Happy Thanksgiving, Friends!

 Hello and Happy Thanksgiving to my friends in the U.S.! It's a big day. We're hosting our 12th annual Thanksgiving Dinner at church. Adam has already left this morning to spend his day in the church kitchen, preparing 2 turkeys, mashed potatoes, yeast rolls, and gravy. I made whole cranberry sauce on Tuesday, a pecan pie yesterday, and this morning I'll bake my mother's amazing sweet potato casserole -- not the one with marshmallows, but the one that tastes more like a dessert.

Thirty-eight people will attend the dinner, most of them not from our church. This is a community event.

Last week we were in West Virginia (Wild! Wonderful!) for a family wedding. My nephew was married amid a snow storm in a rural state park. It was magical.

Adam officiated the ceremony. My mother, who is 90, looked lovely. That's my brother too, father of the groom. And my sister-in-law made a delicious and stunning carrot cake for the couple's cake.

I've been doing a little creative activity. I'm making little hand-stitched alligator-clip bookmarks.

The yellow one is the first one I made. The gray one is a bookmark I've had since I was a little girl, about 50 years ago! I also did a dab of painting this week. I'm nearly finished with this Christmas squirrel. I want to paint some nice options for printing Christmas cards for next year.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving. Being grateful reminds us of the goodness of friends and strangers around us, and of the goodness of God. It reminds us that we are loved. YOU are loved, dear friends!

The Appearance of Death, Chapter 17

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the title in the header bar above.)

Chapter 17

Nelda Little trotted into the funeral home with a smile on her face and a purse on her arm. She wore a snug cotton dress with flat shoes, both a pretty shade of pale yellow. She was a petite, plump woman with gray hair, tightly curled. All in all, she was a tidy package of efficiency and cheerfulness.

“Mrs. Monson,” she said brightly, holding out her hand. “So nice to meet you.” Her eyes met mine kindly. “Johnny has told me so much about you. We're thrilled you're here at the funeral home. I know it's been a big adjustment.”

Clearly she was the vocal one of the family. I tried to imagine Johnny telling anybody “so much” about anything.

“It's lovely to meet you at last, Mrs. Little,” I said.

“Nelda. Call me Nelda.”

“And you call me Ivy.”

It often seems silly to me to drive in Peace Valley. Bobbie Dixon's house was about three and a half blocks from the funeral home. Nelda and I could easily have walked the distance, enjoyed the Friday morning sunshine and the conversation. I nearly suggested it, but she'd parked the Woodie by the curb and was dangling her keys on her finger already.

“Ah – driving the Woodie?” I asked.

“Of course!” she replied with a smile. “It's my favorite vehicle!” She hopped into the driver's seat and perched on the edge, reaching for the pedals. “Short people problems,” she said, and smiled again.

I began to understand why Nelda Little visited the sick and elderly. She began chattering about the various elderly people in town who'd recently had surgery or strokes, were in rehab or a nursing home or languishing under hospice care. She visited them all. On the long bench seat between us sat a voluminous round basket, full to bursting with fresh cut flowers, small gift bags, fruit, and little stuffed animals. I looked at her questioningly.

“It's for my friends.” She smiled again. She smiled a lot, this time a little abashed. “The daisies are for Miss Jackson, her favorites. Bobbie prefers mums. And Mr. Fanner loves to wear a little pink rose in his pocket, so I try to find him one.” She reached among the blooms and extracted a tiny pink bud on a long stem with dew drops still clinging to it. “He'll be happy today.” She fumbled around in the basket. “There's snacks, but some of them have to be careful of their sugar or salt intake. So I take them stuffed animals. Sometimes they just like to hold them while I'm there, and I take them back, kind of like 'borrow a stuffed animal for the day.'” She turned the engine over and we began to coast down the street. “It's amazing what will make them happy, the simplest things.”

Bobbie Dixon's house was a fine, old 1920's bungalow with a deep porch that swept out from its sloping roof like the brim of a sun-protecting hat. The chunky pillars that supported it had been painted white, but the house itself was built of dark red brick with lovely forest green trim around the doors and windows. Azalea bushes banked the entire front of the house. I imagined the display they must've made just a couple of weeks before. Now they were fading, and a dead, brown mist seemed to rest over the bushes as each limp bloom hung, waiting to fall. The grass was trimmed tidily, and overhead the stately pecan trees and a huge, skirted magnolia shaded the house, as they did all over town.

“Here, you carry these,” Nelda said, and handed me the vase of yellow mums. She hesitated, torn between choosing a bag of peanut butter cookies or a stuffed Corgi. “Oh, let's do both!” she murmured generously, and we stepped out of the Woodie.

A woman sat on the porch swing, fanning herself slowly. She wore sneakers and a full cotton apron over her dress. She sipped on a sweating glass of iced tea and peered at us from her leisurely seat, her toes resting lightly on the floor.

“Mornin', Inez,” Nelda called, and she waved.

The woman nodded. “Nelda,” she said.

“How's Miss Bobbie t'day?” Nelda asked as we mounted the steps.

“Fair,” she replied. “She'll know ya.” She looked at me narrowly.

“This is Ivy Monson,” Nelda offered. “Ivy,” she added, smiling warningly at me, “this is Inez Spencer, Bobbie Dixon's care-giver.”

We greeted each other. Nelda asked the woman how many years she'd been caring for Bobbie Dixon.

“Forty-eight years,” she answered. “Every day of her life.” Inez's face grew somber. “I come as a child m'self, to help her mama with the washin', and I jus' stayed. Miss Bobbie, she means the world and all to me.” And she started to swing again and looked intently into the shade of the magnolia tree as if all the years of her past were hovering there, like ghosts, to be discovered again.

“We'll go in now,” Nelda said.

They'd drawn Bobbie Dixon's bed into the living room, which now resembled a hospital suite. Coffee table and wing-back chairs had been pushed against the wall, making room for monitors and rolling carts trailing wires and laden with plastic trays, pill bottles, and rolls of gauze. Bobbie lay on the bed asleep, her mouth agape. Her face was drawn and sallow, her lips dry, her lashes damp. Someone had wrapped a bright paisley scarf around her head, but it slipped sideways, resting on her ear. She was bald.

Nelda sat on the edge of the bed. “Bobbie. Bobbie honey, I've brought you Sammy to hold. He's so soft.” And she placed the stuffed animal in the crook of Bobbie's elbow. The woman reached up and clutched it. “Here's some cookies too, Bobbie, peanut butter, your favorite.” Then Nelda proceeded to place one morsel after another of cookie in Bobbie's mouth. She opened and opened, and at last would not open again.

“She's sleepy today,” Nelda said to me. “I'll sing. That usually perks her up.”

She sang “Down By the Riverside” and “Blessed Assurance.” On the last refrain, Bobbie's eyes flickered and her lips, with a few crumbs of cookie still attached began to croak the tune in a whisper.

“Oh! What a foretaste of glory divine!”

By the end she was beaming up at Nelda, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Nelda! Oh, thank you for coming!”

“Bobbie, I've brought a friend with me. I'd like you to meet Ivy. Ivy Monson.”

Bobbie's hand was bony and cold, but she grasped mine firmly and swung it gently back and forth.

“You new in town, Ivy?”

“Yes. I've just started working at the funeral home.”

“Ah,” she replied. Her brow furrowed. I wondered if she was thinking about her own death, and that I might be the one to prepare her body. Then she smiled at me. “Such important work. I did hear that our Mr. Plott left us.”

“Yes, I miss him every day. I needed more training before he died.”

“Well,” she said, and she smoothed the crisp white sheet lying across her chest. “I'm sure you'll do fine. How do you like Peace Valley?”

“Quite well, Bobbie. It's a lovely town. My daughter lives here.”

She closed her eyes. I wondered if she were fading again. But she said, “Ivy. Yes, you're Karen's mother. Dear Karen. She spoke of you.” Her eyes opened again. “I hope she's doing well?”

“Yes, yes, she is, Bobbie. Thank you.” Inside my stomach a great knot of sorrow tightened. I was now so thankful that Karen was not lying in a hospice bed, drained of life, peering questioningly at the undertaker. My daughter was eating ice cream and planning for her children's summer vacation.

Then Bobbie brought up the topic I'd been longing to ask about. “You must be handling Anita's funeral?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“They've had no memorial service yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“I'm not surprised.” She sighed. “There was never any agreement in Anita's life, among those who claim to love her. They all competed for her, all wanted to possess her.” A great sadness clouded Bobbie's face. “I've always thought her birth family would win in the end. Have they come?”

“Only her niece, Desiree. But she left and I haven't been able to contact her.” I paused, afraid to go further. “I was hoping somehow that you might be able to give me something to help me figure out what to do next. I'm thinking of driving to Opelika to look for the Prescotts and inquire about some,” here I paused again, “about some … irregularities with the body.”

Bobbie continued slowly, with difficulty. “The Prescotts are poor. They will not pay for the funeral. Anita's biological mother is in a care facility now, I believe. She may have nothing to contribute to the conversation.” Bobbie's eyes closed again. She concentrated as she went on. “Anita and her twin sister Angela – she went by Ann – were very close, but always in conflict.”

She stopped for a while, laboring to breathe. Her hand slipped from the sheet and rested by her side. Then she continued in a whisper, “I tried to be their friend, Ann's friend, when she came. She came with the baby. But they fought over that too, later. Fought over the baby. Anita loved that little thing so, wanted it for herself. I went to the trailer, went against Daddy's wishes. Sat and smoked with them while they made their plans to leave here, escape. Go on an adventure, they said. Get away from the past and be always together.” Bobbie then let out a long, rasping sigh. “They swore they'd never go back to Opelika. Swore they'd never marry. Swore they'd stay together. And Anita swore she'd take care of the baby, if anything every happened to Ann.” Bobbie blue eyes looked piercingly into mine. “They broke all those promises, I think.” She stroked my hand. “You may not find the daughter again, but see if you can find Ann. She knew Anita better than anyone on earth. Truly, she is the next of kin. Angela Steele." Bobbie sighed and closed her eyes. "Angela Steele," she repeated. "Somehow, I never did trust that girl.”

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 16

 (To see all previous chapters, please click on the title in the header bar above.)

Chapter 16

The next week was full of business: three cremations, including two memorial services in our chapel, plus a large family funeral in the cemetery following a religious service in the sanctuary of First Presbyterian Church. Patty Goyle and I were worn out, and I'd hardly had time to think about Bobbie Dixon or Desiree Steele, or the body of Anita Wagner, still lying in the morgue. I'd had not one long conversation with Emery's urn, which now had a spider's web draped across it in the shadows. Karen was a bit sad that Beau clearly preferred coming to the funeral home with me, rather than sleeping on her bed all day. He spent the mornings with Patty and Plato in the reception room, coming into my office in the afternoon where the sun didn't slant across his chair and it was cool snoozing in the dark with Emery on the shelf behind him.

The large church funeral was for a woman named Evelyn Dobbs, a cousin of Sue Gillespie, Anita Wagner's foster mother. As I stood quiet and statue-like during the visitation on Friday evening in the church chapel, I listened to their conversation. Some of it centered around Anita Wagner. I learned much. Until she was nearly 18, Anita was a model child, happy, playful, studious, well-behaved, excelling at school, piano, and basketball. The Dobbs cousins recalled how beautifully she played Schubert and Bach in the local piano recitals, her brilliant defensive moves in the district tournament in Columbia her senior year, her letter of acceptance to USC Spartanburg. At times I felt these family members, especially the women, were mourning Anita's death as much as the elderly woman's in the casket. They missed young Anita. They'd been mourning her loss for years.

It was the men of the family who quietly relayed the information about her swift decline after high school. I heard them mumbling in the back, behind the standing sprays of lilies and gladioli. While reminiscing, they passed a silver flask around. I pretended not to be there within ear shot.

“”D'y'hear about Anita? She died awhile back.”

“Yep. Fell down the stairs they say.”

“What a sad woman. She weren't never the same after Myron got hold uh her.”

“Nevuh did like that man.”

“Sonny Dobbs spotted him for a no-good right away. Give him th' boot out the back door down at th' lumber yard.”

“Yeah, but that brought nuthin' but trouble, as I recall.”

“They do say that's why he picked up with our Anita. Gettin' back at Sonny. Gettin' back at the whole family.”

“Well, it worked. He done ruint that woman's life. He mighta been in 'is truck when she fell, but as far as I'm concerned, he mightuz well've pushed her himself.”

This conversation was liberally mixed with slurps of whiskey and smooth cuss words. Then a younger man spoke.

“It weren't Myron's fault, much as I despise the man,” he said. “It was that sister of hers, comin' here, movin' in with her baby.” He dug at the rug with the toe of his dress shoe. “Anita weren't th' same after that. She give up on her schoolin', moved out to that trailer Sonny give her behind the lumber yard. She hung out with that Lottie Chambers for a bit! Drinkin' and partyin' and goin' to waste.” He cleared his throat. “I hated to see it. What were that girl's name? The sister -- they was twins. When she showed up, it was like Anita remembered her birth family, them lousy Prescotts, and just gave up on the Gillespies who'd been so good to her.” He scowled. “Damn shame.”

There was more of the same. The family, which included some Gillespie relatives, were equally dissatisfied that Anita's body had not yet been buried and that the Prescotts were neglecting their duties to her remains. I heard a few disparaging comments about the funeral home. None of them wanted the Prescotts to manage the situation; none of them wanted Myron Wagner to do so either. I supposed they wished they could have arranged Anita Wagner's final disposition themselves, somehow welcoming her back into the fold of the Gillespie family after it no longer mattered.

Evelyn Dobbs, 93 years old and duly mourned and missed, was laid to rest in the Peace Valley Memorial Gardens on a warm afternoon in early June. I returned to Patty's office and flopped down in a chair across from her desk. I was exhausted.

“Patty!” I moaned, “how did Emery do it? This is a killer job!” She looked askance at me.

“Really!” she said. “Well, he'd done it for decades and knew all the little tricks to keep things runnin' smoothly, Ivy. All this drivin' back and forth and runnin' back and forth, and callin' folks over and over – Mr. Plott wouldn't have none uh that.” She smoothed her flaming red hair under her latest silk head scarf. “You'll get used to it.”

Beau came to me from my office, yawning. I put him in my lap and petted him, feeling much better for it. He yawned again, and I yawned in response. It was time to tell Patty my plans.

“Patty,” I began, “I think I'm taking a trip to Opelika, Alabama. I'm gonna go look for those Prescotts, and find Desiree Steele. I have to get some satisfaction from that girl before proceeding with Anita's body.”

She tilted her head. “And you think you'll find yer answers in Opelika?”

“I think I won't find them here,” I replied. “Nobody here seems to have known Anita Wagner after she turned 18, except maybe Lottie Andrews, whoever she is. All they can tell me is that she worked hard and kept to herself. And Patty,” here my voice rose, “professionally speaking, I just don't think I am able to cremate that body until I find out why and how that tattoo appeared on her foot.” I shook my head. “I know it might sound like a small thing, ridiculous, but it's not small to me.” I stood up, dumping Beau on the floor. He trotted back to the comfort of my office. “But that was the first body that came into this funeral home after Emery Plott died! I feel I owe it to him to do it correctly, to do it thoroughly.” I leaned over Plato's chair and scratched his head. He let out a yowl and leapt to the floor. “If I give it my best attempt, and I still find out nothing, that's fine. But I won't stop as long as there's still something I can do.” I turned to her. “And I can go to Opelika. I can find Anita's sister, and her mother, and ask them about it, and I can find Desiree and corner her about why she hasn't answered my calls. That, I can do.”

I was pacing the office by the time I finished my little tirade. Patty sat there, staring at me.

“Well, if ya gotta go, ya gotta go, Ivy. When you headin' out?”

“Not till next week. This Friday I have to go with Nelda Little to visit Bobbie Dixon. I don't know if she can tell me anything I don't already know, but it doesn't hurt to check. Every time I think I've heard all there is to know about Anita Wagner in this town, I hear a little something more.”

Friday ended up being a surprisingly quiet day. It had rained the night before and the air was damp and smelled of grass and earth. I spent the morning cleaning up my office – sorting through documents, filing and refiling, tidying shelves, throwing out some papers and keeping others, and chatting with Emery. Beau enjoyed his morning snooze on his favorite chair.

“Emery,” I said, after shutting the door, “I didn't realize how much I would dislike having a body in the morgue that I don't know what to do with. It's driving me nuts.”

“It happened to me once too, Ivy. Back in 1972. It was most troubling. A young child had died and the parents, who were divorcing, refused to agree on how to dispose of the body. That little boy lay in the morgue for three weeks.”

“That's terrible!” I said. “Why do people behave that way! And over a child. What did they do in the end?”

“Well, as I recall they finally had the body cremated, much to the mother's dismay, and they divided the ashes between them. Somehow I didn't like that solution. Almost as if the child, in his death, was forced to continue the division and conflict that the parents had begun and had already afflicted him with. Sad family.”

“I almost wish I had family members fighting,” I replied to his urn. “At least we might make some progress. Myron Wagner doesn't seem to care enough to come home, and I can't reach Desiree Steele. I'm driving to Alabama to track her down, Emery. Is that crazy?”

“Not necessarily. As long as you know what you're looking for: an answer to the tattoo question. Do not return until you have some sort of satisfaction regarding that tattoo.”

I nodded my head.

“You know that the only person who would've had cause to tamper with the body was Desiree Steele. She must be compelled to answer you on the subject.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, that's my thinking too. But Emery, how do I make her do that?”

Silence. He was gone again. Beau opened his mouth wide in a huge yawn.

“Go back to sleep, Beau.”

*****

To read chapter 17, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 15

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the link in the header bar above.)

Chapter 15

My cell phone rang on the way home that afternoon. It was Karen. She was frantic.

“Mom! Beau's gone! He was sleeping on the bed with me, and then I fell asleep, and when I woke up, he's just gone! I've searched the house and the yard. I can't find him anywhere!”

I held the phone away from my ear. Karen's shrill voice was bawling on the other end in sharp contrast to the drowsy, still setting of the funeral home on West Pecan Avenue.

“Karen! Calm down!” I said, struggling to keep some calm in my own voice. Beau was a tiny dog, never allowed outside in the big world alone. “We'll find him, don't worry,” I added.

“Mom, I'm really sick today. Throwing up. I can't get out of bed, so I can't help you hunt. What're we gonna do?” And then Karen started crying.

“Don't worry, Karen!” I repeated. “I'll get Johnny Little to help me hunt. He knows every inch of this town.” I could almost feel her nose dripping onto the bedclothes from afar. “Beau went outside looking for me. I'll call for him. He'll find me, don't you worry, honey.”

She sniffed several times and then blew her nose. “He's been so happy in bed with me lately. I never thought he'd leave me!” And she wailed again.

Johnny Little was more than happy to help me hunt for Beau. He picked me up in his old Woodie and we crept around Peace Valley at eight miles per hour, each of us hollering out a window, “Beau! Here, Beau! Here Beau honey!” It was fun to hear Johnny calling a dog “honey.”

This went on for nearly an hour before we were parched and weary and needed a drink of something. “Let's stop by and see Patty,” I suggested. “She keeps some Cokes in the frig in the office.”

Johnny parked the Woodie on the street and we strolled under the magnolias to the front door of the funeral home. I entered Patty's office. She was preening in front of a large mirror she keeps on the back wall just for that purpose. One an upholstered chair in one corner of her office lay Plato, his tail keeping leisurely time in the air like a sluggish metronome.

On an upholstered chair in the other corner of the room sat Beau, gazing at me in a reprimanding manner and licking his front paws.

“Beau!” I squealed, and I swept him up in my arms and kissed his face. He was displeased at this intimate display of emotion and stiffened, backing his face away from mine. I turned to Patty.

“Patty! How did Beau get here?”

She turned to me, batting one recently mascaraed eye. “I thought you brought him in,” she replied.

“Johnny and I have been hunting for him for an hour! We've been all over town.”

Patty returned to her job at the mirror, addressing the second eye. I could see her mouth gape open as she applied a thick coat of mascara. “I went to the ladies' room,” she said, “and when I came back, there he was, pretty as you please, up on that chair.” She pointed with her mascara brush. “I figured you let 'im in, but it must've been the FedEx man.”

I stared at Beau. He had a “I'm smarter than you ever realized; admit it, Mama” look on his face. I was speechless. Johnny nodded at me and grinned as he exited the building.

“But Patty, how'd you know this was my dog?” I asked. I was still trying to figure it all out.

“Mrs. Monson, use yer God-given brain.” She walked over and pinched Beau's name tag between two of her glossy green fingernails. She read slowly for my weak mind: “'Beau,' it says. 'Return to Ivy P. Monson,' and that's yer phone number, I take it?”

“Yes, thank you, Patty. He's been wearing that tag for five years. I'm glad to know it's done its job.”

She plumped down into her desk chair. “He seems quite comfortable here. Y'know, he's welcome here any time he wants. Mr. Plott brought Plato ever' day.” She looked back and forth at the two animals. “And fer a dog and a cat, I'd say they get along mighty well.”

When Beau and I left, we found Johnny leaning against the hood of the Woodie, smokin a cigarette.

“Glad ya found yer dog,” he said. “Care for a ride home?”

I accepted his offer. The Woodie had a nice, old smell inside, a smell of leather and tobacco and decades of Southern sweat. Johnny took excellent care of his vehicle. The leather and wood were polished to a shine and even the carpet seemed clean.

“This is a lovely car, Johnny.”

“Yes'm.”

The magnolias passed by and the school children yelled in the distance as school let out and sports began.

“Did you grow up in Peace Valley, Johnny?”

“Yes'm, I did,” he said.

I petted Beau's head gently. An idea clicked in my brain.

“Johnny, you don't happen to know Barbara Dixon, do you?”

He nodded. “Yes'm, I do. Well, I can't rightly say that. I know 'er to speak to. My second cousin Larry worked with her son Jim over at the water department for years. They was right good friends. Larry knows her mighty well. It's a shame, her cancer an' all.”

We were nearly to Karen's house, and I hated to ask another question of him, but I couldn't resist.

“Johnny, did you know that Barbara Dixon's aunt and uncle were foster parents to Anita Wagner, that woman who died?” And I turned to look at his face. He didn't answer right away.

“Yes'm, I know all that. I didn't want to say, Ms. Barbara bein' so sick an' all. But I do believe she loved Anita. She doted on that girl. She was a good bit older than 'Nita, mind ya.” We pulled up in front of Karen's house, and Johnny cut the engine off. The birds of spring were chirping and singing in the neighborhood trees and someone was playing Dean Martin on the stereo. I watched as Jeffrey skipped along the sidewalk next to us, hitting each tree trunk with a slim branch he'd carried home all the way from school. He dropped it on the front lawn, leapt up the front stairs and swung open the screen door, letting it slam behind him. “Mom! I'm home,” I heard from inside, and then faintly from upstairs, “Hey sweetie! Come see me.”

Johnny and I sat in silence. I could tell there was something more he wanted to say.

“Ms. Monson, years ago when my boy was little, he was in the same class with Ms. Bobbie's boy, Jim. Me 'n' my missus had him late, y'understand. Lawd, this must've been nigh twenty years back. Fer a bit the Dixon boy would come over after school, play in the back yard. We got t' know the fam'ly a bit that way, 'specially Nelda, my wife. They did coffee and Tupperware parties and such for a few years.”

“Um hm,” I said to encourage him.

“All I can say is that there was sumthin' amiss in that family. Don't know what, and don't care to speculate. But the Gillespies were the kindest of folks, and Ms. Bobbie and her husband, they did a good job with that youngun. Weren't nuthin' wrong there.” He shook his head. “Sumthin' done happened t' that girl before she ever come to Peace Valley, ever step foot in the Gillespies' house.”

“Well, foster children sometimes do come from troubled backgrounds,” I interjected.

“That's true, that's true.” I thought Johnny was finished, but then he added, “yet she was alright enough until that sister of hers came avisitin'. She were more troubled yet. We watched as Miss Anita spiraled downhill, ya might say. She were 'bout outa high school then. Workin' at the drug store. Then that Prescott girl come up from Alabama, and she seemed t' change.”

“Alabama?” I asked him. “The Prescotts were from Alabama?”

Johnny scratched his chin. “I do believe so. Seems to me … I reckon … they was from Opelika.” He thought a moment. “Yep. Opelika, 'cuz I told Nelda once a few years back, when we was drivin' through there, I said, 'Miz Little, this here is where those Prescotts live,' yes, I did.”

“Opelika,” I said.

“Yes'm.”

I opened my door. “Thank you ever so much, Johnny. I'd like to meet Nelda some time.”

“She's like that right much too, Mrs. Monson. She still goes to visit Ms. Bobbie ever' Friday. They stayed close like that. If you should care to join her --”

“Johnny, that would be wonderful. Thank you!”

Beau and I waved good-bye and went upstairs to check out the doughnut crumbs under Karen's bed.

To read chapter 16, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 14

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the link in the header bar above.)

Chapter 14

I felt guilty that in all my weeks in Peace Valley, I'd only been to Rick's coffee shop once. He'd done a classy job of renovating an old building on the corner of Main St. and 3^rd Ave., refitting the facade in a 1920's Art Deco look. The inside was a little Spartan, a little industrial, but still warm and inviting. I'm not certain rural South Carolina was ready for his sense of style, but slowly the younger set seemed to be finding him. His coffee out-classes all other coffee in the county, even in Newberry, and the pastries that are baked in-house are luscious. I don't feel like I'm cool enough for this place.

At 1:00 p.m. Rick's place, which he'd named Cream, Two Sugars against Karen's best advice, was nearly empty. In the family, we just called it “The Cream” for short. The temperature outside had risen to 82 degrees, and I walked into Rick's air conditioning thankfully. The bell ding-a-linged and he looked up from crunching numbers at the register.

“Hi, Rick.”

“Hi, Mom-in-law. How's life?”

“Hot. I can feel summer coming already. How long did that spring last? Three days maybe?” He laughed.

“You want a danish? Cinnamon roll? Pain au chocolat?”

I looked longingly at the case of pastries now fading after breakfast and up for grabs. “Oh, man. I really shouldn't. Patty Goyle just gave me a dressing down for all the donuts and ice cream Karen's been pawning off on me.”

He slipped a cream cheese danish from the case and onto a dish. “Here.” He added a cup of fresh coffee with generous dowsings of half-and-half. How could I refuse?

“How's business?” I asked.

“It's picking up a little,” he said hopefully. “Each year as summer approaches the beach traffic picks up along the highway. Families drop in. It helped a lot when I put up that billboard last year. They drive into town to find us now.”

“That's good.”

A woman came through the kitchen door at the back of the shop. She was short, brown, and quick, a young grandmother type. She whipped her apron over her head and tossed it into a basket in the cleaning closet. Then she squared her shoulders and headed to where we stood. Rick smiled.

“Adele, I'd like you to meet Karen's mom, Ivy Monson. Ivy, this is Adele, my pastry chef.”

I had just taken my first bite of danish. A few crumbs of crispy pastry crust crumbled from my mouth and onto my shirt-front. “H'lo,” I mumbled, and reached out a slightly-sticky hand to greet her. She laughed.

“Rick, I done tole you I ain't no pastry chef. I ain't no chef atall. I'm just an ord'nary cook.” She shook my hand.

I stuffed another bite into my mouth and said, “I beg to differ, Adele. This danish is --” and I rolled my eyes and said, “Ymmmmm.”

“Thank you, Ms. Monson.”

“Call me Ivy. I'm so glad you're helping Rick out.” I looked at my son-in-law. “I love him to pieces, but I've eaten his pancakes, and I know he doesn't have a chance with pastry dough!”

“I've been cooking all my life, Ivy, at my mother's knee. Been livin' here in Peace Valley all these years and nevuh had a chance to bake real pastry and get paid for it.” She smiled broadly at Rick. “I'm real thankful for this young man. Our town needed this place.”

Adele walked toward the door to leave, but her words caught in my mind, and I put my hand on her arm to stop her.

“Adele,” I said, and I pulled her over toward a table. “You said you've lived in Peace Valley all your life.”

“Yes, I have.”

“So you must know just about everybody?”

“I s'pose so, Ivy. I think I've worked for nearly every family in town, one way or th'other.”

I sat down and invited Adele to join me. Rick brought us both fresh coffee. Adele pulled a bag of Cheetos from her purse and began munching.

“Do you happen to know a woman, oh about 40 or 50 years old, named Bobbie Deckson? I asked.

Adele munch a bit. “Bobbie … Deckson.” A light flashed in her eyes. “Oh, you must mean Barbara Dixon. Yes, she goes by Bobbie too. I think her school friends called her that. Yes, I know Ms. Barbara.”

“Dixon!” I exclaimed. “No wonder I couldn't find her online!” I turned back to Adele. “How do you know her?”

“She worked over at the elementary school years back, in the lunch room. Sweetest lady you'd ever hope to meet. She worked there right up until she got her cancer the first time, and then she left.” Adele paused and thought. “And she went back workin' there a bit later, but not for long.” She looked at me pitifully. “She's had an awful battle, that woman has. I've nevuh seen anybody fight cancer so hard for so long.” She shook her head and ate some more Cheetos.

“And is she still living?” I asked.

“Oh, my, yes. Just barely.” She leveled a sad gaze across the table at me. “She may be comin' to visit you soon over there at the undertaker's.” And a deep frown collapsed her face.

At that point Adele relaxed in her chair, crossed her legs, and proceeded to tell me the long tale of Barbara Dixon's cancer. She relayed the details of the first melanoma and the second melanoma, the colon surgery, and nodules on the lungs, and finally the cancer in her liver and bones. Barbara Dixon had very little time left.

“She's riddled with it, they say,” Adele continued. “She's just gone on hospice, but she's still at home.”

“And does she still live here in Peace Valley, or has she moved away?”

“Oh, no,” Adele said as she drank the dregs of her coffee. “She's still in the house.”

“The house?”

“Her aunt and uncle's house, over on Elm St. Nice little bungalow.”

“She inherited the Gillespies' house? The house Anita Wagner grew up in? I asked.

Adele's eyes narrowed and she tensed.

“Well, that's a name I haven't heard in a while.” She clasped her hands around her coffee cup and tapped it on the table. “Yes, Anita. That's Barbara's cousin. I'd forgotten.” She stood and picked up her purse. “There was a fallin' out in that family, years ago,” she said, “Pretty bad. That's how Ms. Barbara ended up with that house. She didn't want it, really.” Adele leaned down across the table, putting her face close to mine, and whispered, “It was that vile husband of hers, Myron. He drove a wedge between her and all her family.” She put her hand on her chest. “Broke Ms. Barbara's heart, I think.”

After she left I nursed my coffee a few more minutes and reflected on all the conversations I'd had, all the gossip I'd heard. I pondered Bobbie Dixon. If I could see her and talk with her, she might be the key to it all – a family member who could tell me what Anita Wagner was really like, why nobody seems close to her, and where her birth family lived. And maybe I'd be one step closer to finding out how that tattoo mysteriously appeared on her foot.

To read chapter 15, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 13

 (To see links to each of the chapters in this book, click on the header bar above, on the book title.)

Chapter 13

The next morning I had fruit and homemade yogurt for breakfast, with whole-grain toast and an egg from a free-range chicken. Patty Goyle's Nutter Butters and Karen's Haagen Dazs were making my slacks shrink and my blouse buttons pop off. Walking a few blocks back and forth to work each day was clearly not enough to offset the calorie increases in my life. I took a tray of healthy food up to Karen.

“Here's breakfast, honey. It'll make you feel better today.”

She looked at the plate. Her lip curled. “That's an egg.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is the yoke runny? Runny yokes make me feel kinda sick these days.”

“No, I cooked it all the way, just for you.” I handed her the fork. “Just doin' my job. But it's up to you to eat it. You don't have any donuts hidden under your mattress, do you?”

She laughed. I brought her some hot green tea and left for work. The day looked overcast and gray. We needed some rain. I took a detour and walked past Jimmy's day care. He was standing in the parking lot in a tidy line of four-year-olds with a teacher on each end. He spotted me and yelled.

“Nana!”

I waved back, but put an index finger on my lips. His teachers looked like the disciplined sort. They wore uniforms and one had a whistle slung around her neck.

Jimmy started jumping up and down. “We're going on a field trip, Nana! We're gonna see the dinosaurs!”

I gave him a thumbs up, blew him a kiss, and hurried past before I caused any more trouble. As I approached the funeral home, Patty was leaning into her the back seat of her Volkswagon Beetle, wrestling something. I heard a bit of hissing and spitting, and at last she stood up holding Emery's gray cat.

I gasped. “Oh my goodness! Mr. Plott's cat! I forgot all about him!” A wave of guilt came over me. How could I forget the lazy gray pillow that slept in the corner chair in Emery's office all day?

“I took 'im home after Mr. Plott died,” Patty said. “Been tryin' to incorporate him with my kitties, but it's just not workin'.”

I stroked the cat's head. He seemed comotose. “What's his name?”

“Mr. Plott called him Plato. He never does anything. But my Siamese could not settle down with him in the house.”

As it started to sprinkle rain, we took Plato inside and put him back on his chair. We stared at him.

Patty said, “Mr. Plott always took him home at night, and I didn't think you'd want him to live in the office.” Her voice lifted at the end like a question.

“I don't mind. Do we have a litter box?”

“I stopped at the Dollar Store and got one,” she said. “And some food. And some treats.” She placed a tuna-flavored nugget in front of Plato's nose. He did not stir.

“How old is Plato?” I asked. “He doesn't seem very lively.”

Patty shrugged. “Perfect therapy cat for dead people then, wouldn't ya say?”

I told Patty about my visit to the nail salon and about Bobbie Deckson. We went to her desk and tried a Google search, but found nothing under that name. She leaned back from her computer screen. Overhead the rain was drumming on the roof.

“Remind me why we're lookin' for her?” Patty asked.

“I want to find anybody I can in Anita Wagner's family who can tell me about her. Her husband is a nut case, and Desiree Steele --” I paused. “Well, I feel like she's hiding something. I don't trust her. Just call it my sixth sense.”

“I'll tell you what,” Patty said, “If anybody came in here and did something to that body, it had to be her.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because she's the only person who would've cared!” Patty replied. “Seriously. Can you think of anybody else in Peace Valley who knew Anita, who cared about her, who's come down here asking about a memorial service? Did the woman have any friends?”

“Well --”

“Exactly. But somebody cared enough to break into a funeral home, slide that body out, and mess with that tattoo. It has to be Desiree.” She popped open a Dr. Pepper with one of her iron-clad nails. “Plus, consider this,” she added. “The niece arrives in town just after Anita's death. Don't you think that's strange? I mean, she shows up conveniently to find the body?”

I pondered all her observations, but I couldn't organize them into a sensible whole. What did it all mean?

“Patty, my brain is tired. I'm too old for this.”

She laughed. “Yer not too old. Yer just not eatin' right. Too many donuts and too much ice cream with that daughter of yers.” She shook a bright green fingernail at me. “I see her in the Piggly Wiggly. I know what she's puttin' in her cart.”

“I do the grocery shopping, Patty.”

“Uh huh,” she replied. “But she does the sugar shoppin'.” She sniffed. “An' it's not helpin' yer waistline any either!” And she gently prodded my jelly roll that rested happily over my waistband. Then she changed the subject. “Why don'tcha just ask Desiree Steele. Ask her where she's from, and how to contact her mother and gran'mother. You don't have to be nosey. Tell her the funeral home keeps family contact information like that.”

“I've left her two messages,” I answered. “I don't even know if she's still in town.”

“How long you plannin' to keep that body in cold storage?” she asked.

“Until I get explanations for why the body seems to have been tampered with. And until I have more contact with extended family. I don't feel comfortable with only that niece telling me what to do.”

“Has she told you what to do?”

“Well, no.” I hesitated. “Technically, Anita did.” I started digging in Patty's desk drawer for a Nutter Butter, but she slapped my hand.

“Mrs. Monson, no-no.”

“Patty, if it wasn't for that tattoo, I'd be willing to cremate her. But I have to know how it got there. And Desiree already told me she doesn't know anything about it. Plus, there are other little things that just don't add up. So I have to find out where the rest of the family is, and dig a little further.”

She giggled. “Diggin'. Well, that's what undertakers do.”

The rainstorm had passed, so over my lunch break I drove to Anita Wagner's house. No one was there. The doors were locked and the blinds drawn. Desiree had removed the porch cushions and left the porch light on. Anita Wagner's Toyota Camry, which had been parked beside the house, was gone too. I got out of Simone and walked around the yard. The ground where Anita's car had been parked was powdery dry. I puzzled over this. It meant that Desiree had driven the car away in the past two hours, after the rainstorm ended. And by the look of the house, she wasn't coming back soon. Maybe she'd returned home. I tried to call her again on my cell phone. Again, I was sent to her voice mail. I had a nagging sense she was avoiding my calls. It seemed more important than ever to locate Bobbie Deckson, the only person in Peace Valley who could possibly tell me more about Anita Wagner's family.

To read chapter 14, please click here.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 12

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Chapter 12

I walked home early that afternoon, too exhausted to spend one more hour in the funeral home. With the exciting discoveries about Anita's body, Patty Goyle seemed to have forgotten her fury at my decision to decline the position of permanent funeral director. I didn't tell her about my response to Herbert Plott. I simply allowed her to assume that he had convinced me to accept the offer.

I took the long way home and passed the school. Jeffrey hung from the monkey bars on the playground with another boy pulling on his legs. When I called his name his face lit up, and he released one hand and waved at me. Immediately he lost his grip on the bar and tumbled to the ground on top of the other boy's head. The girls were playing jump rope, and a few were seated on the ground in a circle, whispering secrets. Other children were competing to see who could go highest on the swing set. The world seemed right. I wanted to forget Anita Wagner and think about my grandchildren playing, think about Beau eating cucumber slices with that silly look on his face, think about Karen healing from her cancer.

When I walked in the door I heard her voice talking to someone upstairs. She must've heard the stairs creak as I walked up, because I heard her say, “Okay, honey. I love you too. See you soon!” Click.

Karen was tucked into bed with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. There were crumbs on her nightgown.

“Was that breakfast or lunch?” I asked.

“Both,” she said smugly.

In my mind I was shaking my head and telling her how important it was to eat healthily, but I was learning to keep my opinions to myself. Instead I asked, “Who was that on the phone?” I assumed it was Rick.

“Daddy.”

“Daddy?” I retorted. So much for keeping my opinions to myself. “Is he coming here?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You said, 'See you soon.' So either he's coming here or you're going there. And I assume you're not hoofing it to Atlanta.”

Karen sighed a long, weary sigh. “He wants to come here, Mom. He wants to come for a visit to see the kids.”

I sat on the bed. It creaked. Beau slinked out from under the bed and jumped onto the comforter. I lifted the lid of the donut box, hoping for a chocolate-covered glazed one. The only two left were a French cruller and one with colored sprinkles on top. I frowned.

“Why do we buy these kinds? Nobody likes them.”

“The boys like the sprinkles,” she said. She picked up the cruller. My face fell.

“Uh, Karen! Really?!” Donut-stealing was the straw that broke my camel's back today.

She laughed. “Just joking, Mom. You can have it.” Beau sniffed it as she passed it to me.

“Well,” I mumbled between mouthfuls, “If your daddy comes to visit, I'd prefer to stay in a motel somewhere.” I fixed my beady eyes on her and added, “Or I can just sleep in the morgue.”

“Mom!”

“My turn to joke. But seriously, I'll stay somewhere else. I'm never sharing a bathroom with that man again.”

“Understood.” She nibbled on the crumbs in the donut box. So did Beau. “Besides, I don't think he'll come. He's threatened to about half a dozen times, and he's never done it.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't here before,” I replied, “and he might do it just to irritate me.”

“True.” Karen lay back on her pillows. Beau licked her hand and she didn't seem to mind. “So, how's the case of Anita Wagner going?” She was gloating that she'd discovered the identify of the body in my morgue.

“How'd you find out? It's not in the papers yet.”

“I know,” she answered, “and I wondered why. But I heard from a friend I used to teach with. Her sister has a friend who waits tables at the Stop-and-Go Diner. I think it's all over town.”

“Prob'ly so.” I polished off my cruller and wished for another. “It's fine. Not an easy situation with the family. She's supposed to be cremated, but --” I paused. “Her husband's not home yet. Not that that matters much.” I shrugged. “I still have a few loose ends to tie up.”

“Loose ends?”

“Well, for starters, I'd like to contact her family. I've only had one disturbing conversation with her husband, and a couple of equally disturbing conversations with her niece. She has a sister, a mother, and at least one cousin.” Then an idea occurred to me. “Speaking of which,” I asked Karen, “have you ever heard of the Gillespie family, here in town. Older couple who are now deceased, but there was a niece who lived here too. The Gillespies adopted Anita Wagner. I'd like to track down any family that live in Peace Valley.”

Karen's face took on a puzzled look, and then she said, “Actually, I think I do. Maybe. I was in a cancer support group for a while in the winter, over at the hospital in Clinton. I stopped going because it was too far to drive. But there was a lady in the group called Bobbie,” she said.

“Bobbie?”

“Yeah. Not sure what it's short for. Barbara maybe? Anyway, she mentioned once that she'd lived in Peace Valley, and she mentioned a family called Gillespie. But it might not be the same woman you're looking for.”

“But it might be.” I nodded. “What was her last name?”

“I don't know. We didn't give last names.”

“Oh, good grief.”

Karen stretched. “You should ask around town, Mom. Somebody's bound to know a woman named Bobbie.” She shoved the covers off. “Get up. I'm sore staying in bed all day. You wanna go somewhere?”

I was exhausted. But my daughter the cancer patient wanted to go somewhere with me. You don't turn that down.

“Sure! What'ya want to do? Get our toe nails done?”

She thought for a second. “Yeah, that sounds good. There's a salon over near the highway.” She stretched again. “I feel awful.”

“You need vegetables.”

“Yeah, probably. I also need to brush my teeth,” she said. “Ghastly breath.”

The Beauty You Nail Salon was a tiny place with one hair stylist, one nail technician, and one bossy man bustling around. They had two functioning massage chairs. Karen and I slid our crusty feet into the warm water, said “Ah!,” and squeezed each others' hands.

I was just drifting off into never-never land when Karen interrupted me.

“Psst!” she said.

“What?”

“You could ask them!” she whispered. The water gurgled in the foot basins, and some tinny Asian background music played softly, but otherwise the salon was silent as the tomb.

“Ask them what?”

“About Bobbie, of course,” she replied. “Maybe they know her.”

I stared at her incredulously. Really? A few folks from Thailand who don't speak English? Why would they know the mysterious Bobbie?

“Oh, all right,” Karen said. “I'll ask them.” So she did.

“'Scuse me, please?”

The woman looked up from scrubbing the bottom of Karen's left foot.

“Do you know a woman in town, in Peace Valley, named Bobbie?”

The woman tilted her head. “Boe Bee?”

“Bobbie. Yes. Do you know anyone called that? A woman?”

A smile spread across the woman's face. “Ah! Bah Bee! Yes, I know Bah Bee! She like gel nails. She come here for hair too. High light!” Then the woman's face fell and great sadness spread across it. “Except not now. Now no hair. Very sad.”

Karen nodded and looked at me. “She's lost her hair from the chemo. Yep, must be her!”

Karen spoke to the woman again. “Bobbie is a friend of mine. I have cancer too – sick too,” and she spoke a little louder as people do when trying to communicate with difficulty. “I want to find Bobbie. Do you know where she lives? Do you know her last name?”

The woman paused in mid-scrub. “Name. Last name … is … Deck Son.” She nodded. “Yes, Deck Son. Bah Bee Deck Son.”

Karen and I looked at each other. “There you go,” she said. “Easy Peasy. Now you gotta go find Bobbie Deckson, wherever she is.”

(To read chapter 13, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 11

 (To read all previous chapters, please click on the link above, in the header bar.)

Chapter 11

Neither the landscape nor the glorious weather on the ride home could take my mind off Willard Riggins's words as I left. “Let me know --” he said. Let him know … what? Let him know if there's a memorial service? The intensity of his tone certainly meant more than that. Let him know what I find out? Let him know if there was foul play? Foul play. There was no evidence of foul play. Harold Garvey was certain about the cause of death and the position of the body. Why did my brain tell me that something was wrong, that the pieces of Anita Wagner's death weren't fitting together. I felt an urgency to get back to the morgue, to look at her body one last time.

Patty Goyle sat cross-legged in her chair, swiveling back and forth on one of her spikey heels. She was polishing her nails with a satin handkerchief and listening to Andy Williams.

“Moon River, wider than a mile, I'm crossing you in style … someday!” she crooned. Her eyes were closed.

“Patty,” I said.

She snapped to attention. “Ever'body and his brother been callin' you,” she said, and she held out a handful of memo reminders to me.

“They can wait,” I said shortly. “I want to give Anita Wagner's body one more going-over.” Patty's clicking heels followed me into the morgue.

“Whatcha lookin' for?”

“I don't know. But something – something just isn't right, Patty.” I turned to her. “Something about her death is off, and I can't put my finger on it.” I pulled the body from the cold chamber on its stretcher. “You knew her just a little bit, and I never saw her alive. Maybe you can spot something …. I don't know.”

Patty Goyle was no stranger to a little light mortuary work. Together we studied Anita. Patty stooped close to her head and with one lengthy fingernail pulled back Anita's hair.

“That's a bad job, for Anita,” she said. “I thought she dyed her hair, but it always looked so good. Her complexion was a perfect candidate for that color, Clairol's Light Warm Auburn. Hmm,” and Patty inspected the hair carefully, “she should've switched to 'Age Defy.' Very nice product.” She moved along the neckline. “Look here, Mrs. Monson! This dye was slopped on. What a mess!' I moved to her side of the stretcher. She was right. Clairol's Light Warm Auburn had stained the skin. A bit even seemed to have dribbled down the back of her neck. We both stared at it.

“You say Anita's hair always looked perfect? She'd never have left stains like this?” I asked.

“Nevuh in a million years, I'm tellin' ya. But that's her color alright.” Patty shook her head. Then she explained, “Anita was a stylish woman, but not showy. No bling. None uh this,” and she shook her fingernails at me. “But she cared about her looks and took good care of her body. Now you've got me curious.” And Patty proceeded to inspect the body further.

In spite of the hair color, Anita's fingernails were appalling. The nails were chipped and filthy underneath, but a coat of pink polish was applied sloppily on top. The inconsistency I'd noticed on her feet that first night in the morgue continued elsewhere. Now Patty was leaning over Anita's body, sniffing.

“What do you smell?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “It's hard to tell now, but I think this person smoked.”

“So?”

“Like I said, Anita was quite health-conscious. She didn't smoke, not since she was in high school. Do ya still have her clothes? We should smell them.” It seemed Patty was becoming interested in the inconsistencies of Anita's death.

The clothes were smoke-free. They smelled of Tide and Downy. I rolled Anita's body back into the cabinet. “Come into the office, Patty,” I said. We sat on either side of Emery's desk.

“Patty, you're gonna think I'm crazy, but I feel like we have two people here. We have the Anita everybody knew, and we have the body in there in that cold chamber.”

“There's a lot of little ways they don't match up,” she said.

“Yes. Willard Riggins said the same thing,” I replied.

“Willard Riggins? What'd he have to say?”

I leaned back and Emery's leather chair creaked comfortingly. “He's known Anita Wagner nearly all her life. He handled some legal work for her family. Patty, he seemed more alarmed at her death, at the way she died, than anybody else.” I fingered Emery's crystal paper weight nervously. “I felt like he thought there was some kind of foul play, but was afraid to say so. I left there --” I didn't know how to continue. “I left there feeling like we both knew Anita Wagner's death was a piece of mischief!”

Patty laughed. “A piece of mischief?”

I continued. “So that's why I'm hesitating about the cremation. Her body is the best evidence we have that something is awry.”

Patty giggled again. “Uh-rye?” Then she frowned. “I know what you mean. But you have to remember what Mistuh Garvey said. That woman in there,” and she shook one pointed nail toward the morgue, “died of falling down the stairs and landed just as we found her. That doesn't sound like foul play.”

I sat silent, thinking. Finally the words came out. “I think somebody messed with her body, Patty. Everybody knows that's Anita in there, but her body doesn't look right, and I want to find out why.” Suddenly I remembered, and I jumped up. “Oh! And Patty, I forgot to tell you about the tattoo!”

“What tattoo?”

“The tattoo on the bottom of her foot! Come look!”

We returned to the morgue, and I showed Patty the heart-shaped tattoo on the bottom of Anita's foot. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and took a picture of it. I took two more, just in case.

“What about it?” Patty asked. “Granted, Anita didn't strike me as a tattoo kinda girl.”

“More than that,” I replied. “That tattoo was not on her foot the night we brought her in. I'm certain of it,” I said, wondering at my own words. Was I absolutely certain? “Somebody came in this morgue that night after I went home and put that tattoo on her foot.”

This time Patty guffawed. She had to cover her mouth. “Oh, Mrs. Monson, that takes the cake! That's the most ridiculous thing I've eveh heard!”

“Patty, the other option is that someone switched that body for this one, overnight. It's one or the other.” I raised my eyebrows at her. “Now which one is it?”

She didn't answer.

I'd skipped lunch, so Patty and I closed up the office and walked to the Dairy Queen. Over chicken strips, two Cokes, an Oreo blizzard, and a Buster Bar, we talked more about Anita Wagner.

“Do you know anything else about her family, Patty, or anybody who I can talk to who would know about them?” I asked.

“You mean the Gillespies? Or her birth family?”

“Either one,” I answered.

Patty sipped her Coke. “Well," she began as she stirred with her straw, "The Gillespies had a nice home over on the corner of Elm and 2^nd. They didn't have any children of their own, of course, but there's a niece in town, a good bit older than Anita because they did foster care later. Her name's --” Patty pondered. “Oh, I can't recall. I'll hafta think about it.”

“What about the Prescotts, her birth family?”

“I don't know nuthin' about them,” she said. “You ought to inquire of that niece, Miss Steele. Don't let on you have any suspicions. Just find out where she's from, where her mama and grandmama live.” She dipped a fingernail into her Oreo Blizzard like a scoop and licked off a clump of ice cream. “Just don't mention the body at all.”

“But what do I say if she asks why we haven't cremated Anita's body yet?” I asked.

Patty's fingernails took a chicken tender from my plate. “Tell her,” she replied between bites, “Tell her the crematory needs repair. Or there's a hang-up with the autopsy, or you're waiting on a document, or even on the husband to come back. Heck,” she added, “Tell her Anita has a metal plate in her knee and you have to take it out first!” She slurped her Coke down to the bottom.

“Just come up with somethin'!”

(To read chapter 12, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen