(All of the chapters thus far are posted in live links, if you click on the page link above in the header.)
Chapter 6
Johnny Little lived only a half-block away from the funeral home. For years he'd been Mr. Plott's right hand man, the one who did the heavy lifting. When someone called in a body to be retrieved, Johnny Little brought it to us. His phone number was taped to both telephones in the funeral home. As soon as I hung up with the panicky girl, I called Johnny.
“H'lo?”
“Johnny? This is Ivy Monson at the funeral home.”
“Yes'm.”
“I need your help, Johnny. I'm sorry it's so late.”
“Yes'm.”
“We have a body to pick up, just outside of town. Do you usually drive, or does Mr. Plott come in the hearse?”
“Yes'm, I drive my old Woodie.”
I had no idea what he referred to, so I continued. “Johnny, I have some bad news. Mr. Plott is also dead. He died in his study this evening.”
“Yes'm. I'm not surprised. He's been feelin' poorly lately.” Why did everybody anticipate Emery Plott's death except me?
“Be there in two minutes, Ms. Monson. Meet ya out front.”
Johnny Little was a man of few words. He was older than me, a bit stooped but strong as an ox and wiry. His Woodie, I learned later from Rick, was a Morris Minor Traveller, an antique vehicle with wooden panels. She was a beauty. We drove out Cemetery Road to the highway, and out into the county.
“The cut-off, ya say?” Johnny inquired.
“Yes,” I replied, glancing at the scrap of paper in my hand where I'd written the address. Number 217, a yellow house, she said.”
“Hm,” he mumbled. “Might be Wagner's place.”
The house was entirely dark when we pulled up, but as I closed the car door I noticed a tiny pinpoint of light glowing, and then dimming, through the trees. Someone was smoking on the front porch, someone not afraid of a dark house with a dead body in it.
“Hello?” I said. “We're from the funeral home.”
A slim figure emerged from the shadow of the porch. The cigarette glowed and her face was revealed for a moment: small, hard, blank, strained.
“I'm Desiree. Desiree Steele,” she said. “Come on in. I'll show you.” I heard nothing of the panic from our earlier conversation.
“Are you the one who called?” I asked.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I was just shocked to find her.”
Johnny walked up behind me, and I heard the gravel crunch under the tires of Mr. Garvey's vehicle, who was quite unhappy to be beckoned twice in one night.
“Ms. Monson,” he grumbled as he approached. He carried a flashlight. “Busy night.” He shone the light into the woman's face. She flinched and squinted. She was painfully thin with stringy blond hair hanging around her face. She could've been anything from 17 to 30 years old. “And you are?” he asked pointedly.
“Desiree Steele. Anita Wagner is my aunt. She's at the bottom of the stairs.” We went inside.
Again I smelled the sweet honeysuckle outside as a breeze lifted the air. But inside the unmistakable stench of decay hung in the closed-up house. Desiree Steele led us inside. The body lay twisted awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs. Anita Wagner's bright auburn hair lay spread around her head on the carpet like a peacock's tail. One shoe, a spike heel with gem stones across the top, stood on the top step; the other hung half-way down the stairs on a strand of carpet. She wore a pair of black leggings and a long, flowing orange top that had fallen and gathered around her waist.
Harold Garvey took charge of the situation immediately as Johnny and I stood beside the door. He took photographs, carefully examined the body's state and position, asked Ms. Steele many questions, and made several phone calls. Then he approached me.
“Ms. Monson, would you please take the body to the morgue and place it in a cold chamber. Because of the circumstances I'll be asking a medical examiner to consider an autopsy, which he will perform at the funeral home as well.” He turned to look again at Anita Wagner. “It all seems straightforward enough,” he said. “It's quite clear that she fell the full length of the stairs. The injuries, as far as I can tell at present, support that. Her niece says she was 35 and in reasonable health, but sometimes drank too much.” He turned back to me. “Do you know her husband?”
“Uh no, I don't know anyone,” I said nervously. I found Harold Garvey a bit intimidating. “I'm new in town.” I turned to Johnny. “Do you know Mr. Wagner, Johnny.”
“Yes'm.”
“How can we contact him, Mr. Little?” Harold Garvey asked.
“Ain't got a clue,” Johnny replied, “except through his truckin' line, Cross Country Movers. They might could track 'im down.”
Harold Garvey sighed. He looked at me. “I hate contacting next of kin.”
I shrugged. “Alright. I'll do it. I'll try anyway.” Johnny shuffled behind me.
“'Scuse me, ma'am, but Wagner's old mama lives over at the nursing home in Clinton.” His deep voice rumbled. “Some days she's still sharp as a tack.”
Desiree Steele lurked in the shadows of the living room, a new cigarette glowing in the dark. She seemed to be staring out a window, turned slightly away from us.
“Ms. Steele, will you be staying here in the house?” I asked.
She was silent at first. “I don't know. I guess so. I think I'll sit on the porch tonight though.”
I got her cell phone number, Johnny and I did our work, and we drove back to town. Mr. Garvey followed us.
“He's very efficient,” I noted to Johnny.
“Yes'm.”
For the second time that night Harold Garvey and I looked at a dead body together in the morgue. With Emery Plott he had been quick, even cursory. But with Anita Wagner, he was careful, meticulous, examining her head, neck, bruising and pooling of blood along her shoulders. He leaned over her head while I stood at her feet. The shape of her toes was deformed from wearing heels, and she had a bunion forming on her right foot. The bottoms of her feet were a little dirty. Her toenail polish had grown out halfway, a chipped, messy blue paint. She seemed a mystery – flashy heels but neglected polish, a bright auburn dye job, but shabby leggings.
“I'm through here for now,” Mr. Garvey said, and peeled his gloves from his hands. The smell of the body was beginning to make me nauseous, but Mr. Garvey seemed upbeat and unaffected.
“We don't get many bodies like this, delayed as it is.” He studied her again. “I'd say she died about two days ago. Rigidity seems to be passing.” I slid the the body into a cold chamber, and we walked to the office. “I'll return about 10:00 tomorrow for the autopsy,” he said. “It won't take long. Then I'll release the body to you for burial.” He paused. “Ms. Monson, how are you doing with all this? It's quite a bit on your shoulders, to handle alone. Have you done this sort of work for long?”
I felt queasy and exhausted. “Thank you, Mr. Garvey. I think I'll be fine. Mr. Plott was an excellent teacher.” A vague answer, but I didn't care to explain to him my feelings of inadequacy and fear at what had fallen into my lap.
“Good night,” I said, and he left. Outside the cool night air calmed me. It was now 3:00. Honeysuckle wafted around me. My legs felt weak, and I carefully lowered myself to sit on the stoop outside Patty Goyle's office. I should go home, but in spite of my exhaustion I was not sleepy. My mind raced with questions, questions I longed to ask Emery Plott. Did he know Anita Wagner? What kind of woman was she? Did anyone in Peace Valley know she had a niece? What was her family like? Could I trust Harold Garvey to accurately evaluate the cause of death? Of myself I asked only one question: How was I to do all this myself? I was overwhelmed.
Click here to read chapter 7.
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
No comments:
Post a Comment