Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, There's A Body In The Car (Callie Parrish Mysteries) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star There’s A Body In The Car

  eISBN 978-1-933523-61-3

  Copyright © 2011 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 Bella Rosa Books in Trade Paperback:

  ISBN 978-1-933523-94-1

  First Print Edition January 2011

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010942076

  Cover illustrations by Joyce Wright – www.artbyjoyce.com

  BellaRosaBooks and logo are trademarks of Bella Rosa Books.

  Dedicated to the Memory of

  Linda C. Derrick

  1946 - 2009

  Chapter One

  A fly sat on the old geezer’s nose. I saw it the minute I hopped out of my vintage Mustang and glanced over at the silver-blue Jag, an XF, parked beside me in front of Best Bargain Books. I was headed there to buy a couple of used mysteries to keep my mind off all my worries—like did I need to go to Atlanta to talk to my favorite brother John about his marital problems? Should I change my bra and panties? Did I actually say that? Ex-cuuse me. I wear fresh ones every day. I meant should I change the style of my underwear back to inflatable bras and panties with fanny padding. I’m straight and flat, going or coming, but I quit wearing augmented garments a while back.

  The man took my thoughts off myself, including whether Molly really planned to have a poodle as one of the bridal attendants at the wedding and would I have to stand by the dog.

  I don’t know why I thought of the man as an old geezer. He could just as easily be called an elderly gentleman, who had probably driven that high-dollar executive car from Hilton Head, where people richer than us live. The gray-haired man sat in his Jaguar with the windows up and the air conditioning running to protect him from the unseasonably sweltering heat of the South Carolina coast. October felt like July during this heat wave. Perhaps his wife was shopping around in the strip mall before they headed back to more luxurious beach areas than St. Mary offers.

  Sometimes my mind flits around like a gnat. I remembered studying flies in school and reading that when they land on something, they regurgitate. As a little girl, that fact had made me sit by the picnic table with a fly-swatter—which I used to call a fly-flapper—while my five older brothers ran around having fun.

  Now I wondered why the man didn’t swat that fly off his nose. It was crawling around on his big ole honker, no doubt heaving insect throw-up as it moved. The man’s eyes were closed, so he may have been asleep, but I’d bet an insect on my nose would have awakened me.

  "Hey, you," I called as I stepped up to the driver’s side of the car. He didn’t move. I dropped my purse to the ground, grasped the door handle with both hands and yanked, but it was locked. I rapped on the window glass, then tried to shake the car by bumping my hip up against the door. The man slumped forward, and his chest and head landed on the steering wheel. The horn blared, and the fly flew off his nose. I didn’t know whether that was because of the sound or the man’s movement, but his eyes stayed closed.

  Best, the muscle-bound bookstore owner, opened the front door of his shop and stuck his head out. "What’s all that noise?" he yelled, then recognized me. "Oh, it’s you, Callie Parrish. Are you trying to steal that car?"

  Like I’d ever do that! Now, Jane, my BFF (best friend forever), is a different story, but since she’s totally, completely blind, the last thing she’d need to pilfer was a vehicle, even a luxurious one like that Jaguar. Besides, to give the devil his, or should I say her due, though I’d tried and tried unsuccessfully to make Jane quit shoplifting, I’d never known her to filch anything big or expensive.

  "I said what are you doing with that car?" Best yelled.

  That wasn’t exactly what he’d said, but I’m not arguing with the Hulk—the green one or the blond one. I answered, "I think this man is sick or passed out or something."

  Best stepped to the car quickly. As usual, he was wearing fitted jeans and a black T-shirt molded to every defined bicep and ab. He held a hardback book in his right hand. Looking through the driver’s window, he said, "Go use the phone in the store. Call 911 for an ambulance." Then Best slammed the book into the window, setting off the car alarm and showering the inside of the car with chunks of glass. The older man still didn’t move. Just sat there with pieces of glass shimmering like diamonds against his brown and tan plaid walking shorts and forest green Hilton Head Dunes golf shirt.

  I confess. I’ve never been really good about following directions, especially not immediately. I work for Mid-dleton’s Mortuary as a cosmetition, which is Funeralese for cosmetologist, so I’ve seen lots of deceased people. This man looked more dead than asleep or sick. I knocked the remaining shattered glass out of the window, trying to direct the pieces down close to the door so they wouldn’t land on him. When I reached through the broken window and touched the old man’s cheek, the skin was hard. Rigor mortis.

  "Okay," I said as Best crowded beside me and reached through the window, opened the door, and leaned over the body. "I’ll call 911, but we need the coroner, not an ambulance."

  Best jumped back and almost knocked me over. He shoved me behind him. Good grief! I thought. This man’s built like Hulk Hogan, and he’s scared of a corpse.

  I stepped around him to get back to the car, but he yanked me away.

  "Don’t open the door, Callie. There’s a snake in there."

  Shrugging away from Best’s grip, I looked through the window. I didn’t see a snake, just a dead man.

  "Probably a corn snake or something," I mumbled as I reached for the handle of the door.

  "Red and yellow, kill a fellow," Best said and pulled me even farther from the Jag.

  Every kid who grew up on the South Carolina coast knew at least one of those rhymes. We learned them in school to distinguish the venomous Eastern Coral Snakes from their imitators, the Scarlet Snakes and the Scarlet King Snakes. All three species are striped bright red, yellow, and black. Yellow-red-yellow identifies the poisonous Eastern Coral while the two harmless snakes have black bordering the red, as in black-red-black. Rhymes about the order of the stripes were the standard way most peo
ple distinguished poisonous from harmless.

  "I don’t see any snake, but the man’s dead anyway," I said. "I’ll call the sheriff’s office." I was dressed for work—black dress with low black heels—and I didn’t have any pockets. I picked my purse up from the pavement and rummaged for the cell phone. I’d forgotten it again.

  Stepping into the building, I called out, "Hey, is anybody with the older man in the Jaguar out front?" No one answered. I didn’t see anyone, but with all the book racks, it’s impossible to view the entire store. I grabbed the phone beside the cash register, dialed 911, and reported the body.

  As I hung up, Best came in. "Don’t you think someone should be out there with the man?" I asked.

  "Go on back then. You said he’s dead and you should know. I’ll stay in here where it’s cool."

  "I thought he might be waiting for someone in the store," I commented.

  "Nobody in here. You’re today’s first customer, and that car was there when I got here to open up. Couldn’t help but notice wheels like that."

  "What time was it?"

  "Not more than ten minutes before you started making all that commotion. What are you doing, Callie? Playing detective again?"

  I didn’t have to answer that sassy comment because a siren and screeching tires announced the arrival of Jade County’s finest. I followed Best back out to the parking lot. A squad car slammed on brakes behind the Jag. A slim, uniformed deputy jumped out and rushed to the body. He’d reached for the door handle when Best said, "There’s a coral snake in the car."

  "They’re poisonous, aren’t they?" the man asked with a pronounced Yankee accent. I nodded.

  The officer’s face showed more age than his youthful energy indicated. I’d never seen him before, and frequently new deputies are younger than this man’s probable forty years or so. "Blake" was printed on his name tag.

  "Yes," I answered, "but they aren’t very aggressive. Probably won’t bite you unless you bother it."

  The sun was scorching. The deputy wiped sweat off his forehead and said something, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of more sirens as Sheriff Harmon, a fire truck, and an EMS vehicle all pulled up. Two paramedics hit the pavement, both carrying medical equipment bags, and ran toward the Jaguar. Their rush ended when they reached the elderly man. One of them looked over at the sheriff, frowned, and shook his head no.

  "I coulda told you that," I said. "Rigor’s set in. Rigor mortis stiffening of muscles starts at the top of the body with the eyelids, neck and jaw before it moves down. His face is already stiff, but his arm isn’t. It generally takes several hours for full rigor to set in and another twenty-four to eighty-four hours for the muscles to relax and become flaccid. The process can be hastened or slowed by conditions at death." I paused for breath.

  "Thank you, Miss Callie, for that informative lesson," Sheriff Harmon said sarcastically. "I guess I already know about rigor mortis, what with being an officer of the law and all." He stopped and stared at me for a minute or so. "Did you dye your hair again?" he asked.

  "No," I said, "I never ‘dye’ my hair. I’ve tinted it back to auburn because I got tired of the blonde." Being a cosmetologist, I change my hair color frequently.

  The sheriff and I are old friends. He used to hang around with my older brothers when I was growing up. He called me Miss Callie as a reference to my having been a kindergarten teacher before I started working at the mortuary. "What are you doing here?" he added.

  I gestured toward the bookstore and answered, "I came to buy something to read."

  "And you found a body?" His tone wasn’t exactly mocking this time, but it wasn’t professional either.

  "Sure did. I saw the man when I pulled in and wondered if he was sleeping. Then I thought he might be sick. Best broke the window so we could check him, but the old gentleman’s dead."

  "Somehow I’m not surprised," the sheriff said. "Sit down in your car or go wait in the store. I’ve got to call the coroner, but I’ll need a statement from you before you leave."

  In the bookstore, I checked over the used mysteries, looking for something I didn’t already have. Concentration was difficult with my eyes constantly drawn to the window to see what was going on outside. I abandoned the discount shelves and grabbed a new Janet Evanovich. When Best and the deputy came in, they sat down in one of the reading centers. I moved behind a book rack near them so I could dip into their conversation.

  "Your name, Sir?"

  "Best. Finelay Best."

  "Could you spell that, Sir?"

  "You say it like Finn—lee, but it’s spelled F-I-N-E-L-A-Y. Like fine lay." Best laughed. He always did when he said this, which was often. "On the rolls in high school, my name was Best Fine Lay, and the young ladies could tell you I was well-named."

  The deputy ignored Best’s silly bragging, which was the reason I always called him "Best." I must have heard about Best Fine Lay a million times. Well, maybe not a million, but at least a few thousand.

  I’m as curious as a cat and—buh-leeve me—I’ve probably used up most of my nine lives already. I planned to eavesdrop on Best’s statement even though I couldn’t think of anything he’d lie about. The sheriff squelched my plans by coming in and calling, "Callie? Callie, come here."

  "Yes?" I answered and stepped out from behind the book rack.

  "The coroner’s on the way, and I’ve called Mid-dleton’s to pick up the corpse." Nothing surprising in that. Otis and Odell, my bosses at Middleton’s Mortuary, had won the county bid on transporting bodies from St. Mary to MUSC, the Medical University of South Carolina, in Charleston, when a postmortem was required. An autopsy is always required when the cause of death isn’t blatant and obvious.

  "Un-huh?" I muttered, trying to encourage Harmon to tell me what that had to do with me.

  "Otis has the flu, and Odell’s already sent Jake to pick up a body from the hospital in Beaufort. Odell’s by himself and needs you to come straight to work so he can bring the other hearse over here." He paused. "I’ll come by the funeral home later to take your statement."

  Dalmation! I thought in kindergarten cussing. I wanted to hang around and play investigator, but I said, "You got it!" and hurried out to my Mustang.

  Turning into the parking lot, I was impressed as always by the beauty of the mortuary. A huge, white two-story building with columns and a wrap-around veranda, it typified the Old South. White rocking chairs on the porch reminded me of the Cracker Barrel, and the huge planters overflowing with seasonal annuals, bronze and yellow mums for October, added color. Gigantic live oak trees draped in Spanish moss surrounded the lot.

  As I entered the building, I met Odell coming out the back door. "Take care of things, Callie," he said. He was halfway down the steps when he turned around and added, "I sent Jake to pick up a Mr. Joyner from the hospital. Mrs. Joyner called. The fool woman wants a St. Patrick’s Day funeral for her husband. Makes no sense to me. I told her to call back in about an hour to set up an appointment for planning. Otis has the stomach-flu. I don’t think he’ll be in, but if he comes, tell him to leave the fellow in the cooler. The wife doesn’t want him embalmed."

  "Maybe she’s Irish," I suggested. "Do they embalm in Ireland?"

  "Or maybe she’s crazy," Odell growled, ignoring my question, as he got into the funeral coach (proper Funeralese for hearse). I headed toward my office to await the call from a lady who wanted a St. Patrick’s Day funeral in October.

  Chapter Two

  Brrrrr!

  Odell is forty to fifty pounds overweight, and he sets the air conditioning on "frigid" when Otis isn’t there. We keep the air conditioning turned up—or is it turned down?—in the funeral home. I never know how to say it. Does turning the air up mean that the thermostat is set at a higher number, therefore making it warmer? Or does it mean turning the unit up to work harder creating colder air?

  In any event, Odell wants the place to feel like a deep freezer. I’d barely stepped through the back employee entrance b
efore I scurried to the thermostat to adjust it before my nippies froze and fell off. Then I went to my office and pulled a black sweater over my dress until I warmed up.

  I’d just put my books and purse in the bottom drawer of my desk when a soft, instrumental version of "My Soul Will Fly Free" sounded. Recorded hymns and gospel songs play throughout the building when the front door is opened. The system was in place when I came to work a few years earlier, and I much preferred the music to having a doorbell or chimes announce a visitor.

  The Middleton twins, Otis and Odell, have made some improvements and modernized the services with changes like online obituaries and condolence registers since I came to work. They recently bought a large plasma screen television for Slumber Room A to show video memorials, but the furnishings remain basically the same as when their parents ran the mortuary. The dark woods and mahogany of beautifully upholstered antique chairs and tables shine impeccably thanks to the daily polishing by our part-time cleaning woman.

  A lady sat beside the hall tree. The stuffed chair overwhelmed her petite size. She looked up at me from under thick, full gray bangs that covered her forehead and touched her eyebrows. She appeared to be in her late fifties.