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

by Fran Rizer

  "Mr. Parrish," the judge said, "I see that you aren’t charged with a DUI because the breathalyzer test indicated that you hadn’t been drinking. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Please explain the circumstances."

  "My brother Bill’s getting married. Last night, we went to a cookout shower for the couple. Another of my brothers had hidden a keg of beer in the woods behind where Bill’s fiancée’s aunts had the party. When I loaded the keg into the back of my truck to take it home, it bounced around because the dirt roads were bumpy. I stopped and put the keg inside the truck on the passenger’s seat. The seat belt lock is broken on the passenger side. I locked the passenger seat belt around the keg and fastened it in my lock. That’s why I couldn’t wear my own seatbelt."

  I tried not to smile at the picture that surfaced in my mind, but several others in the room grinned.

  "Did the deputy tell you why he pulled you?"

  "No, he just said that the keg was an open container since I hadn’t removed the faucet from it."

  "Okay, Mr. Parrish. I’m prepared to fine you one hundred dollars or I’ll release you on personal recognizance and you’re entitled to a trial on these charges."

  "Your Honor, I appreciate the PR, and I’d like to request a trial by jury."

  "That’s your prerogative, but the time to do that is when your trial comes up. You’ll be notified." The judge turned toward the bailiff. "Return Mr. Parrish to holding until processing is ready for him." He smiled at me and said, "You may go back to the front lobby. Your husband will join you there after he’s been processed."

  "Brother," I said.

  "Pardon?"

  "He’s my brother, not my husband."

  "Oh, well. Just go back and wait for him." He turned to the bailiff and said, "Next," as a deputy led Mike away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Three hours in a plastic chair in the county detention center lobby both bored and educated me. My brothers always considered school boring. I, on the other hand, enjoy learning about lots of things, just not about the Jade County jail.

  I’d always assumed that visiting loved ones in prison might be almost as bad as seeing them in the hospital or even at my place of business. Not so. Sunday must be the most popular day for visitation. Families came in with everyone dressed up in their church best.

  The waiting area was the same small lobby I’d been in before. I could see cubicles with stools facing television screens. The desk attendant spent her time registering visitors and calling names of who was next to talk by telephone with a prisoner on one of the video screens. There were obviously cameras on both ends because parents kept holding up kids in front of the screens. I was sad to watch men holding little ones up in front of the cameras for female prisoners to see their offspring. Seems to me that if a woman has a young child, she oughta be able to stay out of jail and raise her kid, but who am I to talk about that? I’ve got no experience with jail or kids.

  The busy clerk had no time for my questions about when Mike would be processed, why was it taking so long, and was she sure I was waiting in the right place.

  When Mike finally came around the corner, I jumped up and walked beside him through the door, down the walk, away from the razor wire and to my car in the parking lot. Mike must have taken that "You have the right to remain silent" seriously. He didn’t say a word.

  As we drove away, I asked, "You feeling okay?"

  "Headache’s better, but I’ve spent the night in jail with a bunch of drunks, gang members, and thieves. How do you think I feel?"

  "Well, it’s over now. How about lunch? Want to go somewhere?"

  "Sure. I didn’t drink my mud coffee nor eat my jail-house grits for breakfast. Let’s go to your friend Rizzie’s place, but first I need to stop for a whiz. I wasn’t about to use the toilets in that place."

  We stopped at a gas station and went to the side-by-side restrooms. I was about wash my hands when I heard Mike’s voice.

  "Callie? Callie? Can you hear me?"

  "Yes, where are you?"

  "In the men’s room next door. I can see you!"

  My jeans were pulled up and zipped, but I grabbed them anyway.

  "How?" I asked.

  "I’m poking my ballpoint pen through the hole. Look for it."

  Sure enough, I saw the end of a pen sticking through a picture of a boat hanging on the wall. I grabbed it and wiggled it.

  "That’s it," Mike said. "Put your eye up to the hole." He pulled the pen out and I peered through the opening directly into one of his blue eyes. "Meet me outside," he said.

  We came face to face by the water cooler between the two restroom doors.

  "Should we tell the cashier?" I asked.

  "No, he may be who made that hole."

  "What should we do?"

  "Let’s go on to lunch. We can call Sheriff Harmon and tell him about it."

  Barely a mile from the filling station, I saw a Jade County Sheriff’s Department car parked on the shoulder of the road. I pulled over and was ready to get out, but the deputy was faster. He was leaning into my window before I got my door open, and he wasn’t anyone I wanted to see. It was Fast Eddie Blake.

  "License and registration," he said.

  "I just wanted to report that back at the station, there’s a hole in the wall between the men’s and women’s restrooms. You can see from one to the other. That’s gotta be illegal, isn’t it?"

  He tapped his ticket pad with a pen, and repeated, "License and registration, please."

  I handed him both and continued, "Don’t you want to know which station it is?"

  "Young lady, you were speeding. You can’t distract me by trying to tell me some cock and bull story about some guy watching you in the truck stop restroom." He was steadily writing.

  "There’s no truck stop around here, and it wasn’t ‘some guy.’ It was my brother!"

  "That’s perverted," he said as he handed me the ticket. I wanted to tell him off or slap him. Instead, I signed the ticket and hoped the judge would be someone I knew, maybe even someone whose beloved relative I’d cos-metized. From the few times I’d seen Blake, I knew arguing with him would be a waste of time.

  I waited until Blake had pulled away in the patrol car, then edged back onto the road.

  "Do you know him?" Mike asked.

  "He’s a new deputy named Eddie Blake. He came to the bookstore when I found that dead man, and Harmon sent him over to the funeral home when the FBI agent was there."

  "That’s the deputy who arrested me. I’m going to get a lawyer and burn him. I wasn’t speeding or swerving or anything. That idiot pulled me for no reason. Furthermore, he impounded the truck as well as that keg and spigot. I’ll have to pay a tow charge and storage for the truck. He’ll probably hold the keg as evidence and I’ll have to pay for it and the tap as well as losing my deposit."

  "Daddy lent me the money to bail you out," I said, "but you’ll have to repay me because you know he’s not going to forget it. You’d better think about that before you go hiring a lawyer."

  The seriousness of the situation seemed to settle over both of us, and we rode silently until we arrived at Rizzie’s Gastric Gullah. Seems like I eat there more than at home.

  An SUV with a trailer was parked directly in front of the building. The car on the trailer behind it caught my eye just as Mike let out a long, low whistle. "What year is it?" I asked.

  "A ’76, and she’s a beaut," Mike said as I parked the Mustang. I’m a little vain about my car because my ex-husband Donnie won a few trophies with it in classic car shows before he did what he did that made me divorce him. The judge kindly let me take the car. My Mustang could have been a beat-up bicycle compared to the pristine Corvette with its paint sparkling in the sun.

  Corvettes were out of my family’s league and even my ex-husband’s wallet. This one was white—a sleek, smooth machine with a custom paint job of an American flag blowing in the wind. The car itself, motionless on the tr
ailer, looked like it was flying.

  I think Mike could have stood there staring all day, but I needed coffee and food. I grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the door.

  "Fine um whar you will," Rizzie greeted us when we went in. Both Mike and I knew that meant to seat ourselves—find a table wherever we liked. Rizzie was to women what that Corvette was to cars. She was sleek and superior. Tall with dark skin, shiny black hair clipped close, beautiful midnight eyes with long lashes, voluptuous legs and bosom. All of that topped off with a generous smile that showed perfect teeth.

  "I’ve got fresh oyster pie today," she dropped the Gullah language.

  "Two of those and two coffees," Mike said, then asked, "Did you see the car out front?"

  "No," Rizzie peeked out the front window. "Mmmm! I’d marry a fellow who drove a car like that."

  A man sitting at the counter spun around on his stool and faced us. He grinned a big, beautiful smile and said, "I ain’t lookin’ for forever, but if you’re interested in dinner and some dancing after you get off, I’m right here."

  Rizzie blushed. I promise, as dark as her skin is, the redness shone bright. "Sorry, mister, I don’t get off. I own this place so when I close, I have to clean up and shut it down."

  "You’ve got a juke box. Mighty fine one from what I’ve seen. We could just have us a dance right here. Push the chairs and tables back and make us a little dance floor."

  Mike and I sat down at a booth. I took a closer look at the man sitting at the counter. He was tall, well-built and had sandy brown hair. Nice features and an aquiline nose with blue eyes. For a moment, I wished Mike weren’t with me. Didn’t want him back at the jail, just not with me. Would the stranger have flirted with me if I’d been alone? He had no way to know that Mike was my brother. Probably figured we were in a relationship instead of just related.

  Shyness not being one of my main virtues, I looked directly at the stranger and asked, "Is that gorgeous ’Vette out there yours?"

  "Sure is." He took a sip from the glass beside his bowl of shrimp and grits. "I’m on my way from Florida up to a car show in Charleston and decided to detour off 95 and swing through St. Mary. I haven’t been here in years."

  He was one gorgeous hunk of man, but something nagged at my mind. Something negative about feeling a personal attraction toward him. Suddenly it hit me. He was the same size, same coloring, and similar features to men I saw frequently. This guy looked like my brothers!

  I admit that I stared at him rudely. All of a sudden, I squealed, "Chuck! You’re Cousin Chuck!"

  "I’m Chuck Parrish. Does that make me your cousin?"

  "It sure does," I shouted as I ran over and hugged him. "Callie. I’m Callie and this is Mike. Don’t you remember us?"

  "Of course I remember you! I just didn’t recognize you. It’s been a lotta years, but your family is why I decided to come through St. Mary. I was remembering those summers my parents let me stay with your family."

  I recalled those long summer days, too, but there’d be time enough to talk about that later. For now, I kissed him on the cheek and gushed, "Daddy and the others will be so glad to see you. This is Mike."

  "I didn’t recognize him when you came in, but after you told me who you are, I’d have known he was one of the five. How’s your dad and the other brothers?"

  "Fine," I said and tugged on his arm. "Bring your food and come sit with us."

  Chuck picked up his bowl, and I carried his iced tea to a booth. Mike was sitting there talking on his cell phone. He looked up at us as I slid in across from him and Chuck sat beside me. "Pa and Bill are on the way over. I’m calling Frank now. He’s probably with Jane."

  "What about John?" Chuck asked.

  "Married with two kids and living in Atlanta," Mike said.

  "Who else is married?" Chuck said.

  "Nobody," I said. "Everybody’s been married at least once except Jim. He’s in the Navy, and we don’t see much of him. Bill and Frank are both engaged."

  Chuck picked up my left hand and touched the ring finger. "How about you, Sweet Britches?"

  "Don’t call me that! I’m a grown woman now."

  "You didn’t like it when you were a skinny brat either."

  "I never was a skinny brat. Skinny maybe, but I wasn’t ever a brat."

  Mike laughed just as Rizzie arrived with two heaping plates of oyster pie. "What’s so funny?" she asked.

  "This is my cousin Chuck," I said. "He used to spend the summers with us when we were kids. He’s been calling me Sweet Britches and says I was a brat. Mike thinks that’s funny."

  "Sweet Britches? How young were you and what did you do to earn that nickname?" Rizzie rolled her eyes suggestively.

  "It’s not what you think," I said. "I was only eleven the last time I saw Chuck, and he’s Frank’s age, so what were you, Chuck? About thirteen?"

  "Yep. Then my daddy died and my mother never sent me back for the summer after that. She remarried and we settled in Florida." He’d finished eating and leaned back with his arm across the back of the seat. "I called Callie Sweet Britches because one day she dropped a jug of honey on the floor. She slipped and sat right down in it. When she tried to push herself up, she got honey all over her hands. She was a sticky mess with honey dripping off her behind."

  "I wouldn’t have dropped the jar if you hadn’t startled me," I protested.

  "But it was so much fun watching you jump and squeal anytime we surprised you," Mike said. He’d been guilty of jumping out at me when we were little, too.

  "Talkin’ about sticky," Chuck said. "Remember the Fourth of July that we set that old tire on fire to use to light fireworks. We stomped in it and got burning pieces stuck to our shoes. Then ran around hollering until your dad sprayed us all with the hose. He had to buy us new shoes, and everybody got spanked but Callie."

  "Yeah," Mike said and grinned. "Remember when that other cousin from Tennessee came for the weekend with his parents and we took him down in the cornfield and got him lost?"

  Rizzie frowned a fake grimace. "Sounds like y’all had some really fine times," she said.

  "Oh, it was fun," I said just as Daddy and Bill came in and pulled two chairs over to the booth.

  "So this is Chuck, all growed up." Daddy said and shook my cousin’s hand. "You look a whole lot like my brother did at your age. I’ve wondered how you turned out. And your mother? How is she?"

  "Mom’s fine. Remarried and had a couple more kids after Dad got killed in that wreck. I used to beg her to let me come back up here, but her new husband was jealous of my dad even with him dead, so we never had anything more to do with any of the Parrish family. My stepfather wanted to change my last name, but I was old enough not to let that happen."

  "Well, we’re glad to see you now, and I hope you’re gonna stay with us a while. Plenty of room for you right back in the same house you spent your summers in."

  "I’ve got to get my car to Charleston tomorrow morning for the classic competition, but I could spend the night if it’d be all right."

  "No problem." Daddy looked at my plate. "Is that oyster pie you’re eating? Rizzie, do you have any more of that? I’d like a plate."

  "Me, too," Bill said.

  "How about you?" Daddy asked Chuck. "Want some dessert? Rizzie makes the best sweet potato pie in the world."

  "Sure," Chuck answered. "I’ll have a slice."

  "John made me a grandpa, but these other younguns don’t stay married long enough. Maybe Bill here or Frank will see to that this time around. How about you, Chuck? Got a wife and kids back in Florida?"

  "Nope, not been married yet."

  "Better get started before you get too old."

  "Daddy!" I said, "He’s only Frank’s age."

  "Besides," Chuck grinned. "It’s not the years on the calendar. It’s the miles left on the motor."

  "Speaking of motors, what kind of engine you got in that Corvette?" Mike asked.

  "I put an LT-1 in it, but I don’t race it, just s
how it. I’ve got a few vehicles home in Florida that you’d like, too." The conversation turned to nothing but cars. If I were the kind of gal who talks that way, I would have made a comment about men and their toys.

  Frank and Jane arrived and sat at the table across from our booth. They ordered shrimp po-boys. The Boys had changed the subject to reminiscing about troubles they’d gotten into as kids.

  Jane seemed strangely quiet. She was wearing one of her hippie dresses in shades of lavender and purple with purple-lensed sunglasses. Purple was one of Jane’s best colors with her bright red hair, and I can honestly say that if even the barest smile had caressed her lips, she would have looked beautiful. There were no smiles. She sat silently picking the shrimp from her sandwich and eating each piece individually with her fingers instead of eating the sandwich like she normally did.

  "Everybody come on over to the house," Daddy said when everyone had finished eating and paid up.

  "Not me," Jane said. "I’m not feeling very well. I want to go home."

  Frank patted her on the shoulder. "Come on, Jane. Get over it. Let’s go to Pa’s and visit with Cousin Chuck. We haven’t seen him in years."

  Then Jane did something she’d never done before in all the years I’d known her. She commented on her blindness. She puffed out her chest, which is naturally well-rounded anyway, and said, "I’ve never seen him at all."

  Chapter Twenty

  "Come on," Daddy called as Cousin Chuck rolled around on the couch the next morning. "I gotcha a good country breakfast here—sausage, eggs, grits, and biscuits."

  "Aghhhhh," Chuck gagged and ran to the bathroom.

  The night before, I’d told Chuck that Donnie, my ex-husband, used to take my Mustang to car shows, but my cousin was more interested in picking guitars and singing with Daddy and The Boys. I picked banjo with them for a while, but Frank came in after he’d dropped Jane off at her place. He wanted to play banjo, and mine was at my apartment, so I forfeited the house instrument to him, curled up on a chair, and sang along.