Shep seemed to wake from his stupor. “She?” he said eagerly. “If you have any idea who did this, Mrs. Farris, you need to tell us. It’s a violation of state health law to be toting around a dead body, not to mention disrespectful to the dearly departed.”
“Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before! We should call the police,” Bitsy said.
“Not yet, Mama,” Shep said. “Let’s see what Mrs. Farris has to say first.” With an effort, he seemed to shake off his shock and became, once again, the consummate professional. “Mrs. Farris, what were you going to tell us?”
“We-l-l.” Shirley leaned closer. “You may not be aware of this, but Mr. Farris had a wandering eye.”
Wandering eye? With a struggle, Addy kept her face straight. All of Dwight’s parts wandered, especially his doodle. He had the wandering-est doodle in three states. His doodle had its own set of legs. His doodle was hardly at home. Heck, according to rumor Dwight Farris’s doodle was hardly ever in his
pants.
“Course, now that he’s in heaven with Jesus, all his earthly sins are forgiven,” Shirley added.
“Yes, ma’am,” Addy said, “but Mr. Farris’s body isn’t in heaven. In fact, we don’t know where the Sam Hill he is, and that’s the problem. There’s a funeral scheduled in less than two hours, and we got no body. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, dear.” Shirley’s pink mouth trembled. “My husband had a girlfriend, a painted hussy by the name of Bessie Mae Brown. Maybe
she
can tell you where Dwight is.”
“Did somebody say my name?” A middle-aged woman with Elvis Presley shoe-polish-black hair pushed her way into the room. She wore a lavender dress that strained across her generous breasts and thighs, and spiked purple heels. Rhinestones glittered on her long, manicured nails, and on the barrette she wore perched at a random angle on her stiffly teased and sprayed hair. She propped one hand on her hip and winked at Shep, then turned to address Mrs. Farris. “Hello, Shirley. Sorry for your loss.”
Show up at her married boyfriend’s funeral and offer condolences to the grieving widow as cool as you please. Wow, the woman had a major set. This was the funeral parlor version of a twenty-car pileup, and they were all caught in the twisted, metal wreckage. Fascinated and horrified, Addy looked over at Mrs. Farris. The widow looked like she wanted to blow groceries all over Bessie Mae Brown. Of course, being the Teletubbies’ mom, she’d probably blow marshmallows or Skittles. Addy’s stomach rumbled at the thought. Rainbow Skittles, or maybe Lucky Charms with all those little pink hearts and green clovers . . .
“What have you done with my husband, you Jezebel?” Shirley’s shrill voice recalled Addy to the nightmare.
“Me?” Bessie Mae’s heavily mascaraed eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
People in the hall heard the commotion and wandered into the room. A low, murmuring buzz began and grew as folks noticed the empty satin-lined box.
Shirley pointed a fat finger toward the casket. “I’m talking about the fact that my husband is missing. I want to know what you did with him.”
Bessie Mae teetered across the room on her four-inch heels. “Sugar Scrotum,” she cried. She flung herself on top of the metal box. “What have they done with you?”
Sugar Scrotum? Eww.
“Please, Ms. Brown.” Addy hurried over to the wailing woman. “This is highly inappropriate, not to mention downright tacky.”
She put her arms around Bessie Mae and tried to peel her off the casket.
“No!” Bessie Mae screeched and hung on tighter, kicking her purple heels. “I won’t go. Not until somebody tells me what happened to my sugar.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy, Jesus,” Shep groaned, relapsing. “What else?”
“I can’t take any more.” Addy’s mother toddled over to a chair. “Somebody tell me when it’s over.”
Shirley waved her pocketbook. “I got your sugar right here, Bessie Mae Brown,” she quavered in her Aunt Bea voice, “or at least the only part you cared about.”
A shiver of dread shot down Addy’s spine. She let go of Bessie Mae—the damn woman was stuck like a tick to the casket, anyway—and turned to look at Mrs. Farris.
“Uh oh,” she said when she saw the triumphant gleam in the widow’s china-blue eyes.
Bessie Mae must have had a premonition, too, because she unsuckered herself from the casket and turned around. “What have you done, Shirley?” she hiccupped.
Mrs. Farris opened her pocketbook and pulled out a ziplock baggie. Some kind of watery fluid smeared the inside of the see-through plastic. Formaldehyde, maybe. Addy tried not to think about the particulars of her brother’s work. At rest in the bottom of the bag like an abandoned hotdog was Dwight Farris’s one-eyed monster. Or, at least Addy
hoped
it was Old Man Farris’s one-eyed monster. She’d never met this particular monster . . . until now, thank goodness. As Addy stared, she could have sworn the thing winked at her.
“Your sugar’s not here, and even if we find him, he won’t be the same,” Shirley said. “What’s more, you won’t be diddling my husband in the afterlife. Nobody will, ’cause I got his winky right here. This winky is finally all mine, and it’s going to stay that a-way. I’m going to have it buried with me. I’m going to hold it in my cold dead hand. I’m taking this winky with me through the Pearly Gates. Not even Saint Peter’s prying this cold dead winky out of my hand. But maybe—if Dwight asks me real nice, mind you—I might let him have his winky back in the hereafter. But only on special occasions and only if he plays tiddley winks with me, and nobody else.”
“You crazy bitch!” Bessie Mae launched herself at Mrs. Farris.
Growling like a pack of dogs after a meat wagon, the two women hit the floor and wallowed around. The family gathered in a circle to watch the catfight. Shirley’s dress rolled up like a window shade, exposing her chubby behind. The moon was full, and it wore support hose and flowery granny panties.
“My eyes, my eyes.” Shep staggered back and collapsed into a chair beside his mother.
“Shep, don’t just sit there,” Addy cried. “Do something!”
“I can’t. All I can see is Shirley’s big flowery butt. I think my retinas may be permanently scarred.”
“Well, somebody has to do something. They’re going to murder each other.”
“Give me that weenie,” Bessie Mae screeched, making a grab for the baggie in Shirley’s hand.
Shirley slammed her fist into the side of Bessie Mae’s head. “You stay away from this weenie, Bessie Mae Brown. This weenie’s been Fabreezed and Cloroxed. I like to never got your coochie juice off it.”
“Mercy,” Bitsy Corwin moaned, and slid off the chair and onto the floor.
“Mama!” Addy rushed over. “Shep, what’s the matter with her?”
Shep’s shoulders shook. He lifted his head. Tears streamed down his face. “Fainted,” he gasped. “I think it was hearing the words ‘coochie’ and ‘juice’ in the same sentence.”
Bessie and Shirley crashed into the flowers in front of the casket.
“My flowers!” Addy cried. “Shep, call the police before they wreck the whole place over Dwight Farris’s ding dong.”
Shep whooped and fell out of his chair.
Addy grabbed a vase of cut flowers off the lacquered chinoiserie table by the door. She was standing over Shep and Mama pouring water on them when Brand stalked into the room.
Chapter Eight
A
ddy stared at Brand in shock. He’d traded his black leather warrior garb for a crisp white cotton shirt and a pair of silk and wool blend dress slacks. The new clothes fit him to perfection. If anything, modern apparel showed his magnificent physique to greater advantage. Talk about your sartorial splendor. Wowza. Conan meets
GQ.
Good God, it ought to be illegal for anyone to look so good. If he looked this yummy in dress duds, she couldn’t wait to see him in a pair of jeans . . . or better yet, out of them. She’d like to—
“Adara, is it your intent to drown those two unfortunate humans?” Brand said, bringing her lustful, little fantasy to a screeching halt.
“Uh, no.” Addy tilted the vase upright.
“Then why are you watering them?”
“I had to do something. Mama fainted and Shep was in hysterics.”
“I’m all right.” Shep got to his feet. He wiped the water out of his eyes and squinted at the two women rolling around on the floor. “Looks like Shirley has Bessie Mae in a camel-clutch sleeper hold. This could get ugly. Guess I’d better call the police. Addy, you take care of Mama.”
“Sure.”
Shep turned to leave. He stopped in front of Brand and held out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Shep Corwin, Addy’s older brother. And you are?”
“Well met, brother of Adara. I am Brand.”
“Nice to meet you.” Shep eyed the bigger man up and down. “You play any ball, Brand?”
“No.”
“Shame. Brand your first name, or your last?”
“Just Brand.”
“Just Brand, is it? What are you, one of those West Coast celebrities with only one name?”
Uh oh, the West Coast, synonymous in Shep’s conservative Southern mind with pot smoking, free love, liberals, and worst of all—
gasp
—tofu burgers. No self-respecting Southern male would be caught dead eating tofu. Eating tofu led to all kinds of degenerate practices, like yoga and meditation, and God forbid, art appreciation. She’d better do something fast, before Shep classified Brand as a girly man. Not that she cared what her brother thought about the big galoot. But it seemed like the nice thing to do.
“He’s teasing, Shep,” she said. “His name is Brand . . . uh . . . uh . . .” Her brain raced like a hamster on a wheel. “Dalvahni. Yeah, that’s it, Brand Dalvahni. He’s here for the Farris funeral.”
“Delmonte, like Viola’s husband at the Sweet Shop?”
“No, Dal-vah-ni.”
“Don’t believe I know any Dalvahnis. Knew a Dalboski once, but they weren’t from around here. Think they were Lithuanian, or something. You Lithuanian, Mr. Dalvahni?”
“No.”
“You know any Lithuanians?”
“No.”
“Me, neither, ’cept for the Dalboskis, and I’m not sure about them.”
A loud whoop from the circle of mourners surrounding Shirley and Bessie Mae recalled Shep’s attention to the wrestling match across the room.
“Well, I guess I’d best make that call before the Farris boys crack open a keg and start taking bets,” he said. “Looks to me like Bessie Mae’s the Alpo in this fight. Shirley’s giving her a beat-down, and still ain’t let go of Dwight’s trouser snake.”
Shaking his head, Shep left the room.
Bitsy sputtered and sat up. “What’s happening?” She blinked up at Brand in confusion. “Who are you?”
“This is Brand Dalvahni, Mama,” Addy said. “Brand, this is my mother, Bitsy Corwin. He’s here for the Farris funeral.”
Amazing how the lie slipped off her tongue with ease the more times she said it. Before very long, she’d believe it herself.
Bitsy groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Lord help us, the Farris funeral. What on earth could have happened to Dwight?”
Looking at Mama nearly gave Addy a heart attack. Mama was always put together, her hair done and her makeup flawless. She was Donna Reed doing housework in a chic frock, high heels, and pearls, a gardening goddess in a red and white Malia sundress and matching flats. But not anymore. Mascara ran down her powdered cheeks, and her stylish champagne-blond tresses lay in a sodden wad against her scalp. A big wet spot and a sprinkling of wilted lily petals marred the front of her once pristine linen suit. It was wrong. It was John Wayne in a pink tutu and tights. It was a preacher farting in church. A work of art had been despoiled, and Addy was the desecrator who’d drawn the big, black mustache on the
Mona Lisa.
Mama was going to kill her.
“Your mother seems disturbed, Adara. Is there a problem?” Brand asked.
“Yeah, there’s a problem. Dwight Farris is missing in action, and he’s the dead guy. I don’t know how things work where you’re from, but around here, we don’t usually have a funeral without a body, not without the police and the district attorney being involved.” She pointed a finger at Shirley and Bessie Mae. “Those two are the wife and girlfriend of the deceased. Shirley’s the one on top with her dress up around her waist. She’s Dwight’s wife. The other one is the girlfriend, Bessie Mae. The
latest
girlfriend, I should say. Dwight believed in spreading the love, if you know what I mean. Anyway, we get here this morning and Dwight is nowhere to be found. Shirley thinks Bessie Mae stole him, maybe to have one for the road.” Addy shrugged. “And that’s not the worst part. Turns out Shirley already removed Dwight’s pocket rocket. Seems she has ideas of keeping Dwight all to herself in the hereafter.”
Bitsy stiffened. “Adara Jean, do not refer to that particular part of Mr. Farris’s anatomy as a
pocket rocket.
It’s vulgar.”
Addy felt her cheeks grow warm. “Sorry, Mama.”
Brand frowned. “Pocket rocket? He was armed?”
“No,” Addy said. “I was talking about his . . . his, you know.”
“I do not know.”
“For crying out loud, don’t make me say it in front of my mama! She’ll have a fit.”
“Adara, I am not being purposefully obtuse, I don’t—” He stopped, his expression growing pained. “Oh. I see. She unmanned him. Not a common mourning ritual in this realm, I hope?”
“Certainly not.” Bitsy straightened her skirt. “Corwin’s has been in business for more than fifty years, and nothing,
nothing
like this has happened before.”
“Tramp!” Shirley yelled, pounding Bessie Mae’s head into the floor.
“Sicko weenie whacker,” Bessie Mae flung back.
Hooked together like a couple of love bugs, they rolled into a standing spray of snapdragons, Queen Anne’s lace, and asparagus ferns, and sent it crashing into the floor.
Addy winced. “There goes another one.”
“I will handle this,” Brand said.
He strode across the room to the two snarling, spitting women, and touched each of them on the neck. They stiffened and went limp. Bessie Mae rolled off Shirley and flopped onto her back. She stared up at Brand like a gigged fish. Shirley stared at him, too. Her tiny pink mouth formed a perfect “o.”
“Guck,” Bessie Mae said, gaping at Brand.
Plink, plink.
Shirley’s Kewpie doll eyes opened and closed. She seemed oblivious to the fact that her dress was wadded up under her armpits, her Playtex 18-hour bra showed, she’d lost a shoe and there was a big hole in one of her support stockings.
“Am I dead?” She gazed up at Brand with a worshipful expression on her plump, pink face.
“No.”
He helped Shirley to her feet. Gravity kicked in, and her dress slid down, but even the forces of nature could only do so much. The garment caught on her hips and hung there.
“You sure? ’Cause you look like an angel to me. I was thinking maybe I’d done been raptured like Dwight, praise the Lord.”
Brand helped Bessie Mae wobble upright on her purple stiletto heels. Her rhinestone barrette dangled over one bruised eye. “Raptured?” she said. “What are you on about, Shirley? Dwight ain’t been raptured.”
“Then where is he, you slut monkey? Did you take him?”
“I didn’t take him, you crazy old bat. Tell you what happened though. Dwight probably got up and left when he saw what kind of cheap-ass casket you plan on burying him in. You always were a tightwad. I’m surprised you didn’t dig a hole and stick him in the backyard. Spring for something better than a shoe box and some tissue paper, and maybe he’ll come back.”
“Cheap?” Shirley screeched.
“Please, ladies, no more.” Bitsy looked close to tears. The chief of police and a second officer stepped through the door with Shep at their heels. Bitsy’s expression eased. “Carl, thank goodness you’re here.” She hurried over. “I’ve been at my wits’ end.”
Chief Carl E. Davis smiled at her. “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, Hibiscus, we’ll get this all sorted out.”
Addy blinked. Hibiscus? Nobody called Mama by her given name, not even Daddy. What was going on here? Did Bitsy have a boyfriend? The very concept was mind blowing.
“Oh, Car-lee,” Bitsy said, “it’s been awful. First we find out Dwight’s body is missing, and then these two start fighting and nearly destroy the place. I am so upset.”
Car-lee? It wasn’t Sugar Scrotum, but in the Bitsy universe it was close.
The chief patted Bitsy on the hand. “There, there, Hibiscus, you let me take care of this. Everybody stay put, until Officer Curtis and I sort this thing out.” He pointed to a man sporting a powder-blue tuxedo jacket and a mullet who was trying to ooze out of the room. “That means you, too, Dinky Farris. I want to talk to everyone here.”
Bitsy gave him a misty smile. “Thank you, Car-lee. I know I can count on you.”
He motioned to the other officer. “Dan, you stay here with these good folks while I talk to Ms. Brown and Mrs. Farris in another room.”
“Right, Chief.”
“The Magnolia Room is available, if you like,” Bitsy said quickly.
“That will be fine.” He gave Bitsy a conspiratorial wink and ushered Shirley and Bessie Mae out into the hall.
Bitsy turned back to them. “Well, this has certainly been an interesting morning. You handled that rather well, Mr. Davinci.”
Addy’s stomach lurched. There was a speculative gleam in Mama’s eyes when she looked at Brand. “Dalvahni, Mama.”
“Of course, Mr. Dalvahni. What is it you do for a living?”
Oh, Lord, the interrogation had begun. “He’s in the military, Mama. Special Forces.”
“I knew it. That’s where he learned that Jedi nerve pinch thing, isn’t it? My, that was impressive.”
“It’s a
Vulcan
nerve pinch, Mama, and a
Jedi
mind trick.”
Bitsy waved her hand. “Whatever. I’m sure Mr. Dalvahni knows what I mean.” Her lips settled in a determined line. “I want to know all about you, Mr. Dalvahni. Where are you from? Who are your folks?”
“I told you, Mama, he’s here for the Farris funeral.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.” Some of the sparkle left Bitsy’s eyes. “Kin to the Farrises are you?”
“No.”
The sparkle sprang back to life. “Of course you aren’t related to them. Silly old me to even ask,” she said. “Are you a friend of the family, then?”
“No.”
Bitsy tapped her foot. “Not a big talker, are you, Mr. Dalvahni.”
“No.”
“He’s on assignment, Mama.”
“Assignment?” Bitsy’s eyes widened. “It’s that Dinky Farris, isn’t it? Did you see that hair and that awful coat he was wearing? Powder-blue crushed velvet. In the summer. To a funeral.” She shuddered. “Tacky. What’s he into, drugs?”
“Drugs” became the longest word in the English language when Bitsy said it.
Druuuugs.
“I do not know this Dinky Farris. I hunt the djegrali.”
“Jah-bally?”
“It’s a . . . a drug, Mama, made out of cow pie mushrooms. The government is looking into it.”
Brand gave her a look of reproach. “Adara, this is absurd. I do not think—”
“I know you don’t want people knowing your business, Brand, but Mama won’t tell anybody. Isn’t that right, Mama?”
“Hmm.” Bitsy considered Brand. “So you’re working undercover trying to bust a bunch of cow pie drug dealers in the big city of Hannah. Glad to see my tax dollars at work. Tell me, Mr. Dalvahni, how does my daughter, the florist, fit into all of this?”
Crap, busted. Time to try a diversionary tactic.
“Mama, you look different. Have you changed salons?”
“What? No, I—” Bitsy gave her hair a perfunctory pat. Her hand stilled. “What in the world?”
Spinning on her heels, she trotted over to the gold and umber beveled mirror that hung by the door. She stiffened in horror.
“Incoming. Duck,” Addy said.
“What?”
“Cover your ears, Brand.”
“Merciful heavens, my
hair,
” Bitsy shrieked. “And look at my makeup! I look like somebody melted a clown. Car-lee saw me like this? Adara Jean Corwin, how could you?”