by Fran Rizer
“There’s a TV Guide in that magazine rack,” I suggested.
“I like the old shows. I’m looking for that channel that always plays reruns.”
I sipped my tea and thought about the call from Bill. At least, I knew he was okay. Suddenly, Otis burst into laughter.
“What is it?” I asked.
“This is the ‘Carnival of Spies’ episode of Six Million Dollar Man from the seventies.” Otis placed the remote control on the end table and leaned forward toward the television. “While they were filming scenes for this show at The Pike, an amusement park in Long Beach, California, a prop man moved what he thought was a wax mannequin hanging from a gallows. The mannequin’s arm broke off, and they saw human bone and muscle tissue.”
“Another case like Spaghetti and Deaf Bill?”
“Sure was. When the ‘mannequin’ was examined at the coroner’s office, a petrified human corpse was found beneath a layer of wax and phosphorus paint. He had been shot in the chest, and the body also showed incisions from a previous autopsy and embalming.”
“And this was another case of the deceased not being buried because no one would pay for it?”
“It turned out that the corpse was Elmer McCurdy, a train robber who was shot and killed at the age of thirtyone in 1911. He was taken to the Johnson Funeral Home in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Joseph L. Johns, the owner and undertaker, embalmed McCurdy with an arsenic-based fluid used when a body might be held for a long time.”
Otis drained his cup. “Johnson shaved McCurdy’s face, dressed him, propped him up in a corner of the funeral home, and charged people a nickel to see the outlaw. Instead of sealing McCurdy’s mouth, Johnson kept it open and that’s where viewers deposited their money. There was even a coin found in McCurdy’s mouth when he was discovered by the Six Million Dollar Man crew.”
I picked up both mugs, went to the kitchen, and refilled them. I handed his tea to Otis and sat on the couch sipping mine. He seemed totally involved in the television until a commercial came on.
“Want to know the rest of the story?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. “I’m positive there’s more about how he got from being propped in a corner at Johnson’s Funeral Home to hanging in an amusement center.”
“Five years after McCurdy died, a man called Aver showed up and claimed the body. Said he was McCurdy’s brother and was going to give him a proper burial. Aver turned out to be co-owner of a traveling carnival who displayed McCurdy until Aver sold the body to Louis Sonney in 1922 for display in his Museum of Crime. For fifty more years, McCurdy was displayed by various promoters. McCurdy was finally buried in 1977 in Oklahoma after being discovered by the crew of the Six Million Dollar Man the previous year.”
“How do you know all these stories?”
“My daddy told them to Odell and me. Then when computers became commonplace, I looked them up on the Internet.”
“You should write a book.”
“I fear the topic is too gruesome for most people.”
“I don’t think so. Your stories fascinate me.”
“But you’re one of us, in the business. You work at the mortuary, and that makes you more interested in strange tales about funeral homes and cemeteries.”
Before I could say anything more, a cell phone rang—not mine, but soft, instrumental music similar to the hymns that play when the front door is opened at the funeral home.
I didn’t recognize the tune, though it may have been a religious song also.
“Middleton’s Mortuary. How may I help you?” Otis answered.
The rest of his conversation was primarily just “yes” and “okays.” When he finished, he stood. “I have to go. That was Odell, and we have another removal in Charleston. Wish I’d known this when you were there.”
“Can’t you go in the morning?” I asked.
“The deceased has just been released from the morgue and the family is frantic to have her brought to St. Mary immediately.”
He stood and walked to the door.
I touched the cuff of his jacket and asked, “What are the chances that I can drive a family car until I get a rental?”
“No problem unless we have a service that requires all of the limousines and family cars. You want to get one of your brothers to bring you by tomorrow morning to pick it up?”
“No, I want you to drop me off now when you go get the hearse.”
“Funeral coach,” Otis said automatically, reminding me to speak Funeraleze.
11:00 P.M.
I looked at the clock, it was eleven-oh-three Middleton’s was lit up like a Christmas tree At this time of night, Middleton’s should have been locked up tight with only the overnight lights on, but I smelled coffee the minute Otis opened the back door. Odell came from the kitchen into the hall and gave us a surprised look.
“Sorry I called you in,” Odell said to Otis. “I’ve decided to make the removal myself.” He turned to me. “What you are doing here?”
“My Mustang was totaled tonight, and Otis said I can borrow a family car until I rent something tomorrow.” “How’d you total your car? Were you hurt?” Odell looked and sounded concerned.
“The car was stolen. I wasn’t in it,” I assured him.
“Good. Get the keys off the rack for one of the Lincolns, but do try to rent something tomorrow. We’re going to have a big funeral within a couple of days, and I’ll need all our vehicles as well as whatever I can borrow.”
“Who?” I asked. “Mrs. Greene?”
“She has a large family, so hers will be good-sized, but services for the deceased I’m headed to Charleston for removal right now will be giant. Did you read about the shooting on I-95 near Charleston last week? The young girl riding with her fiance when a truck pulled up and opened fire on them? That’s who we’re picking up.”
Otis asked, “Wasn’t that the thirteen-year-old who went missing a couple of years ago? They didn’t know if she’d been kidnapped or run away.”
“I remember that,” I said. “I didn’t know she’d been located. Was she dead when they found her? She lived in Charleston with her grandmother. Why are we bringing her to St. Mary?”
“The girl who disappeared two years ago is the same one who was shot. Her grandmother, Mrs. Caldwell, raised her in Charleston, but a few months ago, Mrs. Caldwell moved to St. Mary to take care of her older sister at their old home-place. The girl’s parents, grandfather, and great grandparents are buried in St. Mary at Taylor’s Cemetery. Interment will be there.”
“Do you expect a big crowd because of the publicity?” I asked as Odell headed to the kitchen area. Otis and I followed him.
“Television news showed a tremendous pile of flowers and stuffed animals beside the highway where she died.” Odell rinsed out his thermos and began filling it with coffee. “A lot of people will be here out of sympathy, but there will also be lots of curiosity-seekers.”
“Stuffed animals? How old was she?” Otis asked.
“She was only fifteen, but she was pregnant. I don’t know if the animals are for her or her unborn baby, but I guarantee you the crowd will be tremendous for the funeral and every distant cousin will expect to ride in a limousine. I may even have to borrow extras.”
“It’s almost midnight. It would make more sense to go in the morning. Why can’t you wait until then?” I asked.
“Because her grandmother hasn’t seen her in two years and insists I go now. The minute they released the deceased to her, she called and told me we can handle the services if we go get the girl now. To quote the dear lady, ‘I want my Betty Jo and her baby out of that morgue immediately!”
“Have they arrested the shooter?” Otis asked.
“No, and chances are slim that they will. It was a driveby shooting on I-95 with no apparent motive, though, if you ask me, that fiancé of hers knows more about it than he’s telling. Did you see him interviewed on the news the day after it happened?”
“No,” I said as Otis shook his head n
o.
“He didn’t seem all that torn up about his future wife and his unborn baby being dead. Just claimed over and over that he knew nothing except that a dark-colored truck pulled up beside him and the man in the passenger seat fired at him but hit the girl.”
“Why . . . “ I began but was interrupted when someone pounded at the back. Odell and I followed Otis who opened the door. A short, scrawny lady with white hair stepped inside. She wore a blue-flowered cotton dress and tennis shoes. Her purse that was big enough to be carry-on luggage. It was made to be a shoulder bag, but she held the strap and let the pocketbook drag on the floor.
“Odell Middleton, you told me you’d go right now to get my Betty Jo.” Her voice was low, gruff, and twice as big as she was.
“Yes, ma’am. I had to come here to get the funeral coach. I’m leaving now.” He gestured toward Otis. “Mrs. Caldwell, do you remember my brother Otis?”
The lady nodded.
He motioned toward me. “And this is Miss Parrish, our cosmetician. She will be in charge of dressing your granddaughter and making her look however you wish.”
“Good! I can talk to both of them while you go get Betty Jo. I didn’t know anyone would be here. I drove over to wait in the parking lot for you to get back with her, but I can spend that time discussing the service with Otis and telling Miss Parrish how I want Betty Jo’s makeup.
I was tired and upset about Bill and my car, but from what Odell had said, I felt even more compassion for this woman than I usually did for survivors, and every case touches my heart. Middleton’s prides itself on providing thoughtful service to everyone, and it’s not fake. We really do care.
Odell took his thermos and said goodbye to all of us as he left. Otis turned to Mrs. Caldwell. “Do you really want to make plans right now?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.” She sniffed. “I smell coffee. Is there any left?”
“If not,” I said, “I’ll be glad to make some more.”
“Mrs. Caldwell, why don’t you and I move to the Callie Lily Room? Callie will bring in the coffee,” Otis suggested.
I had to control myself not to smile. When Otis got the idea to decorate the consultation rooms in floral themes, I suggested calla lilies. He protested that calla lilies are a wedding flower, but after Otis and Odell finished redecorating the Rose Room and the Magnolia Room, they surprised me by papering above the chair rail in the smallest consultation area a pale green print with cream and pink calla lilies. Two gold-framed paintings of them and an arrangement of silk ones completed what Otis and Odell called the Callie Lily Room when no one else was around. Obviously, calling it my name had become a habit.
Odell had made a full pot of coffee, so all I had to do was pour it up into our silver carafe and place it on the silver tray beside the Wedgwood creamer and sugar dish with napkins, spoons, cups, and saucers. I’ve never worked in food service, but I can carry that tray as well as a server in the highest-dollar restaurant without ever spilling a drop.
When I reached the calla lily Room, Otis had his clipboard out and was making notes. As I poured the coffee, I heard enough to know that Mrs. Caldwell wanted an afternoon service on Wednesday. “Around three o’clock,” she said. “That will make it after lunch and we’ll be finished before dinner. My sister will want to be here, and that’s her best time of day.”
“What about visitation?” Otis asked. “Do you want to do that Tuesday evening?”
“Can we have it right before the service? Maybe from two until three?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Otis continued writing. “Do you want refreshments served?” he asked.
“No, this is to show respect for Betty Jo. It’s not a party. There will be food at the house for close friends and family, but I don’t want people eating at the visitation.”
Before taking a sip of her coffee, Mrs. Caldwell stirred it even though she hadn’t added cream or sugar. I must have looked puzzled because she said, “Stirring cools it off.”
After Mrs. Caldwell and Otis completed most of the planning including the obit info, she said, “Now, Miss Parrish, I will have very specific instructions for you. I do not want Betty Jo painted up like a Jezebel.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “I would never do that.”
“I’ll want you to supply her clothing, but I will choose the color of her lipstick and nail polish. I’ll bring you a picture of how I want her hair done, and you can show me then what colors you have.” Otis handed her a tissue for the tears that filled her eyes. “I can’t believe what’s happened. When my baby girl started sneaking off and seeing that Philip man, I put my foot down that it had to stop. He was a grown man and she was a child. Then they both disappeared with the police searching all over for them.” She blew her nose.
“As the days and then months went by, sometimes I was scared she’d wind up murdered like those women you see on Forensic Files. You can imagine how I felt when she called and told me she was coming home. Oh, I didn’t like that she was marrying that Philip fellow, but she was so happy. She was pregnant and wanted a wedding, and he’d agreed to bring her home so I could be there if I vowed not to file any charges against him.”
“Had he kidnapped her?” I asked.
“Oh, no, she ran away with him, but she was only thirteen. She looked grown even then, but that’s still statutory rape. I assured her that if they married, I wouldn’t do anything legal about it. She said that if I did, she’d go to court and swear it was consensual.”
“That wouldn’t matter,” Odell said. “Statutory rape is all about the age or the ability to give consent.”
“All I wanted was to see her happy.” Mrs. Caldwell ignored Otis and drank the rest of her coffee. I poured her a refill. She stirred it, took a sip, and went on. “I started buying all Betty Jo’s favorite foods. I bought new bed sheets for the guest room. It has a double bed, but I was going to let them sleep together right there in our family home. My sister didn’t like it. She said Ma and Pa would turn over in their graves, but I told her if she didn’t let me, I’d pack up and move back to Charleston. Don’t you think it would have been all right since Betty Jo was already pregnant?”
Otis wrote on the paper on his clipboard as though he wasn’t listening. He left it up to me to nurture this conversation with an occasional “unh-hunh.”
“You see, Miss Parrish,” she continued, “I’d begun thinking that it might be my fault that Betty Jo left when she was thirteen. To me, she was a child. To her and that Philip, she was a woman in love. Now she was coming home. She was already pregnant, so I didn’t see any harm in letting them share the guest room. I was so excited, and then the police showed up at the door and told me the girl shot on I-95 last week was my Betty Jo. I fell apart.”
Mrs. Caldwell blew her nose on a Kleenex from the box Otis held out, wadded it up, and put it in her big purse. “They identified her through the Print-a-Kid fingerprint card I’d given them when she disappeared,” Mrs. Caldwell continued. “I went to the MUSC morgue in Charleston to identify her, but they wouldn’t let me see her. They said the ID was already positive.” She wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue. “That’s why I came over here. I’m staying until Odell brings Betty Jo here so I can see my baby girl again.”
I waited for Otis to say something. Deceased individuals who have been autopsied aren’t a pleasant sight until we cover the postmortem stitches and do their cosmetics and hair. Otis spoke up, “Mrs. Caldwell, you’ve been through a rough ordeal, and making the plans as we just did is emotionally exhausting for most people. You still need to select a casket. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? Come back early tomorrow to finish the plans and we’ll get your granddaughter ready for you.”
“That would be best,” I assured her.
“I am tired, and my sister is home alone.” Mrs. Caldwell turned from Otis to me. “I can bring the picture of how I want Betty Jo’s hair, and you can show me your wedding dresses.”
“Ma’am?” I’m sure I sounded as surprised as I
felt.
“I understand that funeral homes have lots of garments to choose from. I want to see all of your wedding dresses because I want to bury Betty Jo in a bridal gown. She was so thrilled about getting married.”
I reached out and touched her hand. “I’m sorry, but the clothing we have doesn’t include any wedding gowns.”
“But that’s what I want, and everyone says Middleton’s is the best funeral home and always pleases.” Since I’d met her, Mrs. Caldwell had maintained her composure except for a few tears; now she burst into sobs and began trembling. “I can’t do anymore. I just can’t do anymore. I want to pick out the wedding dress, but I don’t think I can go into a store full of young brides. I couldn’t stand thinking how Betty Jo will never be in there selecting anything. ”
I didn’t want to tell her that my family was planning a joyful wedding the next day. At least, so far as I knew. That made me think of Bill. Surely Daddy would have let me know if they’d found him. Then the thought crossed my mind that I’d have to be at Belle’s Beautiful Brides the minute they opened the next morning to replace the ruined teal dress. “What if I select three wedding gowns and bring them here? You can choose whichever one you like, and I’ll return the other two.”
Otis beamed. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a credit card, and handed it to me. His southern charm surfaced and he said, “Mrs. Caldwell, Odell won’t be back for at least another hour, and I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive. Please let me take you home. I’ll pick you up in the morning and bring you back to make your selections and see your granddaughter. You can get your car then.”
“I guess I probably should go back and check on my sister.”
“Yes,” I encouraged. “That’s a good idea.”
Otis walked Mrs. Caldwell and me outside where he held the door for her to sit in our newest Cadillac Superior limousine instead of his Lexus. I got into the oldest Lincoln. Mrs. Caldwell beckoned for me and opened her door.
“Miss Parrish, I forgot to tell you. Don’t bring a princess gown. I don’t think one of those big, fluffy skirts would fit . . . ” She didn’t finish the sentence but I knew she was thinking about a dress with a billowing skirt having to be stuffed into a casket.