As I sat in dead Aunt Rosie’s parlor and waited for the coroner to show up, I glanced around the well-lived-in room. My eyes fell upon a sign I’d never seen. ‘In our family, we don’t hide crazy… we give it a cocktail and sit it on the porch.’

I chuckled despite the circumstances. This is something Aunt Rosie would recite. I glanced over at her corpse resting in her favorite chair, mouth open, eyes half shut. She looked as if she were napping. I half expected her to sit up and say, “Ha, tricked y’all. Make me a dirty martini, will ya suga? And don’t forget the olives.” All in her sweet, southern drawl. My aunt was eccentric, but that’s what I loved about her. She taught me the best way to tell a person to ‘fuck off’ Southern style was to simply say with a smile, “Bless your heart.” Her fried chicken and hush puppies recipe was a well-guarded secret, but she handed it to me one Christmas day. She hugged me and whispered in my ear, “You know, you’re my favorite.”

Aunt Rosie was a fan of colorful patterns and antiques. The high-back chairs were upholstered in wide flower print. Ornate wooden tables, with a thin layer of dust, still had a high shine to them. Elaborate oriental rugs would tell their own stories if they could talk. The dark wood-paneled walls and forest green paint with the 90s border wallpaper needed updated. Since Uncle Harold had passed away, Aunt Rosie kept everything the same. She’d say, “In case he walks through that door one more time, I don’t want to confuse him.”

My eyes fell back to the sign. I’m sure someone in the family bought it for her as a joke. “Speaking of drinks, think I’ll help myself,” I said aloud as I got up from my seat. I walked over to the well-stocked bar and found a bottle of Maker’s Mark. The crystal highball glasses were clean, and I grabbed one and poured myself two fingers. Where the hell are these guys?

The dirt driveway was long, with large oak trees surrounded on both sides. The Spanish moss hung low and made for a picturesque drive. I often stopped and took photos whenever I visited, except for today.

Earlier today, as I ran errands, my phone rang, and the name “old woman” popped up on my cell phone.

“Hey, old lady, to what do I owe the honors?” I was on the I-95. The day was humid, and I was dreaming of a cold margarita as I sat on Tybee Island beach.

“I… I… can’t breathe; help me… please.”

“Aunt Rosie? What? I’m going to hang up and call 911. I’m headed over. Just please stay where you are. Love you.”

I pulled onto the shoulder and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My elderly aunt lives at 9494 Tea Rose Lane in Savannah. She called me, unable to breathe. Send an ambulance. I’ll meet them there. Hurry, please.”

I got off on Pooler Parkway, crossed over the bridge, and headed towards the I-16 on-ramp. If traffic wasn’t too bad, I could get to her in less than twenty minutes.

Hang on! Please don’t die. 

My granddaddy built the house Aunt Rosie lived in. It had been in the family for generations. First, they farmed cotton, then corn and tobacco, and the year before granddaddy passed, he rented the land out to a hemp farmer. Every morning, he’d sit on the porch with his iced tea and breathe in the pungent odor his neighbors constantly complained about.

“Jess, are you growing that mary-gee-whuna?”

“Why, of course not. That there plant is hemp. Been around for centuries. In fact, Thomas Jefferson made it a law back in the day every farmer had to grow at least five acres of it on his land.”

“But the odor…” the neighbor fanned herself with her hand.

“That there is the smell of money.” Granddad Jess would say.

And he was right.

He would’ve continued the Jefferson tradition, as he called it, but Aunt Rosie wasn’t in favor of it because of the annoyance of her neighbors. She didn’t want to be the subject of Queenie, the neighborhood gossip columnist.

Reluctantly, granddaddy allowed the property to rest for one season and then planted tobacco in its place. Every day he walked his land, making sure the crop was healthy. Sure, he had farm hands, but when he was younger, he had the eye. Granddaddy had a knack with plants. He took care of his crops better than he did his own health. He passed away one afternoon. Dropped dead in his tracks. Heart attack, the doctor said.

“Well, at least he went doing what he loved.” Aunt Rosie said.

Uncle Harold, Rosie’s husband, never understood farming. “He’s more of a numbers guy.” She’d tell people. So, the neighborhood farmers came together and harvested the tobacco crop when it was ready. That’s what Southerners do. They helped each other out.

Aunt Rosie wasn’t a farmer, either. And the land sat unattended for years. A developer or two knocked on her door, but she was stubborn about splitting up the one thing her granddaddy broke his back to achieve. Nope, she refused to sell.

My cousin Ralph suggested she lease out some of the farmland. She’d at least recoup some money to maintain the old Victorian farmhouse. Finally, she agreed to his plan under one condition: no more hemp. Cousin Ralph promised her she would never be the subject of the Queen’s gossip column ever again.

Three short bursts of a siren brought me back to my present situation. I arose and looked out the parlor window. An ambulance and fire truck headed up the driveway, followed by a police cruiser. I rushed over to the front door and opened it. I waited as they gathered their equipment, not knowing they wouldn’t need it anymore.

Two burly women directed the stretcher up the porch and into the front door.

“She’s in there.” I pointed to the parlor.

I peered out the door and saw a black car pull up behind the emergency vehicles. An older gentleman got out. He walked over to a firefighter and a cop. They shook hands. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. The gray-haired man advanced toward me.

“Good afternoon, I’m deputy coroner Adams.” He had a clipboard with him and placed it under his arm to shake my hand.

“Savannah Blakely. My aunt Rosie is inside. She was gone when I arrived.” He had what my aunt called, ‘smiling eyes.’

“I knew your aunt. Old Rosie and I go way back. She was the belle of the ball. You were lucky to get a date with her. In fact, your uncle Harold, God rest his soul, must have had something special cause she chose him over… well, she had her pick of men, let me just say.”

Talkative old chap. I smiled at Adams and nodded my head. “Yes, she was special. Uncle Harold and her got along like two peas in a pod. They were soul mates.” I chimed in. “She seemed lost without him, though she managed. I wish I had been here for her.”

Mr. Adams patted my arm.

“Don’t you fret yourself over such things. She’s with the Lord now.” He turned and walked into the entryway.

When they removed a dead body from a residence, it wasn’t as easy as the TV shows portray. In fact, it took several hours. The police left first, followed by the fire department and paramedics. The only one left was Mr. Adams as he filled out his paperwork.

“Y’all have a funeral home or plan in place for Rosie here?”

“Umm, yes. McDougal’s, I believe.”

“Great, Dan’s a good guy. He’ll take ‘a care her. I’ve got his number here on my phone. I’ll call him for you and have him come get her body. If you don’t mind me asking, will she be buried or cremated?”

“Buried, of course, like any good Christian woman.” I winked at him. “The family burial ground is on the property.”

“Will you be requesting an autopsy?” He inquired.

“Ralph can determine that. She had a will.”

I called my cousin Ralph to give him the sad news.

“Ah can’t believe it.” He exclaimed. “Ah saw her last night. She was fine, a little tipsy, with two martinis in her before I left. Only a couple bites of her suppa, complaining of a bellyache.”

“Are you wanting an autopsy?” I asked.

“Ah don’t know. What do you think?”

Feeling uneasy, I asked, “What did she want?” I knew I should have asked him more questions. Did she have any health conditions? High blood pressure? Heart issues? But I stayed silent.

“Not to be cut open like a splayed fish.”

“Well, there’s your answer, then.” My gut churned.

“I’ll be there shortly. I’m sittin’ in traffic. Can you stay a little longer?”

“Sure, want me to have him call McDougal’s?”

“Yes, please. We’ll let Danny take care ‘a her if you wouldn’t mind going upstairs into her closet and getting her white suit. It’s what she wants to be buried in.”

“No problem. I’ll see you when you get here, and drive carefully.”

“Ah will. Thanks, Savannah.”

When I hung up from him, I played our conversation over again in my head. Aunt Rosie had been healthy for a woman her age. After Uncle Harold passed, she’d changed the will to appoint Ralph as her executor. I thought it odd due to his gambling problem. He admitted to me he had been the last person to see her alive. In my gut, I believed an autopsy should be performed, but I had no say over it. I wonder if I should say something to the cops who stood outside? Not one to cause any trouble when it came to family, I decided to keep my suspicions to myself.

By the time Ralph arrived, Danny McDougal’s son, Kevin, had prepared to take Aunt Rosie’s body to the funeral home.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Kevin said.

“Hey, who could’ve known?” Ralph said. He ran his fingers through his hair.

The dark circles under Ralph’s eyes told me he wasn’t doing well.

As they rolled Aunt Rosie out into the van, Kevin told us he’d call and let us know when we could view her body.

“Fine. Fine.” Ralph sighed. “Ah suppose ah have some things to plan and organize.” He looked at me. I could tell he wanted me to help him but was afraid to ask.

Reluctantly, I offered. “I can help with things if you’d like.”

His face lit up. “Ah would be forever grateful, suga. Why don’t you handle the caterer and alcohol, oh, and the minister? I’ll handle the obituary and call everyone. Sound good?”

“Anything you need, sweetie. I’m here for you.” I walked over to the bar and poured him a bourbon.

We had a busy two weeks ahead of us.

Editor: Michelle Naragon