Casket Case (19 page)

“Just take your time and catch your breath,” I said. “I’m right here when you’re able to talk.” I’d had calls like this before.

A few more sobs and some long sniffles later, an elderly female voice said, “Can you help me?”

“What do you need?”

“It’s Amos. They won’t keep him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said in what I hoped was an encouraging voice, urging her to continue.

“I said they won’t keep Amos.”

“Who won’t keep Amos?”

“Those people at the medical university. He had willed his body for research because after he was laid off and got sick, we couldn’t afford to keep paying his life insurance. Now those people say they won’t take him.”

“I’m sure you can make other arrangements. Perhaps you and Amos can come in tomorrow and speak with Mr. Middleton about prearrangements. You can finance services if they’re prearranged.” As I spoke, I realized that I really needed to go to the bathroom.

“You don’t understand. It’s too late for prearrangements. Amos died this morning. The university people came and got him, but now they’ve called and said they don’t want him. They said I have to hire a funeral home to fetch him from them. I want to know if Middleton’s will do that.”

“Yes, ma’am. We can take care of it for you. I’ll need some information. Give me Amos’s full name, date of birth, and the name and number of who called and told you to get a funeral home to pick up Amos.”

I squeezed my legs together and picked up a ballpoint pen. The lady was spelling, “B-a-l,” when I realized I couldn’t wait.

“Ma’am,” I interrupted, “please hold. I’ll be back to you in just a moment.” I pressed the button and dashed to the bathroom. When I returned, the light wasn’t blinking.

More than one time I’d suggested to Otis and Odell that we have caller ID put on the office phones, but no, they didn’t want to spend the money. Now I’d lost a customer, but I didn’t have to worry long. The phone rang and I answered on the first ring.

“Middleton’s Mortuary. Callie Parrish speaking. How may I help you?”

Little old lady voice: “Did you hang up on me because I don’t have any money?”

“Is this Mrs. Ballentine?”

“No,” she said.

“Was I just speaking with you?”

“Yes, we were talking about Amos, but our name is Valentine, just like those little cards with hearts on ’em.”

“Oh, I misunderstood.” I scratched out the B on my note-pad. “I didn’t mean to hang up on you. The phone’s acting up. You know, with all that rain we’ve had.”

She was crying again. Sobs so harsh that she couldn’t catch her breath. Finally, she said, “I’m so glad. I was afraid you’d hung up on me, and I don’t know what to do about Amos. They said they won’t bring him back. I
have
to send someone to pick him up. I’ve got a station wagon, but I just don’t think I could manage going for him. I’m sure I’d wreck the car.”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t hang up on you.” I knew I was repeating myself, but I thought she needed to hear it again. Besides, I wondered if I
did
hang up on her. Maybe in my rush to tinkle, I’d pushed the wrong button.

“Now tell me again how to spell the last name,” I said.

“I already told you. It’s just like February fourteenth.”

“And can you give me the phone number and name of the person who called you?”

“Wait a minute. I wrote it down, but I’ll have to find it.”

Ten minutes later, I had all the information I needed to pick up Amos, but my natural nosiness made me ask, “Mrs. Valentine, did Amos die of a communicable disease?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Amos die of something that’s catching? Did he have tuberculosis or AIDS or something like that? I was just wondering why the medical school can’t use his body.” Thank heaven my bosses weren’t there. They might have fired me for that last question and the word “body.” Technically, deceased who are donated for research are called “cadavers,” but that sounds worse than “bodies” to me. Otis and Odell would solve the entire issue by calling him “Mr. Valentine.”

“Amos had emphysema for years. I don’t think that’s catching.”

“No, ma’am. Let me write down your phone number, and I’ll call you when we have Mr. Valentine here. You can come in then to make arrangements.”

She gave me the telephone number and was sobbing again when we said good-bye.

This was a first for me, but I doubted seriously that it would be for Otis or Odell. Everytime something strange happened at work, one of them would say, “Yeah, like So-and-So,” back in some year before my time.

Otis returned before Odell.

“A lady called and said that her husband donated his body to the medical university and they picked him up, but now they don’t want him. I’ve filled out the info on a pickup form.” I’d thought it probably wasn’t a new situation for him, and I was right.

“Yes, that happens. I’ll take care of it,” Otis answered. He made three telephone calls. One to the medical university, one to Odell to tell him to pick up Amos, and the last one to Mrs. Valentine to assure her that Middleton’s would take care of everything. She agreed to come in the next morning.

Otis brought in the lady from the nursing home and put her in his prep room, where he’d embalm her—pardon me,
prepare her
—before going home for the night. I followed him in there.

“You don’t have to wait here, Callie,” he said. “Her family will be in tomorrow with a photo and clothing. You can go on home now.”

“Um, well, I have a problem,” I told him.

“What’s that?”

“The reason John was with me when I came in is that he brought me to work. Sheriff Harmon has my car.”

“Oh.” He transferred the body bag from the portable gurney to his worktable. “I need to get started here. Just drive one of the family cars home and be back tomorrow by nine.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I
love
driving those elegant vehicles. As I drove home, I thought about what a relief it was not to have to drive through rain. Then I remembered my birthday gift from Dennis Sharpe. I’d left those two squirrels sitting in the entry hall at the mortuary.

What would Otis say about
that
?

The
wreath on my door was even larger than the bouquet of flowers had been. I couldn’t miss it when I pulled into my drive—a tremendous wreath, as big as a casket spray. Who’d sent that? Had John come back by with it before he left for Atlanta? If he’d gone back. I didn’t know if Harmon had let him. Standing on the porch, I realized it wasn’t a gift from anyone who cared about me.

The flowers weren’t just wilted. They were disintegrating and decaying. The ribbon was mildewed. It looked like a wreath a few weeks after a funeral if the cemetery doesn’t remove it. I snatched it off the hanger and threw it in the Herbie Curby on the side of the building.
What kinda jerk thinks sending dead funeral flowers to a woman is funny?

Jane was asleep on the couch, but Big Boy met me with a grin on his face, his tail wagging, and his leash in his mouth. When we came back in, Jane was stretching and yawning. “Hey,” she said, “guess what I learned?”

“No telling,” I replied.

“I was watching one of those court programs on television, and they had a woman who does the same job as Roxanne. She calls herself a ‘fantasy phone actress.’ I think I’m going to start using that instead of ‘conversationalist.’ Don’t you think it sounds better?”

Jane went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. She was learning her way around with no trouble.

“Maybe. When are you going to tell Frank what you do? It seems you two are mighty interested in each other. Don’t you believe he should know?”

I walked to the bedroom to change clothes, leaving the door open as I dropped my black dress and panty hose in the clothes hamper and pulled on shorts and a shirt. Big Boy came loping into the bedroom and barked at the window.

“I’ve been thinking about that. Please don’t tell him. Let me do it,” Jane said, trying to talk louder than Big Boy’s howling.

“Sure, but don’t wait too long. I’m not the only one who knows your occupation, and you don’t want Frank to hear it from someone else. He’ll probably be all right with it, but if you get serious, he’ll want you to give it up.”

“I figured that, and I thought I’d see if we develop a relationship before I risk quitting my job. It’s the best money I’ve ever made.” She turned toward Big Boy. “Why is that dog howling and barking like that?”

“I don’t know. There must be a squirrel outside near the window.” I stepped over to Big Boy and scratched behind his ears. He began to settle down.

Jane rubbed her stomach. “I’m starving. Are you cooking?”

“No, I’m going to pick up something. Wanna ride?”

“How are you going? Did you get the Mustang back from the sheriff?”

“No, Otis lent me a family car to drive.”

“Limousine?”

“No, a smaller one. A Lincoln Town Car like Ms. Lucas had, except ours are all black, not gray.” That reminded me. I wondered if the sheriff had determined where Ms. Lucas’s car was and how she’d gotten out to Jane’s place.

“Do you mind if I don’t go? Frank said he’d call.”

“Not at all,” I said, thinking we might just have subs again. Maybe Levi Pinckney would be working.

Big Boy stopped barking. He seemed to sense I was going somewhere and wanted to go with me, but I didn’t dare let him ride in a mortuary vehicle. He’d get excited and drool everywhere.

I felt better than I had in days as I drove toward Nate’s Sports and Subs. I fooled around with the radio and got a station of oldies but goodies. Growing up in a family of six left me a fan of all kinds of music, from the sixties tunes Daddy loves through the disco and eighties of my brothers’ youths to nineties and current cuts Jane and I like. Everything from eight-track to audiocassettes to CDs and back to some old LPs and even some 78s and 45s Daddy had saved.

The Beatles were singing “I wanna be a paperback writer,” and I sang right along with them, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror. A black Tahoe with dark tinted windows pulled up behind me. I looked out my front windshield at the road in front of me and then back into the rearview mirror again.

Dalmation!
The Tahoe was bearing down on me, gaining speed. I slammed my foot on the accelerator to get away from him. The engine chugged as though it would stall from the sudden surge, then leaped ahead. The front of the Tahoe looked like it was in the backseat when I checked the mirror again, but I still couldn’t see the driver. Even the windshield looked opaque from the outside.

I
knew
that Tahoe would hit me. I’ve been in fender benders, but I’d never before known that I was going to be hit. Going to be struck, careened into on purpose. I jerked the steering wheel to the right. Desperate to move off to the shoulder of the road and let the Tahoe pass me.

Had I done something to trigger road rage in the driver? I didn’t think so. I yanked the steering wheel to the right as hard as I could. My foot floored the accelerator, but it wasn’t fast enough.

The Tahoe smashed into my left rear fender with a loud
bam
, knocking me forward. Only my seat belt kept me from going through the windshield. My head banged against it, causing the glass to explode into a creepy web pattern.

For a moment, I though I’d pass out. My head swam as I hit the brakes trying to stop the car. Through the crackled safety glass, I saw the Tahoe make a three-point turn and head back toward me, speed increasing every second. Its impact on the front of the Lincoln threw me back against the seat.

The Tahoe pulled around me, then revved up and slammed into the rear of the Lincoln again. I felt my car leave the ground, go airborne, then slam into a tree. I heard the Tahoe speed away at the same time I heard the screech of an eighteen-wheeler’s airbrakes.

“Are you okay?” a young male voice asked as he looked through the smashed side window.

“I’m banged up, but I don’t think I’m hurt bad,” I answered, though my chest and head were agonizing.

“Why didn’t your airbags go off?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, though I did. Odell had disconnected them after he read about an airbag going off unexpectedly when the car wasn’t involved in an accident. Odell claimed that as slow as funeral vehicles are driven, the airbags would never be needed.

The young man yanked and yanked on each door in turn, but the sides of the Town Car were crushed and wrinkled.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I called 911 the minute I came over the hill and saw what was happening. I’ve got the tag number of whoever hit you, too. Wrote it down as he sped away.”

Just my luck that when the law showed up, there was no one I knew on patrol. Same with the EMTs. I felt like I must be getting old at thirty-three. Everyone looked about fourteen or fifteen. A medical technician crawled through the broken window and said, “Be still. Stop moving. I want to stabilize your head until we get you out of here. It won’t be long. I called for the hearse.”