Hey Diddle Diddle, the Corpse and the Fiddle, page 13
part #2 of A Callie Parrish Mystery Series
"Guess there's no point in trying to cook," Rizzie said. Andy offered to help her load the cooker and coolers onto the truck.
I didn't volunteer my services. I took Big Boy's leash and headed toward the bridge, hoping Sheriff Harmon would be there.
Two for the price of one. Well, I guess three for the price of one. Daddy and John were standing with Sheriff Harmon at the island side of the bridge.
"Did you arrest anyone?" I asked the sheriff.
"Not yet, but I have some leads. I think Happy Jack
Wilburn was going to stroke out if I kept Surcie Island closed off any longer, and I doubt it makes that much difference anyway."
"What kind of leads?" I said.
"Now, Callie, you know I can't tell you those facts," Sheriff Harmon answered.
"Then maybe I won't give you what we found that might be Jane's," I retorted.
"We've already played that game with Jane's stick," Harmon said. "Where did you put it?"
Ex-cuuze me. I'd forgotten the cane in the cab of Rizzie's truck.
"I'm not talking about that. I have something else now," I replied.
Daddy put his arm around my shoulder. "Calamine," he said, "stop fooling around and give Wayne any evidence you have. He's the sheriff and he's trying to find Jane as well as solve two murder cases. This isn't the time to act like a little girl."
"No," John added. "Stop playing games."
My feelings were hurt. It didn't seem fair for all three of them to gang up on me, but perhaps I was being foolish. I reached in my pocket, pulled out the earring, and handed it to Sheriff Harmon.
"Jane was wearing jewelry like this," I said.
"Do you know for sure this one's hers?" The sheriff took the earring and rolled it around in the palm of his hand.
"Not really."
"Where'd you find it?"
"Pulley Bone Jones found it on the road from Rizzie Profit's house on the other side of the island," I said.
"What about the stick?" the sheriff asked.
"I forgot and left it in Rizzie's truck. She's in the concession area loading up her cooking equipment."
"Okay, I'll go over there and get it. Let me know if you find anything else or think of something that might help." Harmon had on his cop voice. I knew I wouldn't get any info from him. I watched him walk toward the campground.
"What about the festival?" I asked Daddy.
"It's over. Jack Wilburn's going to refund tickets or trade them for a bigger festival in the fall. Happy Jack isn't very happy at the moment."
"Neither is Fred Delgado nor Kenny Strickland," I quipped without thinking.
"Calamine!" Daddy scolded.
"Meanwhile, I left my laptop at the house with Mike and Frank," John said. "They're trying to create a 'Missing' flyer for Jane. Since you can leave now, the poster might look better if you take over that job."
"Where's Bill?" I asked. My five brothers, in order by age, are John, Bill, Mike, Jim, and Frank. Jim's in the Middle East on a U.S. Navy ship. John lives in Atlanta with his wife, Miriam, and their kids. He'd brought me the Winnebago for the festival and planned to spend the weekend with Daddy and the brothers, then drive the motor home back to Georgia. I worried that John would want to keep my Mustang until he got his camper back.
Mike and Frank were living with Daddy because they were both between marriages and girlfriends. Bill moved in and out of the house depending on how he and Molly were getting along. Sometimes he slept at home, sometimes at her place. The last I'd heard, he was back with Molly.
"No telling where Bill is," John said.
"He and Molly must be doing all right then," I commented.
"Who knows? He--" Daddy said gruffly.
"Callie," John interrupted, "where are your things? Let's get off the island before Wayne changes his mind."
"My clothes and belongings--or 'things,' as you call them--are still in your Winnebago. Sheriff Harmon wouldn't let Jane and me back in there after we found Kenny's body."
John waved toward my vintage Mustang parked by the road. "Pile in, then, and let's go."
Daddy and John took the front seats, and I sat in the back with Big Boy. I can't explain how good it felt to leave that island, though it's beautiful, nor how bad it felt not to have Jane by my side.
I insisted that we go by my apartment so I could shower and change clothes even though my place isn't on the way from Surcie Island to Daddy's house. I'd washed myself in Broken Fence's bus, but I was still wearing Arnie's shirt and shorts. The shower felt wonderful. I used lavenderscented body wash and rose-scented shampoo, then lathered on rich, thick honeysuckle skin lotion. I blew my hair dry and used heather-scented spray on it. By the time I walked out of the bathroom wearing khaki shorts and a floral-printed tee, I smelled like the bouquet on my shirt.
Expecting to see only Daddy and John, I was surprised to see Mike and Frank sitting on the couch. Frank jumped up and handed me a piece of paper.
"Check this out, Callie," he said. It was a flyer for Jane, giving information about her disappearance and the sheriff 's phone number. Even had her photo on it.
"Where'd you get the picture?" I asked.
"Oh, I scanned one that I had," Frank answered with a self-conscious smile that confirmed my occasional suspicion that he had a crush on Jane.
"How'd you get here?" I asked my brothers.
"John called and told us to bring the computer stuff over. Said no telling how long it might take you to get yourself back together," Mike answered. "We think the quickest way to do this is to have copies made at FedEx Kinko's in Beaufort, then split up to post them everywhere. I brought tacks, tape, and a couple of hammers."
Daddy, John, Big Boy, and I rode in my car to Beaufort. I have a special harness-type seat belt for Big Boy. Mike and Frank followed in Mike's pickup. When the copies were ready, we divided them between the vehicles and assigned areas to post them. Daddy, John, and I headed toward the sea islands near Surcie while Mike and Frank would put signs up along the way from Beaufort to St. Mary and in town.
We put the ragtop down, and Big Boy looked like a spotted Scooby-Doo sitting tall in the back. I probably resembled Shaggy. We stopped every mile or so and nailed a poster to a telephone pole. We went into stores and asked permission to tape the flyers in their windows. I was watching out for places to post the notices, not paying much attention to where John drove.
I looked up as we bounced across a bridge. "Are we going to Flower Island?"
"Yes, let's plaster them everywhere. Maybe Jane did make it across the inlet during low tide, and one of the construction workers might have seen her," John said.
"Not much of a bridge," I commented.
"Oh, the rich folks who buy the condos will see to it that the bridge is replaced," Daddy said. "Lots of power in money."
The sun had set and the moon was high in the sky by the time we'd finished hanging flyers and asking people if they'd seen the girl in the picture. John offered to buy Daddy and me dinner, but I just wanted to go home. He called Frank and Mike on Mike's cell phone, and they eagerly accepted John's offer to feed them. I dropped Daddy and John off at Hooters to meet them.
When Big Boy and I got home, he was eager to be walked, but I was exhausted. I turned my back so he could do his business, then took him in, fed him, and flopped across my bed without even changing clothes. I thought I'd be too upset about Jane to sleep, but when the sound of Big Boy snoring right by my ear woke me, it was two o'clock in the morning. I hadn't even checked my answering machine when I got home. Hoping the flashing light I saw on it now signaled good news, I pushed the "Play" button.
"Callie," said Otis. "I hate to ask you this, but will you please come in tomorrow morning? I really need you."
I wondered how he knew I was off Surcie Island and back home, but in a town the size of St. Mary, news travels fast.
I wished it was good news more often.
Chapter Eighteen
Time is relevant. Five minutes waiting for something
good is definitely longer than five minutes waiting for something unpleasant. As I pulled the Mustang into the mortuary's parking lot Sunday morning, it seemed I'd been gone for ages, though only two days had passed since Jane and I went to the festival. I understand that certain illegal substances can have the same effect, making time stretch beyond reality. No, I'm not talking from experience, and I'm not claiming to have read about it. Jane told me.
The thought of Jane brought a fresh flood of tears. Still no word from her or about her. Her kidnapping couldn't have been for ransom. Neither of us had any money, and her only relative was her father. The good Lord only knows where he is. He abandoned Jane and her mother when he learned his baby girl was blind. Both my heart and my head told me that Jane's disappearance was connected to the two murders on Surcie Island. But how?
When I wheeled around to my designated parking place in the back, I noticed a Gates Electric Company van parked beside a large delivery truck backed up to the loading dock. Otis stepped out of the building just as I closed my car door.
"Hey, Callie," he called. "Any news about Jane?"
"Not a word," I said.
"I appreciate your coming in for Mrs. Martin. Hated to call you, but I really need you for this. She's ready for you in your workroom." Otis motioned for the driver to back the truck closer to the loading dock.
"Any special instructions?" I asked. Sometimes folks specify things, like what color nail polish they want me to use. Though I'm like a girl Friday at Middleton's, my official responsibility is to create beautiful memories of our clients' loved ones, and Otis calling me showed he recognized how well I do my work.
"No," Otis called back. He held up his hand for the truck to halt, then added, "She's the worst case of jaundice I've ever seen. There's a picture on the counter for you to see how the family wants her hair."
The truck driver opened the rear of the truck and began strapping a large casket-sized rectangular crate onto an industrial dolly.
"This way," Otis told him when he finished. The driver pushed the dolly behind Otis straight to the prep room. I was right behind them.
I thought Mrs. Martin's family must have ordered a custom coffin, especially since it was being delivered on Sunday morning. Otherwise, Otis would have led the deliveryman to the casket display area, but that didn't make sense. Even if it were for Mrs. Martin, my workroom is where a body is usually casketed.
While I was gone, someone had removed one of the two embalming tables from the prep room. Then I got it. The crate didn't hold a casket. Otis and Odell were replacing one of the tables. Clyde Gates, the electrician, stood in the corner. He looked at me and winked. What's with all this winking?
"Do we have a new prep table?" I asked Otis.
Busy helping the truck driver place the crate where the missing table had been, Otis ignored me.
"Not quite," Clyde said.
"We don't ever embalm two at a time anyway," Otis said when he and the driver had the box off the dolly. They began opening it.
"Then what is it?"
Otis swept his hand across his hair implants, which always make me think of sprouts. He looked down and meticulously picked a piece of lint from his expensive black suit.
"Something I've wanted for a long time," he said. "I don't have room for it in my apartment, and I decided it made more sense to put it here."
If it waddles like a duck, looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's probably a duck. This crate wasn't walking or talking, but it sure looked casket-sized and casketshaped. I just couldn't picture Otis wanting even the most elegant or unique coffin at his apartment. What would he do with it? Put a piece of glass on top and use it as an oversized coffee table?
When the box was uncrated, it looked like a slightly flattened casket covered in heavy opaque plastic with a nine-by-twelve-inch beige-colored envelope taped to it. Clyde pulled off the envelope, opened it, and removed a stack of papers. "Yeah," he said as he read. "I see exactly what we need. Won't be hard to hook it up. I'll bring in the supplies and get started." He grinned as he left. "Sure you don't mind paying overtime for this, Otis?"
"Not at all. I'm eager to try it out. I promised you overtime when I called you as soon as I knew it would be here today."
Otis signed the delivery papers and removed the plastic. I realized what they'd uncrated about the time Odell entered the room.
"What's that?" he boomed.
Odell and Otis are identical twins who decided years ago that Otis would always wear black suits and Odell would wear navy blue so that people could tell them apart. It's no longer necessary since Otis got hair implants and Odell shaved his head. Odell is also addicted to barbecue-- any kind. Chicken, beef, or pork. Pulled or chopped. Red sauce, mustard sauce, or vinegar and pepper. The difference in his and his vegetarian twin's diets has resulted in forty pounds of bulk, but they stick to their designated colors.
I, by the way, am not allowed to wear navy blue or slacks or skirts on the job. I wear black dresses with stockings and plain black leather pumps, which is what the twins' mother wore when she worked at the funeral home.
"Is this some new piece of embalming equipment? You didn't ask me about buying anything," Odell said as he lifted the lid. "Do you put the body inside? What does it do?"
I tried, I promise I tried, but I couldn't help teasing. "It changes the color of the skin," I said to Odell. Clyde, at the door, guffawed.
Odell scratched his bald head. "I saw Mrs. Martin on Callie's table, and she's mighty yellow, but I don't think you oughta go making big purchases without discussing them with me, Otis."
Clyde and I howled with laughter.
"After all," Odell continued, "we've dealt with more severe discoloration before, and I'm sure Callie can cover Mrs. Martin's yellow with airbrushing if makeup won't do the job."
Otis's words were so low that I barely heard them. "It's a tanning bed."
"A what?" Odell bellowed. "What the . . ." Odell said a word I didn't use even before I took up kindergarten cussing. "Why the [another bad word] would we want to tan a corpse?"
"It's not for bodies. It's for me," Otis murmered.
"Then why is it here?" Odell's voice lowered a few decibels.
"I don't have room for it in my apartment, and I decided it would be better here anyway. It'll be good for business because I won't have to take off to go to Bronze Bods. I can just fit tanning into my workday." A hopeful expression crossed his face. "You and Callie might even want to use it."
Buh-leeve me. I knew it was time to get out of there. "I'm going to set Mrs. Martin's hair," I said and left before anyone had time to reply.
In my workroom, I put on my smock and gloves, then lifted the sheet that covered Mrs. Martin up to her chin. As usual, Otis had put panties and a bra on the lady. I view our work like a medical task and wouldn't be offended by a nude body, but Otis and Odell are very respectful of corpses and of me. When embalming is completed, bodies are washed and dressed in underwear before being moved to my space for cosmetizing.
Nope, that's not a mistake. It's the word for what I do. Like I said, I earned my South Carolina cosmetology license in high school vocational ed, and that qualifies me to do hair, makeup, manicures, and pedicures in mortuaries.
The longer I'm in this business, the more aware I become of the special language of funeral homes. I call it Funeralese. In that special mortuary language, I'm a cosmetitian who cosmetizes. Dead people aren't corpses, cadavers, nor bodies. They're called by their proper names, and they are prepped, not embalmed. Don't misunderstand; they actually are embalmed. We just don't call it that.
Anyway, back to Mrs. Martin. Definitely yellow. Not a subdued Dijon shade. She was bright. Almost like French's mustard that goes on hot dogs. Not gourmet hot dogs either. Cheap ones with red frankfurters. Jane loves those hot dogs, especially with extra onions.
My stomach clenched, and I trembled. Where was Jane? Was she alive? Was she being mistreated? I reached up to wipe away tears with my gloved hand but the latex just smeared the wetness on my face. I grabbed a handful of tissues from the supply table, sat on a stool, and fought to keep myself together. Where was Jane? What was happening to her? The thoughts repeated themselves. I'm always reading mysteries, and my mind couldn't deal with all the horrible things I'd read about kidnappers doing to their prey.
When I finally regained control, I sprayed a diluted setting gel on Mrs. Martin's hair and curled it with big brush rollers. Some cosmetitians would have airbrushed a flesh tone only on her hands, face, and neck, but I covered every speck of skin that wasn't beneath her bra and panties. In the photo, she'd appeared pale. When I was done, she had a light, creamy complexion without a hint of yellow.
