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Chapter 7
“Mom.”
Karen's voice drifted into my dream. She was interrupting an important conversation. In my dream I was explaining to Sam why he could not marry Anita Wagner. “She's dead, Sam.” He shook his head. Except he didn't really look like Sam. He looked much more like Harold Garvey. “Sam, she's dead!”
“Mom!” Karen's voice was louder. I woke up with a jolt.
“It's late, Mom. I think you overslept,” she said.
“Oh no!” I yelled, and leapt from the bed. “I have to get there early today!”
“Well, too late for that, I'm afraid. How early is early?”
I was throwing on slacks and a blouse, ripping a comb through my hair, reaching for the hair spray and wishing for breakfast.
“We had two bodies come in last night. We have an autopsy this morning, and I've gotta be there first!”
Karen followed me down the stairs. Beau stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at me like I was the worst person in the world.
“Oh, I'm sorry, Beau! I've hardly been here, buddy!” I scooped him up and kissed his head. “Karen, will you feed him, please?” I grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter, grabbed my briefcase, and headed for the door.
“Wait! Mom, who died?” Karen asked.
I turned a skeptical eye at her. “I thought you weren't interested in dead bodies.”
“Well,” she replied, “this is different. This might be somebody I know.”
“I haven't notified the next of kin yet, sorry.”
The door slammed behind me. I could feel her discontent.
As I walked into the funeral home office on that first terrifying morning, I quickly appreciated why Emery Plott had kept Patty Goyle as his secretary for over thirty years. All traces of last night's chaotic events were gone from the office. The classical music station from Columbia drifted its calming tones through the building. Fresh coffee was sputtering away through a filter, sending my brain into spasms of longing. Through Mr. Plott's office door I saw a vase of bright flowers gracing the desk and a plate of warm scones awaiting my rumbling tummy.
Patty held out her hand. I looked at it quizzically.
“The apple,” she said. “Give me that ugly thing.”
I looked at the apple I'd brought from home. Jimmy had taken two bites out of it yesterday and rejected it as slightly rotten. I handed it to Miss Goyle.
“I hear ya added another resident to the morgue last night after I left,” she said. “Anita Wagner. That's a shocker.”
“You knew her?” I asked as she placed a mug of warm, creamy coffee in my hands.
“Oh yes, but not well,” she replied. “She worked at the hospital all these years. Did EKGs or drew blood or some such thing.” She slid a piece of paper across her desk to me. I picked it up. It was blurry, and I squinted.
“You need yer glasses, Mrs. Monson,” she said.
I fumbled in my purse but could hardly see what I was doing in there either.
“You're a 2.75, right?” she asked. “Here, I keep a few spares around.” And she handed me a pair of glasses. I looked at her in wonder.
“You're amazing,” I said flatly. She merely smiled coyly. I stared at the now readable paper. “Ah! Myron Wagner. That's the husband?” I asked.
“Oh yes. He's a piece uh work, mind you. Got his cell number from the bar on the edge of town, that one on Main Street? My brother-in-law's cousin works there. That's th' only place Myron hangs out when he's in town.”
“In town?” I asked.
“He's a truck driver.” Patty began to file her nails in a leisurely way. “He's gone for weeks on end and comes home to torment his wife.” She paused. “Well, he used to. Won't be doin' that no more.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Goyle,” I said. “This will save me time this morning.”
“You're welcome, Mrs. Monson. I figured you'd be pushed, what with the late night and the autopsy comin' up. Garvey comin' at 10:00, I reckon?”
I smiled. “You are a wonder, Miss Goyle.” I had barely made it inside my new office when her voice followed me.
“And we'd better do something with Mr. Plott soon, before you get yourself all tied up with Anita Wagner.”
I stopped. “Tied up?” I replied. “Why tied up?”
“It's just a hunch, Mrs. Monson,” she said slowly. “But I can tell. Some burials go as smooth as butter, and some don't. Some folks don't bury easy, and I'm thinkin' Anita Wagner will be givin' you trouble all the way into her grave.” I heard her nail file scraping slowly. “Have a scone. You gonna need it.”
She was right. I called Myron Wagner. He cursed and swore before I told him of his wife's death, and he cursed and swore afterward. He seemed more angry at her than bereaved at her passing. I felt more sorry for her than before. I held the phone away from my head while he called her a few choice names, and then he hung up.
Patty called to me. “He comin' back?” she asked.
“Well, he'd better,” I replied. “He's the spouse. We can't very well proceed without him. I suppose it depends on how far away he is.”
“He's in Oklahoma, my brother-in-law said. But he'll be drunk in every major city between here and there before he sets food in Peace Valley again.” Patty sighed. “Tied up. That's what we'll be.”
The autopsy proceeded smoothly. Mr. Garvey brought a medical examiner with him, plus an assistant to close up and clean the body afterward. As I worked on paperwork in the office I heard their muffled voices from the morgue. At 1:00 Harold Garvey entered my office.
“Mrs. Monson, we are finished. We needed only a partial autopsy.” He sat in a chair across from me. “It seems quite clear. She died from a fall down a flight of stairs and landed exactly as we found her.” He paused. “The livor mortis,” he looked at me, “the pooling of the blood in the body --”
I nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“The livor mortis was accurate but the patterns were slightly,” and he paused again, “slightly irregular. But nothing to worry about.” He stood up. “I'll have the report to you tomorrow.” He turned to go. “Oh – did you reach Mr. Wagner?” His lip curled slightly.
“Oh, yes. I spoke with him. I see why you passed that little unpleasantness to me.” I smiled in return.
Mr. Garvey walked into Patty Goyle's office. “I've had many run-ins with Myron Wagner. Everyone has. He's the type of man who causes conflict every direction he turns. Might as well get it over with, Mrs. Monson.” He tapped his fingers on Patty's desk. “Thank you, Miss Goyle.”
“Yes, Mr. Garvey.”
We made a fresh pot of afternoon coffee. Patty noted that it just wasn't the same to have no one in the office drinking whiskey each day. I agreed. We sat in silence, each thinking of Emery Plott.
“We might as well have his service this week, before Myron Wagner gets back and we have the Wagner funeral to worry with,” I said.
“That'd be nice,” she replied.
While Patty washed the coffee pot and tided up the scone crumbs from our day's visitors, I sunk into one of the upholstered chairs in the waiting room and tapped Desiree Steele's number into my cell phone. I'd tried to call her twice before during the day, without success. This time she answered.
“Hello?”
“Desiree Steele? This is Ivy Monson at the funeral home.”
Silence.
“Um, Miss Steele, the coroner has performed a partial autopsy on your aunt. I don't have the report in hand yet, but the coroner says it seems pretty straightforward. Your aunt died of a fall, apparently two or probably three days ago, at this point.”
“Okay.”
“Miss Steele, I also talked with your uncle, Myron Wagner, but I could not determine when he intends to be back home. Do you know if your aunt left any instructions regarding the disposition of her remains?”
“What?”
I felt badly for the girl. She clearly had no experience dealing with such things.
“Did your aunt leave directions about what we should do with her body?”
“Oh. Yes, I think she did, as a matter of fact. I think it's in her desk, here at the house.”
“Really? Well, that would be quite useful, especially if her husband delays his return or is not helpful in deciding … um … what to do. Can you bring those instructions into our office in Peace Valley?”
“I don't have a car.”
“Oh. You don't … but how did you get to the house yesterday?”
“I walked,” she said. “I always walk from the bus station if my aunt can't come get me. She didn't pick me up yesterday, so I walked.”
“That's fine, Miss Steele. I'll come out to the house in the morning and get her instructions for burial, if that's okay.”
“Sure.”
“Thank you so much. I'll see you then.”
Desiree Steele was an enigma, that was certain. Between her uncle's overflowing mouth, and Desiree's reluctance to reveal much, Anita Wagner's death would prove to be a challenge to handle. I wished, and not for the last time, that Emery Plott were around to offer good advice.
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
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