by Fran Rizer
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said as he stepped out of the car. “I want to check the tires. One of them doesn’t feel right.”
He walked slowly around the vehicle, pausing and looking at each tire. We’d hardly gone a mile farther when he did the exact same thing again. Before we reached the mortuary, Otis had stopped to check the tires four times. I didn’t mind because once we were actually in St. Mary, the big silver tinsel stars the town had put on each streetlamp were perfect with the snow on the ground. Sad that we make our world so beautiful for Christmas and then take it all down.
Odell met us at the employee entrance. “Mrs. Morgan has already called.”
“Is she postponing?” I asked.
“No, she wants everything as planned, but she made a strange comment about anyone who fought in a war wouldn’t cancel because of the weather. Did Mr. Morgan serve in the military?”
“No, but she wants us to present a flag during his service. She’s bringing the one she received at her husband’s funeral. I told Callie we’d do a little ceremony with it,” Otis reminded Odell.
“No problem. Like we always say: If it’s not illegal or going to hurt someone, we do whatever the loved ones ask. How are the roads?”
Otis suddenly turned and walked quickly away from us down the hall to his office, so I answered, “Not very bad.”
“I didn’t think the streets were a real mess or the florists wouldn’t have delivered already. Everything in the flower room is for the Morgan services. Take them into Slumber Room A.”
“Sure. Let me take off my coat first.”
“Otis will stay here, and I’ll take the new family car to Mrs. Morgan’s to pick up her and her friend.”
“You might want to take the older car. Otis felt something wrong with the tires and kept having to stop to check them.”
“Did he have to stop and walk around the car?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what he did.”
Odell burst into a roaring guffaw. “Ain’t nothing wrong with the tires. He went out and ate enchiladas and refried beans last night. Otis has been pulling that stunt when he has gas since he was a teenager. Now me, I just let it rip.”
• • •
Typical of South Carolina snowfall, most of it had melted off the streets by noon though trees, bushes, and lawns were still blanketed in a thin layer of white. I took Mr. Morgan’s casket to the chapel and double-checked his appearance before moving all the floral tributes from the slumber room to the chapel.
I held the door open when I heard the family car pull under the covered portico. Miss Lettie was talking fast and loud. “Just look at that beautiful snow! My Jeffrey Junior was always special, and this snow on his day proves it. I want to see my boy again.”
With Odell on one side and Miss Ellen on the other, she hurried to the casket and this time she lifted the drape. I saw Odell’s hand rise as she reached toward the body, but she gently stroked Mr. Morgan’s cheek and crooned, “My baby, my baby boy.” Miss Ellen must have been aware that we’d had to do reconstruction because she touched her friend’s hand and moved it away from Mr. Morgan’s face.
“Come, Lettie. More flowers have been delivered. Let’s see who sent them.”
Nowadays, lots of families suggest donations to churches or charities in lieu of plants or arrangements at a funeral, but Miss Lettie hadn’t wanted that, and there were over thirty sprays, baskets and wreaths as well as a few poinsettias.
The chapel was packed when the visitation began. Here in St. Mary, many businesses close if there are even a dozen flakes of snow. Stores that sell the snow essentials of bread, peanut butter, and batteries in case the power goes off, close as soon as supplies are gone. The roads were clear, and I guess all those people who were off work that Saturday showed up to pay their respects. Miss Lettie had requested that the coffin be closed at the end of the chapel service instead of between the visitation and the funeral. At two o’clock, Otis and Odell circulated around quietly requesting everyone to be seated for the service.
I’d seen Daddy and John speak to Miss Lettie, then mingle and socialize with the crowd. For the service, they sat right behind the reserved seats. I didn’t expect them to sit with me in the back. They understand that my responsibility during funerals is to sit where I can keep an eye on everyone in the event someone faints or behaves in a manner not appropriate to the funeral service. Pastor Holt gave an inspiring sermon, and Ruth Gates sang beautifully. They’d added a few more songs, and she did one of my favorites, “God’s Other World.” Eulogies have become more frequent recently, so I wasn’t surprised when Sheriff Wayne Harmon stepped forward. His words were touching. He spoke of Jeff Morgan’s childhood and their friendship through the years. When he mentioned that Jeff’s mother had raised him by herself because of his father’s death in Vietnam, Miss Lettie jumped up and ran to the casket.
“You never knew him! You never knew him!” she screamed. I thought she was saying that Wayne hadn’t known Jeff, then that Jeff Morgan hadn’t had a chance to know his father, but I was wrong.
“He was such a beautiful baby,” she shouted, “and you went off to Vietnam and didn’t come home to help me with him! If you’d been here, maybe he wouldn’t have moved away and he wouldn’t be dead now.” I realized her words were directed toward her husband, dead all these many years since Vietnam.
Both Miss Ellen and Wayne hugged her shoulders and tried to ease Miss Lettie away from the coffin, but she collapsed against the casket and they almost had to carry her back to her seat.
Wayne wrapped up the eulogy with just a few more sentences. I don’t know if that was all he’d planned to say or if he’d cut it short to keep from upsetting Miss Lettie even more.
During Pastor Holt’s benediction, Odell leaned over my shoulder. “Callie, I’ve decided to go with Otis and the part-timers to the cemetery and leave you here in case a call comes in. Otis and I will present the flag graveside. I don’t expect Patterson back today, but if he shows up, don’t discuss anything. Tell him he has to talk to me.”
I helped load the flowers into the van and stood by the door watching everyone but me drive away.
“Callie, I want to talk to you.” I jumped. I hadn’t realized anyone was still there.
“Well, talk to me.” I turned around to face the sheriff.
“How about talking over a cup of coffee.”
“No problem. Go on into my office and I’ll brew two cups.” We have a thirty-cup pot, a ten-cup pot, and a one-cup coffee maker.
Wayne and I sat across from each other at my desk with fresh cups of Pecan Torte Gevalia in mugs, not the fancy Wedgwood cups I use when Otis or Odell wants coffee served to clientele.
“There’s been a development in Amber Buchanan’s case.”
“The missing woman?”
“The body in the Santa suit that was on your porch is Amber.”
“How do you know? I thought Amber was a plump girl. Detective Robinson described the body as a slim woman with long red hair.”
“Callie, you of all people, know that size and hair color are very changeable attributes, especially in women.” He motioned toward my honey blonde hair. The only reason I’m never a redhead is because dyed red hair fades more rapidly than other colors. I’ve been every shade from platinum to jet black, and all it takes for me to change my hair color is a change of mood.
“Why was she on my porch wearing a Santa Claus costume?”
“We’re not sure, but Amber planned to give out the presents at one of the Safe Sister houses. No men are allowed in there, and we think she may have decided that the kids would enjoy having Santa deliver the gifts. I have a deputy checking with the costume store to see if Amber Clark rented the outfit there. Of course the store’s closed because of the blizzard here.” He laughed. Just like Wayne to say that because sometimes he exaggerates as big as I do.
“Amber Clark?” I questioned.
“I mean Amber Buchanan. She was a Clark when we were in
school together.”
“How’d you get a fingerprint for Amber and how’d you get it so fast? I thought that would take several days.”
“IAFIS—the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. You’ve probably seen it used on those CSI television programs you watch. It provides automated fingerprint searches through their data which includes criminal prints as well as employment background checks and legitimate firearm purchase prints. Amber’s prints were on file because she worked in a place that houses minors and requires fingerprints and background checks. The body’s prints were taken and submitted in Charleston.”
“Still that was awfully fast. I thought it took more than a week.”
“Takes a lot longer for DNA testing, but matching fingerprints is almost instantaneous these days.”
“I appreciate your letting me know all this, but why are you sharing? Usually, I have to drag info from you.”
“A week before Christmas, a man named Norman Spires got into a raging argument with Amber at the Safe Sister office. He insisted she let him see his wife, Naomi Spires, and that he was going to get his daughter Betsy out of Safe Sister to spend the holidays with him. Amber refused to even discuss whether Naomi and Betsy were at Safe Sister. They’re at Safe Sister because Spires abused both of them. He cussed out Amber and then pushed her. She didn’t hesitate to call 911 and press charges for assault. Norman Spires got out of jail on bond Christmas morning.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Amber’s body will be brought back here from Charleston and kept in Middleton’s cooler until released by us to the next of kin when we identify who has rights to the body. Another consideration is Amber’s husband, Randy Buchanan. He’s incarcerated for robbing a jewelry store. When he was convicted, he insisted that he’d given some jewels to Amber to hold for him. She swore in court that he was lying. He’s in jail for robbery, but he’s mean. The reason she was drawn to work at Safe Sister was that she’d been there herself when Randy beat her. I just want you to know these are not nice people we’re dealing with. Don’t be daydreaming when you should be alert to your surroundings.”
“Well, thank you for your concern.” Sarcasm is one of my faults, and my tone of voice showed it.
“Don’t be such an intelligent derriere. I’m serious. I have a female deputy over at Safe Sister right now, talking to Naomi Spires, trying to learn as much as possible about Norman and where he might have gone when he bonded out of jail.”
“If it’s that serious to you, I’ll take it more seriously, too. I’ll be careful of who comes in here and be aware of my surroundings wherever I am.” Okay, I said it just like a little girl says, “Yes, sir,” to her daddy when she knows she won’t be home on time, but I consider myself very aware at all times.
“That’s exactly what I want. I don’t like the fact that the door here is unlocked all day so that people can just walk in.”
“You’ll never talk Otis and Odell into locking our front door. We welcome the families of deceased loved ones any time they want to be here.”
Wayne laughed. “You sounded just like Otis when you said that.” He finished his second cup of coffee, stood, and stepped toward the door. He turned back toward me.
“Callie, I heard you’re going out with Detective Robinson. I’m not too happy about that.”
“Why?”
“The only reason he accepted my offer was because he wants to live in a small town on the coast. He’s got more education and experience in homicide than anyone else who applied for the job, and I’m already seeing that he’s a superb deputy even when we’re not working a murder. I want him to stay here.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Face it, Callie. Your track record with men hasn’t been fantastic since you moved back. Your relationships haven’t lasted very long. I don’t want you two getting serious real fast, then Robinson leaving when you break up.”
“Your deputy’s just taking me to get something to eat. Don’t go thinking we’ll get involved at all, much less soon. And furthermore, Dr. Donald’s been calling and trying to get me to date him again. He claims he’s commitment-shy and got scared he was getting in too deep, but now he wants to pursue our relationship.”
“So why are you going out with Robinson?”
“I don’t know if I want to date Donald again, and going out with Robinson is more like welcoming him to town. He said we’d talk about things he needs to know about St. Mary like where to get his dry cleaning done.”
“Wherever he’s been taking his laundry is fine. His uniforms are always immaculately pressed and when he’s in civilian clothes, they’re impeccable.” He shrugged. “I’m just saying don’t scare him off by chasing him or breaking his heart. I want to keep him with the department.”
Truth was—I’d been considering canceling the date with Robinson, even though Patel still hadn’t called and didn’t answer when I rang him. Wayne Harmon’s warning me not to associate on a personal level with one of his employees infuriated me. Forget about canceling. I’d be home and looking as good as possible at eight o’clock.
• • •
“How’d it go?” I asked Otis when he came in.
“Glad this one’s over. Odell has driven Mrs. Morgan and her friend home in the family car.”
I almost asked if he’d taken the new one and were the tires okay now, but Otis is a sensitive man, and he’d be upset to know Odell had explained the tire business to me.
“Did you present the flag to her?”
“Yes, and I don’t think she even noticed we weren’t military. I don’t know what kind of tranq her doctor might have given her, but by the time we got to the cemetery, she was even more out of it. She claimed the snow was a beautiful white blanket for her baby, and in the next breath, she was talking to her dead husband telling him she wished he could see Jeffrey Junior. Her friend tried to tell her the boy’s with his daddy now, but she still rambled on.” He turned out of the hall into his office door.
“Have we had any calls?” he called over his shoulder.
“No pickups, but the sheriff says they’ve identified the Santa Claus body and it’s Amber Buchanan, the missing employee from Safe Sister. She’ll come back here until she’s released to next of kin.”
“We’ll pick her up tomorrow morning. You can go now. I’ll be here until we lock up.”
• • •
Big Boy hobbled to the back door when I went into my apartment. Usually he greets me joyfully and has to be reminded not to jump up on me. He’s big enough now that when he does that, his paws reach my shoulders. That afternoon, he moved slowly and I swear he had a pained expression on his face instead of the smile he normally wears when he greets me. Yes, there’s no denying my dog uses human expressions. He smiles when he’s happy. I also noticed that his food bowl was still full and very little was missing from his water bowl. I emptied and refilled it. Big Boy took a few laps and lay down on his rug. I couldn’t understand what was going on with him. He acted normal at times, and then he behaved like a very old dog unable to move much or respond to me.
I rubbed my dog behind his ears. “What’s wrong, Big Boy? Still feeling puny?” The vet had said to leave the bandage over his incision until he went back to her Tuesday, but I was tempted to take it off and look at his stomach. I understand the theory that keeping an operation bandaged avoids infection, but it also hides contamination if it’s already there.
By the time I’d bathed and done my hair and makeup, Big Boy was snoring again. I put on cream-colored wool slacks and a dark crimson sweater with a new single strand of white pearls—real ones—that John’s family had sent me for Christmas. Looking at myself in the mirror, I decided to enlarge my girls just a bit more. That involved taking off the sweater, removing the blow-up bra, and carefully inflating both sides so that one ta ta didn’t look bigger than the other one. Back into the bra. Back into the sweater. Flip the pearls from under the sweater so they
showed. Comb the hair again. Modesty is a virtue, and I try to be virtuous—at least most of the time—but my mirror told me I rocked!
For a moment, I thought about the ugly yellow crime scene tape stretched around my front porch, but it didn’t matter since Detective Dean Robinson was my date. He was the one who’d put it there. He knocked on the back door five minutes early.
“Hi, come on in.” He looked even better than he had in uniform. I saw what the sheriff meant. The deputy wore dark gray, perfectly pressed and creased slacks, a light gray pinpoint cotton dress shirt, and a silk tie with stripes that varied from white to black. Under my indoor lights, instead of looking sandy blond, his short hair appeared more like a light prematurely gray. He was monochromatic except his lively blue eyes. His smile seemed genuine.
“You look fantastic,” he said. “Have you decided where you’d like to have dinner?”
I knew where I’d like to have dinner—at Andre’s, the fancy French restaurant I’d been to with Dr. Donald Walters and J. T. Patel. I have no idea what the sheriff’s department of a small county like ours pays its officers, but I had no intention of eating half this man’s paycheck on Saturday night, so I suggested Rizzie’s place. I even remembered to call it Gee Three.
“Gee Three? What does that stand for?”
“Gastric Gullah Grill. My friend owns it and does the cooking. She serves Gullah foods, but you can get plain country cooking there, too.”
“Let’s go there next time. A new place just opened near Beaufort that you might enjoy.” Hesitation showed on his face as though he’d just thought of something. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“Not me.” Were we going out for a meatless meal? I had friends in Columbia who were vegetarians and vegans, and there are vegan restaurants there, but we always went to restaurants that offered both—frequently Indian restaurants because they have vegetarian dishes as well as those with meat. The thought of Indian food brought Patel to mind. Why hadn’t I heard from him? Why didn’t he answer my calls? Was he commitment-shy like Dr. Donald Walters or had he just lost interest already?
