Dead Letter Office, Parish Mail #1

Chapter 1

Parish Mail is written like a TV series–there are over-arching mystery and romantic story arcs that extend between the episodes, while each episode has a smaller case that is presented and solved. Along the way,  the reader will get the opportunity to make several small decisions. These choices do not impact the overarching storyline, however certain combinations “unlock” clues to the series’ mystery, which are embedded in the text. 

At the end of the certain chapters, readers will get the chance to vote on one of two choices. The path that gets the most votes will get posted on Wattpad.  New chapters will be posted every Thursday. 

 CHAPTER 1

 The dead man smiles at me.

I know it’s just the work of the morticians, but they’ve done eerily well. The man, seventyish with a likable face, looks like he’s just dozing, having a pleasant dream in his coffin. It looks pretty comfortable in there, the whole thing pillowy and pleated where it isn’t smooth polished wood. I tentatively reach my hand out to touch the ivory-colored satin.

 “Celia Jane!”

I yank my hand back and jump at the hissed voice. My grandmother stands in the doorway, glaring imperiously at me. I didn’t mean any harm, but she’s probably right to hiss. I don’t know this man. Franklin, according to the banners on the wreaths of white lilies at the front of the visitation room. I’m here today for a different dead man. And his coffin will not be open. “Time to go, dear,” my grandmother says more gently, beckoning to me. I’d like to think the change in tone is for my benefit, but it’s just as likely for the strangers in the room. My grandmother cares rather a lot about what people think of her.

As I turn to go, I see, tucked under the dead man’s gently crossed hands, what looks like a tiny bag of red cloth. Beads of different colors are woven into the string holding it closed, and words of some kind are embroidered on the cloth in silk floss. I’m inches away from a dead body, in a building full of the dead, and not at all freaked out—but something about this little bag makes the back of my neck prickle. I want to take a closer look, but my grandmother is about ready to come in and pull me out by my ear, like I was a misbehaving toddler.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I lean to tell the older woman in the stylish, wide-brimmed black hat seated in the front row, who must be the widow. I’m saying words I’ve heard so many people say to Mom and me, so many times that they’ve almost become meaningless; but I mean them now. Franklin looks like he was a nice guy.

“Thank you, honey,” the woman says with a smile, giving my hand a squeeze.

I walk out of the viewing room, past rows of mourners. A few wipe tears, but mostly they sit, talking quietly. Some smile as they swap stories. “Never caught a fish that didn’t grow in the telling.” I catch other snatches of conversation here and there. “Passed in his sleep.” “Andre and Letitia and the kids were there, a blessing.” Sounds like Franklin went out a bit differently than my dead man.

A whoosh of enthusiastic air conditioning jets down the back of my dress as I pass under a vent, and I shiver. My grandmother takes my hand, her grasp strong as a bear trap as she tugs me away down the hall. She looks delicate but her sixty-something grip is more than a match for my sixteen-year-old one. “Honestly, Celia Jane,” she sighs with the most discreet of eye rolls. “Barging into a stranger’s viewing?” There’s not much of a final g sound on barging and viewing. Bargin’ and viewin’. And there are a few more syllables in stranger than I’m used to hearing.

“I’m sorry, Jane,” I say. “And just Celia is fine. Don’t want to confuse people,” I add, with a lame little laugh so as not to offend her. I was named after her. My middle name, anyway. She’s my grandmother, and I’m to call her Jane. Not Grandma. I met her three days ago.