The Appearance of Death, Chapter Twenty-Two

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Chapter 22

“Wait,” I said slowly. “Wait a second.” My mind was spinning in more confusion, if possible, than it had spun in a long time. “Anita? You think that's Anita?” I pointed to the frozen image on the screen, the red, bloated face turned upward, the bright auburn hair glowing under the fluorescent lights of the morgue. “That's Anita Wagner? But she's dead! She was identified, examined, autopsied, certified.” I looked in despair at Patty.
“Patty, I cremated her this morning.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You what?”

“I did,” I replied. “I'd waited as long as I could. I had no excuse to delay further.” I stood up, pacing the room. “Honestly, I was sick of it, the whole situation, as you know. You were sick of it too!” I turned to her. “You thought I should've put her into that retort last week!”

Patty nodded. “Yes, I did. I can't blame yeh. But oh my word, that's bad timing.”

“You said it.”

I sat down heavily in Beau's chair by the front door and put my head in my hands. “I think I've got your headache,” I said. I slouched in the chair and implored her, “What do we do now?”

Patty walked across the office and locked the front door. Then she leaned against her desk, stretching her long legs out and piercing the carpet with her sharp black heels. “We figure this out, once and for all,” she said. She wagged one lethal fingernail toward the morgue. “If the woman walkin' around in there last night was Anita Wagner, then who exactly was the woman you cremated this morning, huh?”

I gulped. There was only one option. “That was Angela Steele.”

“Yup. It was. We've been holding Angela Steele's body here all this time.”

“And that explains why some things about her didn't seem right,” I added, “like the smoking you smelled on the body --”

“But not the clothes,” she interjected.

“Right,” I agreed. “They'd changed the clothes. And her feet – the toes and the bunions – those were Angela's feet. Like everybody said, Anita would never have had feet like that.” I paused, my mind racing. “But they kept the high-heeled shoes.” I looked at Patty. “They had to keep the shoes, because that's what made her fall down the stairs!”

“And,” Patty added. “They also had to dye --”

“Her hair,” we said together. “Angela's hair must've been gray!” I exclaimed. “And the dead body had a new dye job. But when I went to Alabama, Angela's … I mean Anita's … hair had a gray part down the middle.”

“Ahhh!” we both said.

Patty's face was troubled. “So are you sayin' they killed her? They lured Angela up here from Opelika and pushed her down the stairs out there at Anita's house?”

I began pacing again. “No, no,” I told her. “Angela died at her own house in Opelika. I saw it myself. She fell down the attic stairs. Oh!” I exclaimed, and ran to my office to retrieve the gem stone. I showed it to Patty. “See? I found this on the attic stairs at Angela's house. It was ripped out of her shoe when she fell there. I think she was drinking in the attic.”

“Drinkin' in her attic?” Patty asked.

“Yeah, probably hiding from Desiree. I think she had a real drinking problem.”

“And they brought her body up here?”

“I suppose. And tried to pass her off as Anita,” I said. “Though Lord knows why.”

“I know why,” Patty said ominously. “Anita wanted to escape, and bad! She wanted to get away from that nasty piece of work they call a husband, that's what. She found out her twin sister had died, and this plan popped into her mind, and she took her chance.”

I shook my head. “That was a big risk. And now she's caught.”

That afternoon I put Angela Steele's ashes into a small urn, tallied up the total expenses concerning the handling of her remains, and went to the bank for payment from her account. This proved to be a seamless operation, and I was satisfied that at least I would not be out any money for all my trouble. All that was left was handing over her ashes to the family. I called Desiree Steele's phone number, which directed me straight to her voice mail.

“Ms. Steele,” I said, “I have the ashes in an urn and would like for you to pick them up at the funeral home as soon as possible.” Click. Perhaps that would lure her back to Peace Valley.

The following three days were delightfully calm. My little grandsons were happy that the end of school was approaching and played outside each afternoon in the creek, catching tadpoles and playing with them in the mud puddles. They took chocolate chip cookies into their tree house, and I told them stories of pirates and the high seas. I spent more hours at home. Karen's diet improved as I sneakily rid the premises of ice cream and donuts, replacing it with homemade yogurt, fruit, and buttered wheat toast. She was not amused but didn't complain too much since Beau stopped throwing up under her bed.

I felt calmer too. Patty and I started chatting at the office, learning about each other. She introduced me to Skip-Bo, a ridiculous and highly-addictive card game. I showed her the wonder of dipping French fries in a Wendy's Frosty, plus the many delights of Haagen-Dazs ice cream. I was shocked to discover that she also enjoyed sappy Hallmark Christmas movies, although I drew the line at her affection for Air Supply. That was a band whose sound I could never appreciate. When I first saw Patty Goyle, I'd never have thought we could be good friends. I found her fingernails off-putting. Peace Valley was teaching me lessons in understanding and acceptance.

Karen informed me that Sam was indeed coming for a visit.

“But he's only staying one night, Mom,” she explained hurriedly. “And he'll stay in the B&B, and we'll see him there with the boys. You won't have to see him at all,” she continued.

I thought about this for a few minutes, and realized that inside myself, I had no fear or apprehensions about seeing Sam again. I had no inclinations toward him, no desire to reunite. And although I still loathed his infidelity, I had worked hard at forgiving him as much as I could – forgiveness is an ongoing work in progress. Nor was I afraid of his possible advances toward me; I felt strong enough to repel and discount them.

“It's okay, Karen,” I told her. “I don't mind seeing him or eating a meal with you all. I would appreciate not staying in the same house though.”

Her face brightened and her smile glowed at me. “Mom, that's great!” She hugged me. “That makes me so happy! Plus, it's really nice for the boys to see that you can be together without fighting.”

I nodded. It was good to try to be together without fighting. We would see if it was possible yet.

The fourth day after my message on Desiree Steele's voice mail, she showed up at the office. She looked horrible, exhausted, dragged down and rung out, as we used to say. Her eyes were sunken and dull, her hair as stringy and oily as ever, and her clothes wrinkled as if she'd been sleeping in her car – or, Anita Wagner's car. I wondered how readily her aunt had relinquished the car to her as part of the ploy to fake her death. She put her baggy purse down on Patty's death.

“I'm here for th' urn,” she said to Patty.

Patty fiddled with some papers on her desk. I'd asked her to delay Desiree, to keep her in the room. She put a few folders away in her desk drawer and picked up the phone to call me in my office, where I was listening carefully for all her signs.

“Mrs. Monson,” she said loudly, “a representative of the Steele family is here to collect the ashes of Anita Wagner.”

I opened my desk, took out the gem stone, picked up the urn and an accompanying page of condoling statements from the funeral home, and went out to Patty's office, picking up the plastic bag of Angela Steele's clothes and shoes on the way.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Steele,” I said.

“Hey,” she muttered.

I handed her the bag. At this point Patty got up from her desk and walked toward the front door, behind Desiree. “Here are your aunt's effects that were on her body at the time of death.” Then I handed her the urn. “And here are her ashes, in a simple brass urn with some mother-of-pearl inlay.” She mumbled something in reply. “And a sheet from the funeral home.” By this time her hands were full, as she picked her purse up from Pattys' desk as well. “And this is a gem stone that I believe fell out of one of her shoes.” I held the stone between my thumb and index finger. It sparkled in the light. At that moment I heard a sharp intake of breath from Desiree, and juggling all the other items in her hands, she tried to extend her palm to receive the tiny item.

I dropped it just left of her extended palm so that it hit the floor under Patty's desk. I pretended not to see my miss, instead beginning some comment to Patty Goyle while Desiree looked at me helplessly, wanting the gem stone but unable to bend over to pick it up. Finally she placed the urn and the bag on the desk and got down on her hands and knees, reaching under the desk. I looked at Patty, who was studying the bottoms of Desiree Steele's feet, on display in a pair of cheap Wal-Mart flip-flops. Patty squinted at her feet, tilted her head, and then gave me a thumb's-up. The matching tattoo – the heart-shaped mark with “A” and “D” inside – was on her right foot also.

Before Desiree could stand up again I'd retrieved the urn from the desk. She stood up, momentarily confused to see it in my hands.

“Please tell your aunt,” I stated coldly, “that I don't appreciate the charade she's attempted to play on me. I don't appreciate the lies you told me yourself, young lady,” I added, using my best displeased mother voice. Her face turned red and terrified, her eyes looked away from me. “I'm releasing these ashes to you, but I want you both to know that I know whose remains are in this urn, and I think I could easily prove it, if needed.” I wasn't sure, but I thought Desiree might have begun to cry. “Tell your aunt to stay out of my funeral home, stay away from my morgue, and give up breaking-and-entering.” I put one finger under her chin and raised her eyes to meet mine. “Do you understand?” I asked, giving her my coldest look. She nodded. “I have not given this information to Myron Wagner … yet.” At this, her eyes widened and she nearly exclaimed some expletive. “Hush!” I added. “I understand your aunt's fears. But tampering with a dead body, and especially transporting it across state lines, is illegal in some states, and I think Alabama has especially strict laws regarding this.”

Desiree began to cry openly now, and her head dropped again.

“I didn't want to do it. I only helped. It was Aunt 'Nita's idea,” she murmured.

“I know,” I replied. “I thought as much.” I sighed and continued. “Unfortunately, I have no option but to tell the whole sorry mess to the county coroner, Mr. Garvey. You remember him?”

She nodded again.

“I will put it in his hands, and he'll have to determine what he will do with it. I will do that first thing tomorrow morning.” She nodded. “Tomorrow, Desiree.” I placed the urn back in her hands. “Drive back to Opelika and tell Anita all I've said. Tell her she has until tomorrow about 10:00 in the morning, okay?”

Desiree Steele looked up at me. Suddenly she understood. She took the urn, the gem stone, the plastic bag, and stared at me for a moment.

“Thank you, ma'am,” she said. “I don't know how --”

“It's okay, Desiree,” I replied. “Just go.”

As she walked out the door, I realized I had one more question that remained unanswered, an answer that I had to have. I ran to the door.

“Desiree!” I called. She turned. “I wanted to know – the tattoo. How did you make the tattoo appear the next morning?”

She smiled, just a little. “That was Aunt 'Nita's idea,” she said. “She had some big ole bandaids from the hospital, somethin' skin-colored. Just made it disappear.”

“Ah,” I responded. “And you broke in here overnight and took it off?”

Again, she looked down, ashamed, and nodded.

“Why?” I asked her, stepping closer. “That made no sense to me.”

She sighed. Her shoulders slumped. “She's my ma. I understood Aunt 'Nita's desire to use her body, to do the swap. But it was hard. That tattoo --” If Desiree had had a hand free, she would've wiped the tears from her cheeks that fell freely now. “I wanted her buried with that tattoo showin', after it didn't matter no more.” She sniffed loudly. “It was special. To her and me.”

She loaded her belongings in the car and drove away. I felt for the girl, I did, but I hoped I'd never see a member of that family again.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen