Chapter Seven
T
he town of Hannah nestled in a cluster of rolling hills created during the Cretaceous period when a chunk of rock tired of spinning through space and crashed into Behr County, rumpling the earth like an unmade bed. Hannah’s business section was situated at the south end of Main Street, a frayed gray ribbon of asphalt that ran past the flower shop and other stores and the Methodist and Baptist churches, and chugged up a steep hill to the town square. At the top of the ridge, Main Street split into a round-about that circled the park and rolled down the hill on the other side, spilling into North Florida where it became Highway 97. The funeral home was located at the north end of Main Street past the river bridge and near the edge of town.
Addy flew down the street, her thoughts focused on avoiding a tongue-lashing from her mother. She skidded to a stop at the employee’s entrance of Corwin’s and paused to finger-comb her hair and smooth her twisted skirt. She smelled something burning and looked down. Good grief, her shoes were smoking and she’d blown a heel. She limped inside and hurried down the hall to State Room A or the “Camellia Room” as Mama liked to call it.
Mr. Farris’s casket stood open against the right wall. Her gaze skittered past the burial box and moved on. She did
not
want to see Mr. Dead Dude. Death was good business. Death was money. Death was dependable. The flower shop wouldn’t survive without dead people. Sooner or later, everybody took the old dirt nap. But the simple truth was Addy hated dead people. She despised the Southern ritual of mumbling over the body.
Don’t he look natural,
people would say. What did they
mean
? Her brother Shep was an excellent mortician, took pride in his work, but she’d never seen a dead person she thought looked good. How could anybody look natural with their cheeks jammed full of cotton balls and their lips superglued shut?
She looked around. No sign of Mama. Thank God. Maybe she could finish what she had to do and slip back out without getting caught. So she was a major league weenie. But, she did not want to face her mother, not yet. Setting down the basket of flowers, she headed for the knot of memorial sprays clustered in one corner of the room and grabbed a standing arrangement of gladiolas and carnations. A familiar ladylike Southern drawl drew her up short.
“Adara Jean Corwin, what have you done to your hair?”
Startled, Addy dropped the flower arrangement. Elegantly coiffed and dressed in a tasteful linen suit and matching heels, Bitsy Corwin glared at her from the doorway.
“God, Mama, you scared the pea turkey out of me.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, young lady, and answer my question. What on earth have you done to your hair?”
Addy lifted the wire frame with care and placed the arrangement at one end of the casket. She whirled and trotted across the room for another. Always make yourself a moving target. That much she’d learned. Stand still and you were dead meat. “Nothing, Mama, it was like this when I woke up this morning.”
Addy felt her mother’s laser vision bore into her back and picked up the pace. It was no use, she was done for. She felt her liver curl and her lungs shrivel to husks under the heat of that maternal stare. The woman should be requisitioned by the government as a weapon of mass destruction, for Pete’s sake. She was a thermonuclear device. Point her at the enemy, and
wham! Summa exstinctio maternus.
Total extinction by the mama.
“Uh huh,” her mother said. “If you think I’m stupid enough to swallow that line, you got another think coming. Hair doesn’t turn white overnight unless you’re a mother—put those two sprays of roses over there . . . no, not there, further to the right . . . and we both know you’re not that. Don’t even have a boyfriend, though Lord knows I’ve introduced you to every eligible bachelor in town. You’re too picky, Adara Jean, and that’s the truth. I despair of having grandchildren.”
Oh, dear Gussie, her mother had whipped out the grandchildren card. Next came the wilting ovaries speech. Addy’s, of course. At fifty-five her mother had long since sailed down the menopausal highway. Holding a peace lily in front of her like a shield, Addy turned. “You have two beautiful grandchildren, Mama, or are you forgetting about Shep?”
“You two talking about me again? You can’t help yourselves, can you?” Addy’s big brother Shep stood in the doorway dressed in the somber hues of the professional undertaker. Shep’s permapressed blond hair was as neat and crisply starched as the spotless white shirt he wore. He smiled and walked over to Addy. “Hey, Cotton Top, what’s with the new do? You look kind of like that Tempest chick from
X-Men.
”
“You mean Storm,” Addy murmured.
“Yeah, that’s it, Storm.”
“It’s dreadful.” Mama shuddered. “Peroxide blonde. I can’t imagine what possessed her. The roots are going to be a nightmare.”
“Hello, I can hear you.” Addy waved a hand at them. “Remember me, the Invisible Woman? I’m standing right here.”
It was a waste of time. Her two nearest and dearest went on talking about her like she wasn’t in the room. Nothing new about that. Shep was Mama’s right-hand man, had been for fifteen years since Daddy died. Mama always went to Shep when she had a “problem” with Addy. Translation: Addy wouldn’t do what Mama wanted. Good old Shep, he always went to bat for her. Calmed Mama down and got her off Addy’s case. Nothing fazed Shep, not even Mama. And that was saying something, ’cause Mama could piss off the Pope. Shep was as laid back as a rat in a quaalude factory. Shep, the Teflon Man, the perfect son; the one who stayed to run the family business. Unlike Addy, who’d hauled boogie out of Dead Folks Be Us as soon as she could.
“Relax, Mama, it’s a wig,” Shep said. “You know Addy wouldn’t bleach her hair.”
“Oh, thank heavens. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself. I was so upset. You’re right, son. Of course it’s a wig.”
Oh, so she believed Shep, but not her? Peachy. Still, it was her way out. Keep her mouth shut and let Mama think she wore a wig. No scenes, no recriminations, no long-suffering looks. Be quiet and go with the flow.
Addy set the peace lily down with the other potted plants in front of the casket.
“It’s not a wig,” she heard herself say. What was the matter with her? Was she
nuts
? “It’s my hair and, no, Mama, I did not bleach it. And I’m sorry if you don’t like it, because it’s going to stay this way. I’m not sure I could change it if I wanted to.”
Shep chuckled. “She’s kidding, Mama, pulling your leg. Hair doesn’t grow six inches overnight.”
Her mother’s lips thinned. “Stop kidding around, young lady, and take that wig off right this minute before folks start to arrive. You want people to think you’re cheap?”
“Cheap? That’s not fair, Mama,” Shep said. “I think Sis looks gorgeous. That pale blond hair with her brown eyes is a killer combination.”
Her mother’s expression softened. “Well, of course she’s gorgeous. She’d look good with a chicken on her head, but that’s beside the point. Everybody will be looking at that wig. We don’t want to take away from Dwight’s Big Day.”
“Big day?” Addy stared at her mother. “The man’s not having a party, Mama. He’s
dead
. And you can be darn sure he won’t care what color my hair is!”
“But his family might, Adara. It’s our job to make a painful time easier for them. So, for the last time, take off that wig.”
Something snapped inside Addy. She danced up and down in front of the casket. More of a lopsided jig thanks to her broken shoe. “And for the last time, I’m telling
you
it’s not a wig!” She grabbed her hair in both hands and yanked. “See, it won’t come off. Here, Mama, pull on it yourself, since you don’t believe me.”
She knew she must look like a crazy person with her wild hair and her raggedy shoes. The very least she expected was a lecture from the Mom-i-nator. Never mind that she wasn’t using her inside voice. She was dancing right smack dab in front of Old Man Farris’s bone bucket, and he was a good Southern Baptist. Well, maybe
good
was a bit of a stretch. The man was a serial adulterer, after all. His tally whacker had been handled more than a FedEx package. But Dwight Farris never
danced,
unless you counted the horizontal mambo, so doing the funeral home bop in front of his casket was definitely uncool.
But, to her surprise Mama and Shep did not say a word. Her first real hissy fit since the age of thirteen when Mama made her go to the country club Christmas dance with Pootie Jones—dubbed Pootie by folks because of the dooky-scented cloud of effluvium that hovered around him like rush hour smog over Mexico City—and neither one of them paid her any mind. They stared at the casket behind her, their faces all waxy and funny. Shep looked rattled, and that in and of itself scared Addy. Nothing rattled Shep. Shep was so cool his boxer shorts were refrigerated. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. She should look. She knew she should look.
She did not want to look.
Look and she’d get dead man cooties on her eyeballs. Gross.
She looked anyway.
The casket was empty. The white satin lining bore the imprint of the body, but Dwight Farris was gone.
“Where’d he go?” Shep sounded stunned.
Her mother turned an accusing glare on her. “Addy, did you do something with Mr. Farris?”
“Sure, Mama, I got him right here in my back pocket. Of course I didn’t do anything with him! What do you think I would do with him?”
“I’ve never lost a body before.” Shep’s tone was conversational. “Oh, sure, one or two have hit the floor while I was working on them. But I figure bodies are like Oreos and the ten-second rule applies. No big deal. But this . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do about this.”
“Maybe it’s somebody’s idea of a prank,” Addy suggested, desperate to help Poor Shep. He looked so forlorn. “You know, like when the seniors roll the mayor’s yard at homecoming.”
“You think somebody
stole
Old Man Farris?” Shep groaned. “Oh, Lord, I wonder if Corwin’s is liable. I’d better call Sammy Gordon down at Bama Farms and check on our coverage.”
Great, she’d made things worse. Way to go, Addy.
Her mother shot her a basilisk glare. “Don’t you worry about it, son. We’ll find him. He can’t have gone far.”
“Find who?”
The three of them jumped like they’d been shot, and spun around. Shirley Farris, Dwight’s wife, stood in the doorway. Everything about Shirley was round, her face, her bright blue eyes, her melon-shaped breasts and wide hips. She was a round little blueberry of a woman in a belted Sunday dress and orthopedic shoes. Her gray hair was round, too, worn in tightly permed sausage curls that bounced when she walked. She was as soft and plump as a newly risen yeast roll, a cherubic Southern Mrs. Santa Claus with rosy cheeks, a double chin, and a tiny pink bow of a mouth. If the Teletubbies had a mom, it would be Shirley Farris. Addy could see her tripping across the sterile, green golf course Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po called home.
“Find who?” Shirley repeated. She tilted her head and widened her baby doll eyes at them. “Is something wrong?”
Mama’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. Beside her, Shep made strangling noises. Great, both of them down for the count. Addy took a deep breath and gave Mrs. Farris a bright smile.
“Wrong is maybe too harsh a word, but we do have the teensiest, little situation here with Mr. Farris.”
A tiny, adorable wrinkle formed in the space between Shirley’s brows. “Oh, dear, was the blue suit too small? He has put on a few pounds in the last few years. Maybe we should have gone with the gray.”
“No, ma’am, the suit is not the problem.” Addy looked past Shirley’s plump figure. The rest of the family was gathered in the hall for the visitation . . . visitation for a dead man who’d taken a powder. Oh, Lord, things were about to get ugly. Addy waited, hoping—no,
expecting
—her take-charge mom to leap in and take over. But, for once, Bitsy seemed content to let her daughter do all the talking. Huh? Who would’ve guessed that all it took to shut Mama up was an itinerant corpse? Either that or she’d had a stroke. Addy forged ahead. “It’s—uh—like this. Mr. Farris is not exactly where we want him to be.”
“Where would you like him to be, dear?”
“In the casket, for starters.”
Plink, plink.
Shirley blinked her doll-like eyes at them. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we. Mr. Farris is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, ma’am, gone, as in ‘he ain’t here no more.’ ”
Shirley Farris clutched her pocketbook to her generous bosom. “Praise the Lord, he’s been raptured.”
Good grief.
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Farris. ’Course, I’m Episcopalian, and I’m pretty sure we don’t get raptured. But, Baptists get raptured, don’t they? So, I guess Mr. Farris could have been raptured, but we’re thinking it’s more likely someone took the body. Can you think of anybody who might have
borrowed
Mr. Farris for some reason?”
“No, I can’t thi—” The furrow in Shirley’s brow deepened. “Unless . . . No, no, she wouldn’t.”