by TM Simmons
Chapter 33
Campton’s Funeral Home was a former plantation manor house, white two-story-columned, with a veranda. Ancient live oaks surrounded the paved parking lot, remnants of the grounds from bygone days. Now, however, there were gift shops and a couple convenience shops lining the street, encroaching on the privacy of the stately house. A dim light burned on the veranda, no lights inside. I pulled into the parking lot, but Granny shook her head. “Go ‘round back.”
A drive led to the rear, where two hearses were parked, one I recognized from the day I arrived at Katy’s. Or assumed I did. There wasn’t much difference in the two vehicles, other than one of them looked older. I parked beside the newer hearse and killed the engine. There were more lights back here, thank goodness. The woman I’d seen in the hearse at the plantation opened the back door and flicked the lights off. She peered out and placed a finger to her lips.
The darkness didn’t seem to bother Twila and Granny, who got out without hesitation. However, much as I loved prowling graveyards, day or night, I didn’t care for funeral homes or that end of the death process. Plus, I wasn’t one bit happy about why we were here. I followed more slowly, ordering Trucker and Miss Molly to wait. Wishing desperately that I could stay with them, I steeled myself and walked to where the other three women waited.
“Isn’t this something?” Maxine said conspiratorially as I slowly climbed the steps. “Sorry I had to turn the lights off, but I don’t normally leave them on at night. One of the local patrol cars might think something’s wrong and stop by.”
“Smart thinkin’,” Granny said with an emphatic nod. “But then, you’s my grandchild.”
Smiling happily at the compliment, Maxine ushered us inside. Into a kitchen. And it looked as if it were in use, although I couldn’t imagine how anyone could enjoy sitting down to meals in a funeral home.
“We won’t have to worry about lights once we get into the embalming room,” Maxine said as she led the way. “We covered those windows a few years ago. Neighborhood kids kept trying to peek in on Halloween nights.”
“You don’t seem bothered by the fact that we want to...borrow that head,” I said, lagging behind as we passed a large viewing room. My steps hastened, and I caught up.
“I think it’s exciting!” Maxine replied merrily. “Part of reconnecting a poor lost soul’s body. We don’t get much excitement around here. And shoot, you won’t do any damage. I’m sure you’ll cherish the head very respectfully, as we do our bodies.”
At the end of the dark hallway, she opened a fairly heavy door. Antiseptic smell wavered out, along with the chill. Granny and Twila walked in without hesitation, while I stared up at the high, filigree-bordered ceiling for a moment, then rigidly marched onward.
And halted abruptly. Two gleaming steel tables sat beneath the bright lights, one near a stainless steel sink, with a sheet-shrouded body on it. On the far wall was a huge freezer-type door, and Maxine opened it, then noticed my frozen stance and followed my gaze.
“That’s Miz Cassandra. She’s at peace after the horrible pain she suffered the past few months. Claude had to go down in the basement for more embalming fluid.”
I cleared my throat, a loud sound in the eerily quiet room. “Your husband...he’s okay with this, too?”
“Of course. He understands about bodies needing to repose serenely.”
I still couldn’t cross that room. Maxine disappeared into the cooler and reemerged carrying a white foam cooler with a garish red Budweiser beer logo on it.
“I got this out of the garage after you called." Maxine handed the cooler to Granny. “I thought it appropriate for Bucky. We do believe in appropriateness. We urge the bereaved to take their time deciding on what sort of casket and service they want. It’s the last thing they can do to show their respect for the dearly departed.”
Granny handed the cooler to Twila, who accepted it gingerly.
“We better get going,” I said, in a hurry to get out of there.
I turned and bumped directly into a large, soft belly. It took both my hands on my mouth to cut off my gasp, and I looked up, up, into the twinkling eyes of a man who stood nearly seven feet and weighed close to four hundred pounds. He chuckled and set the large cardboard box he held easily in one arm on the floor before he held out his hand. “Claude Campton. I know who you are. I admire your books a lot. They’re just the thing to read and relax after a long night in here.”
I shook his hand, amazed that he’d consider one of my books relaxing after a night embalming bodies. But to each his own. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Say, maybe when y’all bring Bucky’s head back, you can sign my books." His round face beamed with delight. “I’ll get them ready.”
“O — of course,” I agreed. Just what I wanted. A book signing in a funeral home. But fans are fans.
“Gettin’ late,” Granny said. “We best hustle.”
I was ready to hustle, so we left the funeral home for the parking lot. Maxine switched the lights on after reminding us she couldn’t leave them for long. Twila opened one of the rear doors, but I shook my head. “That’s going in the trunk!”
“Okay,” she said with a shrug.
I opened the trunk and she tenderly placed the cooler inside. Leaving Twila to close the trunk lid, I slid in and started the car, waiting impatiently while she and Granny settled in. Maxine turned out the lights, and I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Esprit d’Chene. The instant I left the town proper behind and started down the back roads, I sped up. The sooner this was over with, the better. The actual ceremony when we connected Bucky’s missing part didn’t bother me, just all this cloak and dagger preparation.
Granny tapped me on the shoulder. “You’s got that pedal awful close to the metal.”
Her reminder of my speed on the lonely country, wildlife-filled night roads came nearly too late. The emu stood in the road just around the bend I’d sped through, and I slammed on the brakes. Thank goodness for anti-lock! The car skidded to a halt a foot from the bird, and it lifted its head on its snake-like neck and fluffed out its stubby gray wings without moving. Opened its mouth, and though I couldn’t hear, probably hissed at me.
“Good God,” Twila said. “What’s an ostrich doing out here?”
“Ain’t no ostrich, it’s one a’them emus,” Granny said. “Must’ve jumped a fence somewheres.”
The bird bent its neck and pecked furiously at the hood. That brought Trucker up from his sprawl, and Miss Molly alert on the passenger seat.
“Emu?” Twila asked.
“Yeah,” Granny explained while I waved my hand at the windshield and blew the horn. “Folks was farmin’ them for a while. But the market kinda died.”
The bird decided pecking its displeasure wasn’t enough. It leaped onto the hood and bent to stare through the windshield, totally disregarding the car’s frantically blaring horn. It had large, brown eyes with long lashes. Deep gouges marred the car’s paint from the claws on the feather-tufted feet.
“Get out of here, bird!” I yelled. The eyelashes blinked, then it pecked the windshield. I instinctively pulled back, glaring at it, as Trucker roared his displeasure right in my ear and I surged forward against the steering wheel, eyeball to eyeball with that blasted bird. And jerked backwards again. Shit, I felt like I was on a rocking horse!
Miss Molly decided the floorboard was a safer haven from the monstrous bird.
“Damn it, Trucker,” I yelled. “Shut up. Twila, grab him!”
She wrapped her arms around the dog and pulled him close, soothing him into silence. “There, there, Trucker boy. That nasty ole bird can’t get at your mommy.”
“Two bad we ain’t got the patrol car,” Granny mused. “Si-reen might scare it off. You don’t wanna get out there and try to run it off. Heard them things can be dangerous.”
So had I, and I wasn’t about to confront that nasty beak outside the car.
“I think we’ve got another problem,” Twila
put in. “I heard something thump loose in the trunk when you slammed on the brakes.”
Three sets of wide, stricken eyes met in the rearview mirror.
The emu stood upright, arched its neck, and fluffed those stumpy wings again. Then it turned its back on us, wiggled its rump, and sat down smack dab on the hood.
“Oh, for heaven sakes,” I muttered. “Now what?”
“The poor thing’s probably chilled,” Twila said. “The hood’s warm.”
“Something in the trunk’s gonna start warming up if we don’t get out of here!” I spat.
“Drive on,” Granny ordered. “It’ll jump off when the car starts movin’.”
“How am I supposed to see? It’s fat rump is in my line of vision!" I blared the horn in one last attempt to scare the bird off. The emu cranked its head around and blinked at me. Then rose to its feet.
“Thank goodness,” I said. “It’s leav — ”
It splat a gob of guano on my windshield, a huge, runny gray and white mess that slid down the window and pooled on the wipers. Then it settled back on the hood.
“Ick,” Twila said all too calmly for my state of mind.
Gagging, I searched the console switches for the windshield washer. There, the same place as my Jeep, on the blinker handle. I sprayed the glass, but the wipers came on at the same moment and smeared the mess back and forth. The wipers settled back well before the windshield was clear.
“Huh,” Granny said. “Didn’t help much.”
I turned the washer switch again. Again. Katy was going to love the condition of her car when we got her out of jail! The washer fluid cleaned the spot directly in front of me, but the leavings ran down the left side of the window where the wipers didn’t reach. And I still couldn’t see past that blasted bird.
“You’re gonna haveta drive on,” Granny repeated. “Here. Me and Twila will he’p you." Before I could admonish them, the two opened their windows and stuck their heads out.
“Go on,” Twila said. “We’ll guide you.”
Nothing else for it. I took my foot off the brake and eased the gas pedal down. The car moved forward, and I tried to remember which direction the road went beyond the emu. Straight, I thought.
“Right,” Twila said. “Steer to the right." I did. “No! Not that far! Straight, go straight now!" I straightened the wheel.
“Left!” Granny yelled, waving her hand inside the car. I did.
“No! Your other left!” Twila shouted. I jerked the wheel the opposite way. Glanced out the side window into a deep water-filled ditch a foot away and slammed on the brakes again.
“This isn’t working!" I glared at the emu sitting unconcerned on the hood.
“You’s gonna haveta go faster to shake him off,” Granny said. “Go on. But pay attention to what we’re sayin’.”
“We’re going to end up in the ditch,” I said as reasonably as I could, given the fact I was speaking through clenched teeth. “If that happens, we’ll have to call a tow truck, and who the hell knows how long it’ll take for them to get out here this time of night! And — and — ”
“ — and how long it will take our cargo to thaw out,” Twila mused when I sputtered to a halt. And before I realized what she was up to, she flung open the door. “Sic 'em, Trucker.”
The dog sicced. He bounded out with a deep growl that reverberated in the air. Miss Molly leaped back onto the passenger seat and set her front paws on the dash to watch the show. Which was a pretty good one, if you discounted the fact that I was going to have to get both a wash and paint job on the Mercedes before I let Katy set eyes on it. Trucker lunged around to the side of the hood and, honestly, gave the emu a chance. He roared and barked for several seconds, but the bird just ruffled its feathers and settled back down.
Trucker crouched, then launched himself onto the hood. He hit the emu full force, and the bird screeched. Claws digging, it slid off the hood.
But the damn bird swiveled around and confronted the dog in the middle of the road, the headlights outlining the fracas like spotlights. The emu screeched, then jabbed its beak at the dog. Trucker ducked, and bravely flew through the air again. He hit the emu broadside, and they both tumbled to the pavement.
The emu had finally had enough. It scrambled up and loped into the woods, stubby wings flapping and cries hanging in the air. Unfortunately, Trucker was hot on its trail.
I threw open my door and jumped out. “Trucker! Get back here!" Other than my voice, all I could hear was crackling brush and a chase-bay from my dog that would have made a pretty sound, had we been on a fox hunt.
I yelled again, “Trucker! Here, boy!" And managed a piercing whistle.
The baying stopped, but the brush crackles continued, fading off into the distance. The emu screamed one last time, then utter silence. Total darkness beyond the headlights. Tangled briars and underbrush on the side of the road, an impenetrable mass for a human to negotiate. In the car, Granny and Twila sat wordless. Only Miss Molly moved.
She strolled across the console and jumped out the door. Pacing to the edge of the road, she meowed plaintively. Noises in the brush responded to her plea. Unsure whether it was dog or fowl, I edged toward the driver’s seat and grabbed the door, prepared to fling myself inside. I ended up with a handful of emu guano and furiously rubbed my hand against my leg, still worrying about what would emerge and perhaps attack my cat.
“Uh — ” I said softly. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
Miss Molly tossed me a glance, but didn’t move. The brush parted...and my dog pranced out, tongue lolling. I sighed with relief as the two of them casually strolled back to the car. I picked up Miss Molly, cuddling her in one arm, stroking Trucker with my other hand. He waggled his stubby tail, panting and slobbering, and I petted him for a long while, murmuring praises, before the three of us got back in.
Twila and Granny made a fuss over Trucker, also, as I drove on down the road, carefully this time, very, very carefully. More like I had the car out for a walk than a drive. By unspoken mutual consent, we didn’t mention what had to have been on all three of our minds. Who was going to open the trunk?