Collin continued. “I don’t believe a grave could be any more messed with, as you say, than the flooding. We’re going to need the office space tidied straightaway so we can get to work putting it all to rights. Some of the graves can be instantly tied to their markers. It’s obvious. But some of the graves that have no marker, no place in the cemetery records? I find that curious.”
Aggie nodded, sniffing the air. Maybe that casserole wouldn’t be so awful. “And also why you have a section like Fifteen Puzzle Row and stone after stone of markers from the late eighteen hundreds and turn of the century, and then smack in the middle is a grave from the forties.”
Mumsie didn’t have much of a reaction to that. Aggie had been watching her closely. Mumsie was for certain alive and living in Mill Creek during the war, that much Aggie knew. So, she’d been hoping Mumsie might spark at the small implication. Maybe even know right away whom Aggie was speaking of. Mr. Richardson had, after all, implied the “old-timers” of the community knew all sorts of things about those buried in the cemetery.
It was unfortunate that Aggie had never made a point to listen to old stories of family history and experiences. But then she couldn’t remember Mumsie ever saying much of anything about her years before Aggie’s mother had been born. Frankly, she rarely even mentioned Aggie’s grandfather. Ancestry had never been Aggie’s interest, not even slightly. Now she wished perhaps she’d been a bit more savvy and asked questions of Mom, instead of having to wheedle information from the tight-lipped Mumsie.
The memory of the rose petals with inked words hadn’t drifted far from Aggie’s thoughts, and the more she dwelled on them, the more curious she became. Curious and unnerved now that she’d made the conscious tie between the fake skeleton in Mumsie’s backyard and the break-in at the cemetery. Maybe it was farfetched to draw a line between them, but there was the fact that she was a common denominator between the two incidents. Agnes Imogene Dunkirk. And now the words It’s not over felt a bit ominous. Like a storm cloud that was drifting over the horizon. Not remarkably threatening, but looming all the same and moving closer, leaving questions as to its predictability, severity, and intention.
“Mumsie,” Aggie said, deciding to jump in with both feet, “did you know a Hazel Grayson?”
“No.” Her response was quick. Clipped.
Aggie waited a moment, then asked, “Do you know anyone who might know her?”
“Why?” Mumsie skewered her with a frank look. “What’s important about her?”
“Well—” Aggie began.
The third chair being pulled out from the table scraped its interruption against the floor. Collin straddled it and crossed his arms over the chair’s back. His strawberry-blond eyebrows were raised, and the laugh lines at his eyes deepened, though not with humor. Instead, his eyes seemed to hold a warning for Aggie.
She furrowed her brow at him.
Collin reached out and patted Mumsie’s hand as if she were a child to be placated. “Never mind, sweet lady. Your granddaughter is just beginning to explore the cemetery records, and sometimes a name just has a beautiful ring to it.”
Mumsie’s face softened, and she smiled at Collin. “I see.” She unfolded and refolded a cloth napkin in front of her. “Is the roast ready?”
“Dinner will be served forthwith.” Collin stood with a flourish, and Aggie noted his accent became more pronounced. He was so genuine—most of the time—and yet so . . . not fake? What was it? So surface. He was all surface. Aggie knew not one thing about the man who could charm his way into a dinner invite.
She caught his eyes and the small shake of his head. His look of caution made Aggie bite her tongue. For now.
“What was that all about?” Aggie hissed in Collin’s direction as they stood side by side at the sink hand-washing the dishes, Mumsie having retired to her recliner and TV in the other room. She took a rinsed plate from his hand and applied her dish towel to it, but her glare pierced him. Supper had been a superficial affair, with Mumsie’s charming-but-frank opinions being well-matched against Collin’s witty personality and equally talented quick thinking. Aggie had sat in silence, processing Collin’s redirection of the conversation and absently trying to draw a conclusion as to whether his accent and random colloquialisms were authentic or manufactured.
“What was what all about?” Collin hedged.
“Cutting me off with Mumsie. About Hazel Grayson.” She opted for answers to the more pressing question.
He gave her the side-eye. The kind Aggie recalled her father giving her mother in the days when they had gotten along and would have general conversations about life. It hinted at disinterest, yet disguised the deep attention behind it.
“You didn’t notice, did you?” Collin asked.
“Didn’t notice what?”
“Your grandmother’s hands. They were clenched and white-knuckled the moment you said Hazel Grayson’s name.”
“Oh.” Aggie rested the dry plate on the stack of two clean ones. “But she said she didn’t know her.”
“I believe I am relatively safe in saying your grandmother was lying to you.” Collin waggled his eyebrows with a sympathetic grimace. “You don’t truly believe she’s being that honest?”
He pulled the plug on the drain as the dirty, soapy water began its slow whirlpool spiral. Collin’s shoulder brushed hers as he reached past her. He smiled and gave her a wink, his arm stretched in front of her face. “Pardon me.”
Aggie couldn’t ignore the scent of spice and citrus. Delightful. She squirmed and backed up a step to avoid the surge of unwelcome attraction.
Collin tugged a recipe book from the shelf above the sink and laid it on the counter in front of Aggie. It was old and worn, the edges bent. He opened it, and his index finger rested below a handwritten signature.
“I noticed this earlier while you and your grandmother were bickering back and forth like two clucking hens.”
Aggie sputtered, but her gaze drifted down to read the faded ink.
Hazel Grayson
Her astonished look flew up to meet Collin’s self-confident understanding.
“It’s—it’s Hazel’s,” Aggie whispered. She shot a quick glance at the doorway that led from the kitchen to the hall where Mumsie had disappeared after dinner.
Collin allowed the book cover to shut on its own. “Apparently, your Mumsie knew Hazel Grayson quite well and has no intention or desire to speak of it.”
CHAPTER 13
Aggie tugged on her rain boots, anticipating a day of sloshing around the muddy, soggy grounds of the flooded cemetery. Mumsie had fallen asleep early last night, and Collin took his leave not long after Aggie’s realization that Mumsie had indeed known Hazel Grayson. But it was the come-to-Jesus moment she’d had with herself that left Aggie feeling melancholic this morning. Clearly, Mumsie was also continuing what seemed to be a lifelong pattern of avoiding the truth. It ate at Aggie’s gut as she slipped her arms into a cardigan. She wanted to march into Mumsie’s sitting room and demand answers, but she didn’t dare. She couldn’t. It would be confrontational. Aggie knew that, and since she was being truthful with herself, she wasn’t willing to risk the potential rift that might form between them. A rift that would turn the ditch that seemed to keep them at odds into a canyon. It would be irreversible. She was enough like Mumsie to know this.
Maybe Mumsie having Hazel’s old cookbook was nothing more than a garage-sale purchase coincidence. Or maybe they were just old friends from long ago and time had erased Hazel’s memory from a senile old woman. Or . . . Aggie reached for her car keys. Or maybe there was much more to it.
The upstairs bedroom and Mumsie’s dark little world of a dollhouse-staged murder was an omen that couldn’t be ignored. An omen of what, Aggie didn’t know. She’d spent half the night snooping around, but there was nothing to inspire a trip into their family history. Leastwise nothing she could find. And racking her brain for anything Mom might have passed on to her about Mumsie’s younger years, Ag
gie had either forgotten or simply hadn’t heard anything. Mumsie did know Hazel Grayson somehow, but tying that together was like trying to tie shoelaces without knowing where the tips were.
Aggie slipped out the front door, not disturbing Mumsie with another goodbye. They’d shared coffee that morning and exchanged glances over the rims of their mugs. A few superficial comments, Aggie having an internal debate as to whether to be bluntly honest and just ask outright or to give Mumsie space and gently prod the truth about Hazel Grayson from her. Then it was too late. Mumsie had wandered from the room. Aggie heard her footsteps as she climbed the stairs, step by step. Her walker’s feet hitting the stair above while her shoes clomped the stair below. She reached the second-floor landing, and then Aggie heard the soft thud of the bedroom door closing. Mumsie’s study. The secret place barred from the rest of the world. Aggie had followed, intending to use a goodbye as an excuse to poke her head in, but then she heard murmuring coming from behind the door. As though Mumsie were having a conversation with someone. Perhaps she had a phone in the room that Aggie hadn’t noticed the night of her trespass.
Either way, Aggie chickened out. She’d refer to Google for answers. Later. After work. A search for Hazel Grayson of 1946 had to turn up something.
Now she hurried to her car, tapping the key fob to unlock the doors. She rounded the front bumper just as her phone rang. Digging into her bag, she pulled it out. “Hello?”
“Aggie, I need you.” Collin’s shaking voice startled her. He wasn’t his normal cheery self.
“Are you all right?”
“Just—come. To the office.” The call ended abruptly.
Aggie jumped into her car and drove the eight miles to the cemetery. She noted Collin’s car parked in front of the office. Some sort of electronic equipment sat on the ground next to it, looking half like a lawnmower and half like a moon rover. Collin’s ground radar maybe? He’d mentioned last night it was one of the tools he used to identify where old graves might be if they couldn’t be found on a map.
The office door was open halfway.
“Collin?” Aggie called.
She heard a mumble from inside and hurried to the door, pushing it wide with her palm. “What on earth!” Aggie’s eyes widened at the sight of Collin. He leaned forward in a chair, elbows on his knees, pressing a wool sweater to his head. A trickle of blood trailed down his face. “I’m calling 911.” Aggie lifted her phone.
“No. No, don’t,” he grunted and raised a hand to stop her.
Aggie stared at him incredulously. “You need medical care!”
“It’s not that serious. Just a beastly head wound.”
“Looks serious to me!” Aggie knelt in front of him, clutching her phone. She ignored Collin’s dismissive snort, then his soft moan. “I’m calling.”
“No.” His tone was sharper this time, and Aggie leveled a shocked look on him. The man was pale as a ghost, made more so by the golden-red stubble on his cheeks.
“Fine. You’re as stubborn as Mumsie,” Aggie snapped. “I’ll be right back.” She rose and hurried to her car, popping the trunk to grab her first-aid kit. Silly man. Her rain boots slopped around her skinny jeans, and when she returned to the office, they squeaked as they connected with the linoleum floor. Kneeling in front of Collin again, she gave him a fast once-over.
“Just a minute,” she muttered. Snatching a rubber band from her wrist, she made quick work of tying back her ebony hair into a messy knot. She unzipped the kit and stuffed her hands into a pair of purple latex gloves.
“You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?” Aggie asked. It was so dumb she was listening to him and not calling 911. She lifted her head when there was no answer.
Collin was swaying in the chair.
“Hey!” Aggie reached for him as he fell forward into her. Again the smell of his cologne tickled her nose. His forehead leaned on her shoulder, and his wavy hair brushed her lips as she reassured him. “Okay, move forward with me.”
He followed her instruction until she had him lying on the beat-up floor. Yanking off her cardigan, she reached for an abandoned cardboard box and rolled the sweater, putting it on top. “Lift your legs.” Aggie helped Collin raise his legs so the sweater and box braced him below the knees, elevating his feet above his head.
“I’m fine.” He waved her off.
“Yeah. Right.” She reached for the sweater he was still clutching to his head and tugged just enough for Collin to drop his hand. Aggie pulled the sweater from the wound. He was right. It appeared relatively surface, but being a head wound it had bled profusely. It seemed to have been stanched by the pressure he’d applied, but . . . well, if she wasn’t a bit woozy herself! Fine pickle they’d be in if she passed out.
“There’s a reason I didn’t go into the medical field,” Aggie scolded. His eyes were closed, yet a smile made the creases in his cheeks deepen. She noticed for the first time he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Even his eyelashes were a golden red.
Aggie rummaged through the first-aid kit. “I’m going to have to clean off this blood.”
“Go ahead,” Collin mumbled. His color was returning.
“Hydrogen peroxide. It shouldn’t sting,” Aggie assured him.
“I called it ‘bubbly stuff’ when I was a lad.” Collin’s weak chuckle gave her the confidence she needed. Aggie poured it over some gauze and started dabbing at the wound, cleaning the blood away.
“Better if you just pour it on,” Collin said.
“Better if I called 911,” Aggie argued.
“Don’t.” Collin winced as she tipped the bottle of peroxide and watched it darken his hair, made redder by the blood that was matting around the wound.
“Why not?”
“Insurance.” He grimaced.
“Please tell me you have health care wherever you’re from.” Aggie set the peroxide bottle on the floor and snatched up a fresh piece of gauze.
“Brilliantly expensive health care.”
“Well then.” Aggie worked at wiping away the blood. She was more than aware of how soft his hair was. For some reason, she had always been fascinated by auburn hair, as though the color would rub off like hair chalk. Only it didn’t. She resisted the random urge to run her fingers through the thick mass.
“So, what happened, Romeo? Are you a klutz, or did someone lie in wait and whack you over the head?”
“The latter.” Collin’s eyes opened just as Aggie leaned closer over him to get a better view of the semi-cleaned wound.
Their eyes connected for a moment, and something twisted inside her. His eyes were . . . honest. Regardless of her questions about who he truly was, one couldn’t fake blatant honesty, not unless he were a psychopath.
“Wait.” She blinked, breaking the connection. “Someone whacked you over the head?”
“Yes. Now, if you please, it’s not deep, is it?” Collin pointed to the side of his head.
“Whoa, whoa, back up!” Aggie lost a bit of empathy for his head wound and drew back on her heels, eyeing him. “You were attacked and refused 911 and instead called me? What if your attacker is still out there? You’re putting me in danger!”
Collin gave her knee a little pat with his palm. “They went for a run right after. I even heard them drive away. There was no danger, only of me bleeding out and of you calling 911 and stiffing me with a massive medical bill.”
“You have all the sense of an addlepated muskrat.” Aggie heaved a frustrated sigh and leaned in again, ignoring the way she could feel his breath on her neck.
“Muskrats are misunderstood creatures—”
“Shush!” Aggie pushed his hair away from the cut, losing patience with the ridiculous man. “It’s not bleeding as bad. It looks surface, but I’m no doctor.”
“Splendid!” Collin’s grin was followed by a wince. “I’ll be fine then.”
“Except that someone hit you on the head!” Aggie was in no frame of mind to let him—or his attacker—off the hook.
&
nbsp; Collin squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, well. Perhaps I’m not thinking as clearly as I believed. I forgot about that thing.”
“That thing?” She followed the direction of his waving fingers. On the floor by the door lay a shovel. She’d not bothered to pay attention to it. “Tell me you weren’t hit in the head with a shovel?”
“I know.” Collin opened his eyes again. “Archaic, yes? In this day and age, using a shovel as a weapon seems quite dated.”
Aggie reached for a wad of gauze and pushed it against Collin’s cut, then stretched for a strip of first-aid bandage. “I’m wrapping this on your head and then I’m calling the police.”
“Let’s not overreact.” Collin grimaced as she not-so-gently lifted his head to wrap the bandage around it.
Aggie tossed him an incredulous look. “It’s common sense, and I think whoever was lying in wait for you knocked it clear out of your head. Not to mention, there is no way the police can say this was a teenage prank.”
“There is truth in that,” Collin groaned as he tried to sit up.
Even though Aggie protested, he leaned against her. She braced him with her arm as he pulled his legs off the box, her cardigan falling to the floor. She waited a moment longer before dialing 911 with her free hand to summon the police.
“They’ll bring an ambulance too,” Aggie informed Collin. His eyes shot daggers at her, the first sign of crankiness she’d seen in the man. “Don’t look at me like that,” she tossed back. “You’re on the job. It’s workers’ comp.”
“I’m a consultant.” Collin seemed to nestle against her. “But do what you will to me. Send me into bankruptcy from medical debt. I’m at the mercy of a beautiful woman.”
Aggie eyed him warily, sure that if he turned his head, his nose would bump into hers. But she couldn’t very well release him, charming flirt though he might be. “Be quiet.”
He smiled.
She tried not to.
It didn’t work.
A siren pierced the air in the distance, and Collin gave his brows a wag. “I do believe they’re coming for you.”
Echoes among the Stones Page 10
