Casket Case (26 page)

“Man! I am so glad to see you,” I gushed.

“Come on back to the consulting room.” Otis waved his arm to encompass all of us.

“I was headed over here when I got the message from dispatch to call you,” the sheriff said as we all sat around the conference table. He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket.

“You talk first, then,” I said. “Why were you headed over here?”

“The autopsy report on Dorcas Lucas doesn’t look like an accident. It’s the same thing I thought at the scene. There was too much blood, and the spatter patterns weren’t consistent with a fall, even down those steep steps. It appears to be BFT.”

“What’s that?” Otis said.

“Blunt force trauma. Someone beat her over the head with a weapon, perhaps even a two-by-four. They found wood splinters in her head wounds, and the injuries are the correct size and shape for a board that size.”

“Couldn’t that be from the wooden steps or banisters?” I asked.

“Nope, newer wood than the stairway.” He smiled. “But I have some good news for you, Callie. I spoke with your dad this morning. He’s picking up two tires and rims for your car. I’m releasing your Mustang, but we’ll need to keep the two front tires. You drove onto the blood at the foot of the steps. There’s no blood on the car except there, so you’ll get your car back, but we’re keeping the two front wheels. Your father is sending Bill and Mike to have the new tires installed and pick up your car. They should have it here before the end of the day.”

The sheriff grinned like he’d done something wonderful.

I exploded.

“How
dare
you call Daddy about my car? In case you haven’t noticed, I am an
adult
! Don’t tell me if the Mustang belonged to Otis, you would have called a parent to see about the tires,” I screeched.

“Couldn’t call my parents,” Otis muttered. “They’re both dead.”

“Shut up, Doofus,” Odell growled.

“Well, maybe what I mean is that if Otis owned the car, you wouldn’t have called Odell to take care of it. You’d call the owner and treat him like an adult, instead of treating me like a little girl!”

“I’m not quite sure I understood that first sentence,” the sheriff said. “I thought you’d be glad to get the car back, and after last night, I didn’t want to stress you more by making you deal with the tires.”

“Yeah,” Odell mumbled, “he was thinking about you, Callie. You might try being grateful instead of angry.”

“Yes,” Harmon mumbled. “I thought I’d make you happy. Even thought you were probably calling me to complain about the Mustang.”

“I called to tell you what Mrs. Counts said.”

“Who’s Mrs. Counts?”

“The cookie lady.” I paused. “I need to be excused. Otis and Odell both listened to her on speakerphone. Let them tell you about it.”

I went to the restroom and almost jumped out of my skin. The face staring at me was hideous. Even evil. At second glance, I realized I was looking at my own reflection in the mirror. A bump had risen on my forehead. The bruises on the rest of my face were changing from blackish blue to purple to hideous brownish yellow, with different spots in various stages. The discoloration around my eyes remained dark violet while the bags beneath them were black.

No way. No way did I want to see anyone or have anyone see me again looking like that. I slipped from the restroom to my workroom and began working the magic of mortuary makeup.

“Callie! Callie!” Sheriff Harmon’s voice sounded high and stressed.

“I’m in here,” I called.

Otis, Odell, and the sheriff piled into my workroom.

“You scared us,” Otis said. “We were afraid you’d run off.”

“Or someone had snatched you,” growled Odell.

Sheriff Harmon looked at me with a puzzled expression. “You changed yourself that much with makeup?”

“Not regular makeup from the drugstore. This is professional makeup we use here at work.”

“Amazing.” He shuffled back and forth on his feet for a moment. “Are you finished?”

“Not quite.”

“That is just unbelievable. I do want to talk to you some more, but perhaps Otis and Odell can round us up some more coffee while you complete what you’re doing. We’ll wait for you in Odell’s office.”

I rapidly smoothed out the cosmetics on my face. My reflection in the mirror was gratifying. I looked normal except for the slightly swollen knot on my forehead. Dealing with that on a corpse, I could have used a needle to draw out fluid and reduce the swelling. Instead, I contoured with concealers, both lighter and darker than my natural complexion, to trick the eye into not seeing the lump on my noggin.

When I returned to Odell’s office, I found the three men sitting around, drinking coffee and talking.

“Well?” I said.

“Have a seat.” Odell.

“You look great.” Otis.

“What are we going to do about George Carter?” Harmon asked.

“That’s your problem, not mine,” I said. “You’re always telling me to stay out of law enforcement business.”

“Indeed, but what are you going to do to stay safe while I’m taking care of department business? If Carter/Gunderson has pegged you as dangerous to him and broken into both your and Mrs. Counts’s homes, I don’t want you staying at your apartment alone until this is settled.”

“May I remind you that I am an adult, fully capable of defending myself, as I’ve proven in the past?” I revved up my sassiest tone.

“May I remind you that I can call your dad and all your brothers to back me on this?” The sheriff’s tone was every bit as ugly as mine.

“Whatcha gonna call me about?” Daddy stood at the door. Must have come in through the back because no hymn had announced his arrival.

“Callie wants to ignore that someone broke into her apartment last night,” Sheriff Harmon said. “This morning, we’ve been told that Pearl White’s boyfriend might be a serial killer and that the woman who fingered him has left town because her place was trashed last night, too.”

“George Carter?” The gasp came from Jane, who had stepped up behind Daddy with Frank.

“Yes,” the sheriff replied. “George Carter. On top of that, the woman who died at the foot of Jane’s steps didn’t fall, and probably wasn’t pushed. The autopsy indicates she was beaten to death with a weapon, maybe a two-by-four.”

Jane spluttered. “I knew that Lucas woman was bad news the minute she showed up at my place. She deserves everything she got.”

“Did
you
do it?” the sheriff asked her. “I admit, I’ve wondered if you shoved her down the stairs by accident or maybe even on purpose.”

“Now wait a minute,” Frank broke in. “Jane wouldn’t have done anything like that.”

“Oh, yeah?” the sheriff said. “You have no idea what Jane Baker is capable of. You don’t know her like I do.”

“I can guarantee I know her better than you do,” Frank argued.

“Perhaps in the biblical sense, but you’ve never read her arrest record, and I’ll bet you don’t even know what she does for a living,” Harmon spat back.

“Of course I do; she’s an evening telemarketer.” Frank.

“Drop it,” I said to both of them.

“And what product does she telemarket?” Harmon ignored me.

“I don’t know,” Frank mumbled before turning to Jane. “What do you sell?”

“Fantasy and magic,” Jane said, with her head hanging so that her chin rested on her chest. Then she straightened up. “I didn’t want you to learn about it this way, Frank, but I’m a conversationalist, a fantasy telephone actress.”

“What in the four-letter-word is that?” Daddy demanded.

“A 900 phone sex operator,” Jane said, loud and clear. “And nobody ever touches me or knows where I am. It’s the best money I ever made, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

I’d known Frank would react like that when he found out. I’d even cautioned Jane to tell him before he found out some other way. True enough, he’d heard it from Jane’s own lips, but not the way I meant.

Frank stormed out. Daddy handed me the Mustang keys, which I could identify by the SpongeBob SquarePants key ring, and followed Frank out the back door.

“Well, what good did that do?” I asked the sheriff.

Jane
cried.

Sheriff Harmon apologized because it wasn’t his place to force Jane into announcing her occupation. It wasn’t like being a “conversationalist” is against the law. He then took off, saying he was going to the bed and breakfast to talk to Pearl White and George Carter.

Otis and Odell got around to telling me what was scheduled for the day.

“Will we be preparing Ms. Lucas?” I asked. I’d never liked the woman, and though I’m never glad when anyone dies, I didn’t want to work on her.

“No, she’s going directly from MUSC to a local funeral home in her hometown, but we do have a job this afternoon.”

“What’s that? Is it a pickup?”

“Kind of,” Otis said.

Odell ignored us and asked Jane if she’d like to go out for lunch.

“No, thank you,” Jane said in her sweetest, though not Roxanne, voice. “If it’s all right, I want to stay here with Callie in case Frank comes back or calls.”

“Give him time to cool off,” Odell consoled. “If he really cares about you, he’ll be back regardless of what you’ve done in the past.”

“Well, it’s not exactly the past. I haven’t really quit the job,” Jane said. “I haven’t worked much lately because I’ve been with Frank, but I can go back if I need to. I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to quit. It’s easy and it pays well.”

“Something to think about,” Odell said. “I’m going for lunch. I’ll bring everyone back a sandwich because Otis and I need to get out of here early this afternoon. You ladies need to decide where to stay tonight. I know the sheriff, and I know Callie’s dad. The two of you won’t be sleeping in that apartment unless there’s someone there with you.”

When a person passes away, which I’ve always thought was a pleasant if unnecessary euphemism, the mortician doesn’t hang around waiting several hours to go fetch the body. The sooner the person is removed from the place of death, the better, whether death occurred at home, in a hospital or nursing home, or at the scene of an accident. Once the deceased is pronounced dead, we try to move the person as quickly as possible. What was this about a job for early afternoon?

It’s impossible to schedule a pickup ahead of time, too. Even if the person has been on a respirator and the decision is made to cut it off, sometimes death is immediate, but sometimes the person manages to hang on a lot longer than expected.

Jane settled in the chair in front of my desk with a bottle of water. She was still sniffling over Frank. I didn’t say, “I told you so.”

I brought the web page and online obituaries up to date. Wasn’t much to do except change some verbs. We leave the obits up for a week or so after burial, so I deleted future tense verbs, like “Mrs. So-and-So
will
be laid to rest” and converted them to past tense, like “Mrs. So-and-So
was
laid to rest,” and make all the other appropriate changes.

Otis stuck his head through the open doorway. “I’m going outside and put some tarps, cloths, and drapes into the oldest funeral coach. Call me if you need me.”

“Cloths and drapes?” Jane turned toward me. “You told me that you move corpses in body bags.”

“We usually do. Let me go ask him what’s going on.”

I followed Otis to the garage where the funeral coaches were parked, and asked, “What’s happening?”

“Remember I told you we’re doing an exhumation? Mrs. Whitaker finally got all of her paperwork in order. We’re going to disinter her grandmother at two this afternoon.”

“Are you taking the body directly to the perpetual care cemetery?”

“Now, Callie, we don’t call anyone a body, even if they have been buried for several years. The grandmother’s name is Mrs. Bristow.”

“Well, are you taking Mrs. Bristow straight to the new graveyard?”

“No, remember I told you that we will be recasketing her? Depending upon Mrs. Bristow’s condition, we may change her clothing also.”

“How long has Mrs. Bristow been dead?”

“A little over ten years.”

I didn’t say another word. Just turned and walked back into the huge, two-story white house that had become as comfortable to me as my kindergarten classroom had been in Columbia. My feelings could change if they put a ten-year-old corpse on the table in my workroom.

Recently deceased people are my job. I enjoy making them as attractive as possible for their loved ones. My mental pictures of a body ten years after burial were based on scary movies and the occasional horror book I’ve read when I didn’t have a good mystery available.

In Stephen King’s
Pet Sematary,
the little boy Gage’s face was covered with mold when his dad dug him up before he’d been buried a week. And the child had been embalmed, too. Ex-cuuze me. He’d been “prepared.”