by Fran Rizer
"May I help you?" I asked.
"I hope so," she said as she stood and offered me her hand for a strong handshake, very firm for such a tiny woman. She was at least three or four inches shorter than I, which put her under five feet. "I’m Grace Joyner. I spoke with a gentleman about my husband, Harold. He died this morning in the Beaufort hospital, and Middleton’s was supposed to pick him up. The man told me to call for an appointment, but I came on over. I don’t want there to be any mix-ups. You haven’t started embalming him, have you? I don’t want Harry embalmed."
"Actually, no one is ever embalmed until the next of kin has signed a permission form," I said. "I can assure you that the gentleman you spoke with, Odell Middleton, who is one of the owners and my boss, told me that Mr. Joyner is not to be embalmed. One of our drivers is bringing your husband from the hospital now."
"I’d like to finalize the plans. I want everything green."
Immediately, my mind flashed to an emerald colored casket lined with shiny lime satin. The lady probably didn’t want that at all. If she wanted green, she’d most likely choose a muted olive exterior with a soft sea breeze interior. Mentally, I flipped through our catalogs. I couldn’t remember ever seeing green caskets. Of course, nowadays, coffins can be custom-made.
A red flag popped up in my thoughts. Mrs. Joyner didn’t want her husband embalmed. Probably read too many books about it or watched a video on YouTube. I went to one of those websites last year, but I didn’t watch it all the way through. I don’t hang out to see Otis or Odell prep bodies either. "Prep" is funeral jargon for "embalm." I work in a mortuary, but my job is to beautify decedents to create beautiful memories for their loved ones.
"Actually, Mrs. Joyner," I said, "arrangements are usually made with one of the Middletons, Otis or Odell. Otis is out sick, but Odell should be back before too late. I could set an appointment for you in a few hours."
She frowned. "I just want to be sure that you don’t jump the gun and do anything I don’t want. I’ve driven over here because I want to set everything up, and now you can’t do it?" Her tone was more authoritative than disappointed.
"Mrs. Joyner, you and I can discuss the services. The only thing I can’t do is name prices. I’ll have one of the Middletons call you with a quote."
"That’s fine."
I didn’t bother to tell her she’d have to come back for payment arrangements before any services were rendered.
"Follow me, please." I led her to a consultation room. "Would you like something to drink?" I asked.
"Yes, herbal tea would be nice. Do you have that?"
"Yes, ma’am. Please excuse me for a few minutes." I went to the kitchen and prepared a tray—a silver tea service with real Wedgwood cups and saucers. Otis insists that coffee or tea be served as his mother did years ago. In the back, we drink from mugs, but they’re never seen up front.
When I arrived up front with the tray, we doctored our tea. I took cream and sugar. With the silver tongs, Mrs. Joyner daintily added a slice of lemon to her cup.
I’d sat in with Otis and Odell many times, but this was my first time actually in charge of a planning. This "green" obsession and the woman’s attitude made me nervous, but I felt confident I could do it if I just remembered the steps the Middletons used.
An entire set of forms on a clipboard is always available on each conference table. I picked up the papers and the casket book. In South Carolina, mortuaries are required by law to have actual caskets on display, but we use a book of photographs to soften the blow of the selection room and to show special orders. Oops! If Mrs. Joyner didn’t want her husband embalmed, I should discourage her from a custom-made unit. Without prepping, Otis and Odell wouldn’t want the service delayed any longer than necessary.
We began filling in the top of the first form with personal information. There wasn’t much to write. Grace Joyner gave me John Harold Joyner as name of the deceased. When I asked his date of birth, she said, "February 14. We celebrated his birthday on Valentines’ Day ever since I met him, but I’m not sure exactly how old he is . . . or should I say ‘was’? He always said he was forty-nine." She smiled, then continued, "Of course, I knew better than that."
"What about your marriage certificate?" I suggested. "The year of Mr. Joyner’s birth should be on that."
Grace Joyner blushed to the tips of her thick silver bangs.
"Well, truth is Harry and I never married. I know that’s surprising for people our age, but I just kinda went over to his house and wound up staying. He took good care of me, and we were happy together."
Pen poised on the form as though the question came from the paper, my next question was plain old nosiness. "How long have you been together?"
"Almost fifteen years, and I admit there were times I wanted to be married, but when I suggested it, Harry always froze and withdrew." She held up her left hand, showing me several carats of diamonds on a matched engagement ring and wedding band. "He bought me these when we were on a cruise, and our friends in Hilton Head just assumed we got married on that trip. We even celebrated our ‘anniversary’ on the date he bought the rings each year."
Grace Joyner did better with home address and phone numbers. No place of employment for either of them. He’d seen her waiting tables at a grill near his favorite golf course and asked her out. When they got serious, she’d quit work. She assumed that he had retired before she met him.
"I’ll have to look for it," she said when I asked for Mr. Joyner’s social security number.
"Check with the hospital," I said. "Surely they had it to admit him."
When I asked about life insurance, Mrs. Joyner said, "Harry didn’t carry any, but he’s left me with more than adequate holdings to pay whatever this costs." She coughed. "We don’t have health coverage either. Harry always just paid for anything we needed or wanted."
I didn’t tell her that the Middletons would require payment for their services in advance if there were no insurance funds to be assigned. I’d leave that up to Otis or Odell.
Anticipating some problems in obtaining a green casket on short notice, I decided to have her select the coffin before determining time and place of services. Otis would have hissy fits if he knew this. He always saved that decision until toward the end of planning sessions.
Otis is generally pickier about things like that, actually about everything, than his brother. He’s far more anal-retentive than Odell. If Otis really had the stomach-flu, I’d bet he wasn’t as anal-retentive as usual. I was conscious of a quick flush on my cheeks as I squelched the little chuckle at my impolite thought.
"I don’t feel like we’re communicating," Mrs. Joyner said as she sipped her tea.
"Harry’s funeral is to be totally green. The hearse, family cars, gravesite—everything is to be green."
Why, oh why? My very first time trying to make arrangements by myself with a client, and I got a kook. Did she want us to paint our vehicles?
"I’m sorry," I said. "I’ve never heard of a green hearse. I don’t know that we could even borrow one." That would definitely make the Middletons unhappy! They got ticked off everytime I forgot to call it a funeral coach.
The little woman smiled, then she chuckled. Finally she couldn’t contain herself and exploded into uproarious laughter. "Do you think I’m saying I want a casket and hearse that are colored green?" she spluttered.
"Yes, ma’am. Isn’t that what you mean?"
"No, the green I’m talking about means environmentally friendly. That’s why I decided to bury Harry closer to St. Mary than to Hilton Head. Taylor’s Cemetery is the only one I’ve found that doesn’t require a vault or concrete blocks around the coffin. A green funeral is one that allows the body and its container to return to the earth as rapidly as possible. No big vehicles sucking up the earth’s resources. If motor vehicles are used, they must be small and gas efficient."
I whooshed out a sigh of relief.
"What kind of casket is a green one then? Wooden?"
"Heav
en’s no! Those fancy wooden things have metal attachments that will never disintegrate. I want wicker, rattan, or reed with a pure cotton liner and no metal or plastic handles."
"Okay, I’m glad you explained that to me. I’m sure Odell will know about ordering the green casket." That was a bold-face lie. I didn’t think he would. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have thought a green funeral would be a St. Patrick’s Day event, but he’d know how to find out. To be honest, at the moment, I had no idea where to buy a wicker coffin. I wondered if my Gullah friend Rizzie and her brother, who make sweet grass baskets, could weave something big enough to hold a grown man.
"Let me show you our Slumber Rooms," I said.
Mrs. Joyner followed me to Slumber Room A. I motioned toward the giant television screen. "We’re now offering video memorials. Supply us with photographs and we create a DVD with background music. It’s very comforting and meaningful to play during the visitation."
Shih tzu! I’d goofed again. A visitation was highly unlikely, maybe even illegal, if the body wasn’t being embalmed.
"I’ll think about that. I do have lots of pictures Harry and I took during our travels. Of course, if we have a visitation, it will simply be a celebration of his life with a portrait on an easel. I don’t believe in putting the dead person’s body on display."
Considering her husband wouldn’t be embalmed, I was glad to hear that. And, yes, I realized he wasn’t really her husband, but I figured after fifteen years together, she’d earned the title of wife. My marriage had been legal and only lasted three years.
"One reason I wanted to come directly here was to ask if you’re familiar with this." She pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to me. Gold embossed lettering on it read, "Print Memories."
"No, this is new to me."
"Look through the brochure. They make jewelry with your loved one’s fingerprints on it. I want a diamond and gold ten-charm bracelet with Harry’s fingerprints. Materials for the funeral director to take the prints are in the pocket on the back. I’ve filled in the forms for what I want, but it has to be ordered through a funeral home. Can you take the prints and send them in?"
"Yes, ma’am. We’ll be glad to take care of that." I knew the Middletons would require payment before this left St. Mary, but I could take the prints. When I was a kindergarten teacher, we took our children’s prints to make ID’s for their parents.
"Well, I’m going to ride out to Taylor’s Cemetery and be sure they really offer green burial. I’ll call you to see if your boss is back when I finish."
"Yes, ma’am. And Mrs. Joyner, I’m so sorry for your loss. We’ll be sure that everything is to your satisfaction."
"Blessed Assurance" accompanied Mrs. Joyner out the front door.
Chapter Three
Respectfully quiet. That’s the ambiance desired in a mortuary. Otis and Odell have told me so many times that I usually remember to maintain calmness at work. The hymns and gospel songs that play over the intercom are soft and peaceful. The atmosphere was tranquil, and the air conditioning was doing an excellent job as I sat at the computer researching green funerals. I almost wet my pants when a loud noise blasted behind the funeral home.
I rushed to the employee door and looked out. The newer funeral coach was backed up to the loading dock. Jake’s head was sort of hanging out the open driver’s window, and I could see his hand pounding on the horn control. I honestly don’t think I’d ever heard the sound of the hearse horn before.
"What’s the matter?" I called to Jake.
"I need my epi-pen. A hornet stung me, and I left my medical injector on the seat in my car." He waved toward his rattletrap Chevy parked beside my blue 1966 Mustang. I ran down and opened the door. The pen lay on the seat. By the time I got it back to the hearse window, Jake was gasping. His head jerked and he wheezed what few breaths he took. I yanked the cover off, cocked the pen, and jammed the injector into Jake’s arm. His breathing began to improve immediately.
"Can I do anything else?" I asked. "Get you some water or something to drink?"
"No, it’s easing up now. I can’t believe I left my epi-pen here. I always keep it in my pocket."
"Was the bee in the funeral coach?"
"It was a hornet, not a bee," Jake answered, "and it must have been in the hearse, because I had the windows rolled up, and I got stung just a block or so from here. If it had gotten me anywhere else, I probably wouldn’t have made it."
We generally unload bodies the minute they arrive, and Mr. Joyner should have been no exception. After all, he wasn’t going to be embalmed. We needed to get him into cold storage ASAP, but I stood by the vehicle window and talked to Jake until he seemed to be okay. Then we moved Mr. Joyner to the cooler.
"Do you need me to stay here with you, Callie?" Jake asked.
"No, I’ll be fine. Odell has gone to take that man we found in the Jaguar to MUSC, and Otis is home sick, but the only client is Mr. Joyner. His wife wants a green funeral, so we won’t be embalming him. All I’ll really be doing until Odell returns is answering the telephone." And playing on the Internet or reading a book, I thought.
"A green funeral?" Jake asked.
"Yes, I’ve just been reading about it on the Internet. A green funeral is ecologically friendly to the earth and our environment. No gas-hog vehicles, no markers meant to last forever. Instead, they plant a tree or wildflowers in memory of the deceased."
"Why don’t they embalm? Religious beliefs?"
"No, they just believe the body should disintegrate into the earth ASAP. They use biodegradable caskets too."
"What the heck is a biodegradable casket?" Jake almost laughed. "I guess they don’t want anything made of Styrofoam."
"I guess not," I said. "They want coffins made of materials that will decompose rapidly. Some are hardly more than cardboard, but there are a lot of basket types available made of woven wicker or reed. Want to come in and see them on the computer?"
"No, after an episode, I need to rest for a while. I’m going home. My mom will probably make me go to the doctor, but if you need me, call, and I’ll try to come back."
After Jake left, I returned to the computer. I assumed that Otis and Odell would be pleasantly surprised. I’d found and printed out numerous sites dealing with wicker and reed casket suppliers. One thing that confused me was that Mrs. Joyner had said she was checking with Taylor’s Cemetery, but the articles I’d been reading indicated that green funerals were limited to only a few specified graveyards.
In the midst of pondering that Mrs. Joyner wouldn’t want a gravestone or marker, I remembered that she had mentioned a memorial. She wanted jewelry with her husband’s fingerprints on it. I picked up the brochure she’d left with me and read about all the possibilities. They offered silver as well as 14-carat yellow gold and platinum. Each piece was custom-made, and the prints could become a part of a ring, a pendant, a brooch, tie tack—almost anything imaginable. The brochure also listed what the mortician needed to do and send to the manufacturer for each project. Prices weren’t quoted. Funeral directors were instructed to call for prices before sending in the prints, orders, and payments. No CODs either.
Mrs. Joyner’s choice of the gold charm bracelet with diamonds looked like one of the more expensive items and meant that all ten fingers needed to be printed. The ink pad and cards for a full set of prints were included in the packet. I manicure dead hands as part of my job, so taking prints from a corpse wasn’t distasteful. Then I thought about forensics technicians who sometimes peel a cadaver’s hand and slip their own hand into the skin glove to make fingerprints when putrefaction has already begun. Now, that’s something I didn’t want to do.
I’d assumed Mr. Joyner died recently at the hospital, and Jake and I had managed to get him chillin’ in our cooler before Jake left, but I decided the sooner I took care of this assignment, the better. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves, picked up the kit, and went through the prep rooms to the cold storage area.
Otis took
me to visit a mortuary once that had an actual refrigerated room where bodies were out in the open on gurneys. Our set-up was more like the morgues on television, only smaller. Decedents were placed on stainless steel trays that slid into chilled slots. I pulled Mr. Joyner from his space.
Okay, I could have taken the prints by just unzipping the body bag and pulling his hands through the opening. For some reason, I didn’t do it that way. I unzipped the bag and laid it open exposing the body. Earlier that day, I’d called a white-haired man an old geezer, with no reason at all. That wouldn’t happen here. "Gentleman" was obviously the correct term for him.
Clothed in expensive navy blue pajamas with cream-colored cording on the collar and cuffs, the man was obviously in his seventies, maybe even eighties, but his body was trim and toned. His skin looked healthy—tanned with hardly a wrinkle—and his hair was perfectly coiffed salt and pepper gray. Now, how could his hair be so perfect after he’d died and been hauled to a funeral home? I touched it. A very firm-hold hair spray. I wondered if he’d died with it looking that way or someone had styled it after death. What killed him? He had none of the marks or signs of resuscitation efforts. He looked as though he’d just gone to sleep—a handsome, well-cared for older man in his neatly pressed PJ’s. He did, however, smell—not like death or the frequent scent when the bowels loosen at death. He smelled of garlic. I must have been so worried about Jake when we brought him in that I didn’t notice it. If he’d smelled like almonds, I would have suspected poison, but I’d never read about a poison that smelled like garlic.
I lifted Mr. Joyner’s hand. The nails were professionally manicured and buffed. The fingers were stiff. I slid the pajama sleeve up to his elbow. The underside of his arm was a deep, mottled pink. Livor mortis. Discoloration of the skin caused by the drainage and settling of blood in the bottom parts of the body after death.
Opening the ink pad and laying out the rigid paper for the fingerprints, I thought it might be easier to get the prints with the fingers so stiff. The first attempt disproved that theory. It might have been easier to roll an inflexible finger if it weren’t attached to a full hand of other unmovable fingers. After a couple of tries, I decided that unless I was prepared to remove the fingers from the hand—ugh—I’d be ahead to loosen the rigor. I methodically massaged and thumped each finger until they were all flexible. After that, the fingerprints were a breeze. Ten clear, sharp prints—each in its properly labeled space on the cards.
