by Lexi George
Evie dropped into a chair in the shoe section of the store to wait. Tweedy muttered to himself as he selected three or four dress shirts and neckties to match, and handed them into the changing rooms.
“What is this?” Brand stuck a heavily muscled arm through the opening at the top of latticed dressing room door. A necktie dangled from his fingertips.
“It’s a necktie.” Tweedy rolled his eyes at Evie.
“Hmm,” Brand said. “What is its purpose?”
“Purpose?” Tweedy rubbed his temples. Evie sympathized with him. She had the beginnings of a headache too. “Heck, I don’t think it has a purpose. It just looks good.”
“Ah,” Brand said. “It is decorative. No neckties.”
The neckties flew over the top of the dressing room doors and settled in a bright pool at Tweedy’s feet.
Tweedy gave her an incredulous look. “Who are these people and what planet are they from? I thought you said they were looking for something conservative to wear to the funeral, but they don’t know what a necktie is?”
Oh, crap, she wasn’t such a good liar, after all. “Conservative in an—uh—out there kind of way.” Tweedy stared at her, and she lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “You know how unconventional these big-city artsy-fartsy types can be.”
“Big city? You mean they’re from Mobile?”
“Farther away.”
Tweedy’s eyes grew round. “Atlanta?”
The dressing room doors opened, and Brand and Ansgar stepped out. Evie gaped at them, feeling a little lightheaded. The super fine wool trousers fit the two men as though tailormade, and the cotton shirts they wore molded themselves to a pair of wide, muscled chests.
Wow. Double wow. Great googly mooglies.
“Well, I declare.” Looking befuddled, Tweedy fiddled with the tribble of hair at the top of his forehead. “I’d have bet my bottom dollar those trousers wouldn’t fit, but they’re perfect. Must have been sized wrong or something.”
He shook his head and hurried into the dressing room to get their discarded tags.
Brand came to a halt in front of her. “What do you think, Mistress Evie? Will we do?”
Evie realized she was staring and flushed. “Yeah, you’ll do.”
“Good.” Brand strode toward the front of the store. “Ansgar, settle our bill with the Tweedy human. I must find Adara.”
“Of course, brother. Evangeline and I will join you shortly.” Ansgar straightened his cuffs. “Oh, I almost forgot. Evangeline may have sighted one of the djegrali on the street a few moments ago.”
Brand halted, his broad shoulders stiff. “What did you say?”
The undercurrent of violence in the softly spoken words sent a warning bell jangling in Evie’s head. Tiger, tiger burning bright. She cut her eyes at Ansgar. He was either unfazed by Brand’s ill temper, or he was channeling Captain Oblivious.
“Evangeline thinks she saw the dead man Dwight Farris standing outside the shop,” Ansgar said in his calm, detached way. “Since dead men do not typically walk about in the light of day, I assume it was one of the djegrali.”
Brand turned. His eyes burned with a predatory glow. “Why did you not tell me this sooner?”
Ansgar shrugged. “I did not see the creature myself, so I could not be sure.”
“For your sake, you had better hope Mistress Evie was mistaken,” Brand said through his teeth.
The door slammed, and he was gone.
Evie jumped to her feet. “He thinks that thing is after Addy, doesn’t he? We’ve got to warn her!”
“Do not be alarmed, Evangeline. Brand will take care of the djegrali and your friend. Adara is safe, I promise you.”
“But—”
She swallowed her protest as Tweedy bustled out of the dressing rooms. “I thought I’d put your other clothes in a bag,” he said, looking puzzled, “but they aren’t there.”
“We took care of them,” Ansgar said. “Do not trouble yourself.”
“But I didn’t see—” Tweedy took a deep breath. “Forget it. I’ll ring you up.”
Ansgar stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the cash register and Tweedy. “What passes for coin in this plane?” he asked in a low voice.
“Huh?”
“Recompense, payment, currency.”
“Oh, you mean money. I’m afraid all I have is a twenty.”
“I do not expect you to pay for my clothes, Evangeline. Show me this twenty of yours.”
Confused, Evie pulled her wallet out of her purse and handed him the bill.
Ansgar took the twenty from her and studied it carefully, front and back. “It is flimsy and somewhat fragile, but much easier to carry than gold or jewels, is it not?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
A flat leather pouch appeared in his hand as if by magic.
Evie blinked. “Whoa, how’d you do that?”
“What, this?” The pouch vanished, then reappeared in his hand. “I keep it hidden in plain sight, as I do my quiver and bow.”
“Q-quiver and bow?”
“Brand and I use a concealing charm to shield our weapons from humans so as not to cause undue alarm. You did not notice Uriel, Brand’s flaming sword?”
Addy did say something to Meredith in the flower shop about weapons, but Evie thought she was kidding. “Uh, no, can’t say as I did.”
Ansgar chuckled. “Humans. They see what they want to see.”
He opened the pouch and slipped her twenty-dollar bill inside. The pouch glowed briefly, bright as a Christmas tree, and grew thick. Ansgar reached inside the swollen purse and handed Evie a twenty-dollar bill. Curious, she peeked inside the pouch. The leather purse bulged with good old American greenbacks.
“Holy smokes, you really are from another planet!”
“Not another planet, Evangeline, another dimension. I know you are puzzled, and that you must have many questions.”
“Yeah. Oh, yeah. But, right now only one comes to mind.”
“What is it? Tell me what troubles you. I will do my best to answer you.”
She raised her eyes to his. “Where can I get me a purse like that?”
Chapter Seven
The town of Hannah nestled in a cluster of rolling hills created during the Cretaceous period when a chunk of rock tired of spinning through space and crashed into Behr County, rumpling the earth like an unmade bed. Hannah’s business section was situated at the south end of Main Street, a frayed gray ribbon of asphalt that ran past the flower shop and other stores and the Methodist and Baptist churches, and chugged up a steep hill to the town square. At the top of the ridge, Main Street split into a round-about that circled the park and rolled down the hill on the other side, spilling into North Florida where it became Highway 97. The funeral home was located at the north end of Main Street past the river bridge and near the edge of town.
Addy flew down the street, her thoughts focused on avoiding a tongue-lashing from her mother. She skidded to a stop at the employee’s entrance of Corwin’s and paused to finger-comb her hair and smooth her twisted skirt. She smelled something burning and looked down. Good grief, her shoes were smoking and she’d blown a heel. She limped inside and hurried down the hall to State Room A or the “Camellia Room” as Mama liked to call it.
Mr. Farris’s casket stood open against the right wall. Her gaze skittered past the burial box and moved on. She did not want to see Mr. Dead Dude. Death was good business. Death was money. Death was dependable. The flower shop wouldn’t survive without dead people. Sooner or later, everybody took the old dirt nap. But the simple truth was Addy hated dead people. She despised the Southern ritual of mumbling over the body. Don’t he look natural, people would say. What did they mean? Her brother Shep was an excellent mortician, took pride in his work, but she’d never seen a dead person she thought looked good. How could anybody look natural with their cheeks jammed full of cotton balls and their lips superglued shut?
She looked around. No sign of Mam
a. Thank God. Maybe she could finish what she had to do and slip back out without getting caught. So she was a major league weenie. But, she did not want to face her mother, not yet. Setting down the basket of flowers, she headed for the knot of memorial sprays clustered in one corner of the room and grabbed a standing arrangement of gladiolas and carnations. A familiar ladylike Southern drawl drew her up short.
“Adara Jean Corwin, what have you done to your hair?”
Startled, Addy dropped the flower arrangement. Elegantly coiffed and dressed in a tasteful linen suit and matching heels, Bitsy Corwin glared at her from the doorway.
“God, Mama, you scared the pea turkey out of me.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, young lady, and answer my question. What on earth have you done to your hair?”
Addy lifted the wire frame with care and placed the arrangement at one end of the casket. She whirled and trotted across the room for another. Always make yourself a moving target. That much she’d learned. Stand still and you were dead meat. “Nothing, Mama, it was like this when I woke up this morning.”
Addy felt her mother’s laser vision bore into her back and picked up the pace. It was no use, she was done for. She felt her liver curl and her lungs shrivel to husks under the heat of that maternal stare. The woman should be requisitioned by the government as a weapon of mass destruction, for Pete’s sake. She was a thermonuclear device. Point her at the enemy, and wham! Summa exstinctio maternus. Total extinction by the mama.
“Uh huh,” her mother said. “If you think I’m stupid enough to swallow that line, you got another think coming. Hair doesn’t turn white overnight unless you’re a mother—put those two sprays of roses over there . . . no, not there, further to the right . . . and we both know you’re not that. Don’t even have a boyfriend, though Lord knows I’ve introduced you to every eligible bachelor in town. You’re too picky, Adara Jean, and that’s the truth. I despair of having grandchildren.”
Oh, dear Gussie, her mother had whipped out the grandchildren card. Next came the wilting ovaries speech. Addy’s, of course. At fifty-five her mother had long since sailed down the menopausal highway. Holding a peace lily in front of her like a shield, Addy turned. “You have two beautiful grandchildren, Mama, or are you forgetting about Shep?”
“You two talking about me again? You can’t help yourselves, can you?” Addy’s big brother Shep stood in the doorway dressed in the somber hues of the professional undertaker. Shep’s permapressed blond hair was as neat and crisply starched as the spotless white shirt he wore. He smiled and walked over to Addy. “Hey, Cotton Top, what’s with the new do? You look kind of like that Tempest chick from X-Men.”
“You mean Storm,” Addy murmured.
“Yeah, that’s it, Storm.”
“It’s dreadful.” Mama shuddered. “Peroxide blonde. I can’t imagine what possessed her. The roots are going to be a nightmare.”
“Hello, I can hear you.” Addy waved a hand at them. “Remember me, the Invisible Woman? I’m standing right here.”
It was a waste of time. Her two nearest and dearest went on talking about her like she wasn’t in the room. Nothing new about that. Shep was Mama’s right-hand man, had been for fifteen years since Daddy died. Mama always went to Shep when she had a “problem” with Addy. Translation: Addy wouldn’t do what Mama wanted. Good old Shep, he always went to bat for her. Calmed Mama down and got her off Addy’s case. Nothing fazed Shep, not even Mama. And that was saying something, ’cause Mama could piss off the Pope. Shep was as laid back as a rat in a quaalude factory. Shep, the Teflon Man, the perfect son; the one who stayed to run the family business. Unlike Addy, who’d hauled boogie out of Dead Folks Be Us as soon as she could.
“Relax, Mama, it’s a wig,” Shep said. “You know Addy wouldn’t bleach her hair.”
“Oh, thank heavens. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself. I was so upset. You’re right, son. Of course it’s a wig.”
Oh, so she believed Shep, but not her? Peachy. Still, it was her way out. Keep her mouth shut and let Mama think she wore a wig. No scenes, no recriminations, no long-suffering looks. Be quiet and go with the flow.
Addy set the peace lily down with the other potted plants in front of the casket.
“It’s not a wig,” she heard herself say. What was the matter with her? Was she nuts? “It’s my hair and, no, Mama, I did not bleach it. And I’m sorry if you don’t like it, because it’s going to stay this way. I’m not sure I could change it if I wanted to.”
Shep chuckled. “She’s kidding, Mama, pulling your leg. Hair doesn’t grow six inches overnight.”
Her mother’s lips thinned. “Stop kidding around, young lady, and take that wig off right this minute before folks start to arrive. You want people to think you’re cheap?”
“Cheap? That’s not fair, Mama,” Shep said. “I think Sis looks gorgeous. That pale blond hair with her brown eyes is a killer combination.”
Her mother’s expression softened. “Well, of course she’s gorgeous. She’d look good with a chicken on her head, but that’s beside the point. Everybody will be looking at that wig. We don’t want to take away from Dwight’s Big Day.”
“Big day?” Addy stared at her mother. “The man’s not having a party, Mama. He’s dead. And you can be darn sure he won’t care what color my hair is!”
“But his family might, Adara. It’s our job to make a painful time easier for them. So, for the last time, take off that wig.”
Something snapped inside Addy. She danced up and down in front of the casket. More of a lopsided jig thanks to her broken shoe. “And for the last time, I’m telling you it’s not a wig!” She grabbed her hair in both hands and yanked. “See, it won’t come off. Here, Mama, pull on it yourself, since you don’t believe me.”
She knew she must look like a crazy person with her wild hair and her raggedy shoes. The very least she expected was a lecture from the Mom-i-nator. Never mind that she wasn’t using her inside voice. She was dancing right smack dab in front of Old Man Farris’s bone bucket, and he was a good Southern Baptist. Well, maybe good was a bit of a stretch. The man was a serial adulterer, after all. His tally whacker had been handled more than a FedEx package. But Dwight Farris never danced, unless you counted the horizontal mambo, so doing the funeral home bop in front of his casket was definitely uncool.
But, to her surprise Mama and Shep did not say a word. Her first real hissy fit since the age of thirteen when Mama made her go to the country club Christmas dance with Pootie Jones—dubbed Pootie by folks because of the dooky-scented cloud of effluvium that hovered around him like rush hour smog over Mexico City—and neither one of them paid her any mind. They stared at the casket behind her, their faces all waxy and funny. Shep looked rattled, and that in and of itself scared Addy. Nothing rattled Shep. Shep was so cool his boxer shorts were refrigerated. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. She should look. She knew she should look. She did not want to look. Look and she’d get dead man cooties on her eyeballs. Gross.
She looked anyway.
The casket was empty. The white satin lining bore the imprint of the body, but Dwight Farris was gone.
“Where’d he go?” Shep sounded stunned.
Her mother turned an accusing glare on her. “Addy, did you do something with Mr. Farris?”
“Sure, Mama, I got him right here in my back pocket. Of course I didn’t do anything with him! What do you think I would do with him?”
“I’ve never lost a body before.” Shep’s tone was conversational. “Oh, sure, one or two have hit the floor while I was working on them. But I figure bodies are like Oreos and the ten-second rule applies. No big deal. But this . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do about this.”
“Maybe it’s somebody’s idea of a prank,” Addy suggested, desperate to help Poor Shep. He looked so forlorn. “You know, like when the seniors roll the mayor’s yard at homecoming.”
“You think somebody stol
e Old Man Farris?” Shep groaned. “Oh, Lord, I wonder if Corwin’s is liable. I’d better call Sammy Gordon down at Bama Farms and check on our coverage.”
Great, she’d made things worse. Way to go, Addy.
Her mother shot her a basilisk glare. “Don’t you worry about it, son. We’ll find him. He can’t have gone far.”
“Find who?”
The three of them jumped like they’d been shot, and spun around. Shirley Farris, Dwight’s wife, stood in the doorway. Everything about Shirley was round, her face, her bright blue eyes, her melon-shaped breasts and wide hips. She was a round little blueberry of a woman in a belted Sunday dress and orthopedic shoes. Her gray hair was round, too, worn in tightly permed sausage curls that bounced when she walked. She was as soft and plump as a newly risen yeast roll, a cherubic Southern Mrs. Santa Claus with rosy cheeks, a double chin, and a tiny pink bow of a mouth. If the Teletubbies had a mom, it would be Shirley Farris. Addy could see her tripping across the sterile, green golf course Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po called home.
“Find who?” Shirley repeated. She tilted her head and widened her baby doll eyes at them. “Is something wrong?”
Mama’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. Beside her, Shep made strangling noises. Great, both of them down for the count. Addy took a deep breath and gave Mrs. Farris a bright smile.
“Wrong is maybe too harsh a word, but we do have the teensiest, little situation here with Mr. Farris.”
A tiny, adorable wrinkle formed in the space between Shirley’s brows. “Oh, dear, was the blue suit too small? He has put on a few pounds in the last few years. Maybe we should have gone with the gray.”
“No, ma’am, the suit is not the problem.” Addy looked past Shirley’s plump figure. The rest of the family was gathered in the hall for the visitation . . . visitation for a dead man who’d taken a powder. Oh, Lord, things were about to get ugly. Addy waited, hoping—no, expecting—her take-charge mom to leap in and take over. But, for once, Bitsy seemed content to let her daughter do all the talking. Huh? Who would’ve guessed that all it took to shut Mama up was an itinerant corpse? Either that or she’d had a stroke. Addy forged ahead. “It’s—uh—like this. Mr. Farris is not exactly where we want him to be.”
