Casket Case (28 page)

“Well?” said Otis when he’d cleaned off most of the mold.

“Well what?” I answered.

“Do you think Mrs. Whitaker should see this?”

“She has to,” Odell said. “This appears to be Mrs. Bristow, but unless Mrs. Whitaker identifies her, we can’t be positive that two women in lace-collared dresses weren’t buried beside each other and we got the wrong one. Either she identifies her grandmother or we open the other one and hope there’s a man inside. Both caskets were partially in Mrs. Bristow’s grave. We need positive identification.”

The deputy had come over. “You’re right,” he said. “You need to know for certain that you have the right casket when you leave. Could be a whole lot of legal hassle if you take an unauthorized body out of here.”

“If we have to break open that other casket, we’ll have to recasket or repair the lock. I think we should just bury the other coffin and take this one back with us,” Otis said and gestured toward the body we assumed was Mrs. Bristow.

“Didn’t you hear what the officer just said, Doofus?” Odell grimaced. “We either open both or see if Mrs. Whitaker can positively identify this one as her grandmother.”

“I’ll go get Mrs. Whitaker,” I said, but when I turned to head toward the Buick, Mrs. Whitaker was approaching the grave.

I put my hand out and touched her arm. “This isn’t pretty, Mrs. Whitaker,” I said. “There’s water damage, and of course, time changes appearances even after embalming.” I didn’t comment that the stains on Mrs. Bristow’s clothing and the lining of the casket could as easily be from body purge as from water and mud.

“None of that’s news to me. I just want Grandmama moved to Eternity Perpetual Care Gardens in Adam’s Creek. I’d want to do this even if there were nothing in that box but a pile of bones.”

“No, she hasn’t completely skeletonized,” I answered, remembering that a few of her fingers did have exposed bone.

“I want to see,” Mrs. Whitaker insisted.

Suited me. I’d been sent over to talk her into taking a look.

For all her talk of not feeling different even if nothing more was left than a pile of bones, Mrs. Whitaker fell apart at the casket.

She wailed; she moaned; she rocked back and forth. I patted her shoulders and back, helping stabilize her physically if not emotionally. We certainly didn’t want her to fall into the open grave. Otis offered tissues, and Mrs. Whitaker wiped away her tears.

When she appeared to be under control, Otis asked, “Can you positively identify Mrs. Bristow?”

“Oh, yes, that’s Grandmama. She’s shriveled up, but she still looks like herself.” She leaned over and looked closer. “I even remember those earrings.”

“You drove yourself here?” Otis asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you feel up to driving yourself home?”

“I thought I’d go back to the mortuary with you,” she said.

“No, we have the clothes you brought.” Otis was using that Mortuary 101 soothing voice he’s perfected. “I’d prefer that you wait and see Mrs. Bristow again after we’ve finished our preparation. Why don’t you plan to come by tomorrow morning? Perhaps around ten.”

Otis stepped up. “I think Callie should drive Mrs. Whitaker home, and we’ll have Jake pick Callie up there.”

Mrs. Whitaker’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, I don’t want Callie to drive me home. I’m okay to drive.”

Odell grimaced. “See, Mrs. Whitaker, I’m afraid that if we let you drive away from here after being so upset, we might be liable. Like a bartender who lets a customer drive home who’s had too much to drink.”

“You don’t understand,” Mrs. Whitaker said. “I’ve heard about Ms. Parrish’s accident. I know about your car burning. The rumor is that someone tried to run her off the road intentionally. I don’t want her driving my car.”

For the second time that day, I was speechless. Otis and Odell solved the problem by calling the deputy over. He thought Mrs. Whitaker was calm enough to drive and assured Otis and Odell that they weren’t legally obligated to keep her there.

I sat in the driver’s seat of the funeral coach and listened to the radio while the workers cleaned more mud off Mrs. Bristow’s casket. After Mrs. Whitaker drove away, they closed the lid and loaded the coffin onto the tarps in the back. I didn’t watch. I really wished I hadn’t come. I heard the thud of the back being closed.

Tap,
tap, tap.
Otis rapped on the window beside me. “Move over to the passenger side. I’ll drive.”

“Don’t we have to wait until that other casket is back in the ground and covered?”

“No, Odell will see to that. You and I need to get Mrs. Bristow to the mortuary and get started.”

I moved over to the passenger side of the seat and managed to stay silent until we were out of the cemetery.

“Otis,” I said, “I don’t understand. The rust and mud indicate that water has been in the coffin, but the body looks almost dried out.”

“Don’t say ‘body.’ Call her by her name. Mrs. Bristow.”

I’ve heard that so many times that I didn’t bother to give my usual explanation, which is “I forgot” or “I slipped.”

When Otis realized I wasn’t going to answer him, he continued, “Even unsealed caskets might stay waterproof for a while. Until then, the body might deteriorate to bone or become adipocere. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Yes, grave wax.”

“That’s the common name, or ‘mortuary wax.’ It’s actually the conversion of tissue, primarily fatty tissue, to a soaplike substance that could even be used as soap.”

I couldn’t help it. I shivered at the thought of bathing with the remains of a corpse.

“In Mrs. Bristow’s case,” Otis continued, “I doubt there’s much adipocere. I’d bet she was very slim, and that even her low end coffin stayed dry for a period of time. Mummification is an alternative to formation of adipocere, but really, there’s no way to predict exactly what might be found years after burial. The kind of embalming used plays a big part, too.”

Most of the time I have little to say when Otis begins one of his lectures about the mortuary business and related issues, but I had a comment this time.

“I’ve read that Abraham Lincoln’s coffin has been moved seventeen times and opened five times.”

“Yes, Callie, I read a lot about that as a young boy. When they opened his coffin in 1901, Lincoln was recognizable. His beard and the wart on his cheek were the same, but he had no eyebrows. His suit was covered with yellow mold, maybe even the same kind I removed from Mrs. Bristow. I read about it in one of my father’s books, but I’ll bet you could look it up on the Internet.”

“The thing is,” Otis said, “there’s ‘wet’ and ‘dry’ adipocere as well as mummification and just plain deterioration. Do you know who Lee Harvey Oswald was?”

“Yes, I went to school,” I smarted. “He was the accused assassin of President John F. Kennedy.”

“Well, he was exhumed for a new autopsy almost eighteen years after burial. The vault had cracked and the casket was filled with putrid water. That’s the most common finding. Groundwater seeps in and does its damage.”

I turned on the radio, and we rode silently. When we were almost back to the mortuary, Otis added to our delightful previous discussion.

“We really should go to the Mutter Museum. It’s in Philadelphia and has amazing medical exhibits, including ‘the Soap Lady.’ She’s the most famous example of adipocere, died during the yellow fever epidemic in the late 1800s. She was exhumed about eighty years later during redevelopment of the old graveyard.”

I didn’t know if Otis meant the Mutter Museum would be a good vacation or a mortuary field trip, but if the Middletons would pay, I’d be willing to see it.

Maybe.

Screams
woke me. Terrified, horrified screeches. I wouldn’t have known the sounds were coming from me if Jane and Frank hadn’t been shaking me and shouting, “Wake up, Callie! Wake up!”

I sat up in bed and shook my head back and forth, trying to clear away the images.

Otis had sent me home in the Mustang when we reached the mortuary. Told me he’d take care of Mrs. Bristow and made me take home the squirrels Dennis Sharpe had given me.

“Just go on and get some rest,” he’d said. “You haven’t had time to get over that car wreck. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Will we have to try to make up Mrs. Bristow?” I’d asked.

“No, just clean her up, change her clothes, and put her in a new gasket-sealed casket. I’ll take care of it. You go on home.”

I hadn’t exactly followed his instructions. Instead, I’d stopped by the used book store. Not that I need any more books at my place. The reason Jane was sleeping on the couch was because instead of a bed, I had boxes and boxes, as well as bookcases, filled with books in my second bedroom.

My conversation with Otis hadn’t made me seek out a book on grave wax and decay of the deceased. I’d just as soon not think about those things. Instead, I wanted to read more about Abraham Lincoln. My favorite books are mysteries, seconded by true crime and thrillers, but our talk had pulled up memories about some eerie events concerning President Lincoln.

I bought a few paperbacks—a life of Lincoln as well as a book about strange events surrounding and following his assassination.

Jane wasn’t at the apartment. I considered driving to Daddy’s, but I was tired, so I lay down to read until Jane came home. She’d said she would cook dinner.

Abe Lincoln’s log cabin and walking to school didn’t intrigue me, but the other book did. I read about strange events like some towns supposedly hearing that Lincoln had been assassinated
before
he even went to the theater that night. I read about the recurring incidence of mental breakdowns of those associated with Lincoln and his assassin. Then I read about the eerie hauntings and ghost stories.

I, Calamine Lotion Parrish, do
not
believe in ghosts. I believe that the soul or whatever someone wants to call the part of a person that makes him or her unique leaves the body at the time of death. I enjoy working to make the remaining shell an attractive memory for those who loved the deceased. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, if ghosts were real, there’d be no room for patients in hospitals nor for funerals at mortuaries.

That’s what I was thinking when I drifted off to sleep. What I was dreaming when I awoke was that Lincoln’s ghost was in the room with me. He looked pretty much like he did in my history books in school except that he was growing some mold on his face and part of his hair was missing. He wanted to sit on the side of the bed and talk to me. In my semiconscious state, I was wondering what makeup and tools I would need to restore his looks. When Lincoln’s features turned into Mrs. Bristow’s face, I screamed.

“Wake up, Callie,” Jane repeated. “You must be having a bad dream.”

I opened my eyes. “I had a nightmare,” I said.

“No kidding,” said Frank. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Coke,” I said. “Coke with ice.”

While Frank went to the kitchen, I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I washed my face. Looking in the mirror, I realized that the makeup wouldn’t come off without remover. Thank heaven I had some in the medicine cabinet. I sponged it on and gently revealed the true state of my skin underneath. In addition to the bruises, there was now a red rash on my face. Probably an indication that the makeup might be hiding what I looked like, but it wasn’t speeding up the healing process, and I might even be allergic to it. I cleaned my face and left my skin bare.

A knock on the bathroom door.

“I’m okay, Jane,” I said.

“It’s not Jane; it’s me,” said Frank.

I opened the door and he handed me the glass of Coca-Cola. The expression on his face was enough to convince me that I now
looked
like a nightmare.