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www.randallhyltonshow.com
Chapters
Fran's hair was dark auburn
when this author photo was made.
When you see her, it may be any
color except pink. She tried that
years ago and hated it.
First Chapter of
Melvin Dawkins floated facedown in the steamy, bubbling water of the hot tub. As I looked down at him, I noticed that the bodice of my black dress lay flat against my chest.
Dalmation! I'd dressed so quickly when the call came in the middle of the night that I'd forgotten my bra, and my inflatable underwear is my bosom. I directed my attention back to Dr. Melvin.
Nekkid as a jay bird. Not that Blue Jays are any more nude -- or is it nuder? -- than other birds, but Daddy used that expression all the time when I was growing up, and it was the first thing that popped into my mind that night out in the Dawkins's back yard.
Next thing I thought, I said aloud. "Where's the coroner?"
"What do you mean?" asked the slender, red-headed lady standing on the wooden deck surrounding the tub. She pulled her eyelet cover-up tighter across her middle and retied the sash.
"If you can't get
him out by yourself," she continued,
"I'll help you. I never figured Middleton's Mortuary would send a girl
out by herself to pick up the body."
Girl? Puh-leeze. I'm almost thirty-three years old, and thanks to my inflatable bra, I'm way more than thirty-three in the bust. At least when I don't get waked up in the middle of the night and forget to put it on. I'm not a girl; I'm a woman. A lady trained by the Middleton twins to always be polite and patient with customers, even if some woman younger than I am just called me a girl.
"I mean that someone has to pronounce a person dead before we can transport the deceased to the funeral home." I used my best, most comforting, Funeralese tone. "And by the way, where is Mrs. Dawkins? I'd like to speak to the person who called."
The woman sniffed. Not a tearful sniffle, a sniff of disdain. "I am Mrs. Dawkins, and I called Middleton's Mortuary," she said. The person who answered the phone didn't say one word about contacting someone else. I called and told her to come get Mel as soon as I found him. I gave her pacific directions."
She pointed toward the hot tub. "You work for the funeral home, and you can't tell he's not alive? I've never seen a corpse out of a casket before and I know he's dead."
I was busy trying to determine what pacific directions she could give me on the South Carolina coast of the Atlantic Ocean. She must have meant "specific."
"Was Dr. Melvin under Hospice care?" I said. "If he was, his Hospice nurse can take care of the paper work."
She shook her head no and asked, "Why do you call him doctor? Melvin was a pharmacist, not a doctor."
"You must not have grown up around here," I said. "All of us kids in St. Mary called him 'Doctor' Melvin when we were growing up. I don't really know why. That's just what my daddy told me to call him. Anyway, if Dr. Melvin wasn't under Hospice care, the coroner has to come."
"Then why did you suggest that nurse?"
"Doesn't matter." In the Low Country of South Carolina, terminally ill patients who've been under Hospice care can be pronounced dead by the Hospice nurse. A few months back, I'd heard that Dr. Melvin retired from the St. Mary Pharmacy. I didn't know if he left because of illness, but if the shoe doesn't fit, no need to try to wear it.
I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone before realizing I'd forgotten it again. "May I use your telephone?" I reached toward the red-head.
"Don't have one out here. I called you from the kitchen. Come on, we'll go in the house." She looked at Dr. Melvin again. His silver hair swirled around on the bubbly waves like a child's finger painting. "Do you think we should pull him out before we go in?"
"No, ma'am. We have to leave him where he is."
There I was. In trouble again for not following instructions. I knew better. I promise I knew better than to go for a body pick-up alone during the middle of the night. Well, actually in the wee hours of the morning.
My bosses, Otis and Odell Middleton, had left me in charge of Middleton's Mortuary for three days while they went to Atlanta for an undertakers' seminar. They'd be back before we opened the next day. Otis had told me I could transfer the phone to my apartment each night, but I was supposed to call Jake, one of our part -time drivers, if we had a pick-up call.
Instead, I'd chosen to take the funeral coach, Funeralese for hearse, myself, thinking I could prove my abilities. Never crossed my mind to question what authorities were at the Dawkins home. Now Sheriff Harmon would know I'd goofed, and he'd tell the Middletons.
Mrs. Dawkins pushed her damp hair away from her forehead and signed. A long, loud sigh. I couldn't tell if the sound was to bring my attention from my thoughts back to the situation or to express her feelings. She turned and walked up the inlaid stone path to the back door of the house.
The paving stones were patterned with little mosaic roosters on them. I followed her into a tidy kitchen decorated with more roosters. I mean everywhere. Wallpaper, canisters, dishcloths, even one of those half-circle rugs in front of the sink with a big rooster on it. Roosters printed on everything.
Only one thing in the kitchen was more predominant than those roosters: baked goods. Pies, cakes, platters of cookies, and loaves of home-cooked breads covered the table and counter tops. All wrapped in Saran Wrap. "Do you like to bake?" I asked conversationally. Duh.
"No, Mel bakes." Her answer was short and clipped. "There's the phone." She pointed toward an old black AT&T rotary, probably been on the wall since the fifties or sixties. I dialed 9 -- click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click -- 1 --click -- 1 -- click. Lined up on the counter beneath the telephone, bottles and jars of vitamins and food supplements filled four rows. Must have been thirty or forty containers of pills and powders.
After reporting what might be an accidental drowning although Dr. Melvin could just as well have suffered a massive stroke or heart attack, I asked Mrs. Dawkins if she'd prefer to wait inside the house or go back outside with me.
It seemed disrespectful to leave Dr. Melvin alone. He'd filled all the prescriptions for nasty pink medicine when I was a child, and he'd sold me all the girly things my brothers and Daddy refused to go for when I reached adolescence. He'd handled much of what my mother would have if she hadn't died when I was born.
"I really just want to get in bed and cry," Mrs. Dawkins said, but I think I should wait with Mel until you take him to the funeral home." She pulled the short robe closer around her slender frame and headed out the door. I'd bet that she was commando under that cover-up. I was trailing behind her when a woman's scream cut through the night like a surgeon's scalpel through flesh.
What now? I thought. If this were one of the mysteries I read, someone would have stolen Melvin's body. No time to speculate. I dashed out, almost expecting the body to have disappeared, but Dr. Melvin still floated. The screaming came from Mrs. Dawkins, and she wasn't yelling about her husband. Near the split rail fence at the edge of the yard stood a very good-looking dude.
Ex-cuuze me. I was on a pick-up call for the funeral home to transport a man I'd known and liked my whole life. What was I doing thinking about how handsome this stranger was? Must have been hormonal. Then I realized Mrs. Dawkins wasn't just screeching. She was yelling words, "What are you doing here?"
The man stepped forward, closer to us. "What's happened?" he asked in a smooth voice with a heavy Charleston drawl and motioned toward the hot tub.
For the first time since I'd arrived, Mrs. Dawkins burst into sobs with giant tear drops pouring from her dark green eyes. "Mel and I were relaxing in the Jacuzzi. I went in the house to get some wine, and when I came back out, he looked like he does now. I knew he was dead, and I didn't know what to do. There's only one funeral home listed in the phone book for St. Mary. I called them. Now, this woman says the sheriff and coroner have to come before she can take Mel out of the tub."
"That makes sense," the stranger said, "but did you check his pulse when you found him like this?"
"I held his wrist, but I didn't feel anything. That's why I didn't call 911. Just look at my poor Mel. He was exactly like that when I came out. I could tell he was dead or I wouldn't have called a funeral home."
The man walked to the hot tub, bent over, and lifted Dr. Melvin's arm. He held the wrist more than a minute, then felt Dr. Melvin's carotid artery. He shook his head no at Mrs. Dawkins before turning his attention toward me. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Callie Parrish. I work for Middleton's Mortuary, and I thought that Mr. Dawkins had already been pronounced."
"I'm Levi Pinckney, a friend of Roselle's from Charleston. I stopped when I drove by and saw the hearse."
"What are you doing in St Mary and why were you driving by my house?" Mrs. Dawkins interrupted. She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.
"I came down here a few weeks ago, and I drive by sometimes because it makes me feel better about you. I guess I'm behaving like a jerk, worrying about you all the time."
Before Levi continued, Sheriff Harmon stepped through the gate. Jed Amick, the coroner of St. Mary, who has an amazing resemblance to Ichabod Crane, shuffled in right behind him.
"Callie," the sheriff said, "where's Otis or Odell?"
"They've gone to Georgia and left me in charge. They'll be back tomorrow. Well, since it's past midnight, they'll be back later this morning. Dr. Melvin's over there in the hot tub." I pointed. Jed sauntered over and peered at Dr. Melvin in the bubbly water. "I didn't know Mr. Amick hadn't been called when I came," I added.
"And she didn't say a word about you or the coroner when I called her," Mrs. Dawkins protested.
"You called Callie? What's your relationship to Mr. Dawkins?" Harmon asked without pausing for a response to his first question.
"He's my husband. I'm Roselle Dawkins. We've only been back from our honeymoon a few weeks. Mel took me to Greece. The hot tub in our hotel suite was so much fun that Mel had this Jacuzzi put in for us at home. Tonight was our first time in it." She burst into tears again. "We're still newlyweds."
Levi stepped beside her and even if she didn't want him there, she had no qualms about letting him hold her close against his chest while she cried. I wondered what their relationship was -- ex-husband and wife?
The men who attract me are usually tall. This Levi Pinckney wasn't a lot taller than I am, and a few inches over five feet, four isn't even average for a man. His disheveled dark, curly hair fell forward over part of his forehead, and his deep brown eyes reflected concern for Mrs. Dawkins, but he still projected pheromoans in all directions. I know that's not how to spell that word, but it's what my friend Jane and I call that sensuality that just seems to emanate from some men.
The man hadn't even looked at me, but I sure wished I had on my bra. Buh-leeve me. I would have been happier if I'd had it on and had inflated it a little more than I usually did. I grew up with five brothers, so I know that most males react to healthy female chests.
"Callie?" Sheriff Harmon called me. "Did you phone one of the part-timers to meet you here?"
"No, sir," I answered.
"Jed's going to need an autopsy on Melvin to determine cause of death. We'll have to send him to Charleston."
"Are you going to call in forensics?" I asked.
"No, I don't see any signs of foul play," Sheriff Harmon responded. "Jed thinks this appears to be natural, but we have to know cause of death. You'll need one of Middleton's part-time drivers to take Melvin to the medical university."
In South Carolina, we don't have medical examiners. Our coroner here in Jade County is an elected official who sends bodies to MUSC -- the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston -- when a postmortem exam is needed.
"Otis and Odell are due back this morning. I can drive Dr. Melvin myself and be home before I'm scheduled for work this afternoon." I glanced at the Jacuzzi. Mrs. Dawkins had turned off the jets and was showing the coroner how to drain the tub. Levi Pinckney was helping them. The part of me who thinks I'm Kinsey Millhone instead of Callie Parrish wondered if they should save a sample of the water in case Melvin didn't die of natural causes, but I had enough sense not to mention one of my wild ideas.
"May I use your telephone again?" I asked Mrs. Dawkins.
"Sure," she answered. "I'm going in myself and get dressed. I know I won't be able to sleep anymore tonight, and it's cooler out of the water than it was in the tub. I don't want to catch ammonia."
I did a quick double-take at the woman's fear of catching "ammonia" in the June heat of the southern coast, then returned to the rooster kitchen of baked goods and vitamins to dial my friend Jane's number.
"What do you mean calling me before sunrise?" she demanded. "Roxanne's on the other line."
"Dr. Melvin died. I'm taking him to Charleston. By the time I get there, deliver him, and have breakfast, I won't have to wait too long for Victoria's Secret to open. I'm going shopping."
"What about the funeral home?"
"Otis and Odell are already scheduled to open this morning. We don't have any clients right now, and the mortuary phone is forwarded to my cell. I'm not due in to work until four this afternoon." Mental note: Go by my apartment and pick up the cell phone before leaving town.
"Roxanne will speed up. Can I go?"
"If you'll behave."
"I'll try."
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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
$6.99 U.S.
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 lik
e 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.