REMAINS TO BE SEEN
WHEN THE TWO elderly ladies from the Craig Springs Community for Seniors saw the mummy on the top shelf of the army surplus store, one of them gasped, “Where did it come from?” The other one opened her purse and said, “How much?”
George Carr, the owner of the Craig Springs Army Surplus Store, decided to answer the first question before he worried about the second.
Every Thursday the van from Craig Springs brought a group of its sprier residents on a shopping trip downtown. There wasn’t much that anyone actually needed to buy-toothpaste, maybe, or the new
“We were tired of the usual round of drugstores and dress shops,” said the dumpy one in the black dress.
Since he had just been wondering that very thing, George laughed and said, “You read my mind!”
She turned triumphantly to her friend. “There, Lucille! I told you I’d been working on it. A dab of chicken blood behind each earlobe, and that Latin phrase I learned.”
Lucille Beaumont, whose silver hair did not seem to go with her sharp black eyes and her hawk-bill nose, patted her friend’s arm. “Yes, Clutie. You’ve told me,” she said in patient but repressive tones. “Wouldn’t you like to look around?”
Clutie Campbell shook her head. She looked up at the mummy. “You were going to tell us about him.”
“Oh, Herman. Don’t know that that’s his real name, of course. But that’s what we call him. We’ve had him for the last twenty years.”
The ladies turned and stared at the glass-sided wooden coffin resting on the top shelf of the far wall. Below it was a tangled assortment of knapsacks and canteens, and a hand-lettered sign that said: YOUR CHOICE-$5. Just visible through the dusty glass was the body of a man: a wrinkled, leathery face poking out from the folds of a tatty-looking black suit that seemed rather large for its owner.
“Is it real?” asked Lucille Beaumont, sounding as if she rather hoped
George Carr nodded. He was accustomed to the questions. Every time a stranger visited the store, the same conversation took place:
“How’d you get him?” asked Clutie Campbell.
George started his well-rehearsed tale at the beginning. “In the early Twenties, a traveling carnival came here to Greene County. You know how it was: they’d pitch a tent in the old fairgrounds, set up the booths and the rides and the girlie shows, and three days later they’d be gone, with the pocket money of every kid in town.”
Clutie nodded impatiently. “So-what was
“No. Herman up there was a working member of the carnival. I think he was one of the construction crew, setting up the booths and all.”
“A roustabout,” murmured Lucille, but she was shushed into silence by Clutie, who clearly did not want the conversation to be derailed into a discussion of vocabulary. In her youth Lucille had been in show business, and she was entirely too fond of showing off her expertise by correcting people’s speech and by critiquing the performances on
George Carr, well into his story by now, paid no attention to their bickering. “The way I heard it, Herman here died on the second night in town. I think maybe a beam knocked him in the head, or something. An accident, anyway.” He looked a little nervously at the stiff, leathery figure on the high shelf. “I never checked. Anyhow, his body was sent to Culbertson’s, the local funeral parlor. They got right to work embalming him, and they had him all ready for the funeral.”
“I expect they provided the suit,” said Clutie with an appraising glance upward.
“Culbertson’s had him all ready for the funeral and drew up their bill for services-and they come to find out that the carnival had pulled up stakes and left town. Nobody claimed Herman, and nobody paid the mortuary.”
Lucille Beaumont frowned. “Couldn’t they have notified his next of kin?”
George Carr shrugged. “Didn’t know who in Sam Hill he was. But Old Man Culbertson was firm on one point: no money, no funeral. So they kept him. As a floor model, you know. Showing what a good job they did at embalming. He was a curiosity around here when I was a kid. My pals and I used to love to go into Culbertson’s to look at Herman.”
“How did you get him?” Clutie wanted to know.
“Old Man Culbertson died back in ’68, and the funeral home went out of business. So Herman here was auctioned off with the rest of the fixtures. I’ve had him here ever since.”
Clutie pushed her gray bangs away from her glasses and peered up at the exhibit. “How much did you say he was?”
Her friend touched her arm. “Oh, Clutie, you know you don’t-”
Clutie Campbell slid a credit card out of her pigskin wallet. “Can I put him on VISA?”
The Craig Springs minivan had the usual fourteen passengers for the return trip to the retirement community. George Carr had agreed-after some negotiation-to deliver the purchase and to leave Herman in the toolshed behind Craig Springs one hour after sunset. When he asked what the ladies wanted him for, Clutie had replied, “Religious reasons,” in a tone that did not invite further discussion. In a way, it was true.
Lucille Beaumont had steered her friend to the back of the van, in hopes that Mr. Waldrop’s snoring would drown out their ongoing discussion.
“You
Clutie Campbell sniffed and directed her gaze out the window. “It is not a conversation piece. This is just what the organization needs. The book lists all kinds of spells that you can work with a deader.”
“It’s probably
Clutie smiled vaguely. “
Lucille shook her head. “I do wish you’d give this up, Clutie.”
Her friend patted her broom-straw hair. “I think you ought to join us, Lucille. Emmie Walkenshaw thinks we’re the oldest coven in the country.”
“I am a Presbyterian!” hissed Lucille Beaumont between clenched teeth. “I
“Weren’t Presbyterians once called
Lucille Beaumont was so out of sorts that evening that she sat with the ancient Mrs. Hartnell at dinner, which was as close as you could come to eating alone at Craig Springs. Annie Hartnell was fond of asking people, “Did you have a nice life?” And after that she pretty much ignored you until you went away. Usually people took pains to avoid her, but tonight Lucille decided that Mrs. Hartnell was the only company she was fit for.
Really, she thought, Clutie Campbell’s satanist business was getting out of hand. Clutie was a widowed schoolteacher who claimed that the routine of Craig Springs bored her, and that the intellectual climate was nil. Her earlier attempts at culture-a poetry society and a debating team-had failed miserably, but the drama and secrecy of witchcraft had attracted a following. At first a group of folks had gone along with her because it made a nice change from square dancing and canasta, but now it was more than a game. The thirteen recruits had progressed from Ouija boards to table tapping to pentagrams and incantations. So far the staff was unaware of this diversion, and Lucille was determined not to be a snitch, but the coven was getting bolder (
As she carried her dinner tray to the service hutch, Lucille could not resist a warning to the head witch. “Clutie,” she said dramatically, not even bothering to lower her voice, “there is great danger in tampering with the forces of darkness!”