Casket Case

by Fran Rizer

  By the time Otis had the silver urn of coffee made, Mrs. Counts and I had the tables spread with gorgeous trays of cookies, immaculately arranged in concentric circles. Otis looked over everything approvingly and set up the silver punch bowl set. Mrs. Counts filled it with a beverage just slightly darker green than the pale cloths.

  Odell arrived just as we finished putting the empty boxes out of the way in the kitchen area. He smiled at the display of food and reached for a cookie. “Oh, no,” Mrs. Counts said, “not until one o’clock.” I took Odell into the kitchen and snitched a cookie for him from a backup box that was there.

  Roselle Dawkins showed up just before one o’clock with a whole gaggle of relatives from Georgia. Funerals in their part of Georgia must still be formal occasions. All the men wore suits, and the women were in brown, navy, and black. Roselle wore a simple black crepe dress that reached her ankles. A black hat with a veil, black gloves, black stockings, and black patent leather shoes completed her ensemble. Only the white tissues clutched in her hand varied from her black monochrome. I’d bet that if the Kmart sold black Kleenex, Roselle would have been carrying them.

  The salon was packed. Daddy, Jane, and The Boys were already wandering around speaking to folks. Almost everyone had known Dr. Melvin. He’d filled their prescriptions and recommended over-the-counter remedies for those who couldn’t afford doctors, for many years.

  Levi Pinckney was circulating, too. I noticed that Tattoo Girl seemed to stay close to him, moving wherever he was. George Carter stood beside Pearl White. She had changed the tennis balls on her walker to pink and wore a bright hot pink sundress that didn’t do a whole lot for her upper arms. Pearl wasn’t overweight, but buh-leeve me, time and gravity have their effect on even the slimmest old arms.

  Mrs. Counts and I kept busy replacing almost empty trays with freshly filled ones from the kitchen. Good grief! I wanted two o’clock to hurry and arrive so the people would go into the chapel before they ate all the cookies. Standing by Mrs. Counts, I asked her, “Have you heard about the Southern Belle Baking Contest? You should enter some of your cookie recipes.”

  “Afraid I can’t do that,” she said. “I didn’t create my cookies. I gathered the best recipes I could find and adjusted them to my taste. I think that contest is for original items.” I didn’t see why she couldn’t enter them if she’d changed some ingredients, but I kept my mouth shut. For a change.

  Finally, at two o’clock, Otis and Odell ushered Roselle and her family, along with Melvin’s cousin, Pearl, and her fiancé, George, into the chapel. The others would follow them before Otis or Odell closed and locked the casket. Then the morticians would roll the bier into the chapel for the service.

  “Who’s that?” asked Mrs. Counts and motioned toward the family at the front of the crowd moving toward the chapel.

  “The young red-haired woman with the black veil is the widow. I don’t know a lot of the people with her. They’re her relatives from Georgia.”

  “No, I mean the older lady with the walker. The one wearing the pink dress.”

  “That’s Pearl White. The man with her is George Carter.”

  “I’ve never heard of a George Carter, but I’ve seen that man before.”

  Since no food would be served after the funeral service, I began bringing boxes from the kitchen to help Mrs. Counts pack up. Sure enough, she filled a box with assorted cookies for me to take home, then stuck on a gummed seal that had her company’s name, address, and phone number on it. I was putting the box on my desk when I heard Mrs. Counts demand, “Aren’t you going to speak to me, Sean?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” George Carter’s voice was irate, but an angry whisper, not so loud as Mrs. Counts’s had been. The talking was coming from the hall outside the public restrooms. I could hear singing in the chapel.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know me. Listen, bub, your name is Sean, and you know it.” She reached up, grabbed his lapel, and tugged his head down to her level. He pulled from her, but she held on, clutching his coat.

  “Or at least, that’s one of the names you go by,” she scolded.

  George Carter snatched his lapel from her grip and went back into the chapel, peeking over his shoulder to see if the tiny woman was following him.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “I could be wrong, but I doubt it. Last Christmas, I went to a family reunion in Summerville. My aunt Edna, who’s in her seventies, was there with her new boyfriend. She introduced him as Sean somebody. Her kids were at their wits’ end because she planned to marry him.”

  My eyes bugged and my heart fell to the pit of my stomach. “Tell me more,” I said.

  “Her daughter told me Edna met this man on the Internet and invited him to her house. It’s a gorgeous place with a swimming pool, and her husband had left her a bundle of money. The first thing Sean told Edna was that she needed a privacy fence around that pool. Her son was afraid Sean planned to marry her and drown her like it was an accident.”

  “Did she marry him?”

  “No, before New Year’s Day, he was out of the picture, and nobody’s mentioned him since then. But that man with the woman with the walker is the person I met in Summerville a year ago as Sean.”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “No, but I’ll call one of Edna’s children. They’ll probably remember.”

  Mrs. Counts gave me a little shoulder hug. “Thanks for your help. I’ll call here when I find out Sean’s last name.”

  “Thank you for the cookies, and I’ll recommend you for refreshments.”

  The little woman walked away, and I wondered if her memory was half as good as her cookies.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  The graveside service ended with the immediate family shaking dirt on the casket from a silver shaker that looked like a great big fancy saltshaker. Personally, I prefer when the bereaved simply pick up a clod of earth and drop it on the casket, but Otis pushes people to use the shaker. He ordered it from a funeral catalog.

  Other than that silver shaker, the service had been simple. Dr. Melvin’s instructions had been followed, and they’d been very suitable for someone as beloved as he had been.

  I’d ridden to the cemetery with Frank and Jane and told them that I had a date and would be home whenever I got there. During the brief service, I’d also noticed that Tattoo Girl, or Denise to be more polite, hadn’t come to the cemetery.

  Levi spoke to Roselle, then headed toward me.

  “Are you ready?” Levi asked when he reached me.

  “Just a minute,” I said. “I want to speak to Roselle.” I joined the line and moved slowly toward the widow. Levi stood beside me.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said when we stood in front of Dr. Melvin’s wife-turned-widow. I still wondered about his death. The sheriff hadn’t shared any more information about the autopsy and toxicology reports.

  “Thank you,” Roselle said. “I’m sorry if I was rude to you that night. I was really upset. I was so happy with Mel. I can’t imagine my life without him now.” She was shaking. “I’m so upset. My heart’s just pounding.” She looked at Levi. “Are you coming back to the house tonight?”

  “Not unless you need me,” Levi said, and I found myself hoping she wouldn’t say she needed him.

  “No, Mama and everyone else are planning to stay until tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

  In only a few moments, we were driving away from the cemetery in Levi’s Cruiser. “You look really good to have been in that wreck,” he said, as he pulled out onto the highway.

  “It’s makeup,” I said. “You don’t want to see me without it.”

  “Oh, I bet I’d love to see you with no makeup and your hair all loose and wild.”

  I shuddered at the thought. “Why?”

  “Because it would mean we’d given in to the chemistry I feel between us.�
��

  Not knowing how to respond to that, I asked, “May I?” and reached out to the radio controls. He nodded yes, and I pushed the power button. The radio was set on the jazz station—nice, easy instrumentals. I leaned back and rested for a few minutes. Then I remembered.

  “Dalmation!” I said.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Kindergarten cussing. I used to teach five-year-olds.”

  “What’s got you using profanity, even if it is a dog, not an earthen barrier or a mother horse.”

  “Mother horse?”

  “Also called a dam; a father horse is called a sire.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have horses. They’re stabled in Aiken where my dad and I used to play polo.”

  Yeah, like I believe a deliveryman for a small-town sub shop stables his polo ponies in Aiken!

  “What’s got me kindergarten-cussing?” I said. “Mrs. Counts gave me a tray of cookies. I left them in my brother’s Jeep when we rode to the cemetery, and I’ll bet he and Jane eat them all before I get home.”

  “Are you saying that you want to go home for cookies instead of going out to dinner with me?” His tone was serious, but his face smiled.

  “No, I’m just hoping they don’t eat them all. Did you try them? The ones rolled in confectioners’ sugar were the best cookies I’ve ever had.”

  “I didn’t taste them because Roselle’s husband left a ton of baked goods in their kitchen. I don’t think I want any more homemade cookies, cakes, pies, or bread for a long time. She said he was trying to develop a recipe for a contest.”

  “Yes, the Southern Belle Baking Contest.”

  “Well, he’d baked a lot of good things, but Roselle has no idea what he did with his recipes.”

  My antennae went up. Could someone have killed Dr. Melvin for a recipe? I didn’t think so.

  “Do you have anything special you’d like to eat?” Levi asked.

  “Not really.”

  “I’ve found this little place that has great food. It’s fairly new and they specialize in Gullah dishes. Do you like Gullah food?”

  “Sure do,” I answered, thinking I knew where we were headed.

  Before long, Levi pulled into the parking lot at Rizzie’s Gastric Gullah. He walked around to open the door for me. “The lady who runs this place is totally amazing,” he said.

  “I know,” I answered.

  “You mean you’ve been here before?”

  “Rizzie Profit is a friend of mine.”

  “Good. I called her on my cell from the cemetery to be sure she’s open, and she’s promised a special meal.”

  The screened door slapped closed behind us as Rizzie called out a Gullah greeting. Suddenly, she stopped the Gullah and said, “I can’t believe it. Levi said he’d met someone extraordinary and wanted a special meal. I never dreamed it was you, Callie.”

  “You don’t think I’m worth a special meal?” I snapped. Ex-cuuze me. I knew I was being rude, but I felt tired and irritable.

  “Of course you’re special,” Rizzie said as she led Levi and me to a corner table. She patted my hand. People always do that when they think you’ve been hurt or insulted. Like that’s going to make you feel better.

  “I heard about your accident,” Rizzie continued.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I snapped. “It was intentional. Someone stole a Tahoe and tried to run me off the road and hit me three or four times. The car exploded, but I was already in the ambulance when that happened.”

  Why was I sounding so nasty? “I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come out today. I’m still feeling out of sorts, and I’m sore.”

  “Oh, no,” Rizzie protested. “I understand you don’t feel well, but I’ve cooked shrimp gumbo for you with the biggest, tastiest shrimps you’ve ever seen and tiny little fresh okra.”

  Still feeling foul, I said, “You didn’t cook it for me. You didn’t know I was who Levi was bringing.”

  “Maybe a beer or glass of wine will make you feel better,” Levi suggested.

  “Can’t drink alcohol with my pain medicine.” I picked up my purse. “This really isn’t a good idea. Please let me take a rain check. We’ll eat here another time.” I stood. “Pardon me. I’m going to the powder room.”

  Rizzie followed me. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

  “I feel awful and I really like this guy and I’m making a fool of myself,” I said, and then tears flooded my face. I hate, absolutely hate to cry in front of anyone, even a friend like Rizzie.

  “Stop that,” Rizzie said. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

  “No way,” I said. “Without remover to dissolve it, I couldn’t get this stuff off with a trowel.”

  “Well, you’re going to make your eyes all red and puffy. Levi was so happy when he called and said he was bringing someone special in for an early dinner. Why are you acting this way?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” I started to cry again, but Rizzie patted my face dry with a paper towel.

  When we went back to the dining room, Levi looked like I’d slapped him. “If you really want to go, I’ll take you home,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s just been a rough few days. We should eat before we go. Rizzie’s a fantastic cook.”

  “I know. I’ve been eating here since I moved to St. Mary.”

  Rizzie brought steaming bowls of rice and gumbo to the table. She set them in front of us and said, “I’m surprised the two of you didn’t meet in here. You’re both among my best customers.”

  She went back to the kitchen and returned with a basket of hot corn bread, a beer for Levi, and a Coke on ice for me.

  “Enjoy!” she said and moved on to another table of customers.

  “I love this food,” Levi said, spooning gumbo from his bowl.

  “Have you ever eaten Rizzie’s tomato pie?”

  “No, I haven’t had that.”

  “Get her to make it for you. It’s delicious. Fresh tomatoes, onion, and seasonings in a pie shell. She tops it with a cheese crust that’s wonderful. Rizzie’s is a little different from other people’s tomato pie because she adds tarragon.”

  By the time we’d both finished our gumbo, I felt better. Perhaps part of my irritability had been because I’d skipped breakfast and had eaten only a few cookies since yesterday.

  Levi paid the bill and escorted me to the PT Cruiser. I almost said “car,” but those things just don’t look like cars to me. Once again, he held doors for me and treated me like a lady. Now, I’m as modern as most southern women, and I expect to earn the same pay as a man for the same work, and I go by Ms., not Miss or Mrs., but gee whiz, I do like for men to treat me special.

  “Do you feel like driving to a movie or club in Beaufort?” Levi asked.

  “Not really.” Then I thought about how I’d been behaving. There are lots of kinds of rejection, and surely I’d hurt his feelings too much already. “I’d invite you back to my place to watch television or listen to music, but I’ve got company. They’d ask you a thousand questions and want to play some loud game. Could we just ride around a little?”

  Levi grinned, and those dark eyes sparkled. He’d taken off his suit jacket, and his biceps showed through the sleeves of his white shirt. He obviously worked out, but he wasn’t ropey muscle-bound.

  “How about we ride to the beach and watch the ocean? That could be relaxing.”

  “Sounds good,” I answered. On the ride, I remembered my younger years. When I was in college in Columbia, we used to ride up to big ole Lake Murray to “watch the submarine races.” Another euphemism—this time for grubbing or, as my brothers said, making out. Cool down, Callie, I thought.

  Levi headed toward Hunting Island, and I expected to stop there. He didn’t turn in, though, and continued to Fripp Island.

  “We can’t go here,” I said. “Fripp is private. You have to have a membership to go on the island.”

  “I
know.”

  Levi pulled up to the gate guard and showed him a card. We drove through the beautiful entrance onto the divided road that runs from one side of the island to the other. On our left, an alligator lay on the bank of a small pond. A little farther down, two deer stood on the bicycle path. We passed large, elegant homes. At the end of the pavement, we reached the golf club and private restaurants.

  Fripp Island is the home and vacation spot for people far more wealthy than my family. I’d been there before on a field trip when I was in high school, but my family and Fripp Islanders weren’t in the same social league. The houses aren’t McMansions. They’re real mansions. The island is home for alligators in their own pools and free-roaming deer, along with birds and other animals that are protected by the rules of the island. As a matter of fact, Fripp Island is a sanctuary—everything protected—except me.

  Having chosen celibacy over sex for sport, I’d stopped my birth control over a year ago. What’s wrong with me? Why am I thinking about this? We’re here to look at the ocean, not to seduce each other. I’ve never boinked anybody on a first date. Well, I guess this is a second date if I count the time he stood me up.

  One end of Fripp Island is bordered by large rock formations, while on the other end, the beaches are wide and sandy. Levi drove to an elegant house straight out of Southern Living. He parked in the driveway facing the ocean. “Would you like to sit here in the car or go around to the back of the house and sit on the deck?” he asked.

  “Outside sounds nice, but will we be trespassing?” I answered his question with one of my own.

  “We won’t be trespassing.”

  “Do you know the folks who own this place?”

  “My dad owned it, so now it’s mine. This is where I’m living since I came down from Charleston.”

  “Then let’s sit on the patio.”

  We sat on deck chairs. Levi’s home was oceanfront but built far enough back that even at high tide, there was a lot of landscaped yard before the sand began. I watched the waves lap against the manicured lawn between the house and the ocean. Sea oats and other coastal plants accented the walk down to the beach.