Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (3 page)

That was unreasonable since Jane and I have been BFFs since she moved to St. Mary when we were both in ninth grade, which is quite a few years back because we’re both in our early thirties. We even live next door to one another in a duplex over on Oak Street. Yes, it’s true, I do seem to have the misfortune of sometimes finding corpses in strange places, but Jane has been known to do much worse things intentionally—like shoplifting lingerie from Victoria’s Secret—though not lately.

Frankie knew what Jane did for a living before they began dating. She calls herself a “fantasy actress,” but to call a spade a flippin’ shovel, Jane is a 900 telephone sex operator who goes by the name Roxanne. She’s done other work, but the pay is better for this and she doesn’t have to arrange transportation because she works from a separate phone line at her home.

Buh-leeve me. I tried to hold back my words, but I couldn’t. “Until you get a regular job and can support Jane, I don’t think you have the right to criticize her or try to make her quit. Now, are you coming or do I need to call someone else?”

“You know I’ll come get you.”

“Do you want us to wait outside the gate?”

“Of course. You don’t think I want to pay to get into the fair and have to turn right around and leave, do you?” He chuckled and added, “Will you bring me a candied apple?”

I laughed and agreed. I love Frankie. In fact, I love all my brothers even when they aggravate the dickens out of me. I tucked my telephone back into its safe place, told Wayne we were meeting Frankie at the gate, and led Jane away from Mother Hubbard’s. What had started out to be a girls’ fun time at the fair had turned ugly. Poor Maum had a heart condition and a broken hip, and I’d found another dead body. I had no idea who he was or what had happened to him, but working at Middleton’s Mortuary has taught me that there’s someone who hurts and grieves over every death, and I felt sorry for the people who loved the dead man lying in Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden.

When Jane learned I was buying a candied apple for Frankie, she wanted one, too. I don’t see how that woman eats the way she does and doesn’t gain weight. I passed on the apple. I had a fresh box of MoonPies at my apartment, and a chocolate MoonPie is my favorite comfort food. I understand that chocolate is the original flavor, but now they have others including banana and strawberry. I looked up MoonPies on the Internet. They’re made in Tennessee and are basically two round graham crackers filled with marshmallow cream and then dipped in chocolate or another flavor covering. Not only do I love them, my dog, Big Boy eats MoonPies whenever I let him. I try not to share mine with him because I understand that chocolate is bad for dogs, so I buy the banana ones for him.

Standing outside the fairground gates, Jane couldn’t resist opening her candied apple. By the time Frankie pulled up in his old Ford 150, she’d eaten it to the core and tucked the remains into her pocket. Jane has some bad habits, but littering isn’t one of them.

“Hop in, girls,” Frankie said. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. Heaven forbid he should walk around and open the door for us. Frankie’s truck is a regular bench seat model. Jane climbed in the middle, and I sat on the far passenger side. I reached across Jane and handed Frankie his candied apple.

“What’s that?” Jane asked.

“A candied apple,” Frankie answered.

“Are you going to eat it?” Jane persisted.

“That’s why I told Callie to buy me one—so I could eat it,” Frankie answered as he pulled back onto the road while peeling the cellophane wrapping from the apple. “Why?”

“Could I have a bite?” Jane said.

“Don’t you dare give her your apple,” I snapped at Frankie. “She’s already had an elephant ear, a corndog, and bacon dipped in chocolate before we went to Mother Hubbard’s. Since then, she’s eaten cotton candy, a sausage dog, potatoes, and her own candied apple.”

“Well, if she’s hungry, I’m not depriving my girlfriend of whatever she wants,” Frankie said, took one tiny taste of the apple, and handed it to Jane. Frankie is convinced Jane’s pregnant. She’s had some of the signs, including morning sickness, but every time one of us makes her a doctor’s appointment, Jane cancels it. I’m especially concerned because her “morning” sickness seems to happen at any time of the day or night.

We were almost to Healing Heart Medical Center when Jane retched. Frankie pulled the truck over off the side of the road, and I jumped out immediately. Between her BFF and her fiancée, I figured Jane would choose to throw up on me instead of him. Barfing, puking, upchucking, tossing your cookies—whatever you want to call it, isn’t pleasant under any conditions. I’m not too proud to admit that I vomit myself sometimes—mainly whenever I get scared—but that doesn’t mean I like being around it.

After several minutes of awful noises accompanied by a very unpleasant smell, Jane wiped her mouth with the back of her arm and climbed back in. Frankie cleaned her arm off with a cloth he’d pulled from behind the seat. There was probably a little oil on the rag, but better for Jane to have that on her arm than throw up.

“I think it might be best to let me off at the medical center and you take Jane home” I said.

“Oh, I’ll be okay. I should be there to support Rizzie,” Jane protested.

“No, you need to go home and rest. Rizzie has enough to worry about without you there throwing up all over.”

For a wonder, I won because when Frankie drove into the ER entrance, he put his arm around Jane and slid her closer to him. I jumped out and slammed the door. He pulled off.

I found Rizzie and Tyrone in the waiting room outside the coronary tests unit after calling her cell phone. They have all these privacy rules at hospitals, and I figured it would take forever to track down Maum through the information desk, so I just called Rizzie. When I walked in, Rizzie and Tyrone hugged me.

Rizzie’s tears didn’t surprise me even though I’d never seen her weep before. Tyrone wasn’t crying, but his eyes were red, and he looked like a terrified little kid.

“Callie, oh, Callie. The doctors don’t know yet if they can fix her hip. What happens if her heart isn’t strong enough for the surgery? She was in horrible pain until they gave her a shot of morphine.” The words tumbled from Rizzie without a pause for breath. I swear, if Rizzie kept talking so fast, she was gonna turn into a Yankee.

“Now she’s drunk off the medicine,” Tyrone said. “I don’t like seeing Maum like that.”

“It’s better than seeing her suffer,” I said.

“Yes,” Rizzie agreed.

The three of us sat on a fake leather couch and drank coffee for what seemed forever before a doctor came to us and extended his hand for hearty shakes. “Hello, I’m Dr. Dean Redmond. I’ve started Mrs. Profit on some medicine to regulate her heart rhythm, and we’re moving her to the coronary care unit.”

“What about her hip?” Rizzie asked.

“Right now we’re going to get the heart condition under control, but Dr. Midlands will operate as soon as possible. He’ll be by her room to talk to you in the morning. I suggest you stop by to see Mrs. Profit in cardiac, then go home and rest so you can be back about dawn tomorrow. Dr. Midlands makes early rounds.”

“Is Maum in danger of dying?” Tyrone asked in a serious, worried tone.

“Anyone in her nineties is in danger of dying, especially with this heart arrhythmia and the trauma of the break, but we need to remain optimistic, and she’s responding to stabilization. I’ll see you again soon.”

He shook our hands again and left the room.

A kind, friendly nurse wearing a name tag identifying her as Kathleen told us that Maum would be in Room 407 and gave us directions. When we got there, we had to wait outside the room while the staff moved Maum from a gurney onto her bed. When they allowed us in to see her, Maum looked smaller than ever. I’d been struck by her tiny stature since I met her on Surcie Island several years ago, and I thought of her as dynamite in a small package. Her green print hospital gown swallowed her, and the red fingernail polish I used every week or so when I gave her a manicure seemed brighter against the skin of her fingers sticking out of the splint brace on her left wrist. I can’t say Maum looked pale because her skin was naturally dark. Perhaps “dull” as compared to its usual richness is the best word to describe her complexion as she lay there so horribly injured.

I stroked Maum’s hand while Rizzie and Tyrone each kissed her goodnight—Rizzie on the cheek, Tyrone on her forehead. We all tried to say encouraging and loving words to her, but the meds that had made Tyrone describe her as “drunk” now made her sleep. Kathleen, the nurse from downstairs, stopped by at the end of her shift to check on Maum. All medical personnel should be as compassionate as that nurse. When she left, a different attendant assured Rizzie that the hospital would call if there were any change in Maum’s condition. We just stood there by the bedside watching Maum sleep until the nurse finally said, “You need to leave now.”

Since Tyrone had not been allowed to ride in the ambulance from Gastric Gullah to the Jade County Hospital, he had driven their Econoline behind the first ambulance. When Maum moved to Healing Heart Medical Center, Tyrone drove the van while Rizzie drove my Mustang. After much discussion about whether they wanted to go home with me to my apartment, which was closer to the hospital than their house on Surcie Island was, I waved goodbye and watched two of the saddest people I’d ever seen ride away in the Gastric Gullah van.

3

Dreadful. My day off had become horrific. A fun day at the fair with my friends had ended with a lady that I’d grown to love lying in the hospital waiting to be “well” enough for major surgery and me finding another dead person.

I didn’t have to, but I decided to go by Middleton’s and see if they needed me for anything.
 

“What are you doing here on your day off?” Otis asked when I let myself in through the employee door in back. “Odell’s gone to take that man from the fairgrounds to Charleston for a post-mortem. Nothing going on here that I can’t handle. Gonna lock up soon and transfer the phone lines to my cell.”

“I just wasn’t ready to go home.”

“Yes, I feel that way sometimes. Let me get you some coffee. Or would you rather have tea? I just made myself a cup of ‘Constant Comment’ and cut a fresh lemon.” He gestured toward his cup. “They should call this ‘Constant Comfort.’ It’s delicious.”

“That would be nice.” My work covers lots of areas, and some people would describe me as a ‘girl Friday,’ who also makes up corpses, but unlike some ‘girls Friday,’ my chores don’t include making coffee or waiting on my bosses, brothers Otis and Odell Middleton. Oh sure, I carry the silver coffee service tray out to customers with our genuine Wedgwood china cups, but the Middletons treat me with professionalism and gentlemanly charm, and I’m not expected to step and fetch for them.

Otis and I sat in his office and talked over our tea. He beamed at me. “You made quite an impression on that man at the fair.”

I confess I looked at him in bewilderment. “Which one—the dead one or the fellow who passed out when I showed him the body?”

“Neither. The owner of the Mother Hubbard concessions. The Indian man.”

“Oh, J. T. Patel. What makes you say I made an impression on him?”

“He asked your name and made very sure I knew he wasn’t talking about the red haired woman or the tall one. He was asking about the blonde. You’re the blonde.” He chuckled. “At least you’re blonde this week.” I’m known to change my hair color with my moods.

“What did he want to know?”

“Your name and if you’re married.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That your name is Calamine Lotion Parrish.”

“You didn’t!”

“No, even though that’s your real name, I told him Callie.” Calamine Lotion Parrish
is
my name. I’m the youngest of six children and the only female. My mother died when I was born, and my daddy got drunk—really drunk. He’d never named a girl baby before, and he couldn’t think of anything girly except the color pink. The only pink he could think of was calamine lotion; hence, my name. Thank heaven nobody calls me Calamine except Daddy, who insists he thinks it sounds pretty and that he’ll change it to Pepto Bismol if I don’t like the name he chose for me.

“What else did you tell Patel?” Since Dr. Donald Walters, my most recent boyfriend, had abruptly stopped calling, I was kind of pleased to learn someone had noticed me.

“Told him you work here.” Otis smiled.
 

“You better hope he’s not some stalker kind of guy and waiting for me when I head home.”

Speak of the devil—well, not really the devil. I hardly knew the man and couldn’t honestly call him that, but sometimes my mouth gets in front of my brain. Anyway, the phone rang and Otis answered it.

“Middleton’s Mortuary. Otis Middleton speaking. How may I help you?” A significant pause during which he grinned like that cat in
Alice in Wonderland
. “Yes, as a matter of fact, she’s here right now.” He handed the receiver to me.

“Hello.” I expected the caller to be Daddy or Jane, hopefully not Rizzie with bad news.

“Hello, is this Miss Parrish?” Low male voice.

“Yes, how may I help you?”