Beyond the Grave Page 8

  “Who are you?” She twisted so she could look in his eyes.

  He groaned and shook his head.

  Casey pulled his elbow a little higher.

  “Lance! My name’s Lance. Lance Victor.”

  She relaxed his arm. “Why are you vandalizing Vern’s store?”

  His eyes flicked all around, but Casey stared unwaveringly at his face.

  “Tell me.” She lifted his elbow.

  “Ow—It was a dare, okay? A dare. That’s all.”

  Casey spun around, still holding the boy’s arm, so that her back was to the store. If Lance was acting out a dare, it was possible his friends were watching. She held him still and listened. She couldn’t hear anything except the usual night sounds.

  “Are you alone?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I said, Are? You? Alone?”

  “Yes. Ouch, I said yes!”

  “How were your buddies going to know you did it?”

  “I was going to take a picture.” His tone betrayed how stupid the question was.

  But she kept going. “You don’t personally have anything against the Dailys?”

  “No. I mean, nothing more than anybody else.”

  “And what would that be, exactly?”

  He shrugged, then thought better of it when she yanked his arm. “It’s not him. The old guy, I mean. He’s fine. But she thinks she’s better than everybody else.”

  “And she’s treated you badly?”

  “No. But I’ve heard stuff all my life.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t believe everything you hear.”

  Casey shoved the guy’s phone back into his pocket and jerked him toward the parking lot, where the cops—or, more likely, a singular cop—would find them. She plunked him onto the end of the picnic table bench, not releasing his arm. A couple of times he wrenched around, like he was trying to escape, but a not-so-gentle tug kept him seated.

  Within two minutes a cruiser pulled in. Casey hadn’t realized how tense she was until saw the insignia—definitely Armstrong. Not Beltmore. An officer stepped out, staying behind the car as she took in Casey, the kid, and their awkward predicament. Hand on her belt, she walked toward them, stopping a few feet away to glare at the kid.

  “Lance, what the hell?”

  He hung his head.

  She jerked her chin, and Casey let go of Lance’s arm. He whipped it around and held it against his chest. The officer didn’t remark on how Casey had been holding a teenage boy on her own. In her pajamas.

  “Officer Whistler,” the cop said.

  Would Casey have to give her personal information at the station? She took a chance on the answer being No. “Casey Brown. I’m staying with the Dailys.”

  Whistler nodded. “Heard about you.” Rather than expanding on that, she returned her attention to the kid. “Okay, let’s see what you did.” She grabbed Lance’s good arm and hauled him to his feet. “Which way?”

  Lance didn’t answer, so Casey led her—Lance in tow—toward the side of the store.

  Whistler shone her flashlight at the wall. Casey had obviously interrupted Lance mid-graffiti, for it said only, “DIE BIT.”

  “Was that going to say what I think?” Whistler shook Lance.

  “She is one,” he mumbled. “And she’s about dead anyway. I mean, look at her.”

  He was lucky the officer was there or Casey would’ve done more than put him in an elbow lock. She hardly knew Dottie, but you don’t disrespect a dying woman.

  “Why would you do this?” Whistler demanded.

  Lance looked away.

  “He told me it was a dare,” Casey said. “Because Dottie Daily isn’t a nice person.”

  Lance glared at her.

  “Seriously, Lance?” Whistler yanked his arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Casey followed them to the cruiser, where Whistler could have been gentler getting Lance into the car. She slammed the door.

  “Thanks for calling. How’d you even catch him?”

  “My window was open. He tripped over something, then I heard the paint.”

  “Good ears.”

  “Quiet night.”

  Whistler gave Casey a slight smile and rounded the hood to the driver’s door.

  “What will happen to him?” Casey asked.

  Whistler leaned on the top of the car. “I’ll call his folks. They’ll come get him. They’ll pay a fine. If we’re lucky, he’ll have to fix what he did.”

  “You mean paint over it?”

  “I guess.”

  “So that means I can’t do it tonight?”

  She watched Casey while she thought, then pushed off the car. “Wait here a sec. Make sure he doesn’t escape.”

  She headed back to the graffiti, and Casey saw flashes.

  Whistler returned. “I got pictures. Give me a few minutes to obtain his confession, which he’ll give me because he’s dumb, and then you can paint over it. In fact, I’ll text you, okay? His parents won’t fight the charges. They realize he’s a tool. Not a terrible kid, just a jerk who follows whatever his friends do.”

  “Thank you. Vern and Dottie shouldn’t have to see this.”

  Whistler nodded once. Twice. “Have a good night.”

  “You too. Thanks.”

  Whistler got in the car and pulled slowly away.

  Lance Victor’s white face glowed eerily in the back window. He snarled, and gave Casey the finger.

  Chapter Twelve

  The quiet streets and unpopulated country roads would have made for easy running if Casey’s ribs had cooperated. As it was, she downed another dose of painkillers, wrapped her torso with tape, and gritted her teeth. It still hurt. But she couldn’t spend another day in Armstrong if she didn’t get out of town for a few minutes.

  Casey strapped her phone to her arm—since when had she needed that reassurance?—but chose not to listen to anything while she ran. Like most women, and every martial artist, she wanted to be able to hear what was going on in her immediate vicinity. Footsteps, cars, any threat.

  Security concerns aside, she wanted to become familiar with her surroundings, including the rumble of farm machinery, farmers’ voices carrying across fields, and the blare of music as a truck sped past. She felt almost a part of the place. Almost.

  She returned to the house, refreshed and sweating, glad she made it through the run. Her next aim was to clear out space in the basement to perform one of the more subdued katas which her ribs could handle, before joining Vern at the store. She stopped in the kitchen for water and was surprised to hear voices coming from the living room.

  “But how did it get here?”

  “I don’t know, Vern. I’m sorry.” Dottie sounded close to tears.

  Not wanting to eavesdrop, Casey headed toward the basement.

  “Did you see who left this?” Vern appeared in the doorway between rooms, holding out a plain white envelope. His face was pale, and his hand shook, rattling the paper.

  She looked at it. No name, no return address. “No. Where was it?”

  “On the front step.”

  “What is it?” It wasn’t Casey’s business, technically, but Vern was the one bringing it to her attention.

  “You’re sure you don’t know?” He sounded angry, and scared, and disbelieving.

  “I really don’t. I’m sorry.”

  Dottie’s voice drifted in from the living room. “What did she say?”

  “She doesn’t know, Dot.” He frowned at Casey. “You didn’t put it there, did you? Someone didn’t ask you to? I need to know.”

  Casey took a step back. “Nothing like that happened. I don’t have any idea what it even is.”

  He tapped the envelope against his leg, watching her face, as if she would give away a secret penchant for leavin
g anonymous notes on doorsteps. “Never mind,” he finally said. “It’s…nothing.”

  Didn’t seem like nothing, but what could Casey do? Beat it out of him?

  “I was going to take a shower then head to the store. Do you need me to go over now, since you’re here?”

  Vern glanced at the clock. “I’ve only been gone a few minutes. Dottie called when she found this.” He looked at the envelope again, as if seeing it fresh.

  “I’ll hurry,” Casey said.

  He went back to the living room.

  Casey limped downstairs and got into the shower.

  “The plot thickens.”

  Casey didn’t jump this time as Death appeared in the misty shower stall. She also didn’t attempt to cover herself. She’d finally gotten over that impulse, realizing Death didn’t care if she was naked or layered up like an Eskimo.

  She wiped suds from her eyes. “Were you there? How come I didn’t see you?”

  “I was with Dottie. I’ve been getting weird vibes from her. You know she’s not well, but I think the anonymous note set off warning signs. Turns out she’s not dying today. But I’m telling you, this couple has something going on.”

  A towel surrounded Death’s body while another curled on top, like a turban. If Casey were to guess, Death was dressed like the woman in Fletch, a movie she and Reuben had watched numerous times, laughing at each and every viewing. Casey refrained from saying she’d hit a water buffalo and needed a towel.

  “They seem really spooked.” Casey rinsed her hair. “And they don’t even know what happened last night.”

  Death perked up. “What did I miss?”

  Casey told the story of the teenage vandal and how she’d painted over the aborted message.

  Death groaned. “I can’t believe I wasn’t around for that. I hate when I get left out of the good stuff…”

  “It wasn’t good.”

  “You know what I mean. Good for me. Interesting.” Death ran a finger through a trail of suds on the shower stall. They crackled and froze.

  Casey spit soap from her lips. “I wonder what the anonymous letter said.”

  “I couldn’t get a look. By the time I knew something was happening other than her imminent demise, the letter was re-folded and back in the envelope.” Death gave Casey a look. “You’ll have to sneak a peek.”

  Casey turned off the shower. “It’s none of my business.”

  “It is if they’re going to accuse you of sending them hate mail. And you live here now. If something’s going on, you have a right to know.”

  “I don’t live here.”

  “You do. Till that goes away.” Death gestured at the purplish blotch on Casey’s side. “And that.” Her face. When she looked in the mirror she was greeted by quite the color wheel.

  Casey wrapped herself in a fluffy blue towel and went to her bedroom, where she pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. The dress code at the store was fairly lax, which was good, since she had a limited wardrobe.

  Death followed, giving her what teenagers would describe as a “Mom look.”

  “Okay,” Casey said. “If the opportunity comes up I’ll find the letter, all right?”

  “I think you should.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  The kitchen was empty when Casey got upstairs, and everything was quiet. Casey poked her head around the corner to see that Vern had gone and Dottie’s bedroom door was closed.

  “So…” Death said.

  Casey shook her head.

  “Vern’s gone, and Dottie’s—”

  “Would you like some breakfast?” Dottie came into the room from down the hall. “I could make you something.” Dottie looked, if possible, grayer than the day before. Casey wondered if it was her health or the shock of the anonymous letter, as Death had suggested.

  “I was going to grab a banana, if that’s okay.”

  “You’re sure that’s enough? There’s cereal. Or eggs.”

  “Cereal might be nice. Thank you. I told Vern I’d get to the store as soon as I could.”

  Dottie opened a cabinet door to reveal several cereal boxes. She grasped the door as if needing it for stability, and Casey shot over to keep her from falling. Dottie waved her away and tottered to the refrigerator. “Vern’s used to working on his own. He’ll be fine while you eat something. He wouldn’t want you going hungry.”

  Once Casey had her food Dottie settled at the table across from her with a cup of tea. Casey waited for conversation to start, but when she looked up from her bowl Dottie was staring over Casey’s shoulder into the living room.

  “Go on,” Death said. “Grill her.”

  Death was now dressed like one of the characters from M*A*S*H. Colonel Potter, maybe.

  Casey swallowed her bite of Shredded Wheat. “So, I understand you’re not from around here?”

  “Not what I meant.” Death’s eyes rolled.

  Dottie picked at the tablecloth. “I grew up in Oregon. Portland. Right downtown. Vern came there for a business course right out of high school. We met, and…I soon moved here with him.”

  “Do you get back much? To Portland?”

  Dottie shook her head. “I don’t have anyone there. My parents are gone, and my sister lives in California. We don’t really…talk much.” She took a slow breath and let it out.

  “Ask her about the note,” Death urged.

  Before she could, Dottie had taken up the questioning. “You said you’re from Colorado?”

  “Right.”

  “Do you have family?”

  “My mom and brother are still there.”

  Dottie glanced at Casey’s hand. “Not married?”

  “No.” There was no reason to get into the tragedy that was her life. She would soon be gone.

  Casey finished her cereal and stacked her dishes in the dishwasher. “Can I get you anything before I go?”

  Dottie wrapped her hand around her teacup. “No, thank you.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Dottie smiled. “You and Vern are right next door if something comes up.”

  True.

  Casey brushed her teeth, Death nattering nonstop about how she missed her chance to find out the letter’s contents. Casey fled the house and Death’s scolding barrage, making it to the store in record time. The door’s bell jingled, and she bumped into the woman she’d seen at the gas pumps the day before.

  “Watch it!” The woman held out a cappuccino so she wouldn’t spill it on herself.

  “Sorry.”

  The woman studied her, and Casey studied her right back. Up close the woman looked older than Casey had imagined. Forties, maybe. But a fit forties.

  “Aren’t you the one who showed up yesterday at lunch?” the woman asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “So you sticking around, or what?”

  “Thought I might for a little while. Vern gave me a job.”

  The woman glanced at Vern, who was obviously “not watching” Casey and the woman as he sold a customer a two-liter bottle of Mountain Lightning and a donut.

  “Yeah, well,” the woman said. “Good luck with that.”

  And she breezed out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Don’t ask.” Vern handed the cash register over to Casey.

  She didn’t ask. If it was important for her to know why the woman treated Vern—and Casey—with such open disdain, she’d find out sometime. If not, she would soon leave Armstrong anyway, forgetting about Vern and the woman within a day or two.

  The morning crept by as she sold coffee and donuts, put together sub sandwiches, and switched out the previous day’s newspapers with current issues. Casey gritted her teeth and hefted the day-olds out to the recycling bin. She gently stretched her back, hands on her hips, and looked
up at the clear, blue sky.

  “Who’re you?”

  Casey turned to see a girl, maybe eight or nine, staring up at her from the picnic table. She had bright white hair, huge brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles. Over her spidery body she wore an oversized Beck’s Seed sweatshirt and jeans tucked into pink cowgirl boots. A book lay in the crook of her arm, and she ate from a pack of peanut butter crackers. Casey couldn’t help but notice the hair. The girl had to be related to the woman from the train, because that glowing hair wasn’t an everyday sight. Great. Would the girl think Casey was a nutcase, too?

  “My name’s Casey.” She smiled, hoping for the best. “What’s yours?”

  “Nell.” The girl cocked her head. “You working here now?”

  “Yes.” Casey glanced at her watch. Almost ten. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  Nell’s brow furrowed. “It’s Saturday.”

  “Oh.” Casey laughed. “I lost track of what day it was.”

  “That’s okay.” Nell chewed on a cracker. “You like it here?”

  “I guess. I haven’t been here very long. Do you?”

  “It’s all right. Want one?” She held out her crackers.

  “Thanks.” Casey eased onto the bench and accepted one of the orange squares. “You live in town?”

  “No. My grandpa does. Over there.” She indicated somewhere to the right. “I stay with him when my mom and dad are working.”

  The woman with the matching hair, perhaps?

  “Your grandma, too?”

  Nell shook her head. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I never met her. I have another grandma, though. She lives in Boise.”

  “How far is that?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “We have to drive there.” She held out her crackers, and Casey took another one.

  Casey couldn’t see the title of Nell’s book. “What are you reading?”

  Nell laid it on the table, a battered paperback which had obviously been read many times.

  “Carrie?” That was a surprise. Casey’s mother hadn’t let her read Stephen King until she was in high school.