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

by Fran Rizer

  No time to pursue that line of thought. I stepped into the hall where tall, thin Miss Lettie awaited with her short, slightly plump neighbor Ellen. What time is it? I thought. I haven’t dressed Mr. Morgan yet. Surely it’s not two o’clock already!

  The first thing Miss Lettie said was, “I want to see my baby!”

  • • •

  Odell joined us before I had time to open my mouth, much less consider what to say.

  “You’ve come early, but of course, you’ll see your son,” he said in that calm, professional undertaker tone he uses. He took her arm at the elbow and guided her into the first conference room. We’ve recently added paintings of Southern flowers on the walls of the planning rooms and named the rooms for the décor. We sat around the mahogany table in the Wisteria Room, named for the cluster of silk wisteria centered on the round table and an oil painting of lavender wisteria on the wall behind the side table.

  “I want to see him now!” Miss Lettie protested.

  “Let me assist you in planning how to best respect Mr. Morgan with a beautiful funeral or memorial service.” Odell continued as though she hadn’t said anything.

  “I know what I want, and I want to see my son!” Miss Lettie objected.

  Watching the sometimes gruff, growly Odell Middleton tame that lady was a lesson in professionalism. He convinced her that she’d want to see Mr. Morgan in the casket she selected. In no time, with only occasional encouragement from her friend Ellen, Miss Lettie selected a solid cherry casket that we stocked. Odell sent me to tell Otis what had been chosen and that Mr. Morgan should be casketed as soon as possible.

  I found Otis in my work room finishing dressing Mr. Morgan. His nose looked great! We brought the coffin in from the storage building, put Mr. Morgan in it, and placed him in Slumber Room A, which hasn’t yet been renamed.

  By the time I stepped back into the conference room, Miss Lettie had set the visitation for Saturday, at one p.m. in Middleton’s chapel with service to follow at two p.m. and interment beside Jeff Morgan’s father in the St. Mary Cemetery. She considered and then flatly refused offers to have the visitation catered with finger foods, saying, “People can eat before they come.”

  As she nor Ellen had any church affiliation, Miss Lettie told Odell to hire a preacher and someone to sing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “Battle Hymn of the Republic” because those were the songs performed at her husband’s funeral. She requested a red, white, and blue casket spray, and then asked emphatically, “Are we done now?”

  “As soon as you sign these papers,” Odell said and placed a clipboard of paperwork in front of Miss Lettie. She scrawled her name everywhere Odell indicated and swatted Ellen’s hand away when Ellen reached for the clipboard, probably intending to read what her friend was signing.

  “Now I want to see my son,” Miss Lettie demanded.

  Odell raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the door. I nodded “yes,” and Odell said, “Callie here may need to ask a few more questions for the obituary, but if you’d like to see Mr. Morgan before that, we can see him before finalizing the announcements.”

  Fully expecting Miss Lettie to be a body-grabber, I stood close to her when she reached her son. The top half of the casket was open, but we’d draped a thin, almost transparent cloth over it—not that it would physically prevent anyone from seizing or embracing the decedent, but we’ve found it’s a good psychological barrier when there’s facial damage.

  Straight and tall, Miss Lettie looked like that woman in Grant Wood’s picture “American Gothic.” Everybody’s seen it—a solemn, plain woman standing beside a farmer holding a pitchfork with a barn in the background. I always thought they were man and wife, but I’ve read that the woman was his daughter. Miss Lettie looked just like her with hair beginning to gray, and for the first time, I saw that even in December, Miss Lettie had a farmer’s tan browning her hands and the back of her neck.

  She narrowed her eyes and stared at Jeff Morgan without making any effort to touch him.

  “My baby,” she finally said. “He was my beautiful baby, and he looks just like his daddy.” She turned toward me. “Why did you shave his head?”

  “No, ma’am. His head isn’t shaved. He’s bald.” I knew this because I’d rubbed the top of Mr. Morgan’s head myself out of curiosity. Shaved heads on men are stylish now, and I like the look, but Mr. Morgan’s head had shed the dark hair I’d seen in his youthful photograph. Her question did make me wonder how long it had been since she’d seen her son though.

  “His daddy’s hair was thinning. If he’d lived long enough, he probably would have been bald, too,” Ellen said.

  “I guess so.” Miss Lettie’s voice lowered, barely audible. She turned toward me. “I don’t want a long write-up. You can say that Jeffrey Junior was killed in a car accident and announce the time and date of the service, but that’s all.”

  Taking Miss Ellen’s hand, she said, “Take me home now,” in a child-like voice.

  • • •

  Confusion filled my mind when Miss Lettie and Ellen left. I was definitely tired, both physically and emotionally after beginning my day witnessing a birth, but the thought of that newborn baby boy made me feel good. I was a little excited at the idea of going to dinner Saturday night with that good-looking, hot deputy, but guilt feelings crept around inside my head. Would it be cheating on Patel? Was it even possible to cheat on someone after only a few dates and kisses? He’d been so sweet when he called earlier. I put that thought on my mental shelf and got to work.

  Jeff Morgan’s obituary was soon completed, posted on our Internet page, and emailed to the local newspaper. Sometimes families want funeral notices sent to The State Newspaper as well, but Miss Lettie had said St. Mary Gazette was the only one she wanted.

  Next I made several phone calls. First was to the florist to order the casket spray and Middleton’s usual sympathy wreath. Then I needed to arrange the service.

  The first pastor I called was Dan Christianson who frequently performed services for us when a family asked Middleton’s to arrange for a preacher. Pastor Christianson wasn’t available, so I called Pastor Mark Holt. He’s a Hospice chaplain, and at the last service he preached at Middleton’s he’d said, “Call me if you ever need me. I’d be glad to help whenever I can,” so I took him at his word and called.

  “Pastor Mark,” he answered.

  “This is Callie Parrish at Middleton’s Mortuary. We have a decedent with no church, and his mother wants a pastor to perform the service. Would you be interested?”

  “I always want to help, but I already have a funeral tomorrow for one of my Hospice patients. What time is this scheduled?”

  “It’s not tomorrow, but Saturday with visitation at one p.m., service at two p.m.—both here at Middleton’s. Interment will follow at St. Mary Cemetery.”

  “I’m available for that. I’m driving right now. Let me call you back and get the information when I’m stopped and can write. I’ll want to visit with the family tonight.”

  “Fine. I’ll be right here.”

  My next call was to Ruth Gates. She’s got a great voice, can sing anything, and her charges are reasonable. Ruth was available Saturday also and would have no problem with the songs Miss Lettie had requested. Our usual organist, Linda Jonathan, had played often when Ruth performed and was pleased to put us on her calendar for Saturday. This was going well. Pastor Mark called back for information about Jeff and his mother.

  Otis or Odell usually set up arrangements for opening graves and transporting the awning and chairs to the cemetery, but I still had to deliver folding chairs, an artificial white silk wreath for the door, as well as both guest and food registers to Miss Lettie’s house. I decided to do that immediately.

  When I told Otis I’d booked Pastor Mark, Ruth Owen, and Linda Jonathan as well as talked to the florist, he suggested that after I went to Miss Lettie’s, I could take off the rest of the day. “I’ll be here all afternoon to greet visitors, and with
Mr. Morgan the only decedent here, it probably won’t be busy until tomorrow when the obit’s in the paper. Didn’t you say you’re picking up Big Boy from the vet? No reason for you to drive back here for your car. Just take the van. Your gigantic dog will be more comfortable in that than in the car anyway. You can switch vehicles tomorrow.”

  I had everything loaded and was on the road in no time.

  Ellen answered my knock on Miss Lettie’s door.

  She made the shhh sound for silence and held her pointing finger up to her lips. “Come on in, but please try to be quiet. I’ve given Lettie one of her pills and put her to bed. She’s asleep.” I didn’t ask what kind of pill, just tiptoed in, carrying the guest register stand. I stood it just inside the front door and placed a burgundy guest register and one of our pens on it. Before I began working at Middleton’s, they chained their pens to the stands, but I’d talked them out of that because it was too much like going to the bank.

  Ellen helped me bring the folding chairs in and set them up in the living room. When I gave her the food register, she said, “You don’t have to show me how to do it. I’ve been down this road too many times before. I put the numbered sticker on the food container and write who brought what beside that number in the book, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come on in the kitchen, and we’ll put sticker number one on your daddy’s pot. I tasted the stew. It’s delicious. Does your father do a lot of cooking?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “I remember he raised you and five sons all by himself, so I guess he had to learn to cook.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I used to tell Lettie she ought to take a nice chicken casserole or something over to your daddy’s house and get to know him. She’d have been a lot better off joining up with him to raise six boys and you than she was running this farm all by herself and raising Junior as an only child. You’d of thought that child would have been spoiled, but she went the other way. Wanted to make a ‘man like his daddy’ out of him. Smothered him, absolutely smothered him with her rules and regulations. It just about killed Lettie when he moved off.” She sniffled. “And now he’s gone for good.”

  Even though part of my profession is consoling loved ones, I was glad Miss Lettie didn’t wake up before I left. As I drove away in the van, I glanced in my rearview mirror at the wreath I’d hung on her door. Odell frequently said, “Morticianing is a sad job, but somebody’s got to do it.” I agreed, but at times I wonder if I want to spend the rest of my life being somebody who does it.

  • • •

  “He’s still going to be a little sore,” the vet said when she helped me lift all one hundred and fifty pounds of Big Boy into the back of the van. “I’ll have the biopsy report next week, and I’ll call you, but it didn’t look malignant. Sometimes these tumors just happen, but it was better to get it out.”

  Big Boy looked up at me with an I want to go home expression. I’ve had him since he was a puppy, and I’d been missing him something fierce while he’d been in the hospital. I scratched him behind the ears and closed the van doors.

  I was a little concerned about Big Boy lying on the floor of the van. I had a special harness seat belt installed in my Mustang for him, but when I glanced back at him, the dog was asleep. He was comfortable. I just hoped it was safe.

  At home, when I opened the van doors, Big Boy jumped out, then dropped to the ground and whimpered. I patted his head. “I know, I know that hurt,” I soothed and then led him slowly through the back door which appeared to confuse him, but he seemed happy to lie down on his special rug and eat a banana MoonPie. I was out of chocolate MoonPies, so I had a banana one with him.

  I’d finally taken Big Boy in to be neutered after my whole family about nagged me to death to do it. The vet had found an abdominal tumor that meant instead of a day visit, he stayed and had surgery plus several days of recuperation before I could bring him home. I’d recently dug out an old Kinsey Millhone book from a basket of books in my spare room, so I curled up on the couch to read while Big Boy slept some more.

  The story was interesting, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it. I kept looking over at Big Boy and being grateful he was home. I was also a little scared. What if the biopsy came back positive? The more I thought about it, the more inclined I was to spend the rest of the day at home with my dog. I called Daddy.

  “When are you coming over here, Calamine? I’ve got supper cooked, and we’re all going over to Lettie’s house in a little while. Do you know when the funeral is?”

  “Yes, sir. The service is Saturday afternoon.” I waited a full minute. My dad doesn’t like it when I change plans on him. “Listen, Daddy, can I get a rain check on supper? I’m really tired, plus I brought Big Boy home, and I don’t want to leave him here alone right now.”

  “We’ll go ahead and eat then, Calamine,” he said, “but you don’t get a rain check. I made a rib roast dinner, and you know it’ll all be gone by tomorrow.”

  I laughed, told him goodbye, and went back to my book, waiting for my call from Patel. About nine o’clock, I broke down and called his cell phone. No answer. When I went to bed at eleven, I tried again. Still no answer. I’d be hard-pressed to say if I was more disappointed or angry.

  “How’s your latest murder?” I knew the words were Mike’s because I recognized his voice on the phone and because he’s the only one who actually teases me about finding dead people.

  “It’s not my murder. How’s your job search?”

  “Oh, that was cold,” he answered. “John said ask if you want to meet for lunch since you didn’t come to dinner last night.”

  “Sure. Is everybody going?”

  “Just you, me, John, and Frankie. Miriam is taking the kids shopping, and Pa’s busy in the kitchen making bourbon balls to take to Miss Lettie. She bragged so much about his stew that now he wants to show her he can bake, too. I reminded him there’s no baking to the way he makes bourbon balls, but he just said, ‘She won’t know the difference.’”

  “I have to work, so I’ll need to meet you somewhere at twelve-thirty.”

  “Let’s eat at Rizzie’s. She always has good specials.”

  “See you then and there.”

  I helped Big Boy out onto the back stoop and watched him step gingerly down the steps. He eyed the van, and I wondered if he wanted to go for another ride in it or if he was dreading my putting him in it. Then I actually hoped that Big Boy had realized he was a boy dog and might hike his leg by the van’s tire, but he squatted like he always had. Back inside the apartment, he took a few laps of water and then lay down on his rug again. When I left for work, he was sleeping.

  My first task at Middleton’s was to carry plants and floral arrangements from our flower room to Slumber Room A and arrange them around the bier under Jeff Morgan’s casket. Two florists had already made early morning deliveries.

  Otis and Odell were both in their offices, and since I didn’t have anything to do at the moment, I pulled a mystery from my desk drawer and read. We don’t have to keep anyone near the entrance because the front door lets us know someone is there by activating recorded hymns any time it’s opened.

  I’d just gotten interested in the book when the phone rang. “Middleton’s Mortuary. Callie Parrish speaking. How may I help you?”

  “This is Lettie Morgan. I’ve been thinking, and while I appreciate you picking such a nice suit for Jeffrey Junior, I want him buried in an Army uniform. Do you have one there?” Miss Lettie sounded very businesslike.

  “No, ma’am. We don’t stock any uniforms.”

  “I’ve been to funerals there when the dead person wore a uniform.” Her voice changed to a whine.

  “We can dress Mr. Morgan in a uniform if you supply it, but we can’t get it for you.”

  “I’ll see what I can do then, but don’t take my son’s clothes off until after I bring you something else for him to wear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I
went back to my book, but I don’t believe curiosity will kill me, so I phoned my brother John at Daddy’s house.

  “Little Sister, glad it’s you. I was about to ring you,” he said when Daddy called him to the telephone. John didn’t know about my telephone no longer ringing—it sings “I Feel Good” in James Brown’s voice.

  “I called to ask about your friend Jeff Morgan.”

  “What about him?”

  “Was he ever in the military?”

  “Are you kidding? Jeff’s father died in the Army and left him at the mercy of his mom. Jeff had all kinds of emotional turmoil about that—grief, sorrow, and anger at his dad. He wasn’t interested in the military at all. Wouldn’t even do ROTC in high school. Why?”

  “Miss Lettie wants him buried in a soldier’s uniform.”

  “She seemed a little ditzy when we went over there last night. I wondered if maybe her doctor had put her on a tranquilizer, but then, she was strange even back when we were kids. That’s why we always hung out at my house instead of his.”

  “What were you going to call me about?” I had my answer, so I changed the subject.

  “Miriam insists I go with her and the kids, and Pa’s making something to take over to Miss Lettie’s tonight. Instead of lunch, let’s meet at Rizzie’s for an early dinner. That way everyone can go. What time will you be off?”

  “About five today. I can be there by five-thirty.”

  “Fine. We’ll see you there.”

  I was back into my book when the phone rang again.

  “Middleton’s Mortuary. Callie Parrish speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Is the casket spray there yet?” I recognized Miss Lettie’s voice.

  “Yes, ma’am, and it’s beautiful.”

  “Oh,” her tone was disappointed. “Ellen is going to bring me over there to see my baby again, and I’m going to bring you the flag they gave me when we buried Jeffrey Senior. I thought about having it draped over the casket, but I’ll just leave it with you to present to me tomorrow. I called the Veterans Administration and they said they can’t send out any soldiers or a new flag unless I can prove Jeffrey Junior served in the armed forces.”