Caskets & Conspiracies

by Nellie K Neves

  It would not be fair to let someone fall in love with me only to watch me deteriorate and die. It was not that I pitied myself but rather I was protecting someone else from the moment when the volcano would erupt in my brain and I would be changed forever. I had decided long ago that I would not reduce a man I loved to wiping the spit from my chin and blowing my nose while I wondered if he secretly wished I would just die. No. I could not do that to someone.

  My gaze caught the flyer I had torn from the bulletin board at the police station. I snatched it once more as if my conviction to the case might drive Ryder back into the dark corner of my thoughts.

  Milton Penley, who had been a volunteer with the police department, died only a week before. The flyer gave directions and listed the time for 2:30. Punch and refreshments and a short sermon by Pastor Edwards.

  I wrestled with my decision. I did not know Milton, but I could talk my way in. But if I went, I would be admitting it really was a case and Aunt Stella was onto something for once. If that were true, it meant I would not stop until it was completed. That meant a lapse in other jobs and a lapse in money. I could not let it go though. Too much did not add up, and if Milton had died like the others… I had to take the chance and pursue it a little further.

  Then I realized my true hesitation. I would have to go to church. Worse, I would have to put on a dress.

  **********

  My younger sister, Eleanor, was the hip and trendy sister. She did her makeup every day, usually within moments of getting out of bed. She always smiled, always laughed at dumb jokes, especially Dad’s, and always seemed to know how to navigate difficult social situations. What I would have given for some of her wisdom as I stepped out of my car in front of that church in Laurel. At least I had her dress.

  I had nothing black, so I hoped navy blue would suffice. It was not a funeral, but even then, was black really required? Social protocols were not always my forte. I ran my hands over the tightly fitted bodice and skirt, dark seersucker fabric split by a white waistband and another strip of white at the boat neck. I pushed my fingers into my hair at the scalp and gave it a shaking, scrunching motion as Eleanor had taught me. The purpose eluded me, but she had been pretty adamant that I learn how. Something about volume and my lifeless hair.

  “Lindy!”

  Aunt Stella’s voice made me turn my head. She was dressed to the nines, all black, complete with a veiled hat that was probably a century old. I should have remembered she would come. Even Uncle Shane, in an ill-fitted suit, stepped in behind his wife. I had to admire the silver pendant that hung around her neck, and I felt as though she should thank me for it since it was my bounty that had bought it.

  Stella gushed over me in her usual way as she rushed toward me. “Lindy, I am so happy you are here. I didn’t think I could do another one of these without some support.”

  Uncle Shane cleared his throat with gusto. “Stella, I am right here. What other support could you need?”

  She waved him off and lowered her voice. “Does this mean you’re taking the case?”

  The answer got stuck in my throat. I still was not sure if there was even a case to look into. If Uncle Shane didn’t feel like there was anything amiss, who was I to question that?

  “I am checking things out,” I replied cautiously.

  The look in her eyes was conspiratorial, as if there were meaning beyond my words, which there was not. “Of course, of course,” she cooed. She took my hand and patted it. “Well, shall we? I want a spot near the front so Shane will stay awake.”

  I followed her and my grumbling uncle into the church. The room was small and cold. There was no central air or heat. The pews were benches constructed from long slats of cheap wood. I could not believe for a second anyone could fall asleep on something like that, not even Uncle Shane. At the farthest end of the room there was a pulpit and an organ. At least I assumed it was an organ. There were not any pictures. No sign of a specific religion. I guessed that had to do with the nondenominational part of the church.

  There was a long railing with only a 2-foot gap on each end made to separate the preacher from the congregation. To me, this was a message: the washed and clean on one side and the dirty sinning masses on the other. It was a difficult concept for me to swallow, especially if the preacher were as underhanded as Aunt Stella thought.

  The pew was horrible. It felt like something between the middle seat while flying coach on a crowded plane and the steel bleachers from my years in junior high. Still, while Uncle Shane and I wriggled to try to find comfort, Aunt Stella sat properly, as if she were royalty perched on the edge of a throne.

  I spoke in a whisper to Uncle Shane. “How did Milton die?”

  “Heart attack.” His glance spoke volumes. There were unspoken words there, “just like the others.”

  “Why haven’t the police gotten involved?”

  Uncle Shane glanced back to see if anyone was listening. When he was satisfied, he whispered, “With what evidence? Old people die. It doesn’t look criminal.”

  “But you aren’t convinced, are you?”

  If he was going to answer, it was cut short. Pastor Edwards had arrived. He wore the robes of a preacher, black with a clergyman’s collar. I was surprised how young he was. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Blonde and tan, with a row of perfectly white teeth that would make any mother or dentist proud. His wife followed behind him, a carbon copy in female form: thin, tan, and blonde, though I could see the slightest shadow of dark roots.

  I could not read much from him, but she spoke volumes. The skating rink that she called a wedding ring, the designer shoes and handbag, the makeup that appeared to have been smoothed on with a drywall joint knife. She was the epitome of high maintenance, though she tried to downplay it as if she were one of her people, just another member of the congregation.

  All along the aisle, she stopped and shook hands, gave hugs, and let her eyes well up with tears. I had taken a class in microexpressions years before, and one of the first lessons we had learned was how to judge the authenticity of a smile and happiness. It was all in the eyes, wrinkles that set in as the person smiled if it was real and an absence of wrinkles if it were fake. I had been burned a few times in my past and had learned that those little wrinkles could be faked, but what was harder to fake was a light in the eyes. Truly happy people had that light, and it was nearly impossible to forge.

  I had dated a grifter for a few months, and Amos was the only person I had ever seen fake both the wrinkles and the light. His trick was to think of something that made him happy, like robbing a person blind, and the smile followed.

  The pastor’s wife did not have a light, and the wrinkles were forced. I could see the strain in her cheeks. Whether it was criminal or not, I could not tell, but she certainly had all the signs of being disingenuous. From the used-car-salesman smile, to the way her hair never seemed to move under the spell of Aqua Net hairspray, I did not like her. Not in the slightest.

  Our eyes met for one brief moment, and I swore I saw fear, like a chameleon that knows he was spotted by his predator. She knew I could see through her disguise. She followed her husband through the small gateway at the end of the rail, apparently she was clean by association, and took a seat behind the pulpit.

  Pastor Edwards spoke in a booming voice. No need for the microphone. I ignored his welcome and his lengthy explanation of the purpose of life and death and instead surveyed the space with a deeper scrutiny. There was a door behind the pulpit. I had not seen it as we entered. Was it a second exit, or did it lead somewhere? An office perhaps?

  I lifted my gaze upward as if praying to the heavens. There were two cameras hidden in the rafters, barely noticeable. One surely pointed directly at the mystery door and the other at the front door. I glanced cautiously to the arched windows that lined the walls. Inside a vase that was bolted to the wall, I could see a third camera. There was a fourth camera in a vase on the opposing wall.

  I shifted in the pew as
if to make my discomfort known to everyone around me. As I drew a few looks, I put on my best apologetic face and twisted in my seat as if stretching my back. In reality, I was trying to see the back of the room without drawing the wrong kind of attention. As I twisted to my right, I saw two men stationed at the wall, arms behind them much like a soldier at ease. As I turned to the left, two more men were stationed just outside the church like sentries. They did not look like military. The stance was not second nature, but they were trained. Perhaps bodyguards or security, but what kind of preacher needs security to deliver a memorial in a country chapel?

  As I was turning forward, movement caught my attention. My mouth dropped as I spotted the perpetrator. Ryder sat in the back pew waving stealthily at me, that arrogant grin plastered across his gorgeous face. I remained facing forward and fought the urge to melt to the floor like a child.

  “Did you invite him?” I whispered through clenched teeth to my uncle.

  “Invite who?” he asked, leaning his head toward me.

  “Ryder.” The name sounded more like a bark or a growl as I said it.

  Uncle Shane straightened once more. “I plead the Fifth.” He leaned toward me again then paused before whispering, “I might have mentioned it to him. You could give him a chance. I don’t know why you’re so short-minded.”

  I slouched a little lower in the pew, the wooden slats cutting into my neck as I edged closer to my hiding spot on the floor. “You know why,” I hissed.

  “You’ve got to appreciate his tenacity.”

  A plump woman in front of us shot Uncle Shane a dirty look for his lack of volume control. Meanwhile, I heard a couple of snickers behind us, and I knew one came from Ryder.

  I tilted closer to Uncle Shane and said in a hushed tone, “I am working right now. This is not the time.”

  Uncle Shane scoffed loudly, drawing a backhanded slap from Aunt Stella and another dirty look from the plump woman in floral print in front of us. He spoke the final time on the subject. “Working or not, Lindy, you need to take a chance, and he is a good guy.”

  I did not respond. The pastor droned on, expounding on the everlasting wonders of heaven and the irreversible torment of hell. I could feel Ryder’s gaze burning into my skull, but I ignored it as best I could, instead focusing on the surveillance that I had discovered. I was far more interested in why there were motion-sensor cameras hidden all over the 700-square-foot chapel. What did they have to protect? Why were there guards?

  The hairs on the back of my neck went on end as I felt a cold breeze wash over my psyche. Dread gripped my spine with ice-cold fingers and my breathing became labored. Someone else was watching me. As I looked down, away from the camera that focused on the door behind the pulpit, I found her eyes. The pastor’s wife, Hannah Edwards, was staring at me. She hid her emotion like a professional, but I could see it. There was a slight narrowing at the inner part of her eyes, a minute flare to the nostrils, and her lips were clenched as tight as a clam shell. Concealed anger. She was suspicious of me.

  I forced my eyes to water. It didn’t take much. I moved my right hand over my body, trying to form what looked like a cross or at least what might be considered a religious move. In reality, it probably looked like a seizure or childish flailing. I kissed my right hand and lifted it skyward, letting the tears fall from my cheeks. Just a moment later, a tissue was passed over my shoulder from the pew behind me. I took it and nodded, still maintaining a steady stream of teardrops as we sat. My head fell forward as if I were overcome by grief, and I let it hang there until the end of the service. It might have all been in my mind, but Hannah’s eyes never wavered from me the whole time.

  **********

  Stella informed me at the end of the address that her friends had set up a little reception in Milton’s memory in the trees. She also added under her breath that the reception was the original plan. It was Pastor Edwards who had insisted on speaking beforehand “to bring more sheep into the fold.”

  Maybe not criminal but definitely overbearing.

  I walked down the aisle with my aunt past Ryder, who was still blocked in by the others who had been seated in his pew, and followed her out into the forest that surrounded the little church. Spruce pines, firs, and hemlocks built a canopy for the refreshment table.

  Near an old alder tree, the ladies had set a large portrait of Milton and his deceased wife, Patsy. He had been a looker back in the day, decorated in the uniform of the US Army. Another table held pictures of his family years and a plaque from the US Forest Service for his excellent achievements.

  By all accounts and pictures, Milton had lived a good life. He had made it to 86 years old before death took him. I often wondered if I would make 60 before my brain gave out. Honestly, I was not sure I wanted to live past that anyway from what I had seen others with my disease go through.

  A short ashy blonde woman spotted us, and her pace quickened to meet us. “Stella,” her voice was quick and raspy as if she were trying to whisper and yell at the same time. “Stella, it happened again.”

  Stella did not bother to introduce me. The words were far more important. “No. John didn’t get anything?”

  The woman’s hair fell across her face as she shook her head. “Not a cent. It all went to the church. Even the house.” It did not take much deductive reasoning on my part to figure out that John was Milton’s son, and he had been cut from his father’s will.

  The raspy blonde continued, “John is hiring a lawyer. He wants to prove that his father was incompetent at the time he changed his will.”

  I could not be still. “Does he have a case? Did anyone witness Milton in his last days when he changed the will?”

  The woman stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. “No,” she said slowly, “Hannah and her group were the only ones who were there. We couldn’t get in.”

  She looked back at Stella and her voice quickened again. “Milton changed his lawyer in the last week of his life.”

  “He dropped Angelo? After all these years?”

  The woman nodded. I doubted the red color of her hair was authentic. I guessed it was merely a dye job to match her busybody personality. “He hired Ethyl’s lawyer. The one she had when she died.”

  Stella’s mouth dropped, and her hand snatched my arm as if she needed the support. I had to admit it was fishy. Two people at the end of their lives, both isolated and making dramatic changes to their wills with the same lawyer. Stella might have stumbled onto something real for once.

  They were about to speak again, but the crowd arrived, and they did not want their words to be heard. My aunt’s friend smiled graciously at a few people, but I could see that she was bursting with news and the desire to gossip just a little longer.

  Stella did her best to maintain their cover. “Did you put the potato salad on ice, Melinda? You know how fast it spoils. We don’t need another Founder’s Day fiasco.”

  Melinda, the ashy blonde, smiled and said a little too loudly, “Of course I did. It’s as cold as a corpse.”

  I groaned internally at her choice of words and their less-than-covert tactics. I knew I needed to take the case if for nothing else than to keep my aunt from pursuing it further. If these people were what she thought, then they were truly dangerous.

  As Aunt Stella walked away to fuss over the refreshments, I turned my attention on the attendees. Working through the crowd, I introduced myself as Stella and Shane’s niece and gave my condolences, simultaneously gathering information and keeping Ryder on the other side of the clearing. He stuck to Uncle Shane, only occasionally glancing my way to keep tabs on me. I had to wonder why he came in the first place. If he really knew me, he would not keep at it. He would run for the nearest exit.

  My questions for the crowd helped me to glean some important information. Milton had been healthy up to only a few months before. He had been an avid hiker, a master fly fisherman, and never used a golf cart when he hit the greens but preferred to carry his own clubs and walk
the distance. The change had come with one bad fall from his back porch. Milton broke his tibia and never came back from it.

  What surprised me was that no one questioned the connection between heart and leg. They had explanations like, “You know, at his age, he was lucky to even be alive” or “Once an older man like that stops moving, it’s only a matter of time” or my favorite, “It was his time. Who are we to question it?” That one stumped me. I was no doctor, no medical training at all, but as far as I could tell, the heart was well over a foot away from the tibia with quite a few vital organs in between.

  My phone jangled in my pocket, and I excused myself from the circle that contained Milton’s golfing partner and his gardener. PI Net flashed across the screen. “CS, six hours, $150.” Covert surveillance for six hours, one report on what I had seen, and then an easy $150 in my account. I pressed accept, but the error alert popped up.

  “Position filled.” How I hated those words. I had lost the quick draw.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  The feminine voice grabbed my attention. My chin popped up, and my eyes rested on the hollow expression of Hannah Edwards. I could see the hazy glow of foundation covering her skin, soft and smooth but clearly false. The lines, the tension, every quirk that I used to determine emotion and motive were off, forced, and counterfeit. I noticed the issues with her smile early on, but she hid the tension in her cheeks that had given away the anger she felt. But as I looked at her for the second time that day, there were no visible clues there, like staring down a dark hallway at midnight. Without my tools, I was left to my gut to read her emotion, and my gut had only one inclination. Malice.

  I could not show that she had rattled me. “It’s a lovely reception for a wonderful man.”

  A slight twitch in her right eyebrow told me she did not buy my story for a second. “Did you know Milton?”

  Not “Did you know Milton well” or “Were you close,” but a blatant question of my motives. I sidestepped the question with the ease of a politician on the ropes. “I’m here with my aunt and uncle. I have been really impressed by what I have seen today.”