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Chapter 18
The drive to Opelika, Alabama, three days later was rainy. My windshield wipers slapped back and forth, and a few drivers pulled into the protection of the overpasses. The Deep South's pine forests seemed misty and brooding along miles of highway. I rolled down the passenger side window to let in the smell of rain. The morning was quiet and sleepy. I'd left Beau at home with Karen. Patty promised to take him to the funeral home most days to visit with Plato the philosopher cat, and steal his cat food.
I drove lovely country backroads from Peace Valley all the way to Athens, after which all roads lead to the horrible vortex of Atlanta's interstate insanity. It makes no difference if you take the loop or head through town; all is terrifying chaos. I stopped at Chick-Fil-A, fortified myself with a frosted coffee, and dove into the frantic drag race. Traffic like that feels like a deadly whirlwind, and merging into it is throwing yourself, eyes squeezed shut, into death. I know it's only driving through Atlanta, but every time I feel I will not survive.
From there it's a straight shot down I-85 to Opelika. I resisted the urge to detour to Callaway Gardens, a favorite day trip during my Atlanta years, instead setting my mind on my goal: the Prescott family. I would discover their secrets on this trip and not return home until I did. I arrived in Opelika around noon, grabbed a bite at a downtown pub, appreciated the attractive renovation work the city had done there, and headed south of town to the last address I had for Maude Prescott, Anita's biological mother. It was a trailer park off the highway.
The woman who answered the door was not Maude Prescott, of course. That would have been too easy. She scowled at me a bit, but when I mentioned that I knew Desiree Steele, and that I was tracking down family members because of a death in the family, her interest was peaked. She told me that the mother had been moved to a care facility in Auburn. This surprised me; Maude Prescott couldn't be much older than I was.
“She's in terr'ble health,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Smoked like a train. Riddled with cancer. I think it started on 'er skin and moved to her organs.” She leaned in and whispered then. “An' if you ask me, I think she did some drugs too. She was scrawny, looked like she was an old woman.” She paused, took a long drag on her cigarette, and coughed. “I'm down to just ten a day,” she said proudly. “Wait, I'm wrong. Maude was in Auburn, but they done moved her back to Opelika recently, t' that place on Pepperell, I think. Check there.” She tapped her ash onto the stoop and went back inside.
I had little trouble locating the nursing home, and when I presented my card from Peace Valley Funeral Home and told them I was looking for Maude Prescott regarding the death of her daughter, the nursing staff was helpful. I was warned she was in poor health, had breathing assistance, and was often confused, but that she'd be glad of a visitor.
Her room was dim and silent except for the gravelly rasp of her breathing. Thin slices of sunlight from the window blinds made lines across the wall and her bed, and a few dappled shadows played on the blanket. One hand held the sheet in a fist. She was a slip of a woman, her neck thin and taut, her arms fleshless, her skin dull, and patches of gray hair stuck to her cheek and temple. The room smelled of sweat and urine. In the corner and beside the sink counter the floor tiles were chipped and grimy. An orange ring stained the sink drain.
“Mrs. Prescott?” I spoke loud enough to rouse her. Her eyes flickered.
“Mrs. Prescott? I've come about Anita.”
Her eyes were clouded blue. They searched the room until they found me.
“Anita.” She gazed at me. “You're not Anita.”
“No, ma'am. I'm Ivy Monson. I've come about Anita's funeral.”
“Funeral?” Her eyes closed. Her forehead gathered into a cluster of lines. “Anita's funeral.”
“Yes, ma'am. I'd like to ask you a few questions if I can.”
She stirred then, her legs rustling under the bedclothes. She licked her dry lips and pointed. “Could you get me a cup a water?” she asked. Her voice was soft and slow. I handed her the cup. She pulled herself up in bed, spilling the water down her loose nightgown. “What can I he'p you with?” she asked.
“Mrs. Prescott, Anita left instructions for her cremation. I have not yet cremated the remains because none of the family is in Peace Valley. Her husband hasn't yet returned, and your granddaughter, Desiree Steele, left town without meeting with me.”
“Did you bring the ashes with you?” Her eyes began to fade as she looked at me.
“No, ma'am. I haven't cremated her yet,” I answered, pausing for that fact to sink in. “Do you know if there will be a service of any kind? Her instructions did not say.”
Maude Prescott said nothing. She licked her lips again and reached for the empty glass. I filled it again.
“Mrs. Prescott, your granddaughter was left in charge of all arrangements but she's not answered my phone calls. I've driven here all the way from South Carolina to find her and finalize the arrangements --”
“Yeh drove here from South Carolina? For Anita?” Her weary eyes searched mine.
“I – I, well, yes. Mrs. Prescott, I have one more question. Do you know if Anita had any tattoos?”
She was gazing toward the window now, and the slices of daylight from the blinds cast thin bands of white across her face. I wondered if she longed for the outdoors, for the world beyond this room, for the sunlight. Her eyes looked as thirsty as her lips had a moment before.
“Tattoos?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Anita didn't have no tattoos.”
“Are you sure?”
“She didn't have no tattoos that I knew of.” She looked down at her thin hands, sinewy and riddled with veins. “She weren't th' tattooin' sort, Anita. That's Ange. Anita didn't care for marrin' her body. She were right careful with herself.”
I sat in thought. This brief description matched what I'd heard of the women. I realized suddenly that this was why the tattoo bothered me – it seemed out of character with the woman who'd died, almost as if someone had tattooed her after her death, against her will. This desecration of a body was a horror to me – me, who could assist in an autopsy, embalm a corpse, dress the dead, stitch closed the gaping mouth, commit the body to flames and sort through its ashes. But our work was a sacred trust, and the idea of someone altering Anita Wagner's body after her death, of giving it a mark that she'd not have chosen for herself, offended me.
Maude Prescott turned to me. “Where was it?” she asked.
“On the bottom of her foot,” I answered.
She sat bolt upright in bed. “On the bottom of her foot?” she asked. “What was it?”
“A heart,” I explained. “A red heart with the letters “A” and “D” inside.” I leaned toward her. “That's why I had to ask someone. Desiree didn't know anything about it. But --” I didn't want to tell it all. “But, the tattoo was not there the night we found her. Then the next morning, it was there.”
“What?”
I nodded. “I need an explanation for that, Mrs. Prescott, before I feel right in cremating your daughter.”
Something in those words caused her to cry. Perhaps it was the word, daughter. She slumped back on her pillows, folded her arms into her sunken chest, and closed her eyes. I heard no weeping, but her quivering shoulders showed it all. I knew there would be no more conversation with her, and I felt horrible for causing her such grief. I place a hand briefly, lightly, on her shoulder and turned to leave the room.
“You'll bring her to me,” she mumbled. “When yer done. You'll bring her back to me here. I want her ashes.”
I couldn't answer. I couldn't promise that.
Angela Steele's home was located between Opelika and Auburn near the Auburn Mall. It was a duplex. The adjoining half was boarded up, but her residence had a chair on the front porch, a battered upholstered lounge chair. An ashtray rested on the porch rail. Two thin cats lay on the chair seat. The screen door was broken and leaning against the wall. I knocked. When no one answered, I walked to the end of the porch and leaned over, looking down the side of the house. Anita Wagner's car , a Ford Focus, sat there in the back yard. Desiree Steele was here.
I knocked again. “Desiree, it's Ivy Monson. I need to speak with you. If you're here, please come to the door.” No one seemed to stir. “Ms. Steele, your aunt's car is here. Unless you possess the title to it in your name, I will have to call the police and report a car stolen from a deceased person whose body is still in my care.” All this I said clearly and loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear.
Footsteps. A bolt was drawn and the door opened. Desiree Steele stood before me, disheveled as before. Her t-shirt was wet. She wore dish gloves.
“Sorry. I'm cleanin' th' house.” She stepped aside to let me in. “Mom!” she yelled. “Mom, the funeral home lady's here!”
The house was hot, although I could hear the constant low hum of a window unit in a room somewhere. From the front door I could see the living room, the hallway, and part of the kitchen. It looked like the house was only barely lived in, as if someone had moved their furniture and half-emptied boxes into it, and then left for a few months. There were no refining touches, no pictures on the walls, no rugs on the floor. It had a barren look. Curtains covered all the windows completely, creating a dark, musty atmosphere. A woman came from the kitchen. It was Angela Steele.
“This is my mom,” Desiree said, “Angela Steele.”
“Mrs. Steele,” I said, turning to her. “It's good to meet you. I'm very sorry about your sister's sudden death.”
She came from the darkness of the kitchen into the semi-gloom of the living room. Her hair, spilling out of a head-scarf she'd been wearing for house-cleaning, was the same bright auburn red as her twin sister's. She was dressed in black yoga pants bagging at the knees, a pair of plastic flip-flops, and an Auburn University t-shirt. Her face, as far as I could tell, was identical to Anita's in its shape and features, but the look was different, even though I'd only seen the other woman in death. I'd expected this sister to be hard, calloused, guarded. Guarded she was, but calloused she was not. She stood like a nervous cat, ready to flee out the back door. She nodded at my condolences.
“What can we do for you?” she asked. Again, I'd expected a voice like her mother's, hoarse and deep from smoking. Instead it was soft, like a girl's.
“I'm trying to finalize your sister's arrangements,” I said.
“I thought she left instructions, notarized instructions.” I saw her head turn. She looked at Desiree.
“I give 'em to 'er,” the girl said quickly. “Just like --” She cleared her voice. “It was just like she wanted.”
The woman spoke again. “The body's been cremated?”
“No,” I replied. “First, I could not contact Miss Steele,” and I waved my hand toward her, “and second, I feel that the body was tampered with after we placed it in our morgue. Until I understand how and why that occurred, I'm reluctant to cremate the remains.”
The woman stepped forward. Her face was now in better light. Her eyes were crystal blue, intelligent, surprisingly assertive now as she spoke. “Aren't you obligated to perform the wishes of the dead person?” The corners of her mouth turned down. “I wouldn't think you'd have a right to delay.”
I returned her gaze. “Mrs. Steele, first of all, I had no indication that any family member would come either to claim the ashes and urn, nor to pay for the cremation, and your sister's instructions clearly stated that her husband – the only family member who I could reasonably expect to return to Peace Valley – should have nothing to do with it.” I stepped toward her. “That's why I've driven all the way here to find you. I've already spoken with your mother in the --”
“What?” she expostulated. “You spoke to my mother? You went to the nursing home?” Her face darkened and her body stiffened.
“Yes, it was the first contact information I had, and it seemed reasonable to contact Mrs. Wagner's mother first. Especially if I wanted explanations about her personal life.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. Her voice was clear now and full of anxiety.
“I mean the tampering I referred to,” I told her. “Miss Steele must have told you.” It was at this point, I think, that I realized in the back of my mind that Angela Steele's speech was so different from her family's. She had no accent of poverty, no cowering stoop. She possessed a clarity of speech that belied the life she must've lived in the trailer parks of Opelika. “The tattoo.”
She pursed her lips and glanced down. “Yes, the tattoo. Well, that means nothing.” Then she leveled her gaze at me again, and in an attempt at confidence she said, “You must've overlooked it that first night. It was late. You were tired.”
I sighed. I was weary of this game. “No, Mrs. Steele, I did not overlook it. I stood at the foot of the stretcher as the coroner first examined the body for at least fifteen minutes. I looked at the bottom of your sister's feet in the bright lights of the morgue.” Here, her eyes flickered in doubt. “I noticed her callouses, the bunion on her right foot, the chipping of her half-grown red toenail polish. I'd hardly have missed a heart-shaped tattoo.” I said the last sentence slowly, clearly, clipped. She flinched.
“What do you want from us?” Her voice was hushed again, and she receded into the shadows.
“An explanation of it.”
“We have none. How could we?”
My stomach turned in agitation. Frustration rose within me. I could tell – I simply could feel – that they were lying. They were withholding information that I'd driven five hours to discover. I clenched my fists around the straps of my purse.
“Mrs. Steele, I am unable to release the remains of your sister until this is explained. I'll be filing an official report of unknown misconduct with the medical examiner. There may be an investigation, until we discover what was done to that body.”
She was silent. Desiree, behind me, seemed to have melted into the darkness of the house. Then Angela said, “Do what you must. I have nothing more to say.”
I turned to leave. Then she added, “Except – stay away from my mother!”
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
