Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree

by Fran Rizer

  Naomi put Betsy in a high chair beside her and put several Fruit Loops on the tray. Her chubby hands grasped the cereal and crammed it into her mouth.

  When the others were all seated, Sylvia led the group in a prayer of thanks before they began serving plates and passing platters and bowls. A woman whose name I didn’t remember looked toward me and said, “Callie, I’ve made the chore schedule for the week and worked you into it. Since today’s your first real day, I didn’t put you down for anything today, but you’re on breakfast duty tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine,” I answered though I had no idea how long I’d be there. The problem was that I didn’t know how to bring up Naomi’s husband to her and she’d told me point-blank that she didn’t want to talk about what had happened to her.

  I wondered if the children at Safe Sister went out to school or if they were home-schooled, but it didn’t matter because as one of the little girls told me, “Guess what, Miss Callie? We have another whole week off from lessons because it’s Winter Holiday.”

  “Then what will you do today?” I asked.

  “Play with our new toys and watch television and my mommy is on supper duty, and she promised I can help her make a cake this afternoon.”

  “Sounds like fun. What about the grown-ups? What will we do today?”

  The child grinned. “Oh, grown-up stuff like reading and cleaning house and maybe some laundry.”

  Naomi laughed at my surprised expression. “Don’t worry, Callie. There’s plenty to do here—all the chores that are necessary to run a home plus several of us are studying for our GEDs and Lacey is working on her thesis in psychology and will probably corner you sooner or later for an interview.”

  The morning was busy, but after lunch, the children went back to the common room to play, and the adults stayed around the table drinking iced tea and talking. I hoped I’d finally hear something useful.

  “Does everyone here know about Amber?” Sylvia asked, looking straight at me.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Amber Buchanan worked for Safe Sister. She’d planned to come here Christmas morning dressed as Santa Claus,” Sylvia explained, looking around at everyone, though it was obvious she was talking to me. Did she suspect anything about me? “She didn’t show up and we learned yesterday that Amber was killed Wednesday morning at some girl’s apartment. She was wearing the Santa Claus suit. Those unopened gifts under the Christmas tree were for her.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” my standard response to hearing of a death, didn’t seem appropriate under these circumstances. “That’s awful,” I said instead.

  “The reason I brought this up is because I want to know if anyone here has any idea why somebody would murder Amber.” Tears filled her eyes and she looked straight at Naomi.

  What was happening? Was Sylvia undercover also? Had two of us been put in here for the sheriff to try to learn about Naomi’s husband?

  “You don’t have to tiptoe around to ask me,” Naomi said. “That policewoman who came to see me has already asked me point-blank if I think my husband Norman might have gone after Amber when he got out of jail. How should I know? I’ve neither seen nor talked to him since I came here. Evelyn told me about Norman demanding to see me and take Betsy home for the holidays. She said Norman and Amber got into a loud fuss and Norman shoved Amber. She pressed charges, and that would definitely have made Norman furious, but I don’t think he would kill anyone.”

  “Bet you didn’t think Norman would ever cause a bruise like the one that was on your baby when you came here either,” another woman said.

  Naomi burst into tears. “It was awful, just horrible. He grabbed her by the neck. He squeezed it!” She put her head on the table and sobbed.

  “Was Betsy crying and wouldn’t stop?” Sylvia asked.

  “No, she didn’t do anything. It was my fault, my fault. He did it because he was mad at me. Upset because I burned the baked chicken.” Naomi’s words were barely audible as she sobbed.

  “And you came here?” Sylvia asked. “Did you go to the police?”

  “No, I just brought Betsy here.” Tears filled Naomi’s eyes. “Well, actually we went to the office and they brought us here.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” Sylvia persisted.

  “He didn’t mean to. It’s just how he is.”

  “If he was my husband, he’d be dead,” Sylvia snapped.

  “Then why are you here instead of in jail?” another woman asked.

  “Because my husband never touched my kids, just me,” Sylvia said. “Naomi, all I want to know is do you know where your husband is now? Where he might have gone when he got bailed out of jail? I heard that policewoman asking you, and you refused to tell her anything. That’s not fair to the rest of us if you stay here.”

  “Are you telling me to leave Safe Sister?” Naomi murmured.

  “No, but if you won’t help the cops, maybe it would be better if they moved you to another safe house.”

  Naomi jumped from her chair and ran to our bedroom. Betsy began to cry when her mother ran past her, so I picked up the baby, followed Naomi, and then closed the door behind us.

  Reaching her arms out for Betsy, Naomi sat on her bed and sobbed. When I handed the infant to her, she cuddled Betsy to her shoulder.

  “Thank you.” Naomi’s voice was soft, and she sniffled again to stop the tears.

  I sat on my bed and asked her, “Do you want to talk about it? Last night you didn’t feel like it, but sometimes telling a person about things helps.”

  “Maybe so. I love Norman. That’s why this is so hard. Sure, he’s hurt me before when he got mad, but I never thought he’d harm the baby. Norman brags that he’s ‘rude, crude, and socially unacceptable,’ but he’s good in some ways. My parents were both alcoholics, and my sister and I never knew if there would be food on the table or not. Norman’s a good provider. He’s not like the husbands of some of the other women here who won’t work and expect their wives to pay the bills.” She sniffled. “But the counselor here tells me that he’ll hurt me and Betsy again if I go back to him without Norman getting some treatment.”

  Tears streamed down her face. She wiped them away with a tissue and continued, “Norman holds down a regular job and buys groceries every week. He doesn’t even want me to work, just stay home and be a housewife. He’s so good when life goes well. He whistles all the time. Then I’ll do something wrong, and he explodes.”

  “Did he ever hurt you before you married him?”

  “Only a couple of times and not too bad, but it was my fault every time. He’s never hurt me except when I do something wrong.”

  I doubted that, and it sounded to me like Naomi was living in that surreal world I’d read that some abused women created for themselves. My mind flashed back to the man who tied his wife to the tree. Had his wife thought she’d caused the way he treated her?

  “What made you come here this time?”

  “Look at her.” Naomi held Betsy out toward me. “How can a tiny being like this deserve to be choked because her mama burned the chicken? Norman always expects his dinner to be ready as soon as he’s home from work. That day, Betsy was still napping, and he came home all frisky and wanting some loving. The chicken stayed in the oven too long, and it was too brown when I took it out. It was still okay to eat, but he said it wasn’t juicy enough. He screamed at me and threw me across the bed. Betsy was still asleep, but he yanked her up and squeezed her neck. He didn’t stop until she started turning blue. Then he let her go and stormed out of the house. I called a taxi and went to the church I attended before I married Norman. The pastor paid my cab fare and brought me to Safe Sister. I don’t know how Norman figured out where I was when he went to Safe Sister’s office and demanded to see me and get the baby.”

  I almost said, “And you love this man?” but, for a wonder, I held my tongue.

  “Do you know how Amber Buchanan died?” I asked instead.

  “Nobody’s sa
id.”

  “She was strangled to death.”

  Silence. Stone-dead silence.

  “How do you know that?” Naomi asked.

  “Somebody told my brother. Doesn’t what happened to Betsy and knowing that Norman was enraged at Amber make you stop and think about what Norman is capable of doing? If the police want to know where he is, and you have any idea, maybe you should tell them. It might keep him from hurting you or Betsy again, especially if he had anything to do with Amber Buchanan’s murder.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but I don’t want Norman in jail. How would I pay the rent and buy Betsy’s diapers? He’s missing us or he wouldn’t have confronted Amber. I think this will teach him a lesson and he’ll change—not be so mean when he gets mad.” Betsy had gone to sleep, and Naomi placed her in the crib and covered her with a light blanket embroidered with A, B, C blocks on it.

  “Have you thought about moving away from here and getting a job to support you and Betsy?” I pointed toward the sleeping infant. “That little girl needs her mother, and you can’t take the risk that he’ll wind up killing either of you.”

  Naomi began weeping again. “Maybe you’re right, but I don’t want to talk to the police. If I tell you where I think Norman might be, will you ask your brother to tell them?”

  “As soon as I see him.”

  “Norman goes hunting a lot and there’s an old abandoned hunt club near Summerville. That’s where I think he would go if he ran away. There’s no electricity there, but he used to camp a lot before we got married. He might stay there like he was camping.”

  “Do you know the directions to get there?”

  “No, but it used to be the Porter Hunt Club. I’ll bet the police could find it from that.”

  I felt like shouting “Hooray!” I’d found out exactly what Wayne wanted, and I wasn’t about to correct Naomi that who needed the information was the sheriff’s department, not the police. Wayne sometimes gets irritated at folks who call his branch the police, but I didn’t want to embarrass nor irritate Naomi.

  Now I wished my wire was two-way communication though I don’t know how that would be handled technically. What else would the sheriff and Dean want to know?

  “What about guns?” I asked.

  “He loves guns,” Naomi answered. “We have several at the house, but he keeps them locked up in the gun safe. See? He loves Betsy. He’s says it’s never too early to be careful about guns around children.”

  Wonder if that makes anyone safe when Norman’s the one with the key? I thought.

  A knock at the door interrupted our conversation. “Naomi? Naomi?” The voice was Sylvia’s.

  “Come in,” Naomi answered.

  “I’m sorry I exploded on you like that. I’m just nervous.”

  Naomi stepped toward Sylvia, arms outstretched. I left the room while they exchanged a sisterly hug.

  • • •

  “With a little more time, I might have learned more,” I said to Dean as he drove me away from the Safe Sister office.

  Evelyn had come for me not long after Naomi told me about the hunting lodge. She’d explained that my brother had made arrangements for me to stay with another relative out of town. Dean Robinson had been waiting for me at Safe Sister’s office.

  “You got what we needed, and I disagree with Norman Spires’s wife. I think he’s fully capable of murder.”

  “Then why didn’t you want me to find out more from Naomi?”

  “You’d already got what we wanted.”

  “How did you know?” I was puzzled.

  “Everything you said, did, or heard was recorded at headquarters because the device on your arm transmitted all sound. We had a deputy listening when she told you about the hunting lodge.”

  “Glad I didn’t do anything embarrassing.”

  “We had what we needed, and the Middletons have been calling Sheriff Harmon complaining that they need you at work.” Dean’s driving was fast, but safe.

  “Somebody must have died,” I commented.

  “Two people.”

  “Who?”

  “Sheriff Harmon said that you’d know these people, but I didn’t until last night. We got a call from a Mrs. Corley that her daughter Patsy had phoned her and said she’d shot her boyfriend and was going to kill herself. Said they’d been fussing for two days over what to buy with their tax refund.”

  “Tax refund? People don’t even have their W-2s yet. They couldn’t have already filed taxes.”

  “They hadn’t, but they’d worked it out enough to know they were getting a refund, and he wanted to buy some kind of sports equipment, but she wanted to get a new living room couch.”

  “That’s nothing to kill someone over.”

  “There’s nothing worth killing for,” Dean said.

  “So, did you arrest Patsy?” I remembered when Patsy’s daddy, June Bug Corley was killed, and Jane and I’d ridden to Charleston to find a suit and shoes large enough to fit him. Patsy was built like her father, and in my mind, I’d called her Fatsy Patsy. Her sister Penny was tiny like their mother, and I’d thought of her as Skinny Penny.

  “No, Mrs. Corley called from Patsy and her boyfriend’s mobile home. She’d got there and the doors were locked, but she had a key. The bathroom door was locked and she could hear Patsy sobbing and screaming. When she tried to talk Patsy into coming out of the bathroom, she heard a gunshot, then silence. That’s when she dialed 911.”

  “You said two deaths. Patsy is dead, too?”

  “Yes, she put the gun barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger. It was a gruesome scene and awful for Mrs. Corley. The sheriff said her husband died of a gunshot, too.”

  “Yes, he did.” I thought for a few minutes. “Back when I worked with the Corley family when June Bug died …”

  “June Bug?” Dean’s questioning expression lifted his eyebrows.

  “That’s what everyone called Patsy’s daddy.”

  “What about back then?”

  “I think Patsy was living in Charleston. She and her sister Penny were visiting their parents when June Bug was killed.”

  “Her mother said she’s been living in a trailer with her boyfriend.”

  “Please don’t call it a trailer,” I said, “a trailer is something you pull behind your truck to haul more stuff. What people live in are ‘mobile homes.’”

  “A trailer is also a brief film that advertises a movie and is usually seen before a movie instead of after it. That reminds me—would you like to see a movie with me sometime?”

  “Sure, but I want to know more about Fatsy Pats …” I shook my head in embarrassment. “I mean Patsy Corley. Who was her boyfriend?”

  “A man named Eugene Rodgers. He was quite a bit older than she was.”

  “Gene Rodgers? Snake Rodgers?”

  “Snake?” Dean chuckled. “I’m not sure I want to know how he got that name.”

  “It’s not what you think. He grew up with his single mother. When he was about thirteen, she told him to go up into the attic to get something for her. He came scrambling back down hollering, ‘Mama! Mama! There’s a snake up there.’ She sent him back up with a gun full of snake-shot. Gene got so excited that he fired that gun off all over the attic and made a lot of bullet holes through their ceiling. His mama made him spend his own money for spackling and try to patch the holes, but he slipped and fell through the ceiling—right into their kitchen. They used to call him Snake Killer, but it got shortened to Snake before he grew up.”

  Dean smiled. “Not what I expected.” He paused. “Of course, it’s an open-and-shut case, not much to investigate, but both bodies have to be autopsied. I’m sure you know the laws on that. The point is that the Middletons insist you’re missing too much time from work ‘hanging out’ with the sheriff, and that Mrs. Corley is demanding that she have you there to dress Patsy and to consult with them on planning.”

  “She seemed to take a fancy to me back when she planned her husband’s services, whic
h was strange because she insisted on a special oversize casket and had him dressed in clothes like a picture she had of him when he was young. He always went barefooted, and I had to locate shoes that would fit him. We cut off his long hair and shaved the beard so he’d look more like he did when they were young. She approved of everything, then had him cremated.”

  “I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who thought she was weird. I tried to get her to sit in the car, but she had her nose in everything. She’d stand in front of the boyfriend’s body and cuss, then she’d go back to that bloody bathroom and cuss at her dead daughter. She wants you there when she goes in to make arrangements tonight at six, and since you’d already gotten the information we wanted from Naomi Spires, Sheriff Harmon told me get you out of Safe Sister. Where do you want to go? Your place or the mortuary?”

  “My apartment. I never go to the mortuary unless I’m dressed appropriately, which means a black dress, black stockings, and low-heeled black shoes.” I laughed. “And I’d better remove all these bruises, too. I’ll call Otis and Odell when I get home.”

  “Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve.” Those blue eyes sparkled at me.

  “I know.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’d love to take you out tomorrow night, but the sheriff has everybody on duty, including me, with or without a homicide. Guess I’ll be pulling DUIs unless someone gets killed. Could I take you out for a late New Year’s Eve celebration on my next night off?”

  “When’s that?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll call you.”

  Just my luck. Another man who planned to call me. I hoped his calls wouldn’t be like Patel’s had been lately.

  • • •

  At five o’clock that evening, I arrived at Middleton’s in black clothes. After scrubbing the makeup away, I’d spent most of my time at home making telephone calls: to Daddy to check on Big Boy (he was fine); to Jane to check on her (she was resting up so Roxanne could talk all night); and to Otis to check on Mrs. Corley (he said she was as eccentric as ever). I’d also called Wayne, and he’d bragged on what a good job I’d done as an undercover agent. That made my chest puff out almost as much as my inflatable bras do; however, he’d insisted on stopping by to pick up the badge and pronounce me no longer a deputy.