The Appearance of Death, chapter 14

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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.

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

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

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

The Appearance of Death, chapter 10

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

Chapter 10

I drove home, took a nap, made lunch for Karen and drew her a bath, snuggled with Beau on the front porch, and returned to work. That afternoon Patty Goyle and I proceeded with the cremation of Emery Plott's remains. He wore two rings, the first a high school class ring from 1954 and the second a nugget of gold inscribed from his uncle, Holden Plott. These we reserved for his family. Into the lovely mahogany box Emery went, and there I determined that he would stay. It was his request. Now I could have private conversations with him in our office any time I wanted.

London broil and hash brown casserole were on the menu for dinner, followed by watermelon on the porch and a nightcap with Karen and Rick. Karen's visit to the doctor that morning revealed that she was coming down with the flu. She required rest and fluids, so her drink was iced green tea. I sipped my Amaretto Sour guiltily.

My visit with Desiree Steele niggled in my brain oppressively until 1:00 a.m., when I fell asleep at last. At 5:30 Rick tripped over a toy in the dark, knocking a chair over in the kitchen below my bedroom. My eyes hurt if I opened them, so I lay on the bed fingering the worn fabric of Karen's old Laura Ashley comforter from 11^th grade. Desiree's face floated in my mind and her words lingered. What was it about my conversation with that girl that bothered me?

“Me and my aunt weren't that close …” she said.

“I put Desiree Steele entirely in charge of my funeral arrangements,” Anita wrote.

“I always walk from the bus station if my aunt can't come get me,” Desiree told me.

“Ms. Steele will provide an urn for my ashes,” the aunt wrote.

These statements didn't cooperate in my mind. If the two women were not close, why did Desiree visit her aunt so often? Why would Anita put her in charge of all her burial funeral arrangements if they weren't close?

“She's lying,” I thought. “I know she's lying.”

I hesitated to go to the Stop-and-Go Diner at 6:00 a.m. after my last run-in with Lottie, but I wanted even less to engage my son-in-law and discuss family matters. I needed to get out of the house. This time the diner door was open, and Lottie didn't grouch at me from behind the counter. She also didn't greet me with a cheery “Hello!” I chose a booth in the far corner and felt guilty for making her walk.

Lottie Andrews was a person worth studying. Thin, wiry, brown, short, she'd damaged both her skin and her voice with years of smoking. Her face screamed intelligence and defensiveness. Mostly she looked chronically exhausted. Her cigarette dangled from her bottom lip in spite of the “No Smoking” sign behind the counter.

“Whatcha want?” she asked.

“Coffee. Cream. Toast, butter, strawberry jelly. Thank you.”

She paused for a fraction of second longer than I expected, giving me the impression she wanted something. I did not look up. Instead I ran my fingers through my hair over and over again, studying the pattern on the linoleum table in front of my face. My trouble was this: I knew I should cremate Anita Wagner's remains that afternoon, but something in my mind told me not to do it. Not yet. But what reason could I possibly give for delaying? I shook my head.

“Here ya go,” Lottie said, and slid the steaming cup across to me. She set a bowl of many creamers down next to it.

“You look worse than the first time you came in here,” she said.

I looked up, surprised at her honesty. “Yep. I feel worse too.”

Her blue head scarf wound around her head like a turban. She put one hand on her hip. “You the new funeral home lady, right?”

“Yes.”

“You handlin' Anita Wagner's funeral, are yeh?”

“Yes, we are.” I paused. I could tell she had something to say. “Did you know her?”

“Well,” she began, and glanced at the door. “I did years ago. Lived next door to her, back before she married that slug.” She peered at me. “You met Myron the Monster?”

“I've spoken to him on the phone, just once.”

“He ruined her life, I'll say that.”

“Her niece is in town,” I told her. “She's handling the arrangements for the family.”

“Niece?” Lottie asked. “Don't remember --” She broke off. “Oh, yeah. There was a baby. I forgot. They were both mighty young, Anita and her twin sister. Not yet twenty, I bet.”

“Twin? Anita Wagner has a twin sister?” I asked. Desiree hadn't mentioned her mother.

“Oh, yeah. She moved in with Anita for just a bit when the baby was little. Then she left again.” The bell above the diner door tinkled insistently and Lottie left. A few minutes later she brought my toast and generously rewarmed my coffee.

Before she left again she added, “They was split up, you see,” referring to the twins. “As babies. Anita told me one night when we was drinkin'. Their mama kept the other one, the sister. But she give Anita away because she was sickly and needed medical care, expensive stuff.” Lottie took out her table rag and mindlessly wiped at my table, lengthening her stay. “Anita was a nice girl, very nice, would give ya the shirt off her back. But I do think that troubled her, about her mother. She went into foster care as a baby and settled down with a family here in Peace Valley, stayed here all her life mostly. Had a real good life until Myron.” She frowned and shook her head. “And now this. Very sad.”

I sipped on my coffee and nodded. Lottie tapped my table with her fingertips. “Let me know if there's a service of some kind. Just stick yer head in here and tell me. I'd like to come.”

“I'll do that,” I said.

It was increasingly difficult to find a place to clear my head. At home, there were Karen's and Rick's troubles. At work, there was the professional pressure of Patty Goyle. Even the local diner added to the weight of this case. A case – that's what it felt like, an investigation. Something was hidden under the surface of Anita Wagner's death, and I could not let it rest until I knew what that something was. This, I suddenly realized, was the reason I was hesitating to proceed with the cremation.

I added eggs over-easy, bacon, and grits to my breakfast and reached the office at 8:15, having read the county paper.

Patty Goyle greeted me. “You been to Lottie's,” she said. Her attitude seemed brighter.

“How can you tell?” I asked, amazed yet again at her skills of detection.

“The smell,” she said with a slight sneer in her voice. “It sticks on yeh.”

“Well, she makes a creamy bowl of grits and fabulous coffee,” I rebutted. “Anything new this morning?”

“Not yet. Just that body chillin' in the morgue. When you firin' up the crematory?”

I frowned. I did not like her tone. “I'm not sure. Her instructions for arrangements were hand-written and notarized. Can you get that document for me?”

Patty rolled out her massive file drawer, picked through the tabs with her nimble one-inch nails, and retrieved the paper with Anita's handwriting on it.

“Thanks,” I said. “Patty, do you know where this notary is from? Do you recognize the name?”

She perched her reading glasses on her nose and stared at the bottom of the page. “Willard Riggins.” She looked up at me. “He's over in the courthouse in Newberry.”

I removed the paper from between her fingers and turned back to the door. “I'll drive over and give Mr. Riggins a visit this morning, Patty. See you later.”

“Um – But --”

I let the door close on her voice and rushed to my car.

I took the back roads to Newberry, the county seat. In late April, the rural South is a glorious place – perfect temperatures, blue skies, no mosquitoes, and the endless quiet of farm fields and tiny communities. This is what I needed, a good drive in the country. With the windows down on Simone, my blue Volvo, all that was missing was Beau, curled up on the seat next to me. This was his favorite kind of ride too, but I didn't want to take him into Willard Riggins's office with me.

Newberry, South Carolina is a lovely Southern town with a large red brick courthouse sitting squarely in the center of its old downtown . I passed a quaint Japanese garden, open to the public, on my way into town, and was tempted by a cute coffee shop on Main Street as I drove around, wondering where Mr. Riggins's office might be. I parked in front of the courthouse. A kind elderly lady greeted me when I walked inside the old building. I must've looked lost.

“May I help you?”

I smiled thankfully. “Yes. I'm looking for Mr. Willard Riggins. I believe he's a notary here in the courthouse?”

She laughed and smiled at me. “Willard Riggins. Well, yes, I suppose he can notarize something for you. But Mr. Riggins is a retired lawyer here in Newberry. He doesn't keep an office in the courthouse anymore, not for years. He has a little office over on Friend Street, a couple of blocks over. Can't miss it.”

I thanked her, but I was more puzzled still. Anita Wagner could have found a notary at the bank in Peace Valley. Why come to Newberry? And why choose an elderly, retired lawyer with a little office off the beaten path to notarize your funeral plans instead of asking for one in the courthouse? Did she know Willard Riggins? Did he know her?

On Friend Street, I parked Simone in front of a pretty clapboard home-cum-office with a striped blue awning under towering pecan trees. Mr. Riggins himself answered the door. He was tall and large, but not fat. He wore a blue bowtie and linen trousers and jacket. A broad smile spread across his face. He was a tidy, manicured man, a clever man, a man used to handling people. He took my hand in one of his large paws and then placed the other one on top of it in an affectionate way.

“Come in, young lady, come in! Willard Riggins at your service.” He almost seemed flirtatious.

I felt creepily as if I were stepping back a hundred years, as if I were an antebellum lady in a sweeping skirt and he were courting me. I put this concept out of my mind.

“Hello, Mr. Riggins. I'm Ivy Monson from Peace Valley.”

“Ah! Peace Valley!” he said knowingly, and turned toward the reception area of his office. “Please, do have a seat, Mrs. Monson,” and he let me down gracefully into a sofa, finally releasing my hand.

He nodded at me and reached slowly for a decanter of some clear liquid, pouring himself a glass. “Would you care for a glass? Selzer water. Clears the mind.”

I thanked him, took my glass, and sat back for the entertainment that everyone who meets Willard Riggins was clearly in store for.

“Peace Valley! You know, Mrs. Monson, the origin of that name. No? Well, I'm sure you've noticed the lack of mountains or even significant hills around your town. So one must ask oneself, how can a town be in a valley without any corresponding rises around it?” He smiled at his cleverness. “The name originally was Pierce's Volley, after a skirmish fought there in the Revolution in which a number of settlers died. Time, and the mangling of the language, gradually gave us this mongrel pronunciation – Peace Valley. A quaint alteration, yes?”

“Yes, I'd say so.”

Willard Riggins sat back into his matching couch and crossed his legs. “How may I help you, Mrs. Monson?”

“Mr. Riggins, I'm the new director of the funeral home in Peace Valley. You may have heard that Emery Plott died recently.”

His face grew serious. “Yes, I did. Read it in the paper. A great loss for your town.”

“Yes, it is. Well, we had another death in Peace Valley, an Anita Wagner. Did you know her?”

Willard Riggins's normally soft and jovial appearance instantly stiffened. His brows lowered and his hand gripped the arm of the couch.

“What? Anita?” Real grief washed across his face. “I can't believe it! She was young – what, maybe thirty-five?”

“Thirty-seven. Yes, she was young, and she died unexpectedly of an accident. She fell down the stairs in her home.” I paused to allow him to process the information, but he was quicker than I.

“An accident?” He leaned forward. “Was her husband home?” His voice lowered. “Mrs. Monson, he is a brute of a man. Are you certain it was an accident?”

“Mr. Wagner was in Oklahoma at the time of her death. He had been out of town for nearly a month. There is no evidence of foul play, Mr. Riggins. The coroner called for an autopsy, which the medical examiner performed. They are satisfied with the findings. It's quite clear how she died and where she died.”

He sat back, disturbed and fidgeting. He tapped his index fingers together but said nothing.

“Mr. Riggins, I'm coming to you because of a document that you notarized for Anita Wagner only a few weeks ago.” I handed her instructions to him. “Did you notarize this?”

He looked at it. “Yes, yes, I did. She sat exactly where you are seated now. She wrote it out by hand on that coffee table there,” and he pointed to a low, glass-topped table with a scattering of pretty magazines on it. “She assured me that it was merely an assurance that, whenever she might die, her husband would be prevented from interfering with her wishes.” He shook his head. “He is such a beast of a man, and she was such a lovely woman.”

I hated to press him, but I continued, “And you're certain this document was written by Anita Wagner?”

“Mrs. Monson, I've known Anita Wagner since she was an infant. She was Anita Prescott then. Her foster family, the Gillespies, wanted to adopt her. They came to me, to pursue that option, but Anita's birth mother would not relinquish her. I tried so hard.” He looked out the window. “I lost track of Anita over the years, and the Gillespies are both dead now, but every once in a while she'd stop in here to say hello. Myron put an end to that when they married.” Willard looked at me severely. “He is a controlling man.”

“She mentions her niece, Desiree Steele. Did you ever meet her?”

He shook his head. “No. I knew she had a sister, and the sister had a baby. They were all rather close, I gather. For a while they lived together, and I suppose they had a falling out, because the sister left. But there was a bond there. Anita was so happy to find them again. Or rather, I think they found her. Either way, that was the happiest I ever saw her.”

We lapsed into silence as he sat brooding. I stood to go.

As he showed me to the door he asked, “You said she fell down the stairs in her home?”

“Yes, her niece says she sometimes drank too much. That, combined with the high heels she was wearing, probably caused the fall.”

“High heels?”

“Oh yes,” I replied. “Stilettos. One snagged the fabric on the steps."

His face was puzzled. "I never knew Anita to wear heels at all. She worked at the hospital and was on her feet most of the day. She wore nurses' shoes, and when she came to see me was invariably in tennis shoes. That seems strange.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps she was on her way out to a party?” Even as I said it, the words fell flat, untrue.

“Thank you, Mr. Riggins. I appreciate you help.”

He held my hand, but this time in sincerity. “If I can help any further, please don't hesitate to call. And let me know – let me know --”

“I will,” I answered.

(To read chapter 11, please click here.)

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen