake a joke—can’t even tell what’s a joke and what’s not."
The Chapter Between
Twelve and Fourteen
At last! For years I’ve avoided the number thirteen. I’m not really superstitious, but I don’t push my luck. The only good thing about that number was some wonderful folks have been born on the thirteenth day of different months. Now—at last—a really good thirteen has entered my life.
After George Carter was dispatched (Isn’t that a sweet synonym for "murdered"?) by Dennis Sharpe, who will probably spend the rest of his life in a mental institution, Phyllis Counts returned to South Carolina and won the Southern Belle Flour Baking Contest. She expanded her catering company from a home enterprise operating out of her kitchen and van by opening a retail outlet in Beaufort. The name of her shop is Baker’s Dozen and she sells every kind of cookie I’ve ever heard of. If a customer names a cookie Mrs. Counts hasn’t made, she’ll research the recipe and bake samples.
What does that have to do with the number thirteen? A baker’s dozen is thirteen, not twelve. I looked it up on the Internet. The original idea came from way back in the 1200s when bakers who short-changed their customers could receive severe punishments, like having a hand cut off. To be positive that no one was accidentally short-changed, the bakers gave thirteen for a dozen.
If someone orders a dozen of anything at Baker’s Dozen in Beaufort, there are thirteen in the bag or box. Buh-leeve me. I’ve been seeing a lot of Mrs. Counts lately.
She says it’s her way of showing appreciation to customers. I say the only thing better than twelve cookies is thirteen cookies, and the only thing better than thirteen cookies is thirteen Moon Pies.
Don’t think this means that I’ve changed my mind about writing a chapter thirteen. I thought about it, but I’m going to limit my dealings with thirteen to making trips to Beaufort for snicker doodles. A Baker’s Dozen—thirteen of them.
Chapter Fourteen