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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 2nd. 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'!”
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
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