Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (12 page)

“Is there a trick to it like throwing the ball at the basket rim?” Tyrone was catching on.

“First thing to do is ask to look at the target. You hope the paper is flimsy. The better the grade of paper, the more difficult it is, and the smaller the star, the easier it is. The targets are numbered so that the game agents can account to the owners how many people tried. At the end of the number is a dash followed by a single-digit number, generally a two or three. You want to play this game where the digit is two, which means the star measures one and one-fourth inch. That’s the easiest.”

“How big is a three?” Tyrone finished the crazy doughnut burger and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“One and three-eighths inches.”

“That’s not much bigger.”

“It makes a huge difference.”

“What should I do if the target is on thick paper and is a three?”

“Move on to another booth.”

“What else?”

I kept eating those mouthwatering mushrooms and listening to Patel’s advice.

“Check out the gun and self-zero it. That means shoot the first three or four BBs at the top point of the star. If they hit high and to the right, aim low and to the left. If they hit low and left, aim high and right. You get the idea?”

“Sure. Do they mess up the guns by bending the barrel or something like that?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe some game agents do, but it’s generally because the guns are old and have been used a lot. That’s what causes them not to aim true. Most marks start shooting at the middle, which is a big mistake.”

“What’s a mark?”

“You’re a mark—the person who’s playing the game and paying the man.”

“If I shouldn’t start in the middle, where do I shoot?”

“Shoot a circle pattern around the star, and don’t fire all the BBs fast. Shoot a few, then look to see what you’ve done before shooting more.” Patel looked at the empty plates and bottles in front of Tyrone and me. “Ready to try it?”

Tyrone leaped up like he’d been shot out of a gun barrel himself. He must have remembered how we’d come from the game area because he took the lead. Patel and I followed.

“I doubt this is much fun for you, Callie, but I feel sorry for the young man,” Patel said. “You do know that the chances are slim that his grandmother will make a full recovery. About a third of older patients who suffer the trauma of a broken hip and surgery die before they ever get home.”

“How do you know that? I thought you ran a restaurant, not a medical center.”

“I did, and I do, but I also had a mother.”

At the Red Star game, Tyrone methodically followed Patel’s instructions while Patel and I stood over to the side. The game agent had been happy to stuff the coupon Patel had given Tyrone into his apron pocket when Tyrone handed it to him. When Tyrone asked to see the target, the man shot him an unpleasant, questioning glare, but he let the teenager inspect it. He looked even more disagreeable when Tyrone obviously self-zeroed the gun.

That kid shot out the star without even using all one hundred BBs. The game agent looked at the target and pointed at the sign—ALL RED STAR MUST BE SHOT FROM CARD TO WIN A PRIZE. He pulled a large magnifying glass from his apron pocket and held it over the target.

“I see a piece of red at the nine o’clock position. Sorry, but you have to shoot out the entire star.”

“I did,” Tyrone insisted.

“It doesn’t matter what you think. We say if you win or not.” The man turned his back on Tyrone and put up another target. “You can try again if you want.”

“For free?”

“Of course not. Gimme another coupon or some money.”

I kind of expected Patel to step in as he had at the Bushel Basket, but he shook his head, “No,” but only slightly, not obvious to anyone watching.

Another coupon went into the apron pocket. I don’t know if aim would change so quickly, but Tyrone checked the target and self-zeroed again. Then he shot that star out of the paper, too.

The magnifying glass came out of the pocket, but before the man could even pretend to check the star, Patel stepped forward. “I believe we’ve got quite a marksman here,” he said.

“But there can’t be any red showing,” the agent protested.

“There isn’t.” Patel’s voice was firm. “And I don’t think Bernie will be happy if the young man calls for the police to come over here.”

“Pick anything you want,” the now hostile agent mumbled, “but you’re cut off for tonight. Can’t win more than one big prize in one day. Well, really not more than one at this place, so play somewhere else tomorrow.”

I fully expected Tyrone to choose something electronic, but he selected a gigantic, fluffy white cat and told us it was for Maum to sleep with. He thought the softness would be warming to her. I didn’t comment that the cat was bigger than she was. His grin spilled happiness all around him.

Looking at my watch, I said, “I think we’d best hit the road. Rizzie and Maum will be furious if I don’t get him to school tomorrow.”

“You treat me like a little kid,” Tyrone complained.

“Well, let me get the pretty lady and the sharpshooter some treats to take home.” Patel’s grin was as big as Tyrone’s. He ducked into a different Mother Hubbard’s and came out a few minutes later carrying three bags.

“Three?” I asked.

“One for his sister.”

Patel walked us to the Mustang, and I kind of wished Tyrone weren’t there. Another kiss would have been welcome.

9

Good grief! There was a man sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch when I arrived at work. I grimaced. I’d forgotten I was scheduled to open and hoped Otis nor Odell would know that my arrival was in plenty of time to get my work done, but fifteen minutes late to open.

Nobody had bothered to tell me that Tyrone didn’t have classes because of a teachers’ inservice day. Last night, I’d been worried about getting him to school today when what I’d really wanted to do was give Tyrone enough of those coupons to play another game somewhere near a place where Patel and I could sit and talk. But I’d been the good babysitter, and we’d gone home at a reasonably decent hour with no private conversation, no kiss, not even a little hand-holding.

Although we’d gone to bed before midnight, I’d had a hard time sleeping. Something kept nibbling at the edges of my mind. I couldn’t quite grasp what I was trying to think. It’s like when I run into someone I know but can’t remember their name and think, “It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but not in my brain.”

This morning, when I’d told Tyrone to hurry and get ready for school, he’d told me to take him to the hospital instead. By the time I’d fed him breakfast and run inside to take Rizzie a biscuit and check on Maum, who’d been snuggled up to that big, fuzzy white cat since Tyrone walked in, I was late heading to work.

When I saw the man sitting on the verandah, I parked in the front lot instead of driving around to my spot in back and met the man at the door with my keys in my hand while apologizing for his wait. There’s a sign on the door that says we’re open from nine to nine, other hours by appointment, and gives a phone number to reach someone at all hours.

I realize the word “dapper” is old-fashioned, but the man was definitely dapper. He exuded a debonair neatness—a tidy little man. Oh, I don’t mean a little man like a midget. He was a bit taller than I am, probably five feet, six inches or so, trim and well-dressed in a dark green three-piece suit with a beige and moss green paisley bowtie.

“Is this the funeral home where Miss Gorman is resting?” he asked in a genteel tone.

Now I’ve heard dead people described as sleeping, and we use the euphemism “slumber room.” I know that the expression “Rest in Peace” is used frequently, but no one had ever asked me that question in that way before.

“Yes, sir,” I answered and invited him through the door to the tune of “Just As I Am.”

“I’m Arthur Richards, an old friend. May I see Miss Gorman?”

“Certainly.”

I invited him to sign the register, led him into Slumber Room A, and stayed right by his side as he approached the casket. Miss Nina was still wearing her beige visitation outfit, and I hoped Mr. Richards didn’t stay long. I had to change her into the pink dress and restyle her hair before Miss Nila came.

It never pays to second guess what a mourner might do. I’ve seen them try to lift the decedent from the casket, and I’ve seen them stand several feet away, scared to be too close to a corpse. I’ve heard them scream at the top of their voices, and I’ve not heard them because they were silent as stone. Mr. Richards went to none of these extremes. He stood comfortably near the casket and leaned over close to Miss Nina’s face, but he didn’t try to reach in. In a polite manner, he puckered his lips and pressed them against her forehead.

Mr. Richards turned his back to Miss Gorman and faced me. “Which one is this?” he said. “I’ve forgotten what the paper said.”

“This is Miss Nina.”

“I never could tell them apart. I dated Nina in high school and they used to get a big kick out of tricking me. Sometimes I’d take Nila to the movies thinking she was Nina. I fell in love with them. That was the problem. I was in love with
them.
I would have married either girl, but I couldn’t decide which one.” He nodded toward the body. “When I realized I’d never be able to convince either of them to marry me and leave the other, I married someone else.”

He laughed roguishly. “Maybe if we’d been born fifty years later, I could have lived with both of them.”

Not knowing how to reply, I mumbled, “Maybe.”

“My wife died last year, and I’ve been checking obituaries every day since then, waiting for one of the Gormans to die so I could come back to St. Mary and claim the other one.”

“I thought you said you dated Nina. She’s the one who died.”

“It doesn’t matter. I told you—half the time when I thought I was dating Nina, she’d send her sister instead. When do you think Nila will be here?”

“The funeral isn’t until one o’clock. She won’t be coming in for several hours.”

I assumed that Miss Nila wouldn’t want to see anyone until she was properly dressed for the service, and he made me uncomfortable. Something seemed wrong with a man who didn’t care which sister he captured. Who knew? He was still obsessed with the twins all these years later, but Miss Nila might not be interested at all. She could despise him for running out on her sister so long ago, or she might have disliked him back then and still feel that way.

“I guess I’ll leave and come back closer to one o’clock.”

He smiled and actually made a courtly bow to me before he left.

• • •

“Do you remember Arthur Richards?” I asked Miss Nila as I used a curling iron on her hair. I’d finished with Miss Nina just in time for Odell to help me re-casket her and wheel her back to Slumber Room A.

“Artie Richards?” Her face lit up. “Of course I remember him.”

“He came in this morning. I told him you wouldn’t be here until almost time for the services. I didn’t think you’d want to see anyone before you dressed.”

“You were exactly right. I wonder what that old coot is going to have to say after all these years.”

I grinned. “He’s a widower. I have an idea he wants to court you.”

“I couldn’t do that. I’m buying a lot of new black clothes, and I’m going to be in widow’s weeds for a year. I think losing your identical twin you’ve been with since before you were born has to be as traumatic as losing a man. I certainly don’t plan to start dating my sister’s boyfriend right after she died.”

Odell and Otis had taken Miss Nina to the chapel while Miss Nila dressed. When we went in, several people were already sitting there, including my brother Bill and his wife Molly, who was Nina and Nila’s niece. Each of them came to the surviving sister and offered condolences.

Otis approached me with an apologetic expression. “I know you want to go to Rizzie and Tyrone, but we’re going to need you at graveside until it’s over.”

I’d hoped I could leave as soon as I’d finished with Miss Nila’s makeup and hair. I wanted desperately to go to the hospital. Surely they would soon be able to operate on Maum’s hip, and I felt I should be there with her family. On the other hand, the interaction between Miss Nila and Mr. Richards promised to be interesting. I wasn’t disappointed on that score.

He showed up in a tuxedo and carrying roses!

• • •

Mr. Richards sat beside Miss Nila in the folding chairs under the canvas awning at the Baptist church cemetery. He’d managed to worm his way in front of her relatives and acted as though he hadn’t been gone all those years. As we’d walked from the family car, he’d held her elbow like some men do. I hate that! I always feel like the man is going to surprise me by jerking my arm up. One of my brothers probably did that to me when I was a little girl.

Rev. Brandon was to the “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” part when tiny raindrops sprinkled the casket and those of us not under the tent. We’ve had thunderstorms spring up during funerals, and personally, I hate rain, even a gentle shower, during the graveside service. Everyone looked up at the sky. Not a dark, dismal, overcast day. Bright rays of sun. There’s an old saying that when it rains while the sun shines, it means the devil is beating his wife. I don’t believe that stuff. Sun signifies happiness. Why would the sun shine during domestic violence, even in Hades?