Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (13 page)

A gigantic hot-air balloon floated slowly, ever so slowly, not really very far above the church steeple. People standing in the basket leaned against the wicker sides and peered out at us. As we watched, the brightly striped red, blue, orange, and yellow balloon moved over to the church yard beside the cemetery as a slightly aged pickup truck and a shiny new mini-bus with a picture of a hot-air balloon on the side pulled up. The gondola settled to the earth with unhurried grace. I’d always thought the basket would be bigger than it was in comparison to the balloon.

Several fellows who’d piled out of the truck lowered and deflated the balloon before placing a stepstool beside the basket and beginning to assist passengers out. The bus driver stood by the bus sheltering himself from the increasing rain with a large umbrella with the same bright stripes as the balloon. Seems that hot-air balloon baskets would have an opening of some kind for riders to use. Not so. No doors. Each passenger climbed over the side of the basket, which was about four feet tall. The oldest and fattest people used the stepstool while workers helped them.

Before the balloon landed in the church yard, I’d wondered if this were some kind of homage to Miss Gorman, maybe arranged by Mr. Richards. Now that I saw so many passengers and that the older man, who appeared to be the pilot, wore a khaki jump suit with “Cloud Nine Balloons” on the back, I realized it was a commercial balloon ride. I’d seen Cloud Nine advertised on television and in the paper offering “unforgettable adventures, an opportunity to see the world from the heavens.” They also promised champagne toasts and photographs at the end of their rides.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Odell shouted as he rushed to the basket. “We’re in the middle of a funeral here.” Arthur Richards jumped from his chair and ran right behind him.

Guess Odell didn’t stop to think that a funeral director screaming across the graveyard wasn’t any more dignified than a hot-air balloon landing during a service. I don’t know what in the dickens Richards thought.

“I’m sorry,” said the pilot. He was supervising loading the deflated balloon and the basket into the truck. “We don’t fly except with good weather conditions. Just got word that this little rain is at the head of a storm front. We had to get these people down and back safely to their cars. It was all I could do not to land on top of a tombstone.”

The church cemetery wasn’t perpetual care, not limited to flat tributes. Angels and other marble and stone tributes watched over the graves. One obelisk was shaped like the Washington Monument. I imagine landing on that would tear a hole in the basket.

“Well, I don’t appreciate you disrupting the service,” Odell sputtered.

“The funeral of someone I loved,” Richards grumbled.

“We have some control,” the balloon pilot responded, “but when the wind isn’t cooperating, I have to put this baby down where I can. You’d better finish up here, too. Our weather radio says we’re going to have a big storm real soon.” He looked up at the sky, which had now darkened with gray and black clouds, and then turned his back on Odell and Richards.

I knew it was coming. Like Jane, Odell doesn’t like being told what to do, and to him, the man’s turning his back on him was an insult. I could see where this was headed by the way the muscles on the side of Odell’s face tightened and released, tightened and released.

“I don’t need you to tell me how to handle a funeral,” Odell barked and stepped forward toward the balloon pilot, who turned around then. That’s when I noticed both of them had clenched their hands into fists.

I wished Otis were supervising this funeral instead of his brother. Odell isn’t as polished as Otis. I’ve been told that, years ago, they looked identical and acted more similar, but time has changed both of them.

The other difference between the twin brothers is that Odell has a harder time maintaining the calm, controlled manner preferred in a funeral director, but he generally manages a professional composure. I feared this might be an exception.

Odell drew his fist back. I expected him to hit the pilot, but at the last moment, he pulled the punch, and then dropped his arm to his side.

Not so Arthur Richards. His fist shot out and landed squarely on the balloon man’s chin. The blow brought a shocked look to both Odell and the pilot, but only for a few seconds. Odell grabbed Richards and was holding him to stop the altercation, but the balloon man hit back. His fist landed on Arthur’s nose, and blood spurted down the front of his white tuxedo shirt.

I rushed toward them, hoping I could stop the fight with words. I certainly didn’t plan to jump between them. By the time I reached the disturbance, the burly young men who’d loaded the basket and balloon on the truck had pulled the pilot away while Odell restrained Arthur Richards.

“I’m going to sue you,” Odell declared. “You have no right to disrupt religious rites and show such disrespect for a cemetery and the people who are laid to rest here.” He puffed up like a big old bullfrog.

“I’ll sue you.” The balloon pilot yelled. “Your employee hit me first.”

I’ve seen my daddy turn the hose on fighting dogs. Water works wonders. About that time, the clouds opened up and dumped a flood of gigantic, biting raindrops. Before we could get all the mourners into their cars and the balloon people could get their passengers into the bus, the rain turned to hail—huge pellets of ice. I didn’t see any sign of champagne toasts or photo opportunities. Guess Cloud Nine saved that for later.

As Odell slid into the driver’s seat of the family car, he shook his fist and yelled at the balloon man. “Cloud Nine Balloon Rides. I know your name and you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

“You don’t own this graveyard, but I see your sign on that tent, too—Middleton’s Mortuary. You’ll hear from my lawyer before you even have time to call yours. That man hit me first, and you’re responsible for your employee’s actions.”

Odell didn’t bother to explain that Arthur Richards didn’t work for Middleton’s. He put the family car in gear, and we wound our way out of the cemetery slowly because of the hail. In the seat behind Odell and me, Miss Nila dabbed tissues against the blood spots on Arthur’s pleated shirt front.

“Excuse me, sir.” Richards leaned forward and touched Odell lightly on the shoulder. “I’m an attorney, and I’ll be glad to handle this for you.”

“You’re damn right you’ll handle it,” Odell snapped. “You hit him first, and you don’t work for me.” The rest of the ride was silent except for the hammering of hailstones on the roof of the funeral home’s new Lincoln Town Car.

10

“How is everything?” I asked Rizzie when I called her first thing back at Middleton’s. The storm had moved rapidly away, and its only remains were a steady rain.

“About the same. With the pain meds, Maum is sleeping a lot, and Ty’s been on his iPad since you dropped him off. Thanks for buying him the new cover for it.” I hadn’t bought him anything. The cover on the iPad he’d won last night came with it, but I didn’t tell Rizzie that.

“It’s a little late for lunch, but I can get you both something to eat.”

“No, Jane and Frankie came by a couple of hours ago and brought homemade lasagna and chocolate cheesecake for both of us. I’d been drinking Cokes, but she brought a gallon of sweet ice tea. We’re fine. You shouldn’t be out driving in this weather anyway. Why don’t you take a couple of hours for yourself? Come later and you can just take Ty with you when you leave.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“Positive.”

Next call was to Jane to thank her for taking lunch to Rizzie and Tyrone. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said. “They’re my friends, too.”

“I’m glad Frankie’s back. Did you two work things out?”

“Kinda. I promised to look into some other kind of work. Would that make you happy, too?”

“What do you mean? I’ve never had a problem with your job. Roxanne earns you better money than you’ve ever made anywhere else and solves a lot of problems with transportation. You’re my friend no matter what you do.” I hesitated, then added, “I was even your friend back when you went shoplifting.”

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“And I’m glad, but I’d still be your friend regardless, and I guess I thanked you for taking lunch to Rizzie and Tyrone because it gives me some free time.”

“What’cha gonna do? It’s not really shopping weather, but if you do that, I’ll go with you.”

“Afraid not. I’m going to call Patel and see if that hail storm has shut down the fair for the afternoon.” The elusive thoughts that had kept me awake during the night had finally surfaced.

“You go, girl!”

• • •

In some ways, I’m as modern as a girl can be. Ex-scuuze me, a
woman
can be. But as redneck and free-wheeling as Daddy was with the boys, my father raised me strict and expected me to act like a lady—his idea of a lady. It’s taken several years for me to become comfortable calling men after only one or two dates unless, like last night, I was returning a call. I overcame that restriction over a year ago, so I called Patel.

“Yes,” he answered instead of “Hello.” At least he didn’t say “Yellow” like Mike does.

“What’s the question?” I asked.

“Callie, so good to hear from you. I’ve been thinking of calling you all day, but things are pretty messed up out here now. How are you?”

“Fine. What’s wrong?”

“Vandalism. Somebody got past our security guards and splashed paint on several tents—mainly Mother Hubbard’s places. It happened last night after we shut down. The sheriff’s department was on the way when that big storm came through. There are some deputies here now.”

“Is Sheriff Harmon there?”

“No, some of his deputies.” He hesitated. “I don’t guess you could get away a while and come out? I’d invite myself into town, but I don’t think it’s advisable right now.”

“Actually, I do have time. The funeral is finished, and I’ve talked to Rizzie. Everything’s the same at the hospital. I thought of a couple of things I wanted to ask you. Are you certain I won’t be in your way?”

“Positive. Just call me back on the cell when you’re almost here, and I’ll meet you at the gate so you don’t have to pay to come in.”

Of course, I went by my apartment to put on fresh makeup and change into khaki cargo pants and a black pullover turtleneck sweater. I pumped up my bra just a little more before I headed to the fairgrounds. When I was parked and called Patel, he assured me, “I’m on my way right now,” and in a couple of minutes, he met me.

The Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden closest to the front gate was visible when we went inside. One whole side of the tent had been splashed with red, blue, orange, and yellow paint. It looked like the colors on the Cloud Nine hot-air balloon, but not neat like the stripes had been on the balloon. Someone had printed profanity—not kindergarten cussing, but
real
vulgarity—in those bright colors. I turned away to keep from even looking at “FU Badell.”

“The deputy is sending a sketch artist back and wants me help them with pictures of those teenagers last night, the ones who gave the server trouble while you were here. Jill called me by name, and ‘Badell’ is probably how those kids heard ‘Patel.’ Didn’t Tyrone say he’d seen them around?”

“Said he’d seen them around but that he didn’t know them.” I smiled my sweetest, most comforting smile. It had to be upsetting to Patel, seeing his property damaged like that, especially since the vandals had singled him out by writing their version of his name.

“I haven’t had lunch. Would you like something to eat?”

“I haven’t eaten, but I’d settle for a Diet Coke and more of those fried mushrooms for lunch.”

We walked to another Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden tent because Patel had closed the one nearest the gate. We sat at a table near the kitchen area. A server I hadn’t seen before took the order, and Patel slid back in his folding chair. “I’m glad to see you.” His tone said as much as his words. “I confess this disturbs me, both the fact it happened and that it’s exposed for everyone to see right at the entrance to the fair, but that storm makes it impossible to take that tent down yet. I have a spare because we set up more stations at some fairs that are larger than this, but I can’t dismantle wet canvas.”

“I’m so sorry.” I almost added, “for your loss.” It’s a habit.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“That Red Star game. Do they ever use real guns instead of BB guns?”

“Not since I started working the circuit. I understand that many years ago, some game owners allowed shooters to use their own rifles, but not these days. Letting marks bring guns onto the grounds would be asking for trouble, not just from stray bullets, but we still have an occasional fight, and we don’t need any more trouble than we get under normal circumstances. ”

“It occurred to me that maybe the shot that killed that man in your kitchen was a stray bullet from another game, but I guess that’s not possible.”

“It might have been years ago, but not now. The forensics technicians made a big deal of checking the canvas all around that storage area for holes that would indicate the bullet was fired from a distance. To be honest with you, I can’t figure how the man was shot in that small area of the tent.”