Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree

Praise for the Callie Parrish Mysteries

“… all ‘I’s’ dotted and ‘T’s’ crossed, Rizer proves her mettle by presenting us with such a gripping story of personal loss, as a loved one fades slowly away, yet she never lets this overpower or derail the mystery or humor. A difficult feat, but one she handles with a hand so deft that I sometimes found myself laughing through misty eyes.”

—Dixon Hill,
Sleuthsayer Mystery
Author
 

“What a wonderfully realized set of characters in an authentic and welcoming sense of place. Callie is wonderful! It’s such fun following her and very moving as well.”

—David Dean, Author of
The Thirteenth Child
.

“Callie Parrish is a hoot! I laughed so hard I dropped my book in the bathtub.”

—Gwen Hunter, Author of the
Rhea Lynch, M.D. Suspense Mysteries
, the
Delande Saga
, and more.

“Fran Rizer’s Callie Parrish and St. Mary, S.C., are as Southern as fried chicken and sweet tea—and just as delightful.”

—Walter Edgar,
Walter Edgar’s Journal
, SCETV Radio.

“A lively sleuth who manages to make funeral homes funny.”
 

—Maggie Sefton, Author of the
Molly Mallone Suspense Mysteries
and the
Kelly Flinn Knitting Mystery Series
.

The Callie Parrish Mysteries by Fran Rizer

A Tisket, a Tasket, a Fancy Stolen Casket

Hey Diddle, Diddle, the Corpse and the Fiddle

Rub-a-Dub, Dub, There’s a Dead Man in the Tub

(published as Casket Case)

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, There’s a Body in the Car

Mother Hubbard Has A Corpse in the Cupboard

A Corpse Under The Christmas Tree

A Corpse Under The Christmas Tree

ISBN 978-1-62268-051-1

Copyright © 2013 by Fran Rizer

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information contact Bella Rosa Books, P.O. Box 4251 CRS, Rock Hill, SC 29732. Or online at
 
www.bellarosabooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Also available from Trade Paperback: ISBN 978-1-62268-050-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013953499

Cover design by: David Smoak Graphic Design

BellaRosaBooks and logo are trademarks of Bella Rosa Books.

Dedicated to my grandson

Nathaniel Aeden Rizer

and my sons

Nathan Randolph Rizer

and

Adam Everett Rizer

in appreciation for their

ideas, inspiration, and encouragement

“You don’t have to be Santa to come on Christmas Eve.”

My brother Mike sang those words as Daddy and my brothers played the melody to an old Ernest Tubb country song, “You Don’t Have to Be a Baby to Cry.” Daddy had been singing it when Mike butted in with, “Keep pickin’ but let me sing. I’ve got a Christmas version of that tune.”

I confess I whapped Mike across his bottom with
Mortuary Cosmetology News,
the magazine I’d been reading while Daddy played my banjo. Hardly an adult action, though I’d been trying really hard to behave like a true Southern lady recently, even with my brothers. The music stopped.

“Why’d you do that?” Mike whined and rubbed his behind. “I was referring to relatives visiting on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, no, you weren’t. You were making up one of those smutty little songs you love to sing. It’s Christmas night. I’ve had a wonderful day without anyone being a total redneck, and now you sing something like that! Why do you always have to do something trashy when we get together?” I began gathering up the presents my family gave to Jane and me.

“What are we doing?” Jane asked. She’s blind and couldn’t see me.

“Going home. I’ve had enough family for one day.” I stuffed my last package into a big Santa Claus gift bag.

“Calamine, will you leave your banjo here for me to play?” Daddy asked.

“Of course,” I agreed. After all, the valuable pristine prewar Gibson had been a birthday surprise from him.

“Or I can make these boys behave if you want to stay,” he offered while he tuned the banjo again. “Michael was out of line to sing that in front of you.”

The Boys are all older than I am, and those capital letters aren’t a typo. I refer to my brothers collectively as The Boys because I don’t think there’s any hope they’ll ever grow up.

I’m thirty-three years old, been married and divorced one time each, and Daddy still thinks I’m his little girl. He forbids my brothers to tell risqué jokes in front of me and won’t let me drink beer in his presence either. He’s the only person in the world who calls me by my given name—Calamine. Everyone else calls me “Callie” or sometimes “Calaparash” all smushed together into one word the way folks here on the coast of South Carolina do double names.

“Jane and I need to head out anyway.”

I claim I never take nor give guilt trips, but I realized my reaction to Mike’s song had been kind of strong. “I’m probably extra touchy because I’m tired. This has been one of the best Christmas Days ever—even if my family does act a little redneck at times.”

“We aren’t as bad as ‘Merry Christmas from the Family’ by Robert Earl Keen.” My brother Bill has been argumentative as long as I can remember. He picked up the magazine I’d dropped when I swatted Mike. “And we might be redneck, but we aren’t always stuck in a mystery book or a magazine about dead people. This stuff is gross to the rest of us.” His wife Molly headed to the kitchen, which fits her routine of leaving the room whenever any of my brothers disagree with anyone.

“I’ll have you know that’s a professional magazine. I could lose my job if I don’t keep up with current trends.” I glared at him. “I’d rather be expert at what I do than act like one of you.”

“Who’s got lights all over the outside of her building as well as a monster decorated tree on the front porch? That’s a little redneck,” Frankie broke in. He’d been relatively quiet since Jane and I arrived that morning. Today was the first time he’d seen Jane since she broke off their engagement.

“Don’t you dare insult that tree!” I scolded him. “It’s beautiful, and it didn’t look half as big when I found it in the woods. One of you could have told me it wasn’t going to fit through my front door.”

“You wouldn’t have believed us if we’d told you,” Mike snapped. Daddy ignored all of us and began picking out a tune on the banjo.

I didn’t bother to argue, just went to the kitchen, told Molly good night, and grabbed a bottled Diet Coke for me and a can of Dr Pepper for Jane from the refrigerator. Daddy had a dish of shelled peanuts on the table, so I took a handful of those and dropped them into my drink bottle.

As Jane and I left Daddy’s house, I heard Mike singing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

• • •

Driving my vintage 1966 Mustang toward home, I glanced over at Jane. She had her waist-length red hair tied in a ponytail she’d draped across her left shoulder and over her dark green sweater. Her more than ample bosom made the embroidered Santa Claus into an even chubbier jolly old elf than usual.

“Are you working tonight?” I asked her.

“Not until late. Why?”

“Big Boy’s still at the vet’s, and I missed him something awful last night. I thought we might visit for a while.”

“You and that dog! When can you pick him up from the vet?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Well,” Jane acquiesced, “come on in, but you can’t stay late. Tonight will be a good night for Roxanne. Holidays always are.”

Jane claims Roxanne is her stage name. She also refers to her job as being a fantasy actress. To call a spade a flipping shovel, Jane’s a telephone sex operator. She pays her own bills and doesn’t have to rely on anyone for transportation to and from work. She just answers the second landline, which is designated as Roxanne’s, in her apartment and assumes a low, sexy voice.

“Did you take all those cookies you made to Daddy’s?” I asked.

“No, I kept some. I don’t know how you can still be hungry after that feast your family called Christmas dinner, but you can have all the cookies you want.” She laughed. “So long as you don’t put them in your drink.”

I drove and drank my Coke while Jane sang, “Jingle Bell Rock.” Suddenly she quit singing.

“You’ve got peanuts in your Coke again, haven’t you?” she asked. I don’t know how she knew that, but she did. I didn’t think I was smacking, and even if I was, she shouldn’t have heard me over her loud singing. “Don’t you remember almost choking on a peanut in your drink that time? I think you should make a New Year’s resolution to give it up.”

“I’ve been putting peanuts in Cokes all my life and I only choked once.”

“Once is enough. If you’d died that night, I would have been left with a dead body until 911 came.”

Jane has a morbid fear of anything deceased. I work in a mortuary, and death is not so traumatic to me. “I gave up my bad habits,” she continued. “When will you give up yours?”

“I don’t consider liking peanuts in Coke a bad habit,” I protested. “You gave up breaking the law when you quit shoplifting and scamming stores out of free merchandise, but how can you compare that to something innocent like putting peanuts in Coke?”

“How many times have I told you that putting those peanuts in your drink isn’t just a Southern custom like you claim. It’s redneck—pure tee redneck. I swear, they ought to call you Callie Boo Boo. I’ve given up my bad habits. You need to give up a few of yours.” She laughed. “My bad habits. Your bad habits. Who’s to say which is worse? Shoplifting didn’t almost kill me. Maybe we should both make some resolutions. Give up our bad habits, eat better, and get healthier this year.”