Fran's Favorite Links
www.randallhyltonshow.com
Chapters
Fran's hair was dark auburn
when the author photo for A
Tisket, A Tasket, A Fancy Stolen
Casket was made. When you see
her, it may be any color except
pink. She tried that years ago
and hated it.
First Chapter of
Hey, Diddle, Diddle, the Corpse & the Fiddle
ISBN 978-0-425-220917 www.penguin.com
The sweat trapped in the bottom of my bra was making me crazy. I slipped a
hand under my BLUEGRASS RULES tank top and pulled out the elastic. Water
trickled down my midriff, and I flapped the fabric to create a little breeze.
Cousin Roger of radio WXZW stood on the outdoor stage, sopping perspiration
from his forehead with a red bandana while he prayed into the microphone, "Heavenly
Father, be with us as we break for lunch and bring us back for some more of this fine
music and ..."
I didn't mean to. I promise I didn't mean to, but I peeked. Glanced around to see
who had their eyes closed. My friend Jane, sitting to my left, had her eyes squeezed shut.
Like it mattered. Politically correct folks call her visually handicapped, but I, Calamine
L. Parrish, call a spade a flipping shovel. Jane is blind -- completely, totally, politically-
incorrect blind.
The fellow on my right had his eyes open. His hair was as bushy as Kramer's on
the old Seinfeld show, and he ogled me like SpongeBob SquarePants making the big
eyes. He was grinning and staring at the skin exposed when I flapped my shirt. Like he'd
never seen a bare navel!
I snatched the top down and looked up at the stage, which was elevated several feet
above the ground. Three of the pickers -- Dean, Arnie, and Van -- stood motionless
behind Roger, heads bowed, eyes closed, sweat dripping off their noses. Dalmation!
Kenny Strickland, who played the standup, doghouse bass, had already unplugged his
equipment and was steady packing. During the prayer.
Though I try not to curse, not even kindergarten cussing, Kenny almost made me
say Shih tzu.
Tacky, tacky, tacky. Kenny Strickland had sung three gospel songs during
Broken Fence's set, and now he plodded back and forth behind Cousin Roger as he
beseeched God's blessings on the festival. Granted, Kenny wasn't up at the front where
Roger was praying into the center vocal mic, but he kept walking around. He carried
his personal amplifier and cords to the back of the stage and placed them near his
instrument case lying against the worn-looking, dark blue, velvet curtain at the rear.
Most outdoor stages don't have any drapery at all, but Happy Jack Wilburn
cleared part of Surcie Island and built the campground and stage area for this festival last
fall about the same time the county remodeled the cafetorium at St. Mary Elementary
School. The same school that now has new burgundy curtains. The same school where
Happy Jack's mother is principal.
Kenny reached down to pick up the empty case, grabbed it, and strained.
Wouldn't budge. He pushed it over and unzipped it.
Puh-leeze. What kind of wimp can't pick up a pile of cloth? I hoped someone
had filled it with rocks. Would serve Kenny right, what with him being so disrespectful
to God and Roger. Ex-cuuze me. That wasn't a hundred-watt idea. The case had been
on stage since Kenny emptied it and left it there at the beginning of the show. It had been
in sight of everyone in the audience since then, so I wasn't the only one who'd have seen
if somebody put something in it.
My eyes returned to Cousin Roger, and I tried to concentrate on his words.
"...and bless the food we consume to the nourishment of our bodies and to ..."
"Ooohh," a loud, collective gasp and assorted college level cuss words rose from
folks in the audience who hadn't bowed and closed. Heads popped up. My gaze darted
back to Kenny Strickland. The bass case now lay unzipped with the sides flapped out.
"What happened?" Jane's eyelids popped open beneath her rose-tinted sunglass
lenses, but, of course, she couldn't see the tiny Nike sticking out. I'd seen those gag
stuffed legs for sale at the truck stop in Beaufort, and I'd seen them sticking out the back
doors of eighteen wheelers on the highway. With the little blue-jean and tennis shoe
hanging out, it looked like a child caught in the door. Not humorous to me, and an
artificial limb protruding from the bass case during prayer was just as bad, if not worse.
Kenny's expression combined confusion and anger. He grabbed the kid-sized
tennis shoe and yanked. A small but complete body flopped onto the stage. Kenny
flinched, then keeled over flat on his back. Phlap!
Roger had stopped praying and turned to see what was going on. "What the...."
he said, but everybody was talking, and I doubt most folks heard the graduate-level third
word. The other musicians rushed over. Two of them fanned Kenny as he lay spread-
eagled on his back. Reminded me of an old Three Stooges routine. Other folks must
have thought it was a joke, too, because some of the audience laughed.
The tall, gray-haired guitarist knelt beside the mannequin. Dean Holdback. I'd
played banjo at bluegrass jams with him at Lou's Pickin' Parlor back when I lived in
Columbia. Dean placed his fingers against the carotid area, looked up, and solemnly
shook his head. My breath caught in my chest. I realized the figure might not be a
dummy. Not a joke. A real body.
A muscular bald-headed man in a green STAFF tee shirt climbed onto the stage
and bent over the small form, held the wrist, and touched the neck as Dean had. He stood
and stepped to one of the microphones. "Is there a doctor here? All security officers
report to your stations," he announced. "Everyone else, remain seated," he added when
several folks in the audience jumped from their seats.
A few of them rushed toward the stage to get a better look. Others headed toward
the path to the campground, following that age-old teacher admonition to get away when
trouble starts. They were stopped by more men who looked like bouncers in STAFF shirts
standing around the music arena. In a firmer, louder voice, the guy on stage repeated,
"Remain seated. Return to your seats!"
Jane's fingernails clawed into my arm. "Girlfriend, if you don't tell me what's going
on, I'll hit you," she said. That's how Jane and I are. Always polite to each other.
I leaned over and cupped my hand between my lips and Jane's ear. "I think there's a
dead body on the stage," I whispered. "It looks like a little boy."
"Callie Parrish, I swear. Corpses follow you around ever since you started working at the
funeral home. I guess somebody's been murdered, and you'll solve the crime."
"Not this time, Jane. I'm not getting involved."
That was my second unintentional fib of the way.
First Chapter of
A Tisket, A Tasket, A Fancy Stolen Casket
ISBN 978-0-425-21800-6 www.penguin.com
$6.99 U.S. $9.99 CAN
Eager to pump up my new underwear, I dashed into my apartment just as the phone rang. The machine answered with my message, "Callie here. Talk."
"This is Otis," I heard my boss say. "I know it's your day off, but Odell's in Columbia at the South Carolina Association of Undertakers meeting, and we've got a client." He cleared his throat. "Bobby Saxon drowned this morning."
I grabbed the cordless. "Bobby Saxon?"
"Yes, Bobby Saxon."
"Good grief. I need to call my brother John. Bobby was his best friend when they were teenagers. What happened?" I emptied the Victoria's Secret bag on the counter.
"Maid found him dead in the pool at the Sleep Easy Inn. Guess he got drunk again, fell in, and drowned."
"That's an accidental death, so you won't need me right away. There'll be an autopsy, won't there?" I held my new bra up to my chest and carried the telephone into the bedroom to look at myself in the mirror. The bra wasn't impressive over the T-shirt.
"Nope, no autopsy. That idiot coroner signed Bobby Saxon's death off as an accident with no investigation at all. Sheriff Harmon's furious."
"I'll be there as soon as I change clothes," I said.
"Make it fast. The widow's on the way over here to make plans."
I pressed the phone disconnect, glanced at the mirror again, and remembered how many times I'd heard my daddy say, "The good Lord gave men in the Parrish family all the brains and gave the women big knockers." When I developed, he added, "Seems like He gave Calamine some of both and not a whole lot of either."
Growing up with five older brothers, I knew lots of men love great big...well, Daddy calls 'em knockers, and my brothers call 'em hooters. My best friend Jane calls 'em headlights. Can't quite figure that out, especially since Jane is blind and has never even seen a headlight.
Jane was one reason I'd been shopping. Her cups runneth over, but for mine to run over, they'd have to be demitasse cups.
No way am I going under the knife for implants and risk all those complications, so on my day off from my job as cosmetologist at Middleton's Mortuary, I drove the hour-long trip to Victoria's Secret in Charleston. Bought myself a push-up, inflatable bra.
The sales clerk showed me how to operate the small, detachable pump and said, "Increase the size gradually, a little each day, to let people get used to your growth." I don't have a boyfriend since moving back to St. Mary, so I figured no one would notice if my bosom were growing. Let folks think I was developing at age thirty-two.
I put the new bra on the bed, dropped my jeans and racer-back tee on the floor, and pulled a black dress from my closet. People don't necessarily wear dark colors to funerals anymore, but the Middleton twins make black dresses a requirement of my job. No pants. Not even skirts. Black dresses.
Otis had sounded nervous. Probably pacing while he waited for me. I tried, I promise I tried to resist, but I couldn't keep myself from taking the time to inflate the new bra a tiny bit with its cute little pump. I fastened the garment on, turned sideways toward the mirror to admire my slight chest increase, pulled on the black dress, then sleeked my strawberry blonde hair into a bun. I ran out, jumped into my '66 Mustang, and sped toward Middleton's.
When I arrived, I found Otis standing in the open doorway staring out between the big white columns. Wooden rocking chairs and clay pots of seasonal flowers create an old-fashioned feeling of southern tradition on the veranda, which wraps around the front and both sides of the building. Those rockers and flowers always gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling until I heard an out-of-towner say the rocking chairs kinda reminded her of waiting for service at the Cracker Barrel. Kinda stole some of my pleasure.
Originally, the Middleton family lived on the second floor of the huge two-story clapboard house, but for the past fifteen years, the upstairs has been used for storage. Business occupies the downstairs, with kitchen, restrooms, offices, refrigeration area, preparation facilities, consulting parlors, and three slumber rooms.
No one sleeps in a slumber room. That's a euphemism for the area where a casketed body is displayed for visitation or a wake. Like folks really believe the people in those caskets are just sleeping.
When I saw Otis standing at the door, I pulled into a regular parking space at the front even though I have an assigned spot beside the loading dock near the employee entrance in the back.
Acorns from the ancient live oak trees made little plopping sounds on the rag-top roof of my Mustang. Autumn. My favorite season. St. Mary is beautiful year round, with Spanish moss draping twisted tree limbs, but I love fall. I've lived on the South Carolina coast most of my life, but I don't like extreme heat, and I hate being sweaty.
I parked and walked toward Otis, who met me halfway on the steps. "Callie," he said, "I'm glad you're here. I tried to reach you on your cell, but, as usual, you didn't have it on. There's no reason for us to supply you with a phone if we can't use to reach you. Bobby's wife called and said she's coming right over to make arrangements. Otis adjusted his tie, which was already perfectly aligned, and brushed a speck of invisible lint from his immaculate black suit jacket. Soft organ music played "How Great Thou Art" as we entered. At Middleton's, pressing the doorbell or opening an outside door sets off recorded hymns and gospel music.
"If Bobby Saxon drowned, why no autopsy?" I asked, ignoring the cell phone jab. When I do remember to turn it on, I misplace it and can't find it to answer calls anyway.
"No autopsy," Otis answered, "because Jed Amick thinks he'll be reelected coroner if he can campaign that he's saving money for the taxpayers."
"The body's not prepared yet, right?" "Prepared" is undertaker talk, which I call Funeralese, for "embalmed."
"No, but Odell won't be back until this afternoon, and I want you here for the planning session."
Inside, Otis stopped at the hall tree mirror and smoothed his tinted hair implants. It looked to me like he'd been in my work makeup kit again. I think he uses a little smudge of #14 on the crow's-feet by his eyes. Could be a shade darker, though, maybe #16, since he spends so much time in the tanning bed at Bronze Bods.
After Otis admired his appearance, he continued, "Just sit in on the session. If the widow has friends or family with her, you can go to your office, but I'm not comfortable alone with Betty Saxon."
"Betty? The last time I heard, Bobby wasn't married to a Betty."
"He married Betty Cross about six months ago."
"Bouncy Betty? We went to school together. Bobby Saxon hung out with my oldest brother, John. Bobby's gotta be thirteen or fourteen years older than Betty."
"Coroner's paperwork says Bobby was forty-five. Younger wife's not so unusual these days. Especially second wives. I guess it's okay for Bobby's fifth wife to be your age. Why do you call her 'Bouncy' Betty?" He smirked.
"From kindergarten on, Bouncy Betty Cross drove the teachers nuts. She was the most hyper kid in school. Couldn't be still. If I'd had a student like her, I would've quit teaching those five-year-olds long before I did. In high school, they still called her Bouncy Betty because she bounced in other ways. You'll see what I mean."
"Oh, I've seen her," Otis mumbled.
As we walked through the front hall, I checked the dark mahogany furniture for dust. The cleaning service comes in early every morning, but I always check for dust bunnies and to see if anything needs a quick touchup when I know customers are coming. But it was a waste of my time and effort. Otis was steadily wiping invisible spots off the antique furnishings with his pristine white handkerchief.
"Well, hello, Calamine Parrish!" Betty yelled from the back of the hall. And here I'd thought my daddy was the only one who still called me Calamine instead of Callie. Mama passed away right after my birth, and Daddy was drunk, really drunk, when he named me. He swears he was trying to think pink, something feminine, but all he could think of was calamine lotion. Thank heaven he didn't think of Pepto-Bismol.
Betty flounced through the employee entrance and rushed to give me a big hug. Buh-leeve me, Bouncy Betty was still bouncing and as loud as ever. Her voice screamed, and so did her fire engine red outfit set off by a gigantic scarlet patent leather tote bag.
"I haven't seen you since you went off to Columbia. Your hair looks better than that old mousy brown you had. Heard you'd come back to town looking different after a divorce. Was it your second or third?" Without waiting for me to tell her I'd been married only once, Betty reached for the knob on the door labeled with a little brass "Private" sign.
Moving faster than a greased pig on the Fourth of July, Otis grabbed Betty's elbow and steered her toward the front of the building. The "Private" door, which is kept locked, leads to the preparation rooms used to embalm and make up the deceased.
In the consulting parlor, Otis motioned Betty and me to comfortable, overstuffed chairs at the round conference table. "First," he began, using his perfect, soft, controlled comforting voice, the one they teach in Undertaking 101, "we here at Middleton's want to extend our deepest sympathy to you and the other members of your family."
Betty crossed her right leg over her left and began swinging her foot toward Otis. Her bright red miniskirt inched up her thighs, and her toeless, backless ruby-colored stiletto heel bounced away and flopped back with each flip of her foot.
"Don't bother with the sympathy stuff," Betty said. Giant silver loop earrings bobbled against her Clairol platinum blonde hair as she turned back and forth between Otis and me. "If Bobby hadn't died, I was gonna divorce him anyway. I don't want to waste lot of time on this funeral business, but I do want to give Bobby a big send-off."
Otis removed two forms from a drawer: a planning sheet and a general price list. "Before we begin your selections, Mrs. Saxon, let me get some information from you." He quickly asked the preliminary questions for the obituary notices and wrote her answers on the paper. Betty wanted lengthy write-ups in the State and the Beaufort Gazette as well as our usual publication in St. Mary Daily and the memorial section of the Middleton's Mortuary web page. Didn't seem concerned about the extra charges.
When Otis asked about insurance, Betty ignored him. Otis hesitated, but she didn't respond. I knew what that meant. Before he finished, Otis would press the issue of insurance and have her sign over part of a burial or life insurance policy. If there were no insurance, Betty would have to produce a credit card or certified check to pay.
Otis placed the price list in front of her and kept going, "Will the service be here in our chapel or at Mr. Saxon's home church?"
Betty guffawed. She pulled an ashtray close to her, dug a pack of Marlboros from her purse, and lit up. Otis and I both hate cigarette smoke, but Odell insists that ashtrays be available so smokers are less stressed during planning.
When Betty inhaled, she choked. I leaned over and patted her back. "I'm okay now," she coughed. "It cracked me up to think of Bobby in a church. We can have the funeral here, can't we?" She reversed legs and crossed left over right. Still swinging. Her other shoe flapped against her foot with its bright red toenails.
Otis gulped and subtly turned his head to the side as Betty blew smoke across the table. "Of course," he said. "Our chapel facilities are available." He tapped the price index. "You'll see all of our services and costs itemized right here."
Betty gave the form a quick look. "I'm not really interested in prices," she said. "I want to know when we can bury him."
"Mr. Saxon is our only guest at the moment, so you may set whatever time is convenient to you and your family. You might consider visitation tomorrow evening and the services Wednesday. Or, if family and friends will be coming from out of town, you may want to wait a few days for their arrival."
Betty snuffed out the cigarette and tapped her shiny crimson fingernails on the table beside her. "I meant, when will Bobby's body be available? There'll have to be an autopsy, won't there?"
Otis put on his most consoling smile. "No problem. Mr. Saxon has been released to us. Coroner Amick was at the pool when we picked up Mr. Saxon from the Sleep Easy Inn. Papers are complete. Cause of death is listed as drowning. Manner of death, accidental."
Before I came to work at Middleton's, I wouldn't have known how slack Jed Amick was. Technically, there should be an autopsy anytime there's a death that's not obviously due to natural causes.
"We can provide a minister, an organist, and a soloist if you like," Otis continued.
"All that." Betty laughed. "All that and a bag of chips." She crossed her right leg back over the left. She was swinging her leg so fast that her shoe flew off and hit the plush carpet. Otis picked it up with his thumb and forefinger. Daintily, he held it out to her. Betty slipped it on without a word. She went right back to swinging, though not quite so energetically.
"Chips?" Otis wore a puzzled frown. "Do you want a reception with chips and dip?"
"It's an expression," I said. "She means she wants the very nicest possible service."
"Yes, absolutely the best," Betty said. "I want visitation tomorrow evening, seven to nine, with refreshments. We'll plant him Wednesday."
"Afternoon service?" Otis asked as he wrote on the planning form.
"Morning. Definitely morning. No reason to ruin the whole day."
My mouth dropped open. During the entire time I'd worked for Middleton's, I'd never before seen Otis display a visible reaction to anything a mourner said. This time, one eyebrow rose a tiny bit. I closed my mouth, glad neither of them was looking at me. Burying a spouse is expected to ruin a whole day. Usually a lot more.
"Perhaps eleven?" Otis suggested.
"Ten. So it doesn't interfere with anyone's lunch plans," Betty answered.
Otis's other eyebrow rose. He removed another paper from a drawer and handed it to Betty. "This is a CPL," he said. "We're required by law to give you the casket price list before you make your decision." Otis stood. "Please come with us to make your selections."
"My what?" Betty looked at me. She seemed more comfortable asking me questions instead of Otis.
"Your selections," I said as I stood. "You'll need to choose a casket and burial garments, unless you plan to bring in some of Mr. Saxon's clothes."
"Why don't I just let you plan the whole thing, Calamine?"
"We can't do that," I said.
"Why not?"
"There are laws," I answered, "to prevent unscrupulous funeral homes from being unfair to grieving families. Of course, Middleton's would never take advantage of anyone, but we must follow the regulations."
"Who's grieving? I just want it to be real nice so people can't say I skimped on Bobby's funeral to keep more of his insurance money."
"Middleton's will secure death certificates and be glad to assist you with all insurance forms," Otis said with a beaming smile.
"Bobby took out a big policy on himself and one on me when we married," Betty said. "Half million each. I can afford a big funeral." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Bobby had a drinking problem, but he limited his boozing to nights and weekends. He made good money selling cars. Top salesman at GMC Truck Corral in Beaufort." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Our marriage wasn't working, but since he bought that big policy and died before the divorce, I want to send him off in high style." Betty's attitude was swinging like a pendulum. But then, I'd never understood her.
"Yes, we understand." Otis patted her right hand with his left as he pulled out an insurance assignment form with his right. He explained to Betty that she'd need to sign a form and bring the policy to him. Betty said, "No problem-o. I've got the policy and our marriage license right here in my bag."
By the time Bouncy Betty bounced out, she'd signed the finalized plans for a Gates Exquisite bronze casket with innerspring mattress and silver handles, an Eternal vault with extended warranty, a gigantic spray of white roses, a paid preacher, a small musical ensemble, an organist, and a vocalist. Top-of-the-line in every way. Catered food for the visitation.
Lots of chips.