“You think somebody stole Old Man Farris?” Shep groaned. “Oh, Lord, I wonder if Corwin’s is liable. I’d better call Sammy Gordon down at Bama Farms and check on our coverage.”
Great, she’d made things worse. Way to go, Addy.
Her mother shot her a basilisk glare. “Don’t you worry about it, son. We’ll find him. He can’t have gone far.”
“Find who?”
The three of them jumped like they’d been shot, and spun around. Shirley Farris, Dwight’s wife, stood in the doorway. Everything about Shirley was round, her face, her bright blue eyes, her melon-shaped breasts and wide hips. She was a round little blueberry of a woman in a belted Sunday dress and orthopedic shoes. Her gray hair was round, too, worn in tightly permed sausage curls that bounced when she walked. She was as soft and plump as a newly risen yeast roll, a cherubic Southern Mrs. Santa Claus with rosy cheeks, a double chin, and a tiny pink bow of a mouth. If the Teletubbies had a mom, it would be Shirley Farris. Addy could see her tripping across the sterile, green golf course Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po called home.
“Find who?” Shirley repeated. She tilted her head and widened her baby doll eyes at them. “Is something wrong?”
Mama’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. Beside her, Shep made strangling noises. Great, both of them down for the count. Addy took a deep breath and gave Mrs. Farris a bright smile.
“Wrong is maybe too harsh a word, but we do have the teensiest, little situation here with Mr. Farris.”
A tiny, adorable wrinkle formed in the space between Shirley’s brows. “Oh, dear, was the blue suit too small? He has put on a few pounds in the last few years. Maybe we should have gone with the gray.”
“No, ma’am, the suit is not the problem.” Addy looked past Shirley’s plump figure. The rest of the family was gathered in the hall for the visitation . . . visitation for a dead man who’d taken a powder. Oh, Lord, things were about to get ugly. Addy waited, hoping—no, expecting—her take-charge mom to leap in and take over. But, for once, Bitsy seemed content to let her daughter do all the talking. Huh? Who would’ve guessed that all it took to shut Mama up was an itinerant corpse? Either that or she’d had a stroke. Addy forged ahead. “It’s—uh—like this. Mr. Farris is not exactly where we want him to be.”
“Where would you like him to be, dear?”
“In the casket, for starters.”
Plink, plink. Shirley blinked her doll-like eyes at them. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we. Mr. Farris is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, ma’am, gone, as in ‘he ain’t here no more.’ ”
Shirley Farris clutched her pocketbook to her generous bosom. “Praise the Lord, he’s been raptured.”
Good grief.
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Farris. ’Course, I’m Episcopalian, and I’m pretty sure we don’t get raptured. But, Baptists get raptured, don’t they? So, I guess Mr. Farris could have been raptured, but we’re thinking it’s more likely someone took the body. Can you think of anybody who might have borrowed Mr. Farris for some reason?”
“No, I can’t thi—” The furrow in Shirley’s brow deepened. “Unless . . . No, no, she wouldn’t.”
Shep seemed to wake from his stupor. “She?” he said eagerly. “If you have any idea who did this, Mrs. Farris, you need to tell us. It’s a violation of state health law to be toting around a dead body, not to mention disrespectful to the dearly departed.”
“Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before! We should call the police,” Bitsy said.
“Not yet, Mama,” Shep said. “Let’s see what Mrs. Farris has to say first.” With an effort, he seemed to shake off his shock and became, once again, the consummate professional. “Mrs. Farris, what were you going to tell us?”
“We-l-l.” Shirley leaned closer. “You may not be aware of this, but Mr. Farris had a wandering eye.”
Wandering eye? With a struggle, Addy kept her face straight. All of Dwight’s parts wandered, especially his doodle. He had the wandering-est doodle in three states. His doodle had its own set of legs. His doodle was hardly at home. Heck, according to rumor Dwight Farris’s doodle was hardly ever in his pants.
“Course, now that he’s in heaven with Jesus, all his earthly sins are forgiven,” Shirley added.
“Yes, ma’am,” Addy said, “but Mr. Farris’s body isn’t in heaven. In fact, we don’t know where the Sam Hill he is, and that’s the problem. There’s a funeral scheduled in less than two hours, and we got no body. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, dear.” Shirley’s pink mouth trembled. “My husband had a girlfriend, a painted hussy by the name of Bessie Mae Brown. Maybe she can tell you where Dwight is.”
“Did somebody say my name?” A middle-aged woman with Elvis Presley shoe-polish-black hair pushed her way into the room. She wore a lavender dress that strained across her generous breasts and thighs, and spiked purple heels. Rhinestones glittered on her long, manicured nails, and on the barrette she wore perched at a random angle on her stiffly teased and sprayed hair. She propped one hand on her hip and winked at Shep, then turned to address Mrs. Farris. “Hello, Shirley. Sorry for your loss.”
Show up at her married boyfriend’s funeral and offer condolences to the grieving widow as cool as you please. Wow, the woman had a major set. This was the funeral parlor version of a twenty-car pileup, and they were all caught in the twisted, metal wreckage. Fascinated and horrified, Addy looked over at Mrs. Farris. The widow looked like she wanted to blow groceries all over Bessie Mae Brown. Of course, being the Teletubbies’ mom, she’d probably blow marshmallows or Skittles. Addy’s stomach rumbled at the thought. Rainbow Skittles, or maybe Lucky Charms with all those little pink hearts and green clovers . . .
“What have you done with my husband, you Jezebel?” Shirley’s shrill voice recalled Addy to the nightmare.
“Me?” Bessie Mae’s heavily mascaraed eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
People in the hall heard the commotion and wandered into the room. A low, murmuring buzz began and grew as folks noticed the empty satin-lined box.
Shirley pointed a fat finger toward the casket. “I’m talking about the fact that my husband is missing. I want to know what you did with him.”
Bessie Mae teetered across the room on her four-inch heels. “Sugar Scrotum,” she cried. She flung herself on top of the metal box. “What have they done with you?”
Sugar Scrotum? Eww.
“Please, Ms. Brown.” Addy hurried over to the wailing woman. “This is highly inappropriate, not to mention downright tacky.”
She put her arms around Bessie Mae and tried to peel her off the casket.
“No!” Bessie Mae screeched and hung on tighter, kicking her purple heels. “I won’t go. Not until somebody tells me what happened to my sugar.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy, Jesus,” Shep groaned, relapsing. “What else?”
“I can’t take any more.” Addy’s mother toddled over to a chair. “Somebody tell me when it’s over.”
Shirley waved her pocketbook. “I got your sugar right here, Bessie Mae Brown,” she quavered in her Aunt Bea voice, “or at least the only part you cared about.”
A shiver of dread shot down Addy’s spine. She let go of Bessie Mae—the damn