Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, There's A Body In The Car (Callie Parrish Mysteries)

by Fran Rizer

  I held my cell phone up for him to see. "It was on charge all night," I assured him.

  "I’d really rather not send you on a ten-hour trip, but with Otis sick and Jake not well, it’s one or the other of us. I want to be nearby in case Otis needs me. Are you sure you don’t mind?"

  "I’m positive. Besides, I’m not going by myself. Jane called back. She’s riding with me."

  "Wait a minute," Odell said and went over to his Buick. He pulled something from his glove compartment and brought it back to me. He handed over a pearl-handled snub-nosed .22 revolver.

  "Just in case," he growled. "If you have any trouble, call 911, then me. I’ll feel more comfortable if you have this with you." He added, "It was my mother’s and it’s loaded, but the safety is on."

  I slipped the gun into the glove compartment of the funeral coach. I grew up with a redneck dad and five older brothers who all hunted. I’m not scared of guns, and I know how to use them.

  Jane’s apartment is the other side of the duplex I usually live in. My place was bloodied up a while back, and I was getting a fresh paint job and new carpeting, so I’d been staying with Jane. When I opened the door and called out, "Jane, it’s me," Big Boy, my Great Dane came bounding over with his leash in his mouth.

  Blindness doesn’t interfere with Jane’s capabilities. She and Big Boy had overcome their problem. When the three of us first started staying together, Jane didn’t always know when he needed to go out. He’d bring the leash to her, which was his signal he needed a potty break. Jane would scratch his back, unable to see the leash. They’d worked it out by Big Boy yipping at her and dropping his leash in her lap when he wanted out. Apparently, they weren’t communicating well this afternoon because Big Boy looked at me with an expression that said, "My eyes are floating. Get me outside before I burst."

  As always, he ran to the scraggly oak at the corner of the yard. One of these days, my doggie will lift his leg on that tree. He’s over a year old now, and he still doesn’t tee tee like a boy dog. That’s not the funniest part of it. He "hides" behind the tree, not realizing that both his head and his hind quarters are visible on either side of the tree trunk while he modestly squats and relieves himself like a girl dog.

  "Come on, Big Boy," I called when he’d finished and began sniffing around the yard. He followed me back into the apartment.

  "Why don’t we take him with us?" Jane asked.

  "Because I don’t want him slobbering and shedding hair all over the funeral coach," I answered as I filled his water bowl and poured Kibbles ‘n Bits into the food bowl.

  "Oh, I didn’t know we were taking the hearse," Jane said.

  "How did you think we could bring back a casket in my Mustang?" I asked as I locked up the apartment and led Jane to the passenger side.

  "I don’t know. You said it’s made of straw. I guess I thought maybe it folded up." She slammed the door, and I went around to the driver’s side. We were on I-95 headed toward Charleston before I finished explaining that the casket was woven like a giant basket big enough to hold an adult, but not made out of straw.

  "Did you bring me a Dr Pepper?" Jane asked. She’s really not too interested in the mortuary or anything to do with it.

  "No, we’ll stop somewhere for drinks and supper, too."

  When we’d made the giant turn off I-95 onto I-26 toward Columbia, I’d decided to eat early, but Jane had gone to sleep. Since she won’t be reading this, I can say that she snores. Loud and long. I didn’t want to wake her, so I just barreled along the highway playing the radio and listening to Cousin Roger on WXYW.

  "Call in now," he said. "Be the seventh caller and have your name entered into the ‘Thankful for Love’ contest. The winning couple will have an all-expenses-paid wedding and honeymoon on Thanksgiving weekend, paid for by Happy Jack’s Campground. Get your name in the pot now!"

  Jane was asleep. My cell phone lay on the seat between us. I snatched it up and entered the number Cousin Roger had given. I squealed when I heard, "You are caller number seven. Turn your radio down and give us your name, please." I’m not even dating anyone. What am I going to do with a wedding?

  "This is Jane Baker," I lied.

  "Okay, Jane, we’re going to put you and your fiancée in for the grand prize. What’s the lucky man’s name?"

  "Uh, Frank, Frank Parrish," I said.

  "All right, Jane. Now hold on because I’m going to get your address and phone number while this next song plays."

  Sure enough, Gene Holdway’s version of "Sweet Suzanne" played softly on the radio while I gave Jane’s home address and telephone number to Cousin Roger. When I disconnected the call, I squealed so loud that Jane woke up.

  "Wha . . . what’s wrong?" she sputtered.

  "I just got you and Frank entered for an all-expense-paid wedding and honeymoon in November. It’s a radio contest, and I was the seventh caller."

  "You won?" she screeched even louder than I had.

  "No, but you’re in the finals."

  "I’m also in the finals for a bathroom break real soon," she said and squirmed in her seat.

  "I’ll get off at the next exit. I could use a break plus I’m getting hungry."

  We pulled off at one of the Orangeburg exits, filled the tank on Middleton’s gas credit card, and went into Aeden’s Café. After a quick trip to their restroom, we ordered Calabash style chicken plates and pigged out, food compliments of Middleton’s Visa. When we returned to the hearse, Jane snuggled up in the corner and was soon snoring again. So much for bringing her along for company.

  Normally, I’d think she’d been up all night talking on the 900 telephone sex line as Roxanne, the "fantasy actress." I didn’t think Roxanne had worked the night before though because Frank had been there with Jane when I went to bed. Jane didn’t work when Frank was at the apartment. He knew how she earned a living, but he wanted her to quit the job. Jane had refused, maintaining that she did nothing wrong and that she made enough money on that hot line to support herself. She had agreed to find different work once they were married.

  In Columbia, we switched from I-26 to I-20 and then a few miles later onto I-77 toward Charlotte, North Carolina. That would take us directly to Tanner, just south of Charlotte. By the time we reached the North Carolina state line, I was sleepy myself. I exited at one of those places where the Interstate sign showed only one brand of gas available. Nothing in the way of food or lodging. I pulled in beside the little concrete block filling station, not wanting to obstruct their two gas pumps just because I hoped they had fresh coffee.

  "Where are we?" Jane asked as she sat up when we stopped.

  "Just taking a coffee break," I said.

  As Jane turned, she bumped the latch on the glove compartment. It flopped open and she fumbled around to close it. "Careful," I said. "There’s a loaded gun in there."

  "What?" Jane demanded.

  "Odell insisted we bring it in case we break down on the way and anyone bothers us."

  "Anybody bothers us, I’ll beat ’em to death with my cane."

  "Yeah, if you ever wake up. I thought you came along to keep me company."

  "I’m just tired. Frank and I stayed up arguing most of the night."

  "Maybe you need to rethink this marriage business."

  "I’m thinking the same thing while you’re calling in winning us a wedding."

  "You haven’t won yet. Let me get some us coffee. We’ll talk the rest of the ride. Put that gun away." She put it in the glove compartment and slammed it closed.

  "Are we still in South Carolina?" Jane asked.

  "No, we’ve passed the state line."

  "Somebody told me if you carry a gun in North Carolina, it has to be out in the open."

  "Do you really think the law lets you carry a loaded gun on the seat in North Carolina?"

  "Well, you don’t even know if carrying it in the glove compartment is legal in South Carolina. That’s a concealed weapon. I think it’s supposed to be locked up in the trunk
."

  "A hearse doesn’t have a trunk."

  "Are we at the gas pump?" Jane asked as she opened her door and stepped out.

  "No, I parked by the side of the building. I’m supposed to fill up the hearse only on Middleton’s gas charge card, and this is the wrong brand. We don’t need more fuel yet anyway, so I pulled away from the front."

  Chapter Five

  Guiding Jane into the store, I noticed it looked even smaller on the inside and had a little pot-bellied stove in the middle of the floor. The air was cooler up here than in St. Mary, but not cold enough for a fire. Bread and a few canned goods stocked the mostly bare shelves. A chubby young woman with a dark brown pony tail sat on a stool behind the counter. She was shelling and eating boiled peanuts. When she looked up and saw us, she scraped the shells off the counter into a trash can, then tore a few paper towels from the roll by the register and wiped her hands and lips. She popped two pieces of chewing gum in her mouth. Her name tag identified her as Betty Jo.

  "Do you have fresh coffee and can we use your restroom?" I asked.

  "Yeah, I just made the coffee a while ago, and the law makes us let you use the bathroom. It’s back there." I wondered, Would Betty Jo make us wet our underpants if the law didn’t require a public restroom in the store? She pointed to a hand-lettered sign that read JOHN at the back of the store. "It’s unisex," she called as Jane and I headed that way, "so be sure to lock the door."

  "I don’t sense a lot of people in here," Jane whispered.

  "There’s no one except us and Betty Jo," I whispered back.

  When I opened the bathroom door, Jane whacked her mobility cane against the commode and sat before I even got the light switch flipped up. I am constantly amazed at how well she manages.

  "Tell me what the clerk looks like," she said when she stood and began her hand washing ritual. Jane has this thing about her hands, and when she washes them, she scrubs up like a surgeon.

  "She’s young," I answered, "and chubby."

  "Chubby or fat?" Jane asked.

  "Well, she’s a really big girl, on the other side of thick. I guess the truth is she’s fat.

  "She’s chewing gum, isn’t she?" Jane asked as she began drying her hands.

  "How’d you know that?" I asked, balanced over the commode. I never sit on public toilet seats.

  "I could hear her popping gum."

  "And," I added, "she chews with her mouth open, too."

  "Think she’d know what the gun laws are in North Carolina?" Jane asked.

  "I don’t know. Let’s find out."

  The store was still empty when Jane and I came out of the restroom. We walked over to the coffee station, and I poured two cups of high-test—never decaf when we’d be up past midnight. Of course, Jane was used to staying up all night talking on the phone as Roxanne. On the evenings she wasn’t Roxanne, it sounded to me in my room as though she and Frank didn’t go to bed too early when he stayed over. Ex-cuuze me. They went to bed, but they weren’t sleeping. Those sounds I heard from Jane’s room definitely weren’t snores.

  I wasn’t totally comfortable with the situation between my brother and my best friend. I love them both, but I know their faults too well. This made me aware that their relationship might not work out, which would result in each of them thinking I should side with one against the other. Also, it was awkward to have my brother spending the night with my roommate. Not that we actually shared a room, but we were occupying the same apartment. Since I was staying in her side of the duplex until the workers finished in mine, I’d decided just to put my pillow over my head and try to ignore them. I’d be back in my own place soon anyway.

  I creamed and sugared the coffees and walked to the register. I handed Jane her cup while I dug around in the bottom of my purse for money. The change accumulated in my handbag seemed to weigh a ton.

  "Ask her about the gun," Jane whispered.

  "We’ve got a gun," I said and motioned toward Jane. "My friend wants me to tell you about it."

  Betty Jo’s hazel eyes widened into big eyes—SpongeBob SquarePants big. She stepped back from the register, stumbled, and caught herself on the shelf behind her.

  "Don’t get upset," I quickly added. "It’s outside—"

  "Do you want me to go get it and show it to you?" Jane interrupted.

  "No! No! Take what you wanna," the girl screamed. "I can’t believe I’m being robbed by a blind woman." She yanked the cash register drawer open. "You can have all the money. Get some cigarettes and beer, soda, anything you want. Just doan hurt me. You doan need to bring the gun in."

  Betty Jo reached under the counter, and for a moment, I feared she was pulling a weapon on us. Instead, she plopped a pink and orange striped tote bag beside the register. "You can take my pocket book, too." Her whole body shook, and tears streamed down her face, leaving dark streaks of mascara on her round cheeks.

  My sometimes wandering mind remembered a line from T’was The Night Before Christmas. The one about the "little round belly shook like a bowl full of jelly."

  "No, no," I said in my most soothing, comforting mortuary voice. "We don’t intend to rob you. We—"

  "Kidnap me? You’re goan kidnap me," the girl screamed. We could see sweat popping out on her face and arms. Well, I could see it. Jane, of course, saw nothing.

  "No," I continued, "we’re not going to kidnap you, rob you, or hurt you. We just want to know what the gun laws are in North Carolina. Should we keep the gun in the glove compartment or on the seat?"

  "I doan know. I din’t even finish high school. I doan know nothin’ about gun laws." She picked up the roll of paper towels, tore off a handful, and wiped her face. "My daddy," she added, "carries guns in the trunk of the car or in his truck’s gun rack."

  "That doesn’t help us," Jane said. "This is just a little handgun, so it wouldn’t fit on a gun rack. Besides, the hearse doesn’t have a trunk or a gun rack. Are you sure you don’t want to see the gun?"

  "Nooooooooawww!" the girl screeched again and doubled over as far as her round jelly belly would let her. For a moment, I was scared she suffered from my malady. When I’m frightened, I vomit. The last thing I wanted was to make this girl throw up all over her purse and cash register.

  "Jane," I said firmly, "Betty Jo doesn’t want to see the gun. She doesn’t want us to bring it in."

  "Hearse? A hearse?" the girl managed to splutter out. "You’re driving a hearse with a gun in it. You problee would let this blind woman shoot me. You women are craz—" Her eyes bugged again and she burst into fresh tears. "I din’t mean it," she cried. "I din’t mean to call you crazy, and I doan wanna know why you’re ridin’ in a hearse."

  "We didn’t mean to scare you," I tried to assure her. "Let me just pay for the coffees, and we’ll be on our way."

  "No, no, no, the coffee’s on the house. Just take it." Betty Jo waved her pudgy arm and pointed toward the door.

  "We don’t mind paying," I said.

  "Please, just go," she said.

  Jane followed me with one hand clutching the back of my dress and the other holding her coffee. She had her cane tucked under her arm. I noticed movement in the lot. I was glad we’d gotten all this straight before another customer came in.

  As we opened the door, a man entered, and I almost heaved myself. He had a do-rag tied around the bottom of his face like a bandit in an old cowboy movie, and he pointed a semi-automatic 9mm hand gun in my face.

  "Stop, Jane," I said just as she ran into me, slopping her coffee down the back of my dress. Thank heaven the java wasn’t from McDonald’s and it wasn’t very hot.

  "Why?" Jane asked.

  "Because she said to," the man snapped. A T-shirt and jeans hung loosely from his skinny frame, and no, he didn’t have dreadlocks or a pony tail. His blond high and tight hair cut and pale blue eyes showed above the do-rag.

  "What’s wrong now?" Betty Jo called. I guessed that Jane and I were blocking the masked man and his firearm from her view.

&n
bsp; "You’re being robbed!" the man snarled sarcastically.

  "No, it’s a misunderstanding," Betty Jo said. "They’re not robbin’ me. They just have a gun."

  "A gun?" the robber gasped. He grabbed me around the neck and pressed the pistol barrel right behind my ear. I dropped my cup. Coffee splattered all over the worn, wooden floor.

  I tried, I promise I tried, but I couldn’t control it. I retched, and partially digested salad and Calabash fried chicken shot out from my mouth. Some of it landed on the floor and some on the front of my dress. Unfortunately, a tiny bit wound up on the robber’s shoes. It smelled like honey mustard.

  "What tha . . . ?" the robber spat out and gagged. The barf-a-rama scene in Stephen King’s Stand by Me flashed through my mind.

  Please, God, I prayed silently, if he throws up, let him drop the gun first. I didn’t want to be shot, but I especially didn’t want to be shot and then covered with some outlaw’s vomit.

  I have to hand it to that Betty Jo. Still shaking and crying, she grabbed the roll of paper towels and brought them around the counter, tearing off sheets as she came. She looked at me. She looked at the robber. She looked back and forth between our faces. His was furious. She bent and cleaned his shoes, then she tossed those towels into the trash can and tore off more pieces. She wiped off my mouth and dabbed at the front of my dress. Robber man still held the gun barrel against my head.

  "What’s going on?" Jane demanded.

  "Just be still. Don’t move at all," I said. "This man is robbing the store, and he has a gun aimed at me."

  Betty Jo unrolled more paper towels and dropped a handful onto the floor over my chicken and salad. She went back to the still-open drawer of the register and began thrusting very short stacks of money into a plastic grocery bag. She handed the sack and her pink and orange purse to the man. He shoved the gun into his pocket and grabbed the bags.