A Tisket a Tasket a Fancy Stolen Casket Read online

  A Tisket, a Tasket, a

  Fancy Stolen Casket

  F R A N R I Z E R

  The funeral is off . . .

  "Saw the flowers in A. Who we got?" Odell's gaze settled on the corpse. "Great gobs o' hog lard! That's Bobby Saxon." Odell rubbed the top of his bald head and spotted the casket waiting for Bobby. "An Exquisite. Good job, Callie. I know Doofus didn't sell that."

  Odell barely paused for breath before adding, "What are you doing, Callie?"

  "There's something in his neck," I said and pulled on the forceps. A broken hypodermic needle slid out. "Doofus, did you break a needle off in him?" Odell de manded from Otis.

  "It's not mine. Didn't even use a hypodermic on him," Otis answered.

  "I'll call the sheriff," Odell said. "Phone the florists and caterer. Everything's on hold."

  A Tisket, a Tasket, a

  Fancy Stolen Casket

  F R A N R I Z E R

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  A TISKET, A TASKET, A FANCY STOLEN CASKET

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Fran Rizer. Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

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  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 1-4362-4660-1

  BERKLEY(r) PRIME

  CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For Granny, Grandpapa, Nathan, Adam, and Aeden

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to special people: Jeff Gerecke, agent; Katie Day, editor; and Gwen Hunter, mentor. I also appreciate the support, encouragement, and sugges tions from "my" writers' group--Jay Gross, Leonard Jolley, Ray Wade, and Larry Walker.

  Chapter One

  E ager 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 hap pened?" 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 unattended 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 so I could 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 the men in the Parrish family all the brains and 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, espe cially since Jane is blind and has never even seen a head light.

  Jane was one reason I'd been shopping. Her cups run neth 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 an inflatable push-up 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 in my '66 Mustang, and sped toward Middle ton's.

  When I arrived, I found Otis standing in the open door way 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 build ing. Those rockers and flowers always gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling until I heard an out-of-towner say the rocking chairs 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. B
usiness 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 visita tion 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. Au tumn. My favorite season. St. Mary is beautiful yearround, 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 it 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 comfort able 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 look 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 "Pri vate" 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 sym pathy 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. Gi ant silver loop earrings bobbled against her Clairol plat inum 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 a lot of time on this funeral business, but I do want to give Bobby a big sendoff."

  Otis removed two forms from a drawer: a planning sheet and a general price list. "Before we begin your se lections, 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 Beau fort Gazette as well as our usual publication in St. Mary Daily and the memorial section of the Middleton's Mor tuary 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 would 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 pat ted 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 inter ested 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 fam ily. 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 fore finger. 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.