“Well,” Wanda Jean said doubtfully, “Mama is always telling me we have to live in this town. I don’t want it to look like I threw a cheap funeral for my murdered husband. Wouldn’t that make me look sorta guilty?”
Mae Ella snorted. “Well, you do have a brain in there after all.”
“Sister!” Clara hissed. “That will be enough out of you. Wanda Jean, honey, we’re not saying give Hilton a shoddy funeral, but if you’re not careful, Bill and Harold will charge you better than $700.”
“Really?” Wanda Jean said, in a frightened voice. “I only have about $500. We were saving our money to take a trip to New York City so Hilton could see the dress department at Saks. It was his dream, so don’t you think it’s okay if I spend that money to bury him?”
“Of course it is, honey,” Clara said. “Don’t you worry. Bill and Harold will behave themselves when they see us with you.” She glanced down at the shopping bag beside Wanda Jean’s feet. “What’s in the bag from Hemphill-Wells, honey?” she asked.
“Those are Hilton’s clothes,” Wanda Jean said. “They told me to bring something for him to wear. And, well, I . . . I . . . I have an awful problem.” The words trailed off into gasping sobs.
Four hands dove into four purses and came up with various shades of Kleenex. Wanda Jean accepted the tissues and sobbed into them amid a chorus of “there, theres.” Finally Sugar said, “You have to stop that crying long enough to tell us what the problem is, honey, or we can’t help you.”
Wanda Jean looked up over a soggy baby blue Kleenex and said, “I brought his panty hose.”
“Lord have mercy,” Mae Ella said. “Why in the hell did you do that?”
“Hilton loved nice hose,” Wanda Jean said loyally. “I just don’t think it’s right to send him to his Maker without a brand new pair. The package has never even been opened.”
Clara started to say something, but Wilma Schneider beat her to it. “You leave that part to me, Wanda Jean.” This won Wilma a round of curious stares.
“How are you going to pull that off?” Clara asked.
“You just let me have a private conversation with Harold Insall and I assure you that Hilton will arrive at the pearly gates in his Hanes,” Wilma said, as if the matter had already been settled.
“Well, alright Wilma, you’re in charge of the panty hose issue,” Clara said. Then she turned to Wanda Jean. “You ready, honey?”
Wanda Jean nodded, and Clara held the door open as the group filed into the dimly lit front foyer of the funeral home. They were instantly assaulted with a heavy scent of roses and the mournful tones of “Nearer My God to Thee” being played on an organ over the speakers hidden behind the ferns on either side of “the book.”
Without missing a beat, each woman stepped forward, removed the pen from its base and signed her name to the register, even though the widow herself was standing right there with them. “Signing the book” was a propriety even more sacred than delivering funeral food to the home of the departed.
Just as Mae Ella finished writing her name, the group heard a well-staged cough behind them and turned to find themselves under the solemn professional regard of Bill Simmons and Harold Insall, each dressed in a somber black suit.
“Mrs. Milton,” Bill said, stepping forward. “Please accept our condolences for this terrible loss. Hilton was a fine man. We appreciate your confidence in Simmons & Insall to handle the arrangements.”
“For God’s sake, Bill,” Mae Ella snapped. “You’re the only undertaker in town. Who else is she gonna get to plant him?”
A muscle in Simmons’ cheek twitched, but his voice still undulated with practiced comfort when he said to Wanda Jean, “How lovely that your girlfriends are here with you at this difficult time. Shall we step into my office? Harold, a few more chairs, please.”
When the group was settled in the office, Bill began to explain the standard funeral package to Wanda Jean and the added extras. “For instance,” he said, “for a small fee we will lead the family to the church before the service.”
“Bill,” Clara interrupted, “have they moved the Baptist church?”
A red flush started up from the collar of the mortician’s shirt. “No, Clara, they have not.”
“Then reserve a parking spot in front for the family,” Clara said. “They can get themselves down there on their own power.”
Simmons drew a decisive “x” on his form with an angry flick of his Bic and said, “No escort to the sanctuary. I assume it is acceptable for the hearse to lead the procession to the cemetery?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Bill Simmons,” Clara said. “You are not running the price of this service up sky high just because Hilton died under high-profile circumstances.”
“At Simmons & Insall, we value the privacy of the family over all other concerns, including monetary compensation for our services,” Harold Insall said curtly.
Seizing the opportunity, Wilma Schneider said, “I’m glad you said that, Harold.” She stood up, Wanda Jean’s shopping bag in her hand. “I need to speak to you in private for a moment. Let’s step out in the hall.”
Insall looked to Simmons who nodded reluctantly at his younger partner. Harold followed the formidable Wilma through the door looking a little like he was about to face the hangman. Once outside the room, Wilma turned to him and said, “I will talk and you will listen. Do you hear me, Harold?”
Insall’s eyes grew wider behind his black horn-rimmed glasses, but he nodded and said, “Of course, Mrs. Schneider.”
Wilma stepped closer, towering over Insall who was barely 5’6”. In a low, but commanding tone, she said, “In this bag, you will find the suit that Wanda Jean has picked out for Hilton. You will also find a pair of Hanes panty hose, which you will put on Hilton, in private, with no one the wiser, including Bill Simmons, or this town may find out just how dedicated you are to your corpses. Do we understand one another, Harold?”
Insall blushed to the roots of his well-oiled hair. “Mrs. Schneider,” he spluttered, “I assure you that there is no truth to that spurious accusation . . .”
“I didn’t accuse you of anything, Harold,” Wilma said. “I’m just telling you that I’ll give the gossips on Main Street more to talk about than a man going to his grave wearing Little Cigar panty hose if you cross me. Is that clear?”
Insall nodded rapidly, his head bobbing up and down like a toy dog on a dashboard.
“I didn’t hear what you said, Harold,” Wilma prompted.
“I said I will attend to it with the utmost discretion, Mrs. Schneider,” Install answered on cue.
“Good,” she said. “Now have you got Hilton pickled already?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Insall said. “We finished the embalming this morning.”
“Is anyone else here?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“Then I suggest you get to being discreet while we’ve got Bill occupied,” she said. “Go on. Scat.”
Insall took the bag and started down the hall, only to freeze in his tracks when Wilma hissed. “And if I pull up Hilton’s pant leg in that casket and find out he’s not wearing those hose, you and me are gonna have issues, Harold.”
The little undertaker all but ran down the hallway, clutching the Hemphill-Wells bag as if it contained something fragile and valuable, which it did — the fate of his reputation in the community.
Wilma chuckled as she watched him scurry away, then arranged her face in properly neutral tones before stepping back into the office.
“Where is Harold?” Bill asked as she entered the room.
“He asked me to tell you that he was going to get started dressing Hilton,” Wilma said, sitting back down. “You boys really are wonderfully considerate,” she added with a smile.
Bill Simmons frowned. It wasn’t like Harold to absent himself when the price of a service was being negotiated, but then the process didn’t usually take place in front of a panel of Study Club inquisitors. He
couldn’t blame his young partner for seizing a reasonable opportunity to flee. Returning to the business at hand, Simmons said, “Well then, ladies, shall we go into the show room and select a casket?”
“We’d like to see the ones you keep in the back,” Clara said firmly.
Simmons set his jaw. “That would be our lesser stock,” he said. “Surely Mrs. Milton would rather . . .”
“No,” Clara cut him off, “Mrs. Milton wouldn’t.”
Resigning himself to the situation, Simmons stood and opened the door at the back of his office. He led the group through the casket display, only pausing briefly when Sugar and Clara took Wanda Jean firmly by the elbows and led her away from a casket with a painting of Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea emblazoned on the silk lining of the lid.
“But Hilton just loved Anne Baxter in ‘The Ten Commandments,’” Wanda Jean whispered.
“He can talk to the real Moses about it up in heaven,” Clara declared. “And besides, that’s the tackiest casket I’ve ever seen. Remember, you do have to live in this town, just like your mama said.”
Looking longingly over her shoulder at the Biblical scene, Wanda Jean allowed herself to be dragged into a poorly lit storage room filled with plain silver and gray caskets.
“This is more like it,” Clara said. “What’s the cheapest one you’ve got?”
Without comment, Simmons pointed to a silver casket with plain handles.
“What does the lining look like?” Clara asked.
Still silent, Simmons opened the lid to reveal an expanse of tufted white satin devoid of ornamentation. “Perfect,” Clara said. “She’ll take it, provided we’re still under $500.”
Simmons took a pad of paper and a pencil out of the pocket of his suit coat, made a fast calculation, and said flatly, “The total is $505.”
“I think you can comp her the $5,” Clara said.
At this Simmons let out an exasperated burst of air, “Really, Clara? You are going to force me to come down five dollars?”
“I’m not forcing you to do anything, Bill,” Clara said pleasantly. “I’m relying on you with confidence to handle the arrangements, and Mrs. Milton wants to spend $500.”
Throwing up his hands in defeat, Simmons said, “Fine, $500 it is.”
“Thank you, Bill,” Clara smiled. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
At that moment they heard a sound behind them, and turned as a group to find a pale and slightly disheveled Harold Insall standing in the doorway, a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “Mr. Milton is dressed,” he said in an odd voice. “I was wondering if one of you ladies might like to approve his appearance before we place him in the casket?”
“I’ll do it,” Wilma said, before anyone else could speak. “We want to make sure he looks nice for you, Wanda Jean, honey.”
“Thank you, Wilma,” Wanda Jean said. “I just don’t know what I would do without you all.”
“Don’t you worry about it,” Wilma said, patting Wanda Jean’s arm. “We’ll make sure every little detail is handled just the way you want it.”
With that, Wilma followed the sweating Harold Insall down the hallway toward the embalming room. He held the door open for her, and she stepped into a sterile space filled with gleaming silver equipment and smelling distinctly of chemicals. Hilton Milton was lying on the table, crisply dressed in a navy blue suit. Without hesitation, Wilma approached the table, pulled Hilton’s right pants leg up and his sock down revealing a smooth expanse of cigar-tinted nylon.
Turning to the nervous mortician standing behind her, she said triumphantly, “Good job, Harold. Box him up.”
Chapter 10
As a group, the women stepped out onto the front porch of the funeral home. Clara glanced around, lowered her voice, and whispered to Wilma, "I assume you handled the panty hose problem?"
"Done," Wilma nodded, "and not a single run."
Wanda Jean breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you, Wilma!! I feel so much better knowing Hilton has his Hanes." Then she asked, a little uncertainly, "Do you think God will mind?"
Mae Ella grumbled something in the back of her throat. Clara shot her sister a reproving glare and said to Wanda Jean, "God knows everything already, honey. The panty hose aren’t a surprise to Him."
The widow's lower lip trembled. "I always thought the Almighty must have a plan giving Hilton so much fashion sense,” she said. “It’s such a unique quality in a man. I just wish Hilton could have used his gift."
An awkward silence fell over the group. No one knew quite what to say about Hilton’s “gift.” Wanda Jean seemed to think they were all sharing a moment of reverent grief. She gave each of them a grateful, watery smile as she squeezed their hands mumbling, “I just don’t know how I could get through this without you all.”
Wilma extricating herself from Wanda Jean’s grasp made an overt bid at escape. "Well,” she said, “I just hate to do this, but I best be getting back to the office. The Judge is coming in about his hemorrhoids this afternoon."
"Me, too," Mae Ella agreed readily. “Work. Not hemorrhoids.”
Clara cocked her eyebrow at both of them as if to say “traitors,” before turning to Sugar. "Do you have any more appointments today?" she asked.
Sugar, who was enjoying the show enormously, said, "Not until 5 o'clock. Why?"
"After we drop Wilma and Mae Ella off at work, I think we better go over to Rolene's with Wanda Jean and make sure there's enough food on hand," Clara said. "Now that the funeral's been scheduled, people are gonna be in and out of that house like a plague of locusts."
Wanda Jean's face fell. "Rolene’s not gonna like that," she said. "She's had to take two days off from the liquor store already and she's awful upset that the Sheriff won't let me go back to my own house."
Clara frowned. "That's not very sisterly of her."
"Well, it's not like we've ever been close," Wanda Jean said. "After all, she's younger than me."
The group was now walking toward the car, which gave Sugar a chance to ask, casually, "Why don't you go stay with Maybelline?"
All the women turned expectantly toward Wanda Jean. On the drive to the funeral home, Clara and Sugar had filled Wilma and Mae Ella in on Ida Belle Banners’ theory about Maybelline and Hank Howard. None of the women wanted to come right out and suggest that Wanda Jean’s sister might have been after Hilton, but in the interest of being thorough, they did have to consider the details. It wasn’t as if they were actually interested in the juicy details.
As she dug around in her purse looking for her car keys, Wanda Jean said, “I just don’t know about Maybelline. I worry about her. Ever since Blake died, she hasn't wanted much company. I guess you all heard how he was found?”
“We did,” Clara said. “He was in the bathroom, wasn’t he?”
Wanda Jean hesitated. “Yes,” she said, reluctantly. “The doctor thinks he might have been straining to, well . . . you know.”
“He had problems in that department, did he?” Mae Ella asked.
Blushing, Wanda Jean said, “Well, I realize this is an indelicate subject.”
“Going to the john or looking at dirty magazines in the john?” Mae Ella asked.
Wanda Jean blushed an even darker shade of crimson, “I guess both,” she said.
Telegraphing Mae Ella a look that plainly said, “keep your mouth shut,” Clara prompted Wanda Jean to go on. “You were saying about Maybelline, honey?”
“Oh, yes,” Wanda Jean said. “Ever since Blake was found . . . like that . . . Hilton and I tried and tried to get Maybelline to come over to our place to have supper and maybe watch some TV. She just wouldn’t ever come.”
“Did she say why?” Sugar asked.
“Just that she has things to do at home,” Wanda Jean says. “I just worry that she’s spending so much time by herself. She must be so lonely.”
"I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” Mae Ella grumbled.
Wanda J
ean, who was still looking for her keys, didn’t hear the remark over the sound of her rummaging. The women were now standing beside Clara's Ford Fairlane and Wanda Jean went on talking, oblivious to the undercurrent of the conversation
"I think Maybelline has been using the time to get closer to the Lord,” she said sincerely, finally holding up her keys in triumph. “It was such a shock for her to find out that Blake was . . . reading . . . in the bathroom."
"Reading?" Mae Ella said. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Clara fixed her sister with a glare and snapped, "That will be enough out of you." Turning to Wanda Jean, she asked in a gentler tone, "Honey, why do you think Maybelline is getting religion?"
Wanda Jean said earnestly, "She told me that ever since Blake died, she understands what heaven really is all about. I think she’s using her time to pray."
Sugar and Wilma coughed simultaneously and suddenly got very interested in watching the traffic on Main Street. Mae Ella clamped her mouth shut and left Clara to navigate the theological turn in the conversation. Choosing her words carefully, Clara said, "The Lord surely does work in mysterious ways," before quickly changing the subject. "Honey, why don’t you go on over to Rolene's now. Sugar and I will be there in a few minutes."
As the four of them watched Wanda Jean drive off, Mae Ella said, "Can she really be that dumb?"
"She's not dumb," Clara said. "Wanda Jean just likes to see the best in people. I mean, my God, would you look at the behavior she was putting up with from Hilton? If he was mine, you can damn well bet I’d have put a run in his pantyhose alright.”
The four of them burst out laughing. "Wilma," Sugar said, "what in the hell did you say to Harold Insall to get him to put those panty hose on Hilton?"
"I just explained to him that there could be worse talk on Main Street than a man being buried in Little Cigar nylons," Wilma said. "You know, I used that rumor."
Sugar gasped, "You didn't actually tell him you'd talk about that, did you?"
"I did," Wilma said. "Maybe it will make Harold think twice before he decides to get conscientious with a corpse again."
You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
