“Yes’m.”
“So, Dale,” I said, “could you show me the ashes?”
Dale nodded and got to his feet. Panty followed his lead. They pushed their chairs under the table and walked the few feet over to the cremators. The two doors were both closed and there didn’t seem to be a handle that I could see.
“How do you open it?” I asked.
Dale shrugged. “Panty’s in charge of that. He runs the pooter.”
I looked over at Panty. He nodded and grinned again.
“I run the computer,” he said in a soft southern drawl. “Dale helps me with the rest.”
We all blinked. Not one of us had ever heard Panty Patterson speak.
“Would you like me to show you how the crematorium operates?”
We nodded dumbly.
“It’s almost all computerized now.” Panty pointed to a console beside the ovens. “We had one of the first automated systems in the country. Of course, in the early days, I had to do the programming. When we started, there wasn’t any software. Now, all the ovens come with software already installed.”
I finally found my voice. “You have some…umm…education,” I managed.
“Yessir. I have a Masters in computer science from Georgia Tech.”
“And Dale?” I asked.
“I been clean through the second grade,” said Dale, proudly.
“Forgive the charade. I just don’t have much use for people most of the time,” said Panty. “And someone has to take care of Dale.”
“I understand,” I said. And I did. “If you’d show us the operation, we’d appreciate it.”
Panty nodded and walked over to the console. He pushed some buttons and the door to the oven slid up revealing a stainless steel tray containing Davis’ cremated remains.
“The cremator,” explained Panty, “is basically a furnace capable of generating temperatures up to eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I can monitor the furnace during cremation and, if necessary, control the temperature. The computer won’t open the doors until the cremator has reached operating temperature and once the body is in, we can’t open it back up until everything has cooled. The entire process usually takes about two hours for cremation and another four hours to cool down.”
“Do you cremate the remains in a coffin?” asked Ruby.
“Depends,” said Panty. “Usually in a wooden casket, but Davis was in a cardboard box. Most coffin manufacturers provide a line of caskets specially built for cremation.”
“What happens next?” asked Nancy.
“We can show you, if you’d like,” said Panty. “We were just getting ready to finish up when you called.”
•••
Panty and Dale slid the tray out of the oven and moved it onto a stainless steel table with raised edges. They emptied the contents onto the table and Dale spread them out with a metal dustpan. All that was left of Davis was dry bone fragments.
“Where’re the ashes?” asked Nancy.
“There aren’t any,” answered Panty. “During the cremation process, most of the body, especially the organs and other soft tissue, is vaporized and oxidized due to the heat. All that’s left is about six pounds of bone.”
“What’s Dale doing?” Ruby asked.
“I’se lookin’ fer metal,” said Dale.
“When we get the bodies,” Panty explained, “the jewelry’s already been removed. Pacemakers, too, if the deceased had one, because they’re likely to explode. But sometimes the body contains other metals. Teeth fillings are the most common, but these days we find titanium hips, surgical pins, even bullets. Some of it will have melted.”
“And you sift it out?” I said.
“Gots to,” said Dale. “Wrecks the grinder.”
Panty smiled and put a hand on Dale’s shoulder. “After we sift through the bone fragments, we put them into the cremulator. A grinder, really. It pulverizes the bones into powder. What comes out is known as cremains. It has the appearance of ash and sand. If we miss a bit of metal and it gets ground up with the bones, we catch it when we sift the cremains after the process is complete.”
“So, it’s not really ashes,” Ruby said.
“Not really.”
“Did you find any metal?” I asked.
“Not a lick,” said Dale.
“May I look?”
“Hep yerself.”
I motioned to Nancy and we both bent over the table and poked through the remains. I used Dale’s dustpan. Nancy used her pen.
“May I ask what you’re looking for?” asked Panty, looking over my shoulder.
“Metal,” I said.
“Maybe he didn’t have any.”
“Nancy,” I said, “did you bring those medical files?”
“Right over there.” Nancy walked over to the card table where she’d laid her folder.
“Get out Davis’ x-ray, will you. The one that showed the embolism.”
Nancy came back over holding a transparent film in her hand. “There’s the embolism,” she said. “Kent circled it.”
“Look at this though. Seven…no, eight fillings and a whole lot of metal bridge work. Three pins in his jaw and a metal plate in his palate. From the wreck.”
Nancy looked confused. “So this isn’t Davis?”
“It’s Davis, all right,” said Panty. “I knew Davis Boothe. I checked him when they brought him in.”
“When did they deliver him?” I asked.
“We’re here every day at three o’clock. If there’s going to be a delivery, we’ll get a call by four. Deliveries—including Davis—come by five. We check them in, look for jewelry and get them ready for cremation.”
“Then you cremate them?” asked Nancy.
“No, we wait until two a.m. There’s a bit of an odor, but no one complains in the middle of the night. We finish up the next afternoon when we come in.”
“You stay here all that time?”
“No, we go home after all the deliveries. Around dinner time usually. We come back after midnight. Then we leave again around four a.m. after the cremations. We very rarely have more than a double header and, as you can see, we have two ovens.”
“Did you check Davis before you cremated him?”
“You mean after we got back?”
“Yes.”
Panty shrugged. “No need. The box was already on the trolley ready to be rolled in.”
“So someone switched the body?” Ruby asked.
“Maybe,” said Nancy. “But if they did, there had to be at least two of them. Davis was a big boy—one hundred and eighty pounds. One person couldn’t have done it alone.”
“I’m guessing you lock up when you leave,” I said.
“Of course.”
“And who has a key?”
“Just us,” said Panty. “Me, Dale, and Miss Ruby here.”
“I don’t have a key,” said Ruby.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought Miss Thelma probably gave you hers.”
“No.”
“I know who has a key,” said Nancy with a smile.
“Me, too,” I said.
“What?” said Ruby. “What am I missing?”
“What you’re missing,” I said, “is a two million dollar head.”
Chapter 19
The old Chevy truck rumbled out of the crematorium driveway and onto Old Chambers Road. Ruby was sandwiched in between Nancy and me in the front seat. There wasn’t any chitchat going on. I knew that Nancy was thinking and I was doing the same.
“Okay,” Ruby said finally, “who has the other key?”
“This is an ongoing investigation,” I said. “So you can’t say anything.”
“Of course I won’t say anything. We’re family.”
Nancy’s head came around quickly. She looked across Ruby and I caught her stare out of the corner of my eye.
“Family?” she said.
“Hmm,” I said. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag. Meg and I are getting married.”
&
nbsp; “Really?” said Nancy, just a little too sweetly.
“Meg told you, didn’t she?”
“Yep.”
“Did she tell you when?”
“She did. The culmination of The Living Gobbler. I can hardly wait.”
“Back to the key,” said Ruby.
“Ah yes, the key,” I answered. “Who has the key? That is the question before us.”
“It is,” said Ruby. “Who has the other key?”
“Nancy, do you know who has the other key?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re a fine detective,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“The key!” said Ruby. “Dadburnit!”
“Who has the key, Lieutenant Parsky?” I said.
“Why, it’s elementary,” said Nancy. “The person who has the key is the person who killed Thelma.”
“And who is that?” asked Ruby.
I shrugged. “The first question is not ‘who.’ The first question is ‘why.’”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the first question,” I said. “The second question is ‘who.’ Or maybe ‘what.’”
“Oh, stop it. I mean why did whoever did it, do it?”
“To get the key.”
Ruby sighed heavily. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Nope.”
•••
Sunday comes early and so does death. It’s the motto of the liturgical detective and as Saturday night sloshed over into Sunday like a fat man on a waterbed, the mink-clad heiress to the Polovetsian dancing fortune gave me a twirl and a come-hither look worthy of her reputation.
Her name was Barbara—Barbara Seville—and she was a mezzo. Some said she slid to the top of the opera world on her husband’s money: that before she married Aristotle bin Laden, she’d been demoted to seamstress and spent most of her time in the wings tucking up the frills instead of on the stage doing the opposite: that now that she was back, she ate tenors for dinner and baritones for dessert with the occasional bass as a mid-morning snack. She was a Venus, though, and as rich as Turtle Cheese Cake. I wouldn’t mind a toss with a world-class looker who could afford to boost a few expenses.
“Miss Seville,” I said, tipping my hat.
“Call me Diva,” she said with a smile. “Or Mommy. I like it when men call me Mommy.”
I heard bells.
Alarm bells.
“I’m enjoying this story,” said Rebecca, as the choir gathered in the loft for the Sunday service. “I’m not saying it’s good, mind you, but I am enjoying it.”
“I heard you and Meg are getting married,” said Georgia. “Through the grapevine, of course. It seems that I didn’t get an invitation.”
“No one got an invitation,” I said. “But you’ll all be there, dressed up as the four major food groups and singing Thanksgiving hymns.”
“Really?” said Phil. “The four major food groups?”
“Beer, chili, garlic and cigars,” said Mark Wells.
“I thought chocolate was in there somewhere,” said Elaine.
“I don’t think so,” said Mark. “That would make five. Chocolate is probably in the garlic group.”
•••
It was during Father Lemming’s sermon on the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican that the first gunshots were heard. Granted, it was deer season, and we were used to hearing shots from time to time echoing through the mountains, but there was a ban on hunting within the city limits and these sounded close. Very close.
“Are you going out there?” asked Meg.
“No. I’ll give Nancy a call though.”
I walked down the steps and into the narthex, dialing Nancy’s number as I went. I wasn’t sure, but I figured I still had about ten minutes before Father Lemming finished up and I had to play a chorus of Seek Ye First that he had thoughtfully inserted after the sermon. Ten minutes, I figured, if the gunshots didn’t unnerve him. Nancy answered her cell on the first ring.
“I’m on it,” she said, before I could utter a word. Then she flipped her phone closed and cut me off.
I’d only just reached the bottom of the steps by the time our phone call ended, so I turned around and trudged back up to the choir loft. It was a good thing I did, because the gunshots had spooked Father Lemming and, being somewhat new to the pulpit, he had wrapped his sermon up by wondering aloud who would be shooting outside the church, dontcha know, and whether the vestry had an exigency plan for the safety of the priest in case of terrorist attacks, many of which—he had heard—were directed at the clergy. I arrived back in the loft just as Meg was coming to find me. She pointed to the organ and I scurried onto the bench just as Father Lemming finished announcing the hymn.
The gunshots ceased sometime during the confession, which was a good thing because the choir was getting antsy about Mr. Brahms and Mr. Winchester sharing equal billing. We managed to do Mr. B proud and the rest of the service followed without too much disruption. When I finished the postlude, Meg and I skipped coffee hour and headed out the front doors to find Nancy. I had my phone out to call her, but I needn’t have bothered. She met us out front.
“Two kids from the university,” Nancy said as we walked up. “Both of them had hunting licenses.”
“Not for shooting deer in town,” I said. “It sounded like a war out here. How many deer did they get? Or were they just bad shots?”
“They were bad shots all right, but they weren’t after deer. They were after Minques.”
“Minques?”
Nancy handed me a torn ad from the Watauga Democrat. I scanned it quickly.
“So Blueridge Farms has offered a bounty.”
“Thirty dollars a Minque. No closed season or bag limit.”
“Did they get any?”
“Four,” answered Nancy. “Two in the mums in front of the library, one in the park, one behind the church. I explained that there would be no more hunting in the city limits.”
“Did you let them keep the Minques?”
Nancy shrugged. “Yeah.”
I nodded. “Well, that was a hundred and twenty bucks for a half hour’s work. Pretty good pay for a couple of college kids.”
•••
A Monday morning meeting of the St. Germaine police force was synonymous with breakfast at the Slab Café. As Monday mornings went, this one wasn’t shaping up to be one of the better ones unless you happened to be an otter. The weatherman had predicted cold. Cold and wet. For once, he’d been right. The rain, misting when I arose at about six, was now coming down in buckets. I’d braved the storm, slogged into the Slab, shook off the weather like a sheepdog, and hung my dripping jacket behind the door. A soggy trio of outerwear—Nancy’s, Dave’s, and mine—dangled on the hooks like dead fish, each contributed to an ever-expanding puddle that was creeping across the floor toward the kitchen.
“All right,” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at a table across from Nancy and Dave. “Let’s figure this out. What do we know?”
“No ‘good morning’?” said Dave. “No ‘how was your weekend?’”
“Nope,” I said. “Coffee.”
“I’ll bring the pot,” said Nancy, getting to her feet. “Noylene’s back in the kitchen somewhere getting a mop.”
Nancy filled our cups and put the pot on the table.
“I got a report on Hyacinth Turnipseed,” she announced. “Cynthia called me this morning.”
“Pretty bad?” I asked.
“Her leg is broken in three places. They had to operate. She’ll be okay, but she has screws holding her leg together. Cynthia said she’ll be in the hospital for three or four days. Then a wheelchair for a month. Then a cast.”
“She’ll have a nurse?”
“She’ll have to,” said Nancy. “At least for a while. She won’t be able to walk or drive. Also, she’s looking for someone to sue.”
“Well, I’m glad she’ll be okay,” I said, “but we’ve got to get rid
of those Minques.”
As if in answer to my suggestion, we heard a volley of shots go off somewhere south of town. I gave a heavy sigh.
“Back to work,” I said. “Davis Boothe first. Nancy?”
Nancy pulled out her pad. “Davis Boothe killed himself, or so we believe. He had an embolism that he was taking medication for, but he really needed an operation he couldn’t afford.”
“No health insurance,” added Dave.
“His real name,” continued Nancy, “was Josh Kenisaw. He was convicted in Kansas of second-degree murder when the car he was driving was involved in an accident and Senator Jack DeMille’s daughter was killed. He was sentenced to life with a possibility for parole in nineteen years. But Josh escaped and moved to St. Germaine with a made-up name. This was twelve years ago. He started out working as a waiter in Boone, then got a job at Don’s Clothing Store.”
“Wow!” said Pete, who’d joined us halfway through Nancy’s recitation. “What else?”
“Senator DeMille offered a standing reward for Josh’s return. Two million dollars,” Dave said. “And now his head is missing.”
“What?” said Pete.
“I think,” I said, “that Davis did commit suicide, but not because of the embolism. I think he was afraid to face his prison sentence. He knew that he was about to be caught by someone. But who was it and what tipped him off?”
“Something in the book?” said Dave.
I shrugged. “That’s what I remember, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“What book?” asked Pete.
“The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon,” I said. “We were looking at it in Eden Books on the Saturday morning before he killed himself. I remember that he got very quiet, closed the book, made an excuse to leave and took off.”
“That’s the one you bought?” asked Pete. “By Washington Irving?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go through it to see what he might have seen?”
“Sure,” said Nancy, “but what could there have been? The book is ancient. It just doesn’t add up.”
“Okay,” I said, “let’s leave that for a moment. Here’s another interesting fact. Davis Boothe had a life insurance policy with Upper Womb Ministries. If it turns out he was murdered instead of a suicide, and it turns out that they weren’t somehow complicit, they get fifty thousand dollars. He was in there on the Saturday afternoon before he died. According to Chad, he was very agitated when he came in, but he calmed down during his massage.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 18