Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree

by Fran Rizer

  She jumped up. Her face twisted into violent rage, and she threw her cup against the kitchen cabinet, splashing coffee all over the linoleum countertop. She flung her arm out and slammed everything on the table down to the floor. Thank heaven I held my cup in my hand or my hot coffee would have splattered all over me along with the contents of the sugar bowl.

  “It’s not fair!” she screeched. “God gave me everything and then took it all away. It’s like I had two hearts, and both of them are broken. I loved Jeffrey Senior with all my heart, but he died. When Jeffrey Junior was born, I began growing another heart, a mother’s heart to love that little baby boy. Now he’s gone, and there’s nothing left of him, not even a little bit of him in a grandchild for me to love. He won’t live on anywhere except in my heart, and it’s gone. Both my hearts are broken, destroyed, and will never mend.”

  I did what I’ve been taught to do. I put my arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and let her sob all over my shirt, Buh-leeve me, I was relieved when the back door opened and an older lady stepped in without even knocking.

  “Oh, Lettie,” the woman, who looked like a white-haired Aunt Bea on Andy Griffith’s old Mayberry show, said and reached for Miss Lettie, pulling her away from me and into her own ample bosom. “Cry. Let it all out.”

  “Are you kin to her?” I asked.

  “No, just her neighbor Ellen, but we’ve been friends for years.”

  I pointed to the pot. “I brought some Brunswick stew. I need to go to work. Will you stay here with her until she feels better?”

  “I don’t know if she’ll ever feel better, but I’ll be here until she calms down. I plan to spend the day with her.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s terrible about Junior, but I’ll be with Lettie like I was when his daddy died.” She continued patting Miss Lettie and dismissed me with, “Thank you for the stew. I don’t think the funeral home has brought the food register yet, but when it comes, I’ll write it down. Who did you say you are?”

  “I’m Callie Parrish, but the stew is from my daddy. I work at Middleton’s and we’ll be bringing registers and chairs over this afternoon.”

  “I’ll probably see you at the funeral home. I’ll be going with Lettie to see Junior, and make arrangements for his service. You can leave now if you like. I’ll stay here with Lettie.”

  She didn’t have to tell me twice. I put my cup in the sink and left without offering to help clean up the mess.

  • • •

  I changed into a black dress, stockings, and low black pumps when I got home. That’s my standard work uniform, and I figured I’d hear from Otis soon. I was right, though his brother Odell called instead of Otis.

  “Callie,” he said, “Otis has finished the prep and is ready for you to come in. This one is going to take a lot of work. His nose was smashed and part of it’s missing.”

  “Be right there,” I answered though I’d hoped to have time to visit with Jane before going to work.

  Middleton’s Mortuary is an old, but immaculate, white two-story house surrounded by a parking lot edged by as many live oaks with Spanish moss hanging from them as there are lining the drive to Daddy’s house. The house has a verandah that extends from the front around both sides with white Cracker Barrel-style rocking chairs and clay pots filled with seasonal flowers on it. My bosses grew up in the second floor of the house with caskets stored in some rooms. No one lives up there now, and they recently moved all the caskets into a new storage building in back.

  Odell met me when I stepped into the hall through the employee entrance. “Mr. Morgan is already in your workroom, and if you need any help, just buzz for Otis. I’m going out to pick up some barbecue sandwiches because it’s probably going to push all three of us to have this one presentable by the time his mother arrives.”

  My bosses were born identical twins, but Odell is balding and probably fifty pounds heavier than his vegetarian brother who opted for hair plugs instead of baldness. Their personalities are as different as their current looks, but they both treat me and everyone except each other with courtesy and respect.

  The minute I stepped into my workroom, I saw what Odell meant. Even covered by a sheet, it was obvious that Mr. Morgan’s limbs jutted out at slightly unusual angles—evidence of broken bones. After pulling on my gloves and waterproof smock, I changed my mind and garbed in a full suit a lot like a hazmat. I pulled the sheet back and looked at the face. The Middletons don’t like for me to refer to decedents as bodies or corpses. They prefer that the deceased always be called by their names, but it wasn’t easy to think of what lay on my work table as “Mr. Morgan.”

  In addition to the black-stitched Y-incision on his chest and groin from the autopsy, the man was bald, which would make the postmortem head incision a problem. The entire body was discolored and covered with abrasions, and Odell might refer to Mr. Morgan’s nose as damaged, but in my mind, his nose was missing. Making Jeff Morgan presentable for his mother would require a work of art and several procedures beyond sculpting wax.

  “Be careful as you position him,” Odell cautioned. “His left arm was amputated in the accident. They put some stitches in, but if you jar that arm, it’s going to come loose.” He hesitated and then added, “Otis is in the prep room if you need him. I’m going to pick up sandwiches, but after lunch, I’ll help, too, if you need me.” He handed me several photographs of a young man. They bore little resemblance to the corpse. In addition to decades of difference in age, the head in the pictures was covered with thick, dark hair.

  “This is a rough case,” Odell continued. “If you want to wait until we can work on him together for the face, you can pick out his clothes while I’m gone.”

  Normally I’m a self-starter at work, but though I’ve done my fair share of restorations, I’ve never actually rebuilt a nose. I decided to select clothing and hope Otis or Odell showed up to help before I began facial reconstruction. Most of our stock clothing for men is gray, navy, or black, but we had a dark brown tweed suit with a two-button jacket that seemed perfect for Jeff Morgan. In my mind, Mr. Morgan was linked with my brother John, so I chose clothes that I thought my brother would like—the tweed suit, a cream-colored shirt, and a brown, burgundy, and tan striped tie that was a lot like one I’d seen John wear.

  The soft sound of an instrumental “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” signified that the front door was opened. I’d barely reached it when in walked Detective Dean Robinson. “Just a few questions,” he said.

  “I don’t have time right now,” I answered. “Jeff Morgan’s mother will be here after lunch to make funeral plans for her son. She wants to see him when she arrives, and I’m nowhere near ready to dress him.”

  “We’ll talk while you work,” he said.

  “Are you sure? I haven’t done much toward restoration and makeup yet.”

  “I’ve been viewing autopsies for years as part of my work in homicide. I doubt seeing you put someone back together will be any worse than watching medical examiners take them apart.”

  “Okay, there are rules about who can be in my workroom, but I guess if it’s legal for you to sit in on postmortems, it’s all right for you to come on in.”

  When we stepped into the workroom, Robinson reached to the dispensers and took out a pair of disposable gloves and a mask. He pulled them on and stepped away from my work table.

  I have to say this for Robinson—he made it a point to stay out of my way except when I needed to shift the body or the amputated arm. When assistance would help, he lent a hand without commenting or interfering with what I was doing. After several repairs with special wax, most of my work became air brushing except the nose, which I postponed until one of my bosses returned. The detective watched carefully.

  “Had you put makeup on before I came in?” he asked. “The skin color is different, rosier, more natural than the bodies I’ve seen at autopsies.”

  “Most autopsies are performed before embalming. Mr. Morgan has been prepped. The embalmi
ng fluid changes the texture and the color of muscles and skin, makes them harder and pinker.”

  “You’re good at this,” he said.

  “I try to create a good memory for loved ones.”

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions about yesterday.”

  “Go ahead.” I continued working.

  “Are you certain that body wasn’t on your porch when you left to go to your father’s?”

  “It was big enough that I think I would have noticed it,” I answered while correcting color coverage on Mr. Morgan’s right hand. Special prep fluid adds some color to the skin, but doesn’t eradicate damage from bruises.

  “Did you touch her before you called 911?”

  “Her? Then it’s a woman?”

  “Yes, white female, probably in her early forties. No identification and no identifying marks like tats.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Slim, attractive with long red hair. It’s not always easy to determine eye color after death, but they appeared blue or green.”

  “Cause of death?” I stopped and looked him directly in his eyes.

  “Of course we’ll know more when the postmortem report is ready, but from watching, I’d say she was strangled. As the pathologist recorded his observations, he noted petechial hemorrhages in the eyelids. That’s usually an indication of choking, and I noticed a deep ligature furrow on the neck, but this examiner wasn’t as willing to discuss his findings with me as the ones who knew me before I came up here from Florida. He told me he’d get the official findings to us as soon as possible.” Detective Robinson removed his gloves and took a small notebook like the one Sheriff Harmon carries from his inside pocket. “Of course, we won’t know about blood ethanol or drugs until those screens come back.”

  “What did you want to know from me?”

  “Do you have any female friends who have long red hair?”

  I stopped dead still and set the airbrush on the counter beside my work table. “My best friend has red hair—very long hair. It hangs to her waist when she wears it loose.”

  “Would you be willing to look at the deceased when she’s brought back to be sure it’s not your friend?”

  “Not necessary. My friend was with me when I found the body. She’s the woman who lives next door to me. You saw her. She sat in your car with me.”

  “I don’t remember her hair being long.”

  “She probably had it in a ponytail in back. Sometimes she braids it, and a lot of the time, she just loops it into a knot at the back of her head and pins it there. She may have pinned the ponytail up while she was inside her apartment before you arrived. I don’t remember because I’m so used to seeing her that I don’t pay much attention to how her hair is done.”

  “Do you know any other females in St. Mary with extremely long, red hair?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  I guess long hair is relative. Mine is barely shoulder-length now, which is long for me. Jane hasn’t really cut her hair in years. Sometimes I trim the ends, but basically she wears that long, straight hair because her mother had long, straight hair. Her mom was a flower child who died around the time we finished high school. Jane wears a lot of her mother’s vintage hippie outfits. I think it makes her feel close to her mom. My mother died giving me birth, and I have nothing particular that makes me think of her. Sometimes I wonder whether I would have enjoyed wearing her clothes if Daddy had saved them.

  “Are you okay?” Detective Robinson asked. “You seemed out of it for a minute.”

  “Just thinking.”

  Thank heaven Odell stepped in at that moment.

  “Looks good except for the nose,” he said.

  “I want you or Otis to help with that.”

  “No problem.” He turned toward Detective Robinson. “I saw you over at Callie’s house, didn’t I? Aren’t you the sheriff’s new homicide man?”

  “I’m new to the department, and I’ll be heading up homicide cases. My name’s Dean Robinson.”

  “Well, Deputy Robinson, I hope you haven’t had lunch. I went to that new place, Bubba’s Bodacious BBQ Barn, to pick up sandwiches for Callie, Otis, and me, but after I ordered, I saw they have pepper-vinegar, mustard base, and tomato base pork as well as chicken and catfish on their buffet. I couldn’t resist it. I ate there, so I’ve got two extra sandwiches in a bag on my desk.” He nodded at Robinson. “Help yourself to a sandwich while I work on Mr. Morgan’s nose.” He rubbed circles on his—well, in Odell’s case, the only word for it is belly. “I’m stuffed.”

  Robinson must have been as hungry as I was eager to avoid having to rebuild Jeff Morgan’s nose because neither of us wasted any time getting out of my workroom. Over coffee and barbecue sandwiches, he told me more about the Santa found on my porch.

  “I watched the medical examiner carefully, and I didn’t see any signs of violence other than the marks on the woman’s neck. There was definitely a circumferential ligature furrow around her neck as well as small abrasions or contusions periodically on the furrow. The doctor didn’t let me get my face right into what he was doing, but I could hear him dictating. He referred to petechial hemorrhages on the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes and facial skin. Are you familiar with petechial hemorrhages?” He took a big bite of his sandwich.

  “I’ve read about them in mystery books. They indicate strangulation, don’t they?” I took a bite, but not nearly so big as his had been.

  “Yes. I’m positive that the autopsy report will be that she died as a result of being choked to death with some kind of rope or cord.”

  “You sound like a medical examiner yourself.” Okay, I know that was stroking his ego, but the man was good-looking.

  “I’ve watched and read a whole lot of postmortem exams in Florida.” He sipped his coffee, and then beamed—a big, warm smile.

  “You’re not married, are you?” His eyes twinkled and questioned as much as his words.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Are you in a committed relationship?”

  I am about as far from a sweet, magnolia-mouthed, blushing Southern belle as possible, but I think my cheeks may have flushed bright pink.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered.

  “I didn’t see a man at your place Christmas night. Are you living with someone?”

  “No, I was getting serious about a doctor, but that faded. Then I met this man in October. He had to go back to Florida, and we talk on the telephone almost every night, but it’s not really any kind of relationship.” I paused but felt compelled to add, “He talks like he’s really interested and keeps saying he’s coming back to South Carolina to see me.”

  The detective smiled again. “Sounds to me like you might be free enough to have dinner with me Saturday night. How about it? I’m fairly new in town, and you could tell me the best place to get my dry cleaning done and all those little things. I know where you live. I can pick you up around eight o’clock. You choose where you want to eat, and we’ll share our baggage.”

  “Share what?”

  “Baggage. You know—the things in the past that have made us cautious in the present.”

  Now, if Patel and I had shared more than just a kiss and he was calling me every night, I probably would have had even more hesitation about going out with Sheriff Harmon’s new deputy, but to be honest, the way Patel went on about being attracted to me, I’d been disappointed he hadn’t come to South Carolina around the holidays. Face it. Christmas hadn’t turned out so great when it ended with me finding Santa dead on my porch.

  “That sounds nice,” I answered. “Of course, I never know when I’ll be called in to work.”

  “And I plan to be off that night, though developments in this case could change that, but barring unforeseen work changes, I’ll pick you up at your place at eight.”

  He finished his sandwich and walked briskly out of the room. I heard “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” when he left the building.

  I should have c
leared off the sandwich wrappings and gone back to my workroom immediately to see if Odell needed me and check why Otis hadn’t shown up for his sandwich. Instead, I acted like a fourteen-year-old and called my BFF.

  “Callie here,” I said when Jane answered.

  “I think after all these years I recognize your voice. You left early this morning. Are you at work?”

  “Yes, but I called to tell you I have a date for dinner Saturday night.”

  In my mind, I saw the big grin on Jane’s face. “J.T. Patel’s coming back to town?” she asked with a lilt in her voice, but the expression was a statement rather than a question.

  “No. Do you remember the homicide detective who was at the house last night?”

  “The one who made us sit in his car?”

  “His name is Dean Robinson, and he asked me out.”

  “Where’d you see him?”

  “He came by Middleton’s to ask some questions.”

  “What about J. T. Patel?”

  “What about him?”

  “I know you’re not really in a relationship with him, but aren’t you two trying to hook up?”

  Thank heaven a call-waiting beep interrupted the conversation because I didn’t know how to answer that question.

  “Got a beep coming in. I’ll call you or see you tonight.” I hit the “flash” button on the telephone.

  “Callie,” the smooth, velvety voice of J. T. Patel greeted me. “You’ve been on my mind since I woke this morning, and I wanted to see how your day is going. Sometimes thinking about you makes me feel like a sixteen-year-old kid in love for the first time.”

  We chatted for several minutes, and no, I didn’t tell him that I was going out to dinner with another man on Saturday night.

  “Just As I Am” called me from the front door.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said. “Someone’s in the hall.”

  “I’ll call you tonight,” Patel promised, and then added, “We’ve got to make plans to get together.”

  The call from Patel made me wonder if I should cancel the date with Detective Robinson. Patel and I’d never told each other that we weren’t dating other people, but since we talked most nights, it was obvious that neither of us was getting busy in the evenings.