Murder is on the Clock

by Fran Rizer

  Although I didn’t remember spilling anything at my reception, I spread the gown out on Daddy’s bed and inspected it. Immaculate. No spots or anything to indicate it had ever been worn.

  I’d eaten everything on my breakfast plate at Rizzie’s, but the thought that Miss Ellen and Molly had spent part of the previous day preparing food for the “cocktail hour” sent me to the fridge full of sealed plastic containers of dips and spreads. They weren’t labeled, but that didn’t matter. I dipped a few spoonfuls of each into smaller cartons, snapped lids on each of them, and put them all in a paper bag. At the last minute, I grabbed a box of crackers and dropped it on top of the spreads and dips.

  10:00 A.M.

  Back at Middleton’s a few minutes after ten It was definitely time for my work to begin Otis met me at the door. I handed him the bridal garment bag. “Please put this in my work room,” I said and turned around.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some snacks out of my car.”

  “Your car? Looks more like one of our limousines to

  me,” he chuckled.

  I put the bag of food in the refrigerator before joining

  Otis in my workroom. He’d taken the dress out and hung

  it on a rack.

  “This is beautiful!” Otis said. “Mrs. Caldwell will love it.

  How much did it cost us?”

  “Nothing,” I answered. “Belle’s didn’t have a suitable dress. This one is mine. I picked it up from Daddy’s

  house.”

  “Odell and I will pay you for it, but are you sure you

  want to do this? There won’t be any getting it back if you

  change your mind.”

  “First, we have to see if it fits and if Mrs. Caldwell likes

  it, but I assure you that if I ever marry again, and that’s a

  big if, I won’t wear the same dress.” I laughed. “In case

  you haven’t noticed, I’m smaller than I was back then.” “I didn’t know you back then, but I don’t guess you’d

  wear the same dress unless maybe you remarried the first

  husband.”

  “No way, no how, no time.”

  “Let me bring Mrs. Caldwell’s granddaughter to you.

  Then I’ll steam the wrinkles out of the dress while you see

  what all you’ll need to do. Preparation is complete, but

  there we had to do a good bit of reconstruction.” Uh-oh, that meant that there was injury somewhere that

  would show.

  “I promised Mrs. Caldwell her choice of three dresses.

  The only way I know to have two more to show her is to

  go out of town to get them. Belle’s is the only bridal shop

  in St. Mary. But if the grandmother is anything like she

  was last night, she’s not going to want to wait to see the

  girl.”

  “Odell called and talked to Mrs. Caldwell’s sister. She

  said Mrs. Caldwell had taken her sleeping medicine and

  wasn’t awake yet. We need to beat the clock and have the

  girl ready by the time someone picks Mrs. Caldwell up

  and brings her to see the deceased. Odell said to choose

  the best dress for the situation. He wants her fully dressed

  and ready before Mrs. Caldwell sees her at all.”

  Otis brought the gurney into my workroom, covered

  with a clean white sheet as usual. When I lifted the sheet,

  I saw what he’d meant by saying she’d needed some

  reconstruction. I’d expected to have to deal with stitches

  from the autopsy, but I must have assumed she’d been

  shot in her abdomen or somewhere that wouldn’t show

  when she was clothed. Thank heaven I’d rejected those

  strapless dresses. One of the gunshots had been in her

  upper chest. Part of her face had been injured and she was

  missing a lot of hair, too.

  I put on my smock and began examining the damage

  and planning how to conceal it. Sometimes it’s necessary

  to tell the loved ones that it’s advisable not to have a

  viewing if the death has been violent, but with enough

  work and skilled preparation, a cosmetician can usually

  create a beautiful memory picture. I wasn’t completely

  sure that was the case with Betty Jo, but the one thing I

  knew for sure was that the girl’s grandmother needed that

  memory.

  I remembered Mrs. Caldwell’s admonition not to paint

  up her granddaughter “like a Jezebel,” but by the time Otis

  and I finished, we’d used more reconstructive techniques

  and cosmetics than I recalled ever using on one person

  before. They had been applied with such care that the girl

  looked natural, not made up, but I certainly didn’t want

  anyone to touch her face.

  I don’t think we could have found a more suitable dress

  if we’d gone to Atlanta or New York. The pearl beading

  accents were beautiful, and it left only her hands, face, and

  neck to make look normal. Sometimes I’ve used artificial

  hair pieces, but since she had plenty of hair in the back, I

  cut some of that and attached it in the front.

  Otis removed a box from the bottom of the garment bag.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I think it’s the detachable train and veil,” I said. “We

  won’t use the train, and I don’t know about the veil. It’s

  lengthy.”

  He took the veil out and shook it gently. Attached to a

  tiara, it was voluminous and long enough to flow over the

  train. Not going to work in a casket.

  “I know what we need,” I said.

  “What?”

  “A fascinator.”

  A loud voice repeated my word: “Fascinator? What in

  tarnation is that?”

  “I thought you knew everything,” Otis said to his

  brother.

  Odell laughed. “To me, a fascinator is a woman who

  intrigues me.”

  “I thought the only thing that fascinated or intrigued you

  these days was barbecue,” Otis said.

  “Stop picking on me, Doofus,” Odell said. “You’ll make

  me hungry.” He stepped farther into the workroom and

  bent over Betty Jo’s face. “Good job. Who did this?” “Callie,” Otis answered.

  “I knew this would be a difficult job, but I never

  expected even Middleton’s Mortuary to accomplish this.

  She’s beautiful. Can’t see any of the damage.”

  “We’ve sprayed and sealed,” I said, “but I still don’t

  want anyone touching her.”

  “What’s this?” Odell said and picked up the veil Otis had

  left on the counter.

  “Wedding veil,” I answered.

  “You could drape it over the casket creating a seethrough discouragement to anyone who might want to touch. In the pictures of Marilyn Monroe in her casket, a full-size white veil hangs over the lid and around her face.”

  “A fascinator will put a veil over her face but not the casket.” I said. “It’s a small decorative item females wear on the side of their hair, kind of like those old pictures of women who wore big flowers in their hair. A fascinator can be made of feathers, jewels, almost anything. A bridal fascinator has a short veil made of tulle, netting, or lace that covers the face.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Odell said. “Get one.”

  “Do you want me to go to Belle’s now?” I asked. “What about Mrs. Greene? Do you want me to dress her? Is there a visitation and when are her services?”

  “Otis and I took care of Mrs. Greene, and to answer your
questions, there’s no visitation here. The services will be in Charlotte, and we aren’t delivering. The local funeral director up there will come for her.”

  “I’ll go back to Belle’s and get a fascinator,” I said. “Don’t forget to rent a car today, but bring the headpiece back here first,” Odell said. He touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry about this trouble with Bill and that your father’s wedding has been postponed, but I’m glad you’re able to help us today.”

  Miss Belle met me at the door when I entered her shop. “Did you come back for one of the dresses?” she asked. “No,” I said, “I need a fascinator, preferably one with pearl beading.”

  “Oh, we have all kinds,” Miss Belle said and led me to an exhibit of fascinators. I noticed that the ones on display heads were all fastened on the right side. “Does it matter

  which side it’s on?” I asked.

  “No, not really. Some of them have clips; others have

  combs. I don’t know why they’re usually on the bride’s

  right side, but I don’t know why it would matter either.” “It’s important to me because the main place the girl’s

  hair is missing is on the left, and when we turn her head

  slightly to the right in the casket like we always do, it

  might crush part of the fascinator unless I fasten it on the

  left.” She didn’t ask a thing, just selected two beautiful

  fascinators and handed me one. I tried it on the left side of

  my head, handed it back, and reached for the other one. It

  was perfect! The beading was interspersed with an

  occasional white sequin giving it a bit of tasteful bling, and

  the veiling was fine netting that would be enough to

  discourage touching Betty Jo’s face without distorting her

  beauty. I paid for it with Middleton’s credit card. As I left,

  Miss Belle told me, “You can return it with the receipt

  unless you put it on the dead woman’s head. I don’t want

  to sell some young bride a fascinator that’s been on a

  corpse.”

  When I pulled into my reserved spot behind Middleton’s, a van was backed up to the loading dock. I assumed

  they’d come to pick up Mrs. Greene, but instead they

  unloaded a plain gray metal casket and wheeled it in. “Sorry about the mix-up,” the driver said. “Most of the

  unclaimed ones wind up with us and then to potter’s field.

  We did the prep when he arrived and had finished before

  MUSC notified us that it was a mistake. His sister claimed

  the body and said ship it to you guys.”

  12:00 NOON

  I looked at the clock, it was twelve, noon A lot of excitement was coming soon “Just put him in the smallest slumber room for now,” Odell told Otis. “His sister called. She’s out buying a gravesite. She’ll schedule an appointment to make arrangements when she knows where he’ll be buried.”

  Odell looked at me. “We don’t have to go for Mrs. Caldwell. Her nephew’s bringing her in to finish the plans and pick up her car. She wants to see her granddaughter while she’s here, but I can’t casket the child yet because Mrs. Caldwell hasn’t made her selection. Get that thing on the girl’s head and put her in a cremation casket on a draped bier in Slumber Room A. We’ll dispose of the container when we put her in whatever Mrs. Caldwell selects, but I don’t want the girl’s grandmother to see her on a dressing table which looks too medical to me for viewing.

  Sometimes I get riled about the strangest things. Otis and Odell are always lecturing me about proper terms. Call the hearse the “funeral coach.” Call the deceased by name. Don’t refer to a body or a corpse. I’d spent a lot of time with Mrs. Caldwell’s granddaughter that morning. I’d put my own wedding dress on her and re-created her face. I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Odell, please stop calling her ‘the girl’ or ‘a child.’ She’s a pregnant woman.”

  “I’ll remember to call her Miss Caldwell, but to me she’s a ‘child with child.’ Her grandmother can forgive the man if she wants. If it were up to me, I’d get DNA on that fetus and press charges against him for statutory rape.”

  I didn’t reply, just went into the workroom and carefully positioned the fascinator. The netting was perfect. It created a visual barrier but enhanced rather than covered the beauty of that young face I’d worked so hard to recreate. Otis brought in an attractive cremation box and we moved Betty Jo Caldwell to a bier in Slumber Room A.

  Curiosity sent me into Slumber Room C. The simple gray metal casket had been positioned against the wall just as though it were ready for visitation. I confess to a certain amount of more than curiosity. In other words, there are times when I’m flat-out nosy. The casket was a half-couch and the lid to the top half wasn’t locked. I lifted it and looked in.

  The face was familiar. I would have done something different with the long blond hair, but it was braided with split ends sticking out all over and looked about like it did the previous day. I’d seen him before, all right, but he did look different without his hands and feet bound and his body free from the black plastic trash bag around him.

  An instrumental version of “Blessed Assurance” announced that someone had come in the front door. I left the casket open, stepped into the front hall, and pulled the door to Slumber Room C closed behind me. Expecting it to be Mrs. Caldwell, I went to the front hall to greet her.

  Instead of the grandmother, a man stood by the door. Over six feet tall, he was slim to the point of skinny and must have suffered an awkward adolescence. His face was neither handsome nor ugly, but his skin was pockmarked from what must have been a case of acne gone wild.

  My personal opinion is that sexual attractiveness has more to do with personality than good looks, but I do acknowledge that some men just ooze appeal. This man was one of those. Certainly not handsome by any stretch of the imagination, his looks were charismatic. I didn’t know if it had to do with the way he stood or walked or his attitude, but he was kinda like some of the old rock stars who maintain their appeal long after their looks are gone.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  “I’ve come to see Miss Betty Jo Caldwell.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible yet. I can’t let you see her until the next-of-kin has okayed viewing,” I said.

  “Betty Jo doesn’t have to be all prettied and dressed up,” he said in a persuasive tone. “I just want to see her for a few minutes by myself. I’m Philip Anderson, and I was with her when she was shot. If things were a little different, we’d be married and I’d be her next-of-kin. Then I’d be the one making the plans and I could tell the old bat that she’s not welcome. Betty Jo’s grandmother is shutting me out completely.” The expression on his face turned angry and ugly. “I don’t care what she says, I loved Betty Jo. If I didn’t, I would never have agreed to bring her back up here, the last place I need to be. I wouldn’t have decided to get hitched to her. It’s not like I’ve married every gal I ever knocked up.”

  The hate in his voice disturbed me and he seemed barely on the edge of holding himself together. Where were Otis and Odell? I would have preferred that they deal with this man. I’m usually a people person, but the past twenty-four hours had taken a toll on me.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to follow our policies,” I said. “You’ll have to come back later.”

  He actually snarled and his voice rose a few decibels: “Where is Betty Jo? I want to see her now.”

  He moved toward me, and I stepped back. I’d opened my mouth to call for Otis or Odell when the front door opened and the soft melody of “Just As I Am” filled the hall.

  “Miss Parrish?” The voice was female, but loud. “I’m here with the pictures. My nephew dropped me off.” Mrs. Caldwell had on a pair of pink seersucker Capri pants and a flowered blue and white shirt. She wore the same Nike shoes and carried the same big purse she’d had t
he night before in one hand and a bouquet of pastel roses in the other.

  Before I had time to answer, Philip Anderson dashed toward the door to Slumber Room C, opened it, jumped inside, and slammed the door behind him. I turned to speak to Mrs. Caldwell, but a bloodcurdling scream came from behind the door where Anderson had run to hide. The sound wasn’t fear. It was anger—pure rage.

  At first, the screech was just noise. When it became words, I recognized the name. “Josh. You sorry S.O.B. You killed my baby.”

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Caldwell asked as she put the flowers on a table and opened the door Anderson had just gone through. I heard more than I saw. She squealed, “Philip, what are you doing here? I told you to stay away!” They ran toward each other, though as an afterthought, I reckoned he may have planned to go around her and get out of there.

  “You can’t make me stay away from Betty Jo,” he yelled just as Mrs. Caldwell reached him.

  That elderly lady slung her big tote bag back like a baseball pitcher winding up for a fast ball and whapped it against the side of Anderson’s head. The man had her by at least a foot in height, but she didn’t give him time to react before she smacked him with the purse again in the same place. Blood gushed from his nose. He tripped and went sprawling on the carpet. A Nike-clad foot kicked him in the thigh. When Philip Anderson attempted to roll over, Mrs. Caldwell landed a blow into his back, right into a kidney. Philip scrambled over toward the bier and grabbed the handle on the side of the casket attempting to pull himself up. Odell came charging in just as Philip Anderson and the gray casket tumbled to the floor. Odell wrapped his arms around Mrs. Caldwell and pulled her away.

  If Josh Wingate’s casket had been full-couch, open the entire length of the body, he would have fallen out. Since only the top half wasn’t closed, the bottom part of the corpse stayed inside, but his head and shoulders lay on the floor with the torso slightly twisted. His pigtail had landed spread out and reminded me of a snake crawling across the floor. The front corner of the gray casket was dented. That meant Middleton’s would have to replace it.

  “Now, Mrs. Caldwell, what’s going on?” Odell asked in a calm tone that sounded more like Otis, but Otis stood at the door speechless.