Beyond the Grave Read online

  Chapter Ten

  As soon as they arrived in the store, Roger, the old guy behind the counter, ran off, darting suspicious glances at Casey, like she was going to beat him up and drag him out behind the Dumpster. If by “ran off” you meant shuffling slowly around the counter, across the room, and out the door, where he sat at the picnic table and waited for his grandson to come pick him up.

  Between serving customers Vern gave her a tour of the walk-in freezer, the employee bathroom, and the supply room. Casey was glad he didn’t want her to do actual work, because her painkillers were wearing off, and her ribs were sending reminders about the picnic table incident.

  Casey noticed a photo of Vern and his father hanging in the office. “So you took over for your dad?”

  “Sooner than I would have liked.” He messed with some papers on his desk. “I took that business course right out of high school, but mostly because it was free through a grant for family operations. I wasn’t expecting to actually use it to run the whole thing myself, at least not the very next year. Dad had a heart attack one day, just boom. He was gone. Dottie and I had been hoping…”

  “What?”

  “We wanted to get out of this town. Live somewhere else, at least for a while. But Dad left me the business.”

  “You couldn’t sell it?”

  “Not if I wanted to take care of my mother or have any kind of inheritance. He made it a provision in his will. If I sold the business, the money went to the church. If I ran it, I kept the money. We were nineteen, newly married. It wasn’t like we could afford to pass it up.”

  So his dad was a controlling jerk. “Had you known that before?”

  “About his will? No. He changed it after I got married to make sure I stayed. It worked. Now, let’s show you how to run the cash register.”

  Close to five-thirty Vern was getting ready to run fried chicken home for Dottie when a police cruiser pulled into the parking lot. Casey went hot, then cold when she recognized the Beltmore insignia. The officer in the driver’s seat was definitely not Maddy Justus, and Casey wondered if he was the drunk moron’s brother. He took off his sunglasses, set them on the dash, and opened his door.

  “I’m not here,” Casey told Vern. “I never was.”

  “What?”

  She pointed to her face. “This? It has to do with that cop.”

  Vern’s jaw dropped. “A cop did that?”

  “No, I—I’ll explain later. Please. Tell me you’re a good liar.”

  He gave a wry smile. “Oh, I’m a good liar, all right.”

  Casey speed-walked to the back room, considering whether or not to run to Vern’s house. But she didn’t want to scare Dottie or involve her in the lie. Plus, the cop might see her crossing the yard. If she heard him coming toward the deli area, she would lock herself in the bathroom.

  Several minutes later she heard footsteps and made a bee-line toward the women’s room.

  “Just me,” Vern called. “He’s gone.”

  Casey breathed a sigh of relief and met him in the cafe.

  Vern waited. “Spill.”

  The front door dinged, saving Casey from answering. For the moment. She grabbed the packed-up fried chicken. “I’ll take this to Dottie. Be back in a minute.”

  He frowned, but Casey didn’t wait.

  Dottie was in her bedroom with the door closed when Casey arrived. She left the food on the table and hesitated, not wanting to return to the store.

  “Vern?” Dottie’s voice drifted into the kitchen.

  “It’s me, Mrs…Dottie. Bringing some supper.”

  “Oh, thank you.” She appeared in the doorway. “Are you staying to eat with me?”

  The smell of the house had taken away Casey’s appetite. Did one ever get used to that? The smell of age and disease and forthcoming death? “I have to get back. I’m sorry. Do you need anything else?”

  Dottie’s face fell. “No. Thank you. I’ll just…be here.”

  Oh, God, what had Casey gotten herself into? If she wanted to deal with this kind of thing, she would have stayed home and taken care of her mother, who she actually knew and loved.

  “Yeah, I’ll…see you later.”

  Casey escaped back to her new job, where Vern was waiting. “Are you wanted by the cops? Because I can’t deal with trouble right now.”

  “I’m not.” Casey had lived as a fugitive, and it certainly wasn’t fun. Being on the right side of the law was a good thing, and while beating up those Beltmore idiots wasn’t the best choice she’d ever made, it had been necessary. She gave Vern an abbreviated version of the previous night’s events, leaving out details of how she’d gotten there, why she’d left home in the first place, and who her traveling companion had been.

  He frowned. “I’m still not clear why you were sleeping in a playground.”

  “Yeah. I’m a little unclear about that, too.”

  “But—”

  The bell on the door clanged with a loud staccato, as if blown open, and a woman charged inside, digging in her purse. Her hair was as white blond as it could get. Casey groaned. She had seen that hair before.

  The woman smiled at Vern before her eyes caught on Casey. Her smile faded. “You?”

  Casey shrugged. “Me.”

  Vern looked back and forth between them. “You know each other?”

  Casey made a face. “Not exactly. We were on the same train yesterday.” Where the woman had thought Casey had a screw loose. Or a few of them.

  The woman scrutinized Casey’s black eye for a few moments, then held out some cash. “Thirty dollars of gas, please.”

  Vern punched some buttons on his computer while the woman and Casey worked very hard not to look at each other. Finally, the woman went back out to her car.

  “What was that about?” Vern asked.

  “She was on the train. That’s all I know.” Casey leaned against the doorway of the cashier area.

  “You’re tired,” Vern said.

  “I am.” Her face had also started to hurt, which was spreading to her head, and her side felt like someone was aiming flat-handed strikes at her ribs. Repeatedly. It was time for more painkiller.

  “You can head out. I can manage here until closing.”

  “You sure?”

  “I do it every night.”

  Casey wasn’t going to say no.

  “Grab something to eat on your way out. Chicken, or a sub.”

  “Thanks. I will.” She took off before the white-haired woman came back in. That way the woman could ask Vern about Casey, and he could tell her whatever he wanted without Casey having to listen.

  Casey snuck into the house through the kitchen door, avoiding Dottie. She took some painkillers along with her supper, then lay on the bed to let the meds kick in.

  She woke several hours later. It was dark. She fumbled for her phone to check the time, then texted Eric:

  Found a place to settle for a bit. Will let you know when I move on.

  Her brain spun with everything Vern had shown her that afternoon, but mostly she couldn’t believe he would be trusting her with money. Granted, the cash register didn’t hold all that much, and she didn’t know the combination to the safe, but still.

  Eric responded within seconds:

  Glad you’re safe. I’m heading home to Ohio. Ricky will look after your place and your mother.

  A stab of guilt shot through Casey. Not about her house so much, but her mom…

  Thanks. Hope things are okay in Clyde.

  Casey felt a little sick at the thought of Eric’s hometown. Earlier that summer she had worked at Home Sweet Home, Eric’s soup kitchen, acted in a play…and killed a thug from Louisville. She then spent several weeks avoiding the police until she had to go home to get Ricky out of jail for killing his girlfriend. Which of course he hadn’t done.
Casey had been exonerated for the thug, but the stress had taken its toll.

  Life was so complicated.

  Eric texted:

  Stay safe.

  You too.

  She lay in bed, relieved the painkillers had taken effect, and gazed out the fire escape. It was dark on her side of the house, and she could see stars and the glow of the moon, just out of sight. She’d been glad to get a shower, washing away the itchiness of the hay wagon, and the bed was really comfortable. She couldn’t imagine the mattress had been used much, since there was no perceptible canoeing effect.

  She knew it was hard on Eric, not knowing where she was, not even asking. Without sharing her location on her phone it would be impossible for Eric to track her down. Well, not impossible, but unlikely. She couldn’t believe she’d found the one guy in the world willing to live this way.

  “So this is nice.”

  Casey jumped. Death lay next to her on the bed—or hovered, if one was to be precise—wearing plaid flannel pajamas.

  “Would you stop doing that? And who are you supposed to be now? Or are those regular pjs? Which, by the way, you are not using to sleep in this bed with me. Not unless you also come equipped with an electric blanket.”

  Death held up a finger. “First, if you have a suggestion as to how you would not be terrified each time I show up—”

  “I’m not terrified. I’m startled. There’s a difference.”

  “—I am all ears. You realize I don’t make actual sound in your world, so I can’t knock, although some psychics seem to think beings from my realm have that ability. Anyway, how can we keep you from being such a scaredy-cat—?”

  “I’m not—”

  “—Should I say, ‘hey there,’ or ‘ding-dong,’ or ‘Here’s Johnny?’ Didn’t your grandmother have a signature call when you came to visit?” Death’s voice rose to a falsetto. “Yoo-hoo! Who’s come to visit me?”

  Casey glared at Death. “How about appearing in front of me instead of behind?”

  “Technically, I was beside you this time. Okay, okay, don’t get all huffy. I’ll try harder not to freak you out, okay?”

  “Freak me out? Since when do you say that?” Casey hated it when Death used current lingo.

  “Since now. So, back to questions number two slash three, about who I’m supposed to be and what’s the deal with these pajamas. Don’t they look familiar?”

  “I’ve never owned men’s flannel pjs. And neither did Reuben.” Her late husband preferred to sleep without anything on, but she couldn’t dwell on that.

  “Hmm.” Death looked at the clothes. “Picture them several sizes smaller.”

  “Smaller? For a little person?”

  “In a sense. A person who is little, but will get bigger.”

  Casey sighed, weary of the game. “So you’re supposed to be a kid.”

  “A boy.”

  “A boy in plaid pajamas. I thought they were striped.”

  “Oh, my Lord, not that depressing movie. Think Christmas, being abandoned by your parents…”

  “Home Alone?”

  Death jumped up, raised fists disappearing into the ceiling. “She’s a winner!”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Death dropped back to the mattress, but it didn’t bounce an inch. “What’s wrong?”

  Casey scooted up to sit against the headboard and hug a pillow. “Don’t you feel it? Something is weird here.”

  “Seems like a normal room. Except for that corner over there.” Death indicated the “L,” with the odd collection of memorabilia.

  “Not the room.” Casey threw the pillow at Death, but it went right through and banked off the wall onto the floor. “This whole…situation. From the moment I showed up it’s like…I don’t know…like Vern was waiting for me.”

  “You, specifically? Or you, as in somebody he’d never seen?”

  “Either, I guess. It’s strange, how he latched onto me. He’s giving me all this responsibility, and letting me handle money. Does he really not have any other employees?”

  “The old guy—“

  “Roger hardly counts.”

  Death’s head tilted back and forth in agreement. “That Help Wanted sign has obviously been there a while, and he and Dottie do have this room ready for an occupant.”

  “Which is also weird.”

  “Plus, those women at lunch were no fans of Dottie.”

  “Then why eat lunch at her husband’s place?”

  Death chuckled. “Flower Pants obviously likes seeing Vern. Also, did you see any other place to eat in this town? Unless you want to make your own lunch, Vern’s is the place to be.”

  Death had a point.

  “So back to the whole people-not-liking-Dottie thing, and the waiting-for-you-to-come-along thing. Maybe Vern was just happy to see a friendly face, although I wouldn’t describe you that way, the way you scold me all the time. You’re more like a judgmental face.”

  Casey rolled her eyes. “Another oddity. Did you notice there are no photographs upstairs? No family reunions, or vacations, or anything. Do they even know anybody outside this town?”

  “Dottie came from somewhere else.”

  “Didn’t we all?”

  “But most people end up going back, at least to visit. Do you think she’s ever gone back to Portland?”

  “Who knows? I don’t have the first clue about these people, and here I am in their basement. You’ve got to admit it’s a little creepy.”

  “But necessary. You couldn’t keep going today, not after what happened last night.”

  Casey sank into the pillows. Death was right. “It still feels weird.”

  “You know you have a tool to do a little research on them.”

  “I do? Oh, my phone. Hadn’t even thought about that.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Once I got the MyPhone, I couldn’t think how I’d done without it.” Death smirked, then went on point, as if an alarm had sounded. “I have to go, but listen, get a good night’s sleep. You can always leave in the morning if you want. There’s nothing keeping you here.”

  “I promised to work for my stay.”

  “You also have money. You’re under no obligation further than that. Besides…” Death began to fade. “…there’s no way they can hunt you down. They don’t even know your last name.”

  Death vanished in a puff of peppermint-scented mist.

  Casey plugged in her phone, which was teetering on five percent, and went to type in the names of her new landlords. She stopped short, and felt less guilty about withholding information from them. She didn’t know their last name, either.

  Chapter Eleven

  It didn’t matter that Death had wished her a good night, or that she’d spent time surfing the web until her eyelids drooped. After her post-supper nap, Casey couldn’t sleep. She sat in the well of her fire escape with the cool air drifting through the screen, and held an ice pack to her side. Her face she didn’t mind so much, but the ribs…

  She hadn’t found much online concerning Vern and Dottie, except for a few small articles about the store. Their last name was Daily, but that didn’t help. Casey still didn’t know Dottie’s birth name, and without that, there was no telling which Dorothy from Portland, Oregon, she was looking for.

  Casey wondered if Eric was sleeping, or if he lay awake also, eager to get home. She wondered who was running his soup kitchen while he was gone, but figured the staff was taking care of it, the group she’d met when she’d been there.

  She missed him.

  She missed Reuben.

  She missed the smell of Omar after his bath, snuggled in her lap as they read Goodnight Moon, and Are You My Mother?

  When would the pain end? Ever? Never? If it didn’t, could she also feel something else? Find her own new spiritual and emotional pai
nkiller?

  Something clanked, and Casey went on alert. Not even Vern, as energetic and busy as he seemed, should be moving around at three in the morning. Casey listened, hardly daring to breathe. The sounds weren’t coming from inside the house. They were outside.

  Casey closed her eyes and focused. The night became still again, until she heard rattling, and then a long hiss.

  Spray paint.

  Casey popped the screen from its frame and climbed into the outside portion of the fire escape. She stuck her head above ground level but could see no movement in the backyard. Climbing painfully out of the well, she padded softly toward the store in her bare feet, following the sound of the paint.

  The vandal found a shadowy corner toward the back of the store, one dark circle beyond the range of the security lights. Casey saw a person-shaped silhouette there, its arm moving up and down. Casey eased toward the offender until she stood a few feet behind. Careful not to cast a shadow, she angled toward him—for it was a him, she could see that now.

  With a quick step, Casey grabbed his wrist, knocking the can from his hand, and twisted his arm behind his back. A tiny nudge sent him to his knees.

  “Stop! Please! Aaaaah!”

  He fought, jabbing her in the ribs with his elbow. She bit back a cry and wrenched his arm higher against his back. After waiting for his screams to drop into a low moan, she reached for her phone.

  But she didn’t have it. She was in her T-shirt and pajama shorts. She wasn’t even wearing a bra. Or underwear.

  Keeping a firm grip on his arm, she patted his pockets—to his accompanying howls of displeasure—until she found the telltale shape of a phone.

  “What are you—aaaah!”

  Casey slid it from his pocket and dialed 911. When she’d given the dispatcher the necessary information, she punched on the flashlight app and lit his face.

  To no one’s surprise, she’d never seen him before.

  He was in his upper teens. Dark hair, mild case of acne. Standing, he would be taller than Casey by several inches, and his body was thick in a farm boy kind of way. He would undoubtedly be stronger than she, which would counter-balance her martial arts skills, making it anybody’s guess who would win a battle. The main reason she had him on the ground in an arm lock was that she’d caught him off-guard.