by R. L. Perry
We settled on a time. I threw on my overcoat, bundled two scarves about my throat and face, and scurried out to the car. It was several minutes before the heater began to defrost the front window, and when I looked at the temp gauge on the dash it read -1. Getting colder. I blew into my gloved hands to warm my fingers against the advancing frostbite and then gingerly put the car in drive and headed toward the office.
The neighborhood, silently cloaked in a thin dusting of snow, looked like a Charles Dickens village—tiny wisps of smoke rising from spotted chimneys and furnace vents, a winter haze hanging over the dull arms of the barren trees. There were grooves in the frozen roads and high above me, in the stratosphere of even colder air, jet exhausts paralleled their white streaks of vapor across an otherwise high and brilliant blue sky. There were no visible birds. No people on the sidewalks. And when I turned on the radio I was greeted with a thin veil of static.
I drove cautiously, discovering in the silence and the migrating warmth of the heater vents a respite of thanksgiving. Bits of conversation form the night before, laughter, silences—all flooded back into my mind—especially Lance’s proposal in the morgue parking lot, which I continued to replay time and again in my mind. I found myself smiling in the frosted glare of the window, eager now to get at the new year and all that it would bring.
When I arrived at the funeral home I parked under the awning, hopped quickly into the front door, and unbundled. Bits of ice fell from the soles of my shoes. I swept up and headed for the office to make another pot of coffee. I thought, perhaps, that Phil Carrington might like a warm up. Our conversation wouldn’t be long, but I wanted him to feel at home.
I was about to pour myself a cup when the morgue wagon pulled up to the rear entrance of the funeral home with Sheila Carrington’s body. I scurried down the hallway to help the driver—a young guy named Billy who had delivered to me many times over the past year. “And so we meet again, Mary,” he said, his boyish grin at odds with the devilish weather.
“You know where to take the body,” I told him as I propped open the back door.
We worked as a team to pull the body out of the wagon, the wheels of the gurney crunching over the ice-dammed snow. Billy helped me transfer the body onto the embalming table, gave me a thumbs-up, and then was out the door with a “got another one to deliver” mantra. I checked the time, sheeted Sheila Carrington’s body, and made my way back to the office to prep for my meeting with Phil. Another day at the office.
After gathering the pertinent papers for Phil Carrington to look over, I began filling out a death certificate—one of my duties as county coroner. I left it incomplete and slid it into the top drawer of my desk. I procured two coffee cups and then went to the front door to watch for Phil Carrington. He arrived on time—his face wan and sober, cheeks reddening in the frigid breeze as he lumbered across the parking lot.
I greeted him. “Welcome,” I said. “Better come in out of that cold.”
“Too cold for my blood,” he said. His appearance, unimproved from the night before, was rigid and sickly. He had the face of a sleepless man, but also one who might have been abusing himself in other ways, or perhaps oblivious to the depths of his pain. As we ambled down the hall toward my office he told me he had a headache.
I invited him to join me for coffee, but he declined. “Bad stomach,” he said.
He groaned as he sat in the chair facing my desk.
“Mr. Carrington . . . Phil,” I said. “I wonder if you should see a doctor as soon as we finish here?”
He stared at me—not a glare, exactly . . . but a look of dismissal. He didn’t answer. “You wanted to show me some things?”
I pressed on quickly through the brochures detailing the various charges for caskets, services, transportation, burial. Phil Carrington nodded occasionally, but in each instance indicated what he wanted. I provided him a total cost at the end. He didn’t flinch, but seemed eager—perhaps even stolid—to complete the funeral plans. It was one of the quickest preparations I had ever seen.
“If Sheila had a life insurance policy, I can wait until you receive that benefit to send the bill,” I said.
“Sheila didn’t have life insurance,” he blurted quickly. “Nothing like that. I’ll just write a check.”
I sat back in my chair, watched as he took out a checkbook and wrote a fat one. But I was troubled on several fronts. I was never about the money—but something told me that Phil Carrington was carrying more than a checkbook in his pocket. He seemed like a man of strong ideologies. A man of unmoved passions. He startled me further by saying, “Let’s have the funeral tomorrow. I’d like to move this along.”
I wanted to wrap up the arrangements and talk about the funeral. “Do you have a pastor I could call?”
“No,” he said. But he handed me a card with a name written on it. “Call Milt,” he said. “He manages our business. He knew Sheila as well as anyone. He can give a good talk.”
I was not startled by the decision. Fewer people had connections with organized religion and many families were now choosing to say goodbye wrapped in the ambiance of friendship and quiet meditations of popular music. I took the card with the phone number and answered, “I’ll call.”
“Thank you,” Phil said. “Milt and I talked earlier this morning. He knows what I want.”
“I’ll be glad to contact Milt,” I repeated. “I’ll take care of the plans. No worries.”
Phil Carrington cleared his throat, now a dry husk bordering on the edge of damage. His face was sallow. There was a slight tremble in his hands.
Still, I didn’t want to offend him by suggesting he seek medical help—he had already spurned my former suggestion. But I had other work to do and a death certificate to complete.
“Phil,” I continued, “at the risk of being intrusive, I do hope you’ll get medical help soon. You don’t look well, and I just learned earlier this morning that Sheila died from some food-borne pathogens.”
“What?”
“Perhaps you should get checked out, too? You may have eaten the same foods? And are you sure I can’t help at this point? A glass of water? Could I drive you to the hospital?”
He smiled softly at me, his lips narrowing over his dry teeth. “I’ll go home,” he said. “I think if I could just get some sleep . . . “
“Was Sheila continuing to get worse before she died?” I blurted.
“She’d been sick for some days,” he said narrowly. “But we both thought she was improving. Maybe that’s what Christmas does to a person . . . gives one a sense of false security.”
My heart sank. “But she continued to weaken?”
“Yes.”
“Had she eaten some bad food?” I asked, thinking of the forensic report, the death certificate I needed to complete.
“We had been eating a lot of junk . . . you know? People from the company kept sending us food. Sheila loved this time of year, loved to bake . . . so I guess she wanted to keep going. But she was weak. Didn’t seem to be in any danger. Although she didn’t feel well, she wanted to get out of the house. You know . . . Christmas eve and all.”
I considered the other elements of the report. Its oddities. “Was your wife worse after you ate a home?” I wondered. “I couldn’t help but notice you’d had some chicken.”
“A game hen,” Phil interjected. “Night before last. The company sent it over along with some oysters and crackers.”
I opened my mouth to tell Phil Carrington about the complication, but he beat me to the opening.
“I don’t think Sheila ate much. She seemed to crave sleep more than anything else. Until . . . until it was too late.”
“I see. She just died suddenly?”
Phil nodded, a silent embarrassment, as if he had somehow failed as a husband, failed to protect his wife. “She was stubborn,” he said shortly. “Well, I guess we both are. Especially when it comes to doctors. She always thought she had a home remedy for everything. A little wine. A Tylenol
tablet. Rest. She always seemed to navigate illness well.”
“I’m not questioning your decisions,” I assured him. “I can see you are in pain. I’m just concerned now . . . for your sake.”
Phil Carrington smiled again, an awkward nod that filled me with sadness and a deep compassion. I feared for him.
“I think you might be dehydrated,” I told him. “If you’ve been sick . . . or, well, not taking care of yourself, I hope you’ll go home and get that rest. You might drink some water, too.”
“I’m eating a lot of chipped ice,” he said evenly. “But the more I take, the worse I feel.”
“Well then . . . rest.”
“Thank you,” he said. “So you’ll call Milt?”
I assured him. “I’ll call as soon as I see you on your way,” I said.
Phil Carrington thanked me and stood on weakened legs. He looked the part of a professional man, though compromised. I escorted him back to the front door and waited at the window, watched as he ambled across the lot, loaded himself into his car and drove away. The sun had brightened in the late afternoon sky, but it seemed as if all of the joy had drained away and left only the cold, drab remnants of death. There was a pall in the air, and it was not simply dictated by the cold.
Something large and sinister seemed to be stirring in the wind.
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t call Milt right away, however. First, I returned to the back room, slipped on my protective gear, and completed the embalming and makeup for Sheila Carrington. I’d become so adept at the process—and with the autopsy—was able to complete the process from beginning to end in less than ninety minutes. Then, I slid her into the casket that Phil had selected, ruffled pillows and fringe, and called it a day.
She looked lovely.
After I washed up, I poured myself another cup of coffee and then called Milt to inform him of Sheila’s death and to check on his availability to speak at the funeral the following day. He seemed a chipper man, one not given to lengthy conversation on the phone, and he thanked me for my concern. “Phil is a dear friend,” he told me. “We’ve been through much together. He’s also my boss.”
I waited for him to tell me more, but when our conversation stalled I pressed on down that path. “Oh, he mentioned you worked for him,” I said. “A big company?”
Milt clicked his tongue. “Big enough,” he said. “Phil and Sheila own the Clarity Ice Company. We ship bags of ice to gas stations, but also provide ice for the universities, hospitals, schools. I guess you could say it’s a big business.”
“That’s amazing,” I said, my thoughts filtering back to Phil Carrington’s freezer.
Another silence ensued. “Do you have any questions for me?” I asked. “You can handle the funeral tomorrow any way you like.”
“I’ll be there,” Milt said. “I’ll call Phil later and see if he needs anything.”
“Very nice. And thank you.”
We hung up.
I stepped to the window and checked the horizon. Light was now draining from the winter sky and, for the first time since I woke, I was feeling a twinge of hunger. Intent to wipe off some of the latent calories from the night before, I didn’t want to over-react to the need. That, and the sensitive side of my brain was not all that interested in food following the conversations about salmonella and dehydration. I whisked over to my desk, signed the last lines of the death certificate for Sheila Carrington, listing cause as “Listeria/ sickness”, and made a copy on the Xerox.
I checked the time, noted that Lance was still engaged in his work and was likely holed up in the warm lair of the station break room. He was likely completing year-end reports.
I sat down at the desk and called Silvia. “How about McKinney’s?” I offered.
“You got an agenda or are you really hungry?”
“Both,” I said, meaning every word.
“See you in ten,” she said. “I’ll bring David, too.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I could use the help.”
I stared at Sheila Carrington’s death certificate. It was now complete. But something in my bones—and not the cold—told me that I may have been premature in my judgment.
Chapter Twelve
The three of us found our usual booth at McKinney’s—not a difficult accomplishment with such a thin, post-Christmas crowd. But Barton, the one-armed cook, was there proffering his delicious pies through the kitchen window. Much to his chagrin, we declined. But as always, he gave me a wink. “Maybe in a few days, Mary,” he told me. “After you come down from your sugar high I’m gonna get you back on that coconut crème if it’s the last thing I do. And make sure I’m included in your New Year’s resolutions!”
Silvia sat next me in the booth and David, wearing a high green turtle neck sweater, appeared to be poking his head out of his shell. Though only a few hours had passed since we’d last seen each other, it was as if we always had new topics to discuss. David wanted to talk about the harsh weather. Silvia wanted to revisit my engagement.
“We surprised you last night, didn’t we?” she laughed.
“Completely,” I admitted. “I didn’t think Lance even knew either of you existed.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” Sheila answered. “He’s been very good about asking for our help. He’s got a heart of gold.”
“If he was looking for a boyfriend . . . ,” David said, giving me a nod.
“Go find your own boyfriend,” Silvia said. “Lance is spoken for.” She grabbed my hand and held the diamond up to the light. “Nice rock,” she added. “Lance does good work.”
“Believe it or not, Lance actually asked me if you preferred white or traditional gold band,” David added. “He wondered if you’d like a round stone or other. So I hope I gave him good advice.”
“You know me,” I said. “You did well.”
“Naturally,” David noted.
Silvia slid out of the booth and headed over to the bar where, positioned on their usual stools, a few lonely men sat, slumped over their drinks. A few minutes later she was back with three tall stems of champagne. “We didn’t get to toast you last night,” she said. “And since we are not having pie and coffee tonight, we need to celebrate.”
“Nice touch,” David said. “A toast to Mary Christmas! May her name live forever.”
“To Mary and our friendship,” Silvia intoned.
Our glasses clinked mid-air, a gesture of old friendship born in a spirit and anticipation of the new. We sipped in silence. Stared out the windows at the gathering gloom and the street lamps glowing in the twilight. The rising moon a sickle.
“So . . . what’s giving you chills these days?” Silvia wanted to know. “It’s surely not the weather you wanted to talk about. You had a reason for meeting us here.”
I sighed. “I’ve got a dilemma. A quandary.”
“Surely not,” David said. “What could possibly go wrong in the lay away business?”
I quaffed my champagne deeply, felt the bubbles rising up in my nose. “I was called out Christmas morning, as you know. But I just met the husband to finalize the funeral plans. He’s clueless…and stubborn. His wife died of food-borne illness and they didn’t seek medical help.”
“Explain,” Silvia said.
“I guess they have a high tolerance for pain,” I added. “He’s sick, too. Very much so. But Sheila’s death looks rather suspicious from my vantage point.”
“So what’s the problem?” David said. “You know a good cop. Tell Lance.”
“It’s not that simple,” I said. “This is Christmas, after all. Lots of food being eaten, given away. It could be a coincidence. Or just bad luck. And Sheila did have a lot of other complications—heart disease, dehydration, she was a smoker. But it’s odd . . . the listeria.”
“Come again,” Silvia said. “What are you talking about?”
“Her autopsy and forensic report revealed she died of this bacterial infection: listeria. I believe that’s how Blanch
described it.”
“I’m game for doing a book report on that one,” David said. “That’s weird.”
“Actually,” I interjected, “I’d like for Silvia to do that book report for me. She’s the expert librarian.”
“Oh?” asked David. “So I just sit this one out on the sidelines?”
“No,” I said. “I’d like for you to do a bit of snooping.”
“Glad to,” David answered. “I’ve got the wardrobe to cover it. Plenty of costumes, if you’re into that sort of thing.” He was right. I could picture his walk-in closet: purple and chartreuse pants hanging on hooks, apricot ascots deftly placed in drawers, paisley neckties, tie-dyed T-shirts folded neatly on shelves, green turtle neck sweaters.
“Just go out as yourself,” Silvia said. “That should be disguise enough for most people.”
“Just because a guy wears a little eye shadow . . . “
I didn’t want the conversation to go south. “Listen,” I said, “I’m serious. I want to find out about these toxins. And David, I need you to find out all you can about Phil and Sheila Carrington’s business. Their relationship. Friends. Where they had been on or about Christmas Eve. I talked to a guy named Milt who works for the Clarity Ice Company. Perhaps he might be able to shed some light on the situation, too. He’s doing Sheila Carrington’s funeral.”
“Who I am supposed to be?” David asked. “A reporter?”
“You’ll think of something,” I said. “You’re creative.”
“I’ll get started on it,” David said. “But this sounds like James Bond. The work will involve subtlety. Nuance. Subterfuge. Do you have a small gun or a wrist watch that shoots poison darts that I could borrow?”
“Just find out what you can about the company . . . leave the rest to Silvia. She’s a woman who knows how to dig.”
“What she said,” Silvia added—raising her champagne again. We clinked glasses. David burped. And when I looked up, Barton was leaning over the kitchen window throwing me a kiss. My world was suddenly complete and whole again.