Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (23 page)

Trying to catch my breath and stop shaking, I pulled over to the side of the road. That’s when I saw that the plates I’d fixed for Miss Lettie and Miss Ellen had fallen upside down on the floor in front of my passenger seat. Daddy’s New Year’s dinner had been beautiful and delicious, but all slopped together on the floor of the car, it was a mess and so were my floor mats.

What now? The two elderly ladies were waiting for their lunch, and Daddy would be disappointed if I didn’t provide them with their collards and black-eyed peas to assure them of prosperity in the New Year.

I don’t mind the smell of collards, but I wasn’t happy at the thought of my car smelling like a green vegetable forevermore. I’d stopped fairly close to Gee Three.
I headed there.

Surprisingly, the parking lot wasn’t full, and when I went inside, there were only a few people at the tables and booths though Rizzie had extra serving staff working. Tyrone sat at the counter doing something on his iPad. If I asked, he’d probably say he was doing homework even though school was out for winter break, but I’d bet he was playing a game.

“Want to earn some extra money?” I asked him.

“Sure,” he answered without even looking up from the screen. “What do you need?”

“I spilled a lot of food onto the floor in my car. I’ll pay you to clean it up.”

Tyrone didn’t answer me. He put the iPad behind the counter and went out the front door.

I slid onto a stool and spun it around to look at the restaurant. I never get tired of the beautiful Gullah arts displayed on the walls—sweetgrass baskets, brightly colored paintings, and intricate weavings. One of the servers approached, but I asked to see Rizzie. She came out of the kitchen smiling and stepped behind the counter. I turned around to face her. “What are you doing here? I know your dad cooked a feast today.”

“He sure did, but he sent me to take plates to Miss Lettie and her friend, and I’ve spilled them all over my car. Do you have enough traditional Southern New Year’s Day dinner left to make me two generous plates and separate desserts?”

“I have plenty, and I’ll dip them for you myself. Did you have your dad’s dinners in Styrofoam go trays?”

“No, plates wrapped in foil.”

“You can buy the trays at the dollar store, and they sure make carrying food easier. I buy them by the case from my supplier. I’ll give you some for future use.”

She walked back to the kitchen. I twirled my stool around to face the other customers again. I couldn’t believe she didn’t have more diners. Then I realized it was late for lunch and early for supper. A man sitting in a booth by himself caught my eye. No, not because he was that hot, though he wasn’t ugly either. He was big, not fat, but tall and broad-shouldered with fairly slim waist and hips. He leaned forward with his face close to his plate. I wondered if his vision was so poor that even with his eye glasses, he couldn’t see his food from a normal distance.

When his server brought him the ticket, he put a wrinkled ten-dollar bill on the check tray and waited for her to return. When she brought back his change, she asked, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Could I get a glass of iced tea to go?” he mumbled.

“I’ll get it for you.”

While she was gone, he carefully picked up the ones and left only the silver on the tray.
Kind of cheap tipper,
I thought, but he redeemed himself.

“Sorry not to be more generous,” he told the woman. “I just got hired on this morning by a pig farmer. He said starting tomorrow when his wife comes home, my meals will come with the job, but he’d been invited to dinner and a music jam this afternoon. I’ll be back here to eat again when I get paid, and I’ll tip you better then.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” the server responded. “I understand how it is. It took me a while to find
this
job.”

Dalmation!
Pork Chop was probably the pig farmer who’d hired the man. If Daddy had known that, he would have invited the new hired hand to dinner, too.

Rizzie loaded me up with two plastic bags of food trays and I went outside. Tyrone was hosing off my floor mats. “I’m washing both of the front mats. I’ve got the passenger side so clean that I didn’t want to make your side look shabby in comparison.”

I peeked in the car. It was impossible to see where that tremendous mess had been. He put the mats back in, then carefully placed the plastic bags of food on the floor.

“Great job, Tyrone!” I said and pulled my wallet from my jeans pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

“Not a dime, not a dime,” he said. “I’m just glad I could help you out. Did you eat your share of collards and black-eyed peas today?”

“I sure did. Did you?”

“No, Rizzie threatened to kill me if I didn’t eat collards and Hoppin’ John, but I cooked myself a frozen pizza, I ate Tomato Pie, too. I
love
Tomato Pie even when it’s made with those tomatoes they ship into the supermarket this time of year.”

• • •

Daddy created chaos in his kitchen. I spilled a mess in my car. Neither of those could compete with the bedlam I found at Miss Lettie’s. When Miss Ellen opened the door, I could hear Miss Lettie crying. No, not crying. She wailed.

“Bad day?” I asked Miss Ellen.

“Yes, come on in. Let me take one of those bags for you. Your father must think we’ve got an army to feed over here instead of only two old ladies.”

I didn’t respond and hoped neither Miss Ellen nor Miss Lettie mentioned to Daddy that the food arrived in Styrofoam trays. Some things are better left alone, and I had a sneaky feeling that my dad was sending food to these ladies not so much to see they were fed as to impress one of them with his culinary skills.

“What’s wrong with Miss Lettie? Is she still just grieving?” I asked as I handed a sack to her.

“Lettie took it upon herself to climb up into the attic and pull down all the boxes of Junior’s toys and baby clothes. Now she’s grieving over every piece as she looks at it. Come on into the dining room and see for yourself.”

I followed Miss Ellen to a large room with an enormous oval dining table piled high with children’s clothes and toys—from infant items to tricycles and even a bicycle leaning against a wall. Miss Lettie sat at the head of the table, blubbering and occasionally yelling out her anguish.

“Lettie,” Miss Ellen said gently, “here’s Callie Parrish from Middleton’s. She knows all about mourning someone you love. Maybe she can help you get through this.”

Shih tzu!
I can color a person’s hair any shade desired. I sometimes work miracles with makeup. Either way—I can use cosmetics to beautify or to create an ugly face like mine was when I went to Safe Sister. I was a good teacher before I changed professions. I can do lots of things, but I can’t counsel the grief-stricken. Otis and Odell are better at that than I am, but even they don’t get really involved in it. I did what I’ve heard my bosses do in the past—made a suggestion.

“There are several grief support groups here in St. Mary to help you get through this. I can give you a list of them if you want to come by or I can drop one in the mail to you,” I told Miss Lettie.

“No piece of paper or bunch of people can help me,” Miss Lettie sobbed. “My heart is broken. Both of my Jeffreys have left me here all alone. Look at this.” She held up a small camouflage suit that would fit a child about three years old. It was the old darker print with a lot of green like military camouflage was before the fighting moved to deserts. “My boy Jeffrey Junior wore this when he was little. Now he’ll never use any of this stuff again.”

That puzzled me. The grown, bald-headed man we’d buried wouldn’t have ever used those baby clothes and toys again even if he were alive. Maybe she meant he wouldn’t have kids to use his childhood possessions.

“I even saved his crib in the basement for my grandchildren,” she added. One minute, she talked like her son might have used his childhood things again, and the next minute, she made sense and spoke of using Jeffrey Junior’s belongings with a grandchild.

“Miss Parrish has brought us dinner, Lettie.” Ellen’s chipper voice sounded similar to one I’d used when speaking to my kindergarten students. “Let’s go into the kitchen and eat at the little table in there.” She turned to me. “Would you like to join us?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve already eaten.”

“How about a glass of tea or a cup of coffee?” Her tone was normal, but her look was pleading.

“I can’t stay long. I have to work this afternoon, but I’ll have a glass of tea.”

I remembered the kitchen from when I’d carried the Brunswick stew and food register to Miss Lettie’s, but it looked very different from then. Someone had been shopping. The counters were covered with snack foods—bags and bags of chips, cookies, and candy. Miss Ellen waved her arm at the clutter. “Lettie got confused and bought all this stuff for Junior. Said it’s stuff he begged her to buy when he was little, but she wouldn’t back then. Now she wants him to have what he wants. She didn’t remember he isn’t a little boy anymore, and he won’t be back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ellen,” Miss Lettie spoke up as she lowered herself into one of the chrome and plastic kitchen chairs. “I certainly have enough sense to know what’s happened. We buried my Jeffrey Junior the day the Lord sent that beautiful white blanket of snow in his honor. I didn’t buy all this junk. You must have.”

Ellen didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all.

I sat while they ate in silence. When they started on the rice pudding, I excused myself, explaining, “Oops! I’ve got to get to work.”

“Are you just on duty or did someone die?” Miss Ellen asked.

“Patsy Corley,” I answered.

“I heard about that. Do you know when the service will be?”

“Not yet.”

• • •

I drove carefully, possibly overly cautious because I wasn’t fully over my shock and fear from when that deer leapt in front of me. Hitting a deer, a horse, or a cow can wreck a car and kill people. Most persons wouldn’t say they were happy to arrive at a funeral home, but I was. Sometimes, Middleton’s Mortuary is comforting to me. It’s beautifully furnished and decorated. When we don’t have a planning session or funeral, it’s quiet and peaceful, even when I’m working.

Odell’s door was open when I passed his office. He looked up. “Oh, you’re here already. I was about to call you. I think you’ll be surprised and pleased with how Miss Patsy looks. Try not to move her head, and most of the hair is a wig, so don’t do much styling to it, but her face looks good, and I believe Mrs. Corley will be pleased with what we’ve done, especially since she saw her after the gunshot.” He burped. “Excuse me. Too much lunch at the barbecue place.”

“Where’s Miss Patsy?”

“Otis and I put her in your workroom. Let me know if you need help. As soon as you’re finished, we’ll call Mrs. Corley and tell her she can come see her daughter. She’s already checked with us several times today.”

“Where’s Otis?” I asked.

“In the prep room.” Odell and I both knew what he was doing in there when we didn’t have a decedent needing prepping. Otis has a tanning bed in the prep room, and he uses it whenever he gets the chance. He’s invited both me and Odell to use it, but the thought of lying in there with something over my face creeps me out. Odell could care less about that bed. He’d rather eat than tan any day.

I
was
both pleased and surprised with the restoration Otis and Odell had performed on Miss Patsy. There really wasn’t much for me to do because one of them had already made up her face. I gave her a nice manicure, then using the lift, dressed her in the pink pantsuit and flowered blouse. I stepped back and admired her. No one could look at her and tell she’d died of a gunshot wound through her mouth and out the back of her head. She looked pretty much like she did back when Middleton’s buried her father June Bug.

I buzzed Odell and let him know that I was ready. He wheeled in the bier, and we casketed Miss Patsy without disturbing any of the work that had been done to change her mother’s memory to a better one than what she’d seen at that mobile home.

Barely back into my office, I’d just begun reading a Charlotte Hughes book when an instrumental version of “The Old Rugged Cross” played softly over the sound system, announcing that the public entrance was open.

I met the Corley family in the front hall and led them into Slumber Room A where Odell and I had placed Miss Patsy. Odell joined us. Mrs. Corley had eleven people with her. I counted them—eleven. I recognized some of them as her kids. The others might have been nieces and nephews because all of them were younger than Patsy’s mother.

Otis said, “Mrs. Corley, I think you’ll be very pleased, but I have to ask you not to touch Miss Patsy’s face. Those who want to touch her should pat her hands.”

“I understand.” Mrs. Corley turned and faced the others. “Did everyone hear that? Don’t touch Patsy anywhere except on her hands.”

Their “Yes, ma’am” was so together that it sounded like bluegrass harmony.

People ask me how I can stand to do my job—to work at a funeral home with dead bodies. The Corley family reaffirmed my satisfaction with my job. They all
oohed
and
ahhed
about how good Miss Patsy looked. At a horrific time when people face their worst fears, my work tries to give them some comfort. I was thinking about that when I remembered the Gee Three Shrimp Sliders.