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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.”
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
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