Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree by Fran Rizer Read Free Book Online Page B

paintings of Southern flowers on the walls of the planning rooms and named the rooms for the décor. We sat around the mahogany table in the Wisteria Room, named for the cluster of silk wisteria centered on the round table and an oil painting of lavender wisteria on the wall behind the side table.
    “I want to see him now !” Miss Lettie protested.
    “Let me assist you in planning how to best respect Mr. Morgan with a beautiful funeral or memorial service.” Odell continued as though she hadn’t said anything.
    “I know what I want, and I want to see my son!” Miss Lettie objected.
    Watching the sometimes gruff, growly Odell Middleton tame that lady was a lesson in professionalism. He convinced her that she’d want to see Mr. Morgan in the casket she selected. In no time, with only occasional encouragement from her friend Ellen, Miss Lettie selected a solid cherry casket that we stocked. Odell sent me to tell Otis what had been chosen and that Mr. Morgan should be casketed as soon as possible.
    I found Otis in my work room finishing dressing Mr. Morgan. His nose looked great! We brought the coffin in from the storage building, put Mr. Morgan in it, and placed him in Slumber Room A, which hasn’t yet been renamed.
    By the time I stepped back into the conference room, Miss Lettie had set the visitation for Saturday, at one p.m. in Middleton’s chapel with service to follow at two p.m. and interment beside Jeff Morgan’s father in the St. Mary Cemetery. She considered and then flatly refused offers to have the visitation catered with finger foods, saying, “People can eat before they come.”
    As she nor Ellen had any church affiliation, Miss Lettie told Odell to hire a preacher and someone to sing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “Battle Hymn of the Republic” because those were the songs performed at her husband’s funeral. She requested a red, white, and blue casket spray, and then asked emphatically, “Are we done now?”
    “As soon as you sign these papers,” Odell said and placed a clipboard of paperwork in front of Miss Lettie. She scrawled her name everywhere Odell indicated and swatted Ellen’s hand away when Ellen reached for the clipboard, probably intending to read what her friend was signing.
    “Now I want to see my son,” Miss Lettie demanded.
    Odell raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the door. I nodded “yes,” and Odell said, “Callie here may need to ask a few more questions for the obituary, but if you’d like to see Mr. Morgan before that, we can see him before finalizing the announcements.”
    Fully expecting Miss Lettie to be a body-grabber, I stood close to her when she reached her son. The top half of the casket was open, but we’d draped a thin, almost transparent cloth over it—not that it would physically prevent anyone from seizing or embracing the decedent, but we’ve found it’s a good psychological barrier when there’s facial damage.
    Straight and tall, Miss Lettie looked like that woman in Grant Wood’s picture “American Gothic.” Everybody’s seen it—a solemn, plain woman standing beside a farmer holding a pitchfork with a barn in the background. I always thought they were man and wife, but I’ve read that the woman was his daughter. Miss Lettie looked just like her with hair beginning to gray, and for the first time, I saw that even in December, Miss Lettie had a farmer’s tan browning her hands and the back of her neck.
    She narrowed her eyes and stared at Jeff Morgan without making any effort to touch him.
    “My baby,” she finally said. “He was my beautiful baby, and he looks just like his daddy.” She turned toward me. “Why did you shave his head?”
    “No, ma’am. His head isn’t shaved. He’s bald.” I knew this because I’d rubbed the top of Mr. Morgan’s head myself out of curiosity. Shaved heads on men are stylish now, and I like the look, but Mr. Morgan’s head had shed the dark hair I’d seen in his youthful photograph. Her